A Strange Valley

by Darrell Bain

  “Because once Phillips finds out that I'm gone and he can't find me, he's going to start trying to track me down. And that means questioning my friends.”

  “Oh.” Nancy thought about it and didn't like the idea at all. “Well, I guess the best way to avoid that is to get this stuff publicized as soon as possible. Tell me which papers and networks you mailed the recording to. I'll get in touch with them. But the most important thing is to get this out on the net right now. I'm surprised you haven't already done that.”

  Shirley spread her hands. “I didn't even go back to my office for my purse, much less my phone or laptop. Now you know why, though I was a dunce for not buying a new comp while I was at the store where I put the recording on the data cards.”

  “I do, indeed understand why you were in a hurry, and I probably wouldn't have thought of a new computer, either. All right, you stay here and I'm going to go to ground somewhere else and get to work.”

  “Why can't you stay here? Doesn't your laptop have phoneware?”

  “Duh. Good girl. Gimme some room and show me the phone jack. I'll get started.”

  Shirley breathed a great sigh of relief. She was no longer alone with the secret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  “Any progress?” Daniel asked. It was mid-afternoon of the day following his return up the mountain, as everyone insisted on calling it. He had just woke up again, in their room at Beamer research, after having to take an extra pain pill following a dressing change of his wounds by the nurse he had been promised. As usual, Lisa was with him, but now she was still collapsed on the other side of the bed, sound asleep. Weariness and stress had finally caught up with her. Daniel doubted that anything short of a major earthquake would pry her eyes open for a while.

  “Nothing at all,” Tyrone said wearily. “And now the army is in the area so now there's no chance of finding the bomb. We just lost this one and we may as well accept it.”

  “Damn. Anything else from Wesley?”

  “No. Chief Masters or one of his men is questioning him whenever he's awake enough to talk, but he's already given us about as much as we can hope for.”

  “Which was a hell of a lot, Tyrone. He risked everything he has in the world to try warning us-and damn near lost it all.”

  “True. We'll see what we can do for him, but we're not making him any promises. In the long run, I think the best thing we can do for him is keep him out of the government's clutches-if we can avoid being charged with harboring a fugitive.”

  “I can handle that, if we stay out their clutches ourselves,” Daniel said, a sudden sense of impending catastrophe coming over him. “What time is it, anyway? Somewhere along the way from ambulances to surgery to here I lost my watch.”

  Tyrone glanced at his wrist. “A little past three. Dan, forget all that. The real reason I stopped by is that things are looking up. Apparently, the call to Shirley paid off. Look at these.” He handed Daniel a stack of printouts from various web pages.”

  Eyes widening in pleased surprise, Daniel scanned the pages, almost not believing what he was reading. He looked up at Tyrone, who was grinning like a politician with a baby in his arms.

  “Oh, boy! At last, something going our way! What kind of reaction are we getting from the media? Do they believe it?”

  “Turn the television on. I believe that's just about the only thing on the news today.”

  Daniel did so. For a few moments, he surfed the channels and found that Tyrone was right; the story was just about the only thing he could find. The pundits were having a field day, speculating pro and con about what would happen to the President and the NSA head if the conversation with Shirley Rostervik was proven to be true and not a fake. Most of them were already detailing how laboratory analysis of voice prints matched those of Murray Phillips and giving their instant opinion of what effect the revelations would have on the coming elections, especially should the implication that the President himself was involved prove true.

  Even more frenzied attention was devoted to the prospects of a dirty bomb in the hands of the NSA and what could be expected if it exploded near Masterville, or close to the army units scattered about near there. The pentagon had just issued a statement implying that they had the situation all in hand and that there was no cause for panic or evacuation “at the present time.”

  The President's press secretary had issued a statement strongly denying that the President had, or had ever had, any knowledge of the lost uranium, and that an investigation would be launched immediately to determine the true facts. Sullivan also said that the President thought that it was very peculiar that, if the reports proved true, the uranium high-jacked months ago by terrorists had turned up in the vicinity of Masterville where all the “mutant atheists” lived.

  Tyrone was still grinning. “Nice try, Bobby Lee, but you aren't getting out of this one. Dan, I think we're over the hump now, in more ways than one. Excuse me; I need to make some calls.”

  Tyrone walked toward the door, intending to go to his office and call Harry to tell him to hold off on dispensing any more couriers with the remaining vials of Masterville prions; perhaps they wouldn't be needed now, after all, and the risk was greater now, with the army in place. Daniel's shout caused him to twirl about in place. All he saw at first was Daniel's face, shocked into an open-mouthed stare.

  An excited national anchor, looking as if he had just come into the studios from changing the oil in his car, was talking rapidly. Other blurry studio figures could be seen scurrying about in the background. The anchor was saying that an Army spokesperson had reported that a dirty bomb had gone off near Masterville and that the wind was carrying the fallout over portions of the army brigade surrounding the valley.

  Tyrone walked slowly back into the room as he absorbed the knowledge. This might be the one thing which would get the government to leave them alone, but it was also a signal for the couriers he had dispatched to begin contaminating baby formula with Masterville prions. And there was no way to stop it now. The explosion of a dirty bomb had been one of the signals to begin; a recall would have been a classified ad placed in the local papers nearest where they were working. He had been intending to place them when he thought Shirley's account was beginning to turn the tide of public opinion. Now it was too late; by the time the ads were placed and seen, contamination of the mixing tanks would already have begun. There was no turning back now, so he might as well let it run its course. And, as the old saying went, God Help The Right. If there was a Right in this situation, not to mention that he didn't think there was a God, either, at least not one who kept a personal, omniscient eye on human affairs.

  Daniel glanced at the peculiar expression on Tyrone's face.

  “What's wrong? Besides the bomb, I mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Tyrone said. He had yet to decide whether or not to reveal what he had done to either the council he chaired, or the city council. He had taken an unprecedented action, one that he hoped would never be discovered. He closed his eyes to get the sight of the blathering anchor out of his vision. Someone would have to be told, if for no other reason than that he didn't want the knowledge lost if anything happened to him or Harry. He had picked his couriers with care; he believed they would carry out their mission, then use the funds he had given them to settle down somewhere and live out the rest of their lives and never tell anyone what they had done. He had emphasized the repercussions should they talk publicly: prison and/or execution as terrorists; exactly the same limited options awaiting him and Harry if their role in the dispersion of Masterville prions was ever discovered.

  “What do you think Bobby Lee will do now?” Daniel prompted, trying to get Tyrone to talk. He didn't like the sense of resignation he was displaying.

  Tyrone shrugged. “Who knows? I hope Congress impeaches the sonofabitch, but that's probably too much to hope for.”

  “How about the army?”

  “The army takes orders from the President. Same answer: who kno
ws? Listen, I have some things to do; I'll talk to you again later in the day.” He left, unconsciously squaring his shoulders as he made a decision. Gina and Tim were already in the loop, as was Harry, but he needed someone else to share the knowledge with. Lisa and Daniel, he decided as stood in front of the elevator, waiting for it to come up to his level. Lisa and Daniel, and for an outsider, maybe Dan's friend, Shirley, once she got back in good grace with the authorities. And perhaps that reporter, Nancy something or other. Soon, he knew, Shirley would be protected under the whistle blower's clause in government civil service regulations. In the meantime, he needed to get back and do some work. In particular, a couple of more rooms behind his apartment needed to be cleaned up and prepared for living quarters. And that quick egress that only he, Tim and Gina knew about needed to be checked to make certain it was still free and clear. In the meantime, maybe Wesley Cannon was doing well enough to answer some more questions. He decided to call and find out.

  * * * *

  “That sucker did remember one more name. He says he thinks someone by the name of Mandel Crafton might know something about the bomb, but he isn't sure.”

  “Can we contact him?”

  “Do you think a call from the Chief of Police in Masterville to the NSA would go through? I don't. Try Stenning's friend, the one that broke the story about the bomb.”

  “I would, but I don't have a clue about where she is.”

  “Well, I sure don't either. Listen, Tyrone, I gotta get back to work and try to get some sleep one of these days. I'll leave a couple of deputies to guard this dude.”

  “Make sure it's one of your best people. I wouldn't put it past the NSA to try popping him.”

  Chief Masters laughed at the antique phrase. He sobered quickly, though. “Will do. In fact, I'll even get them dressed up like a doctor or nurse.”

  Tyrone hung up, feeling a bit better. But what would the army do? Or rather what would the President order it to do?”

  * * * *

  Jeremiah Jones was in his element. The Masterville Clarion's presses were running almost constantly, trying to supply citizens of the valley with updated and accurate news. He and his news editor were being buried under a load of stories, items and fillers sent to the Clarion in response to his plea to all of his contacts for honest reports and factual information. He had other temporary hires surfing the net for more data and he was paying stringers across the country that he trusted for news items.

  Each completed edition of the Clarion was in turn sent back out to every form of media, over his personal assurances that he had checked every word, insofar as he could, for accuracy. Up until Shirley's story broke, the battle had been somewhere close to a draw, with roughly half the country believing Masterville's version of events and the other half going with the President. And then the radioactive bomb went off.

  * * * *

  The explosion didn't kill a single soldier directly, though a few would die soon from radiation poisoning. Others would succumb later in life from being unfortunate enough to have been in the fallout pattern, but overall effects of the explosion were relatively light. It was the President who got caught in the real fallout.

  * * * *

  Murray Phillips knew the game was up as soon as the President stopped returning his calls. Within a few days, maybe even sooner, Bobby Lee would come out with a statement absolving himself of any connection whatsoever with the stolen uranium and subsequent use of it. He would blame it on the Director of the NSA, and say that Murray Phillips had formed a rouge cabal within the NSA in order to use the radioactive material in a weapon without his knowledge.

  Phillips didn't know whether the President could get away with his story or not, and at this point he didn't care. He was running for his life, literally. Like Shirley, he controlled a contingency fund of already laundered cash, though his stash was much greater. He closed and locked the door to his office then opened his personal safe. He filled his briefcase full of stacks of bills, mostly hundreds and fifties with a few tens mixed in, then pulled clothing he kept in a closet to place on top of the bills. He placed his passport in his inside jacket pocket. He scanned the room swiftly. Was there anything else to take? His gun? No, he couldn't get through the airport security with it, not without a ton of trouble, even if he was Director of the NSA. His gaze fell on the picture of his wife and daughter, now in college, sitting in a prominent place on his desk. He closed his eyes in a brief prayer, knowing the kind of scrutiny they would come under after his disappearance. It would go hard on them, but not nearly as hard as it would on him if he were caught. He picked up his briefcase and walked out of his office, leaving the picture where it was.

  “I'll be gone for a while,” he said as he passed the outer office where his administrative assistants lived. “You can get me on the portable number if you need me.”

  Downstairs, he walked out to the street and waited for a cruising taxi to come by. He fidgeted uneasily and eyed each passerby with his flinty gaze. He was almost in a state of paranoia now, worried about being caught, thinking of thieves who could pass him and grab his briefcase and all the money it contained.

  He saw a taxi coming his way and stepped forward to get into position to hail it. Just as he raised his hand, a familiar voice shouted at his back.

  “Mister Phillips, wait! Wait up!”

  He turned, recognizing who it was.

  “Mister Phillips, don't leave yet!” Crafton was panting heavily, as if he had run down the stairs in order to save time. In fact, that was exactly what he had done.

  “Sorry, Crafton, I have some urgent business to take care of.” He turned his back on his subordinate.

  Crafton grabbed his upper arm and pulled. Phillips staggered and watched the taxi pass. “Let go, you fool!” He said.

  “Mister Crafton, you have to help me. They're accusing me of knowing about that stolen uranium. Please, you've got to tell them I had nothing to do with it!”

  “I'll take care of the matter for you, but later, Crafton. Right now I have to go!” He saw another taxi coming his way.

  Crafton backed off, suddenly suspicious. He had read every story he could, and had been watching the television in his office almost constantly. Phillips was in deep trouble himself, deeper than his own. And he was leaving on urgent business he said. Where was his limousine? Why was he standing out in drizzling rain waiting on a taxi? And his briefcase? Didn't an aide usually carry his belongings? Everything about him standing here like this was wrong, and he could think of only one explanation: Phillips was going to make a run for it.

  Crafton waved the taxi away before Phillips could hail it. He wasn't going to take this fall. Bad enough that Shirley had named him as the former Officer In Charge of the Masterville Op, a clusterfuck if he ever saw one, but this was worse. Now a source was reporting that he might have known something about that dirty bomb. He couldn't let that go unanswered; not and stay out of prison-or worse. He grabbed at Phillips again as he started to walk away.

  Phillips turned angrily, wishing now that he had brought his pistol so he could threaten to shoot this fool if he didn't get the hell away from him. He shook himself free momentarily but Crafton was persistent.

  “You're not going off and leaving me holding the bag, you bastard!” Crafton yelled, reaching for his superior again as Phillips tried to leave. He got a hold on the tail of Phillips’ coat and dug his feet in.

  “Let go! Help!” Phillips shouted, not the wisest move he had ever made in his life. Passers-by halted at the shouted plea for help, watching the struggling men, trying to decide whether to intervene or not.

  Phillips swung his briefcase and caught Crafton a solid blow to the head with it. Unfortunately, he had been in such a hurry once he decided to leave that he hadn't completely snapped the lock closed. It burst open, spilling clean underwear and bundles of money to the ground. The spectators suddenly became less anxious to help and more anxious to enrich themselves. A tangle of shouting bodies dived after th
e money, knocking both Crafton and Phillips both off their feet. As Phillips tried to get up, still holding the opened briefcase, he saw a pair of blue clad legs filling his vision. His gaze followed them on up to the gun belt and blue shirt with sergeants’ stripes. He realized that the policeman was shouting at the crowd to disperse. Another policeman, probably his partner, was grappling with bodies, trying to get them away from the stacks of money. Having little success with physical force, he backed up and drew his pistol. He pointed it into the air and fired a shot.

  The policeman in front of Phillips dropped his hand to the butt of his own handgun, apparently thinking his partner had the right idea. Phillips lunged for the gun, knowing it would be his last chance. His leather soles slipped on the wet grass by the sidewalk where he had fallen. All he got was the officer's hand, gun already in it. The sergeant jerked his hand free, retreated a step, and cocked the hammer on his pistol. He pointed it directly at him. Phillips heard the click plainly, even over the clamor of cacophonous voices. It sounded to him like the latch of the trap door on a gallows coming unfastened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Daniel was able to get around with the help of a cane three days later when Tyrone knocked on the door. Lisa threw on a wrap that, for all the good it did to conceal anything, could have been left where she had thrown it earlier in the day. She walked over and opened the door and admitted Tyrone. He stared at her, frankly admiring her body, then asked if he and Lisa wanted to join him in his office to watch a special newscast. Daniel hobbled over to join them.

  “Some old friends of yours are going to be featured,” Tyrone said.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Shirley Rostervik and Mandel Crafton.”

  “Be damned. Well, I can certainly count Shirley as a friend now, but not Crafton, even if he is a hero.”

  “Whatever, just thought you'd like to know. Have you seen Marybeth? I want to tell her, too.”

  “Here I am,” Marybeth said from the depths of the bed covers. She threw some of them aside and stretched languidly, partially flattening her generous breasts.