Ted slapped him on the shoulder. “First, I want to talk to Tommy. Phone those assholes and tell them that I found out somehow. Tell them I’m willing to cooperate … come out there … but before I do, I want to be sure Tommy is alive. Tell them that.”
Without a word, George left the booth and headed for the pay phone near the front entrance. After what seemed like a heated discussion, he finally motioned to Ted, who walked up and took the receiver from the man’s hand.
“Who am I talking to?” he asked.
“Ted?”
He recognized the slightly nasal voice of Tommy Wilson. At least, it sounded like Tommy.
“Yeah. Tommy?”
“Jesus, Ted! How the hell did you manage this?”
“You OK?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I want to ask you a question.”
“What?”
“Remember the time you and me and Terry and Toni went up to Arrowhead? Friend of Toni’s had a cottage up there.”
“Yeah, I remember, but what …”
“Just hold on. I want to make sure I’m talking to the real Tommy Wilson.”
“OK.”
“That night, one of us got locked out in the cold. Do you remember which one it was?”
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation. “It was me. Damn near froze my ass off.”
It was Tommy all right. George hadn’t lied about that.
Almost instantly, another voice was on the line. “Tell Belcher to get back on the line.”
“I’m not through yet.”
“Yes, you are, buster. Get Belcher on the line or we hang up. Now!”
Reluctantly, Ted handed the phone back to Belcher. George took it, listened for a minute, and then, a frown on his face, slammed it home. “Prick!” he yelled.
Belcher turned to Ted and said, “Well, that should get the pot boiling. What now?”
“There are a still a few things I need to know,” Ted said. “Who was the guy on the phone? Graves?”
“No. It was Shubert. He works for Graves. Graves is in Washington.”
They walked slowly back to the booth. After having their cups refilled, Ted asked, “Did he buy it?”
George shrugged. “I told them you’d come voluntarily once you talked to Tommy. I don’t know whether he bought it or not. In either case, I’m supposed to bring you and the woman out there. If I don’t have you there within a few hours, I’m unemployed and they’ll expect you to go to the press. I think they’re ready for that. Graves is a man who thinks of everything.”
Ted felt a small shudder go through his body. “How did you know where I’d be last night?”
“I didn’t,” Belcher responded. “I simply had teams stake out the homes of everyone in the area you might possibly contact. One of the stake-out teams saw you visit Mrs. Wilson.”
“Terrific!”
“Take it easy. The people under my direction don’t know about this. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a suspect in an insurance scam, that’s all.”
“An insurance scam? All of this attention?”
“I had to tell them something.”
For a moment, both men were lost in thought. Then George said, “I’m really scared, Ted. All my life I’ve been able to make decisions without too much trouble. Some of them seemed important. At least to me. But this! I just don’t know what’s right There are so damn many variables. These guys are experts! They’ve been studying problems like this for years. Are you sure we aren’t messing with something we shouldn’t be?”
Ted shook his head. “The only thing I am sure about is this: experts have been wrong before.”
“What do you want me to do?” Belcher asked.
“First,” Ted said, “I want you to talk to your boys and tell them we’re taking a ride together. Tell them you’ll be back in an hour or so. Make it sound convincing. Then, we’ll see.”
Without argument, George Belcher pulled the small walkie-talkie from his inner pocket and barked orders into it.
They both watched through the dirt-streaked window as the car containing the other FBI men drove off.
“Now,” Ted said, smiling in earnest for the first time since he’d left Terry, “let’s you and me take a ride.”
Sixteen
* * *
It was one of the smallest nuclear devices ever designed: a two-foot-long tube less than three inches in diameter. Earlier, it had been carefully lowered down a two-mile-deep shaft drilled in the desert to a fixed position deep in the bedrock.
It was a relatively clean bomb, as clean as they could design it, but there would still be long-term radioactivity in the ground for years after the test. It was, however, the kind of radioactivity that would remain in the rock, not finding its way to the surface as long as the proper precautions were taken once the thing was triggered.
Designated TT-366, it was the thirtieth device in a series that had begun production some two years ago. A bomb designed not to kill, but to create intense heat for just a few seconds; heat that would be high enough to turn solid rock into a molten mass of magma.
The previous tests had been successful to a degree. The designers of the device knew they could melt the rock. The problem was the explosion itself. Always, it had been too strong. Time after time, the device was redesigned, the yield revised downward, until now, they had something that they hoped would be enough to do the job without creating the very shock the device was designed to prevent.
Two years.
They’d been working on this project for two years. Now, it was down to a matter of days. If this one was too strong, they would have to admit failure, because there was not enough time to produce the eight devices needed to do the job.
As they gathered around the forest of instruments in the low building in the desert, the faces of those involved in this critical project were grim and drawn. It wasn’t just the test that concerned them. It was the mounting attention they were receiving.
The project was supposed to have been carried out in total secrecy. But already, there were rumors flying around the site about FBI agents not performing their assigned tasks, insurance investigators asking a lot of questions, newspaper reporters popping off at press conferences. It seemed as though the entire country was on the verge of becoming aware of exactly what they were doing. And if that happened, it would be all over. The bright lights of publicity would doom the project forever. Two years of work would have gone for naught.
“Three minutes and counting!”
The project director had checked his monitors. The area was clear, the instruments in place and functioning properly. Everything was set.
They all waited tensely.
“Two minutes and counting.”
The countdown continued unimpeded. Everything was in order.
Finally, a button was pressed and all eyes were on the monitors. The instruments suddenly came alive, needles gyrating wildly, digital readouts flashing numbers on scores of tiny television screens. Seismograph needles wiggled violently, drawing ever-increasing squiggly lines on a roll of paper, then, almost suddenly, relaxing, the needle now looking like a thin, shaking, steel finger.
“Six thousand, three!”
The project director was reading the heat created. More than enough.
“Initial readings are 3.2 and 2.5!”
The blast had created a shock equivalent to a 3.2 on the Richter scale, measured at the surface. Less than a half-mile away, the reading was down to 2.5. Well within limits.
The men all looked at each other, a new feeling of hope in their eyes. So far, so good.
It would take at least twenty-four hours before they would know for sure. The rock would have to be cooled, measurements taken and analyzed. Even a small television camera would be lowered into the hole, allowing the scientists to see the actual extent of the blast. Then, the hole would be filled, sealed and capped. And if they had finally arrived at the proper mix, orders would be sent out t
o a bomb factory in the state of Washington. Orders for at least eight small bombs to be produced within days. Normally impossible, but in this case, the pump had already been well primed.
Twenty-four hours.
They wouldn’t really know until then.
* * *
Bill Price hung up the telephone and shook his head. He’d just talked to the hospital again and this time, they were sure. Sam Steele was suffering from appendicitis. An operation was to be performed within hours. That meant that Sam would be away from the office for at least a week. Decisions would now have to be made by the publisher, Brian Cantrell.
But Brian Cantrell was not in the office. In fact, he was hardly ever in the office.
Price picked up the phone and punched some numbers. In a moment, he heard the voice of Cantrell’s maid.
“Cantrell residence.”
“Is Brian there, please?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Bill Price.”
“Uuhhh. Sorry, Mr. Price. Mr. Cantrell is sailing today.”
“I see. Well, leave a message for him, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Tell him that Sam is in the hospital having his appendix out. We need Brian to come in and run things for awhile.”
There was a small pause and then, “I’ll tell him as soon as I hear from him, but it might be a day or two. I think they were planning on staying over in Avalon.”
Price grunted and said, “Well, try and track him down if you can. OK?”
“Yes, Mr. Price.”
Price hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. In a way, it was a bit of a thrill. For at least another day, he would be completely in charge of the newspaper. There was a certain satisfaction in that. On the other hand, there were risks. Already, he’d done something Sam had asked him not to do. He’d used Darlene to try and smoke out a story that he was sure was being covered up. It hadn’t worked. Sam was sure to be upset, once he returned. Unless he was able to make it work.
He scratched his head as he thought about it. He had two reporters digging hard. If …
The phone rang. He picked it up. It was Mary Davis and she was almost beside herself. He could hardly understand what she was saying.
“Mary … take it easy. Take a deep breath, slow down and tell me all about it. There’s no hurry.”
She did as she was told and, between sobs, started to speak more coherently. “They say that Michael went crazy. They say he attacked the nurses and left the hospital. Even our own lawyer says it’s true!”
Price’s knuckles were white from the pressure being exerted on the receiver.
“Mary,” he said, calmly, “back up a little and start at the beginning. I want to help, but I need to know it all.”
Seventeen
* * *
George sat silently in the car as Ted drove a circuitous route to Terry Wilson’s apartment. George’s baby face looked troubled, the soft skin wrinkled, the eyes seemingly unfocused, as though the man was deep in thought. As he drove, Ted stole frequent glances at a man who’d once been his friend and wondered if he’d made a mistake in trusting him. How far did loyalty extend? And where did the allegiance really lie? Was George responding to pressure by bending with the wind or was he really made of sterner stuff?
Pressure.
Once, George Belcher had responded to pressure in predictable fashion. Now, the inner workings of his mind were more deeply masked and much less calculable.
Or was it more a case of Ted succumbing to the ravages of paranoia? And why not? Who could he trust? George had confessed to being part of a massive cover-up perpetrated by those in the Pentagon, the FBI, local law enforcement officials and God knew who else. He’d said that NADAT was working on its own, but who really knew? How many times had that game been played?
Instinctively, Ted perused the rear-view mirror and the road ahead, watching every movement, cataloguing every vehicle, his senses attuned to the slightest indication that they were being followed from in back or in front. If someone was following them, they were doing it in such a professional manner that Ted couldn’t spot it. He hoped that was not the case.
When they finally reached their destination, Ted parked the car in the rear of the apartment complex and waited a few moments. Then he turned to George and said, “I’m going to go in and get Terry. Soon enough, if my guess is right, a few of Graves’s other friends will be looking for all of us.”
Belcher looked at him with empty eyes and nodded. “You can count on that … for sure.” The voice was flat, lifeless, tired.
“Second thoughts?” asked Ted.
“No,” the FBI man said, quickly. “I’m fine. Really I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me too. You want to come in or wait in the car?”
“I’ll wait here, if it’s all the same to you.”
Ted looked at him carefully. “George,” he said softly. “I need you. I have to be able to count or you. Can I do that?”
Belcher reached out and clasped a hand on Ted’s arm. A smile worked its way to his lips, but not the eyes. “I’m fine, Ted. I won’t let you down. It just takes a little getting used to, you know? I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
The understatement of the year.
Ted patted the hand on his arm and said, “OK. I won’t be long.”
He made his way to Terry’s apartment. She greeted him at the door with a long, warm kiss. When they finally pulled apart, she looked into his eyes and said, “You look agitated. Have you found something?”
Ted took her by the hand and sat her on the couch. Sitting beside her, he said, “Terry … I’m afraid I’ve gotten you mixed up in all of this. I’ve just spent some time with a man I used to work with. George Belcher. He’s with the FBI.”
He stopped and searched for the right words. There weren’t any. “They have orders to bring me in,” he said. “And you as well.”
“The FBI? What for?”
He ran a hand through his sandy hair and said, “It’s a very long story. The bottom line is that you need to come with me. Pack a few things. Enough for a week, at least.”
Some of the color seemed to drain from her face. “You mean the FBI is part of this whole thing? Tommy’s murder too? My God!”
He gripped her hand tightly.
“Tommy’s alive,” he said, flatly.
“Alive?” Her eyes searched his face, looking for answers to questions she was unable to utter.
“He was kidnapped by the FBI,” Ted said. “They’ve got him stashed in the desert. Gifford too. They’re both being forced to work on a project that … look … we need to get a move on. There isn’t much time. I’ll explain everything to you on the way.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, her face a portrait of confusion.
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
They both turned and stared at George Belcher, standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand.
“Sorry, Ted,” George said, the voice almost pleading, “I can’t take the chance. These people have too much power. They can destroy me! As much as I want to help you, and I do, honest to God, I … just can’t. God! I’m really sorry.”
It was the second time this day that Ted had looked down the end of a gun barrel. It made him very uncomfortable. And once again, angry at himself.
He’d known George Belcher a long time. He’d known how unstable the man was. How subject he was to sudden shifts of mood and attitude. And he’d foolishly trusted the man.
Stupidly!
He felt a cold chill sweep his body and then … suddenly, an icy calm seemed to overcome him. As he looked straight into the eyes of George Belcher, he felt his senses being fully activated, his mind clicking like a well-engineered machine. Various bits and pieces of information were being sorted by the living computer inside his head, the pertinent data fed to his nerve-endings, now poised and ready.
He was tired of making mistakes. Tired of being take
n for the fool that he was. Tired of trusting those who could not be trusted. But more than anything, he was angry. Furious! At himself more than anyone else. Long ago, he’d been taught to use that anger in a positive way. Make it work for him. Turn it from a liability to an asset. And that was what he had to do now.
This very minute.
Very slowly, he stood up.
“George,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “You’re a lot of things, but you aren’t a cold-blooded killer.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” Belcher said, his voice almost a childish whine. “I just want you and the woman to come with me. We’ll go to the site and Shubert will decide what to do.”
Ted stared at him, the brown eyes turning dark and cold. “No, George. We’re not going anywhere. I’m going to walk over there and take the gun away from you. You aren’t going to shoot me because you aren’t that kind of man. Besides, you’re my friend. You’ve been my friend a very long time. Friends don’t shoot each other, George.”
Ted’s eyes focused on the gun hand. There was just enough of a tremor to give him hope.
“This has nothing to do with friendship!” Belcher cried. “This is business! You understand that.”
Ted shook his head. “No, George. It isn’t business. You said I could count on you.” He started moving slowly toward the man. “You said I shouldn’t worry. You said you wouldn’t let me down. And now you’re going to kill me? I don’t believe it.”
Another step.
“Stay where you are!”
“I can’t, George,” Ted said. “I have to take the gun away. I know you won’t shoot me, because I know what kind of man you are. You’re not the kind of man who would shoot a friend.”
He was five feet away. Belcher’s face was twisted in agony.
“Ted!” he screamed, “I’ll shoot! Goddammit! You hit the floor. This is my career here! I’ll shoot. I will!”
“No, you won’t, George. I’d stake my life on that. In fact, I am staking my life on that.”
The Big One Page 17
