Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  At ten twenty-eight, Bolan stood outside the diner. He had been there an hour earlier, and a half hour after that, passing on the other side of the road—just to be sure.

  The diner was called Nighthawks, and the Hopper reference was not so much obvious as blatant. The interior of the diner was lit in a sodium glare that had once been the norm but probably now cost a fortune to replicate. The seats were red and padded, chrome stools lined the counter, and the booths were wood-panelled and covered with black-and-white framed photographs. The booths beside the front window were sporadically full.

  But this was not 1942—and it was a long way from Greenwich Village. It had been designed to be a tourist trap, a heritage site to turn a buck. For that, Bolan did not take to it; and yet, for all that, there was something about the nostalgia it inspired that took him back to the root of why he did what he did. What he must. It spoke to him of a childhood and a way of life that was better than the present—certainly in terms of how people treated each other. Sure, much of it was a fantasy—as much as the diner that turned his thoughts this way—but it was an aspiration and belief that had carried him through his life.

  What were the chances that Brognola knew this? He knew that Bolan would remember Penney’s, and that he would both love and hate what had been done to the old place. He would appreciate the irony, too.

  While this crossed his mind, he scoped the block. There was no sign it was being watched. If Brognola had been worrying about being tailed, then he had avoided any attempt to do so.

  Bolan went inside. The night outside had been cool. Inside, the diner was warm in that way that only a short-order joint can be. He felt perspiration break out on his forehead as he stepped up to the counter and ordered black coffee.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” The middle-aged, plump blonde smiled. Her uniform was forties-style, and was tight at the seams. Her smile took your attention away from that.

  “Maybe. I’m waiting for someone—no, he’s here,” he added, spotting Brognola sitting in a booth in the far corner, two seats from the men’s room. Close enough to make an exit, far enough to react if trouble came the other way.

  “I’ll come over in a few minutes, hon. You take a seat,” the waitress said as she poured the steaming coffee.

  Bolan thanked her and walked over to where Brognola was seated. The big Fed was staring at an omelet and didn’t look up as Bolan took the seat opposite.

  “It’s changed, Striker. Not, maybe, for the better.”

  “I don’t know.” Bolan sipped his coffee. “Better than Dave used to provide. Always the aftertaste of gun oil.”

  “Penney was for real—better or worse. You can’t go back.” Brognola picked at his omelet with a fork.

  “So, is this about one of those, of the homeland?” Bolan asked.

  “Both. Order something, but not omelet,” Brognola murmured as the waitress approached. Bolan ordered cherry pie. It seemed somehow appropriate.

  When the waitress had delivered his order and they were left alone, Bolan took up the thread. “Why here?”

  “You would know the location. Didn’t want to meet you on the Mall. Too many eyes and ears, even friendly ones. Ever hear of cold fusion?”

  “Nuclear, right?” Bolan queried.

  Brognola assented. “Small-scale stuff when it was stumbled on, and highly contentious.”

  “This would be—what—late eighties, right?”

  “To begin with, though things haven’t been as quiet as you might think since then. It started with a couple of electrochemists who had a weird by-product from an experiment. Fleischmann and Pons—”

  “Out to make a name or already had one?”

  “Oh, they had a name alright, and a lot to lose if they got it wrong. Anyhow, they found that in one of their experiments they were producing an amount of heat that they couldn’t explain. It was about the electrolysis of heavy water and some kind of element. I’m not a scientist—”

  “You’re doing okay so far,” Bolan said. “How big was this experiment?”

  “Just another experiment, nothing with any big research or kudos attached. The point about it was that they couldn’t explain the heat in any other way than some kind of nuclear fusion reaction within the cells. And it was a small experiment—I mean, they were doing this on a tabletop in a lab, for Chrissakes—and if you extrapolate from that....”

  “You come to a way of making energy cheaply and easily, with presumably little risk to health.”

  “Exactly. Fusion is far safer than fission, but expensive—very expensive. Whereas this experiment would make it cheap and easily accessible.”

  Bolan sat back. “That would have made it a very valuable piece of information. But we’re not powering cities off of lab tables, are we? So what went wrong?”

  “The DOE—the Department of Energy—had a commission to look into this at the time. They came to the conclusion that there was some evidence—enough to support a modest program—but not enough to pour vast resources into this pigeon, in case it stiffed. Fifteen years later they had another commission, and came up with the same conclusion.”

  “Do the standing still, right? It’s that nice little governmental dance where no one gets caught out.”

  Brognola shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know enough about the science to say for sure. But I’ve been doing a bit of research, and a lot of people do take it seriously, and we’re not talking cranks here. Thing is, there had been some talk about it sixty years before, but it was all just talk. Then, when Fleishmann and Pons did it, they rushed publishing the results because of pressure from their employers. Even academics need to generate cash.”

  “So I’m guessing here that there was a lot of dissent.”

  The big Fed grinned. “Hell, yeah. The number of people who tried to replicate the experiment and then didn’t. There was a point where Fleischmann and Pons were being ridiculed. Then it went quiet, which always suggests that someone, somewhere has found something out.”

  “Y’know, this is fascinating, Hal, but I’m having trouble seeing what this has to do with calling me down to a place that I used to know a long time ago under another guise. Or, if it comes to that, what a bunch of scientists and test tubes has to do with the line of work I’m in.”

  “I’m coming to that, Striker. You need the background to understand why it’s important, and why it has to be this way.”

  “Okay, carry on,” Bolan assented.

  Brognola looked up to the ceiling of the diner. “You would think, given that it was a discredited theory, that it would just fade into history. But it didn’t. There were sporadic pieces of individual research, and more importantly, the Japanese poured in a lot of time and money between 1992 and 1997—a good few years after the initial wave. Then they came back to it in ’08. The Indian government carried on research into the early nineties, then ceased until a few years back, when they got interested again.”

  “What about our boys?”

  Brognola smiled. “Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. We were carrying on research from the late eighties until 2002 at the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Center in San Diego. Nothing conclusive surfaced, but I’ll tell you something—last year NASA Langley Research Center announced that they were starting up a research program that had already yielded interesting results.”

  “Hey, that’s smart—getting results before you even start.” Bolan grinned. “Our boys at NASA are better than we thought. So it’s not a dead duck and it looks like it could go places. The problem is what, exactly?”

  “The problem is that there are a lot of nations that haven’t been doing this kind of research, but would seriously love to jump on the bandwagon. If this really does have substance, then think about what it would mean.”

  “Not weapons. Fusion doesn’t give you the by-products for war
heads. But it would mean cheap power easily sourced. That’s no bad thing, surely?”

  “In a humanitarian sense, no—not if it was open to all. But what if it was just auctioned to the highest bidder? Then they would have complete control and could sell it on at a named price. Or maybe they could keep it from the nations that were not their allies, or refused to toe the line. Or maybe, if they had a vested interest in fossil fuel, they could keep it under wraps so that they could wring out a few more dollars before the gravy train runs out. Whatever the reason, if it went to one nation against the rest, then it could raise some serious issues.”

  “If we have it, and the Japanese are still interested, then what—”

  “We’re not there yet. I’m pretty sure the Japanese aren’t, either. But there is someone who claims they have it. They’ve got proof that’s convincing enough.”

  Bolan was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Right. And that would be where I come in.” He raised a hand as Brognola made to speak. “Wait a second—we’ve been sitting here too long without cause.” He indicated the waitress, who had been eyeing them with interest.

  He beckoned her over, ordered more coffee for himself and Brognola, and used the opportunity to take in the rest of the diner. Most of the people who had been seated when he arrived were now gone. Very few had replaced them—some obvious tourists and two men in dark suits who had seated themselves at a window booth. They were not speaking and both stared out of the window.

  “I wonder how long they’ve been there,” Bolan said softly, with the ghost of a smile.

  “I think since I reached the part where the Japanese got interested.”

  “No worries. We’ll just settle the tab and take a little walk. I get the idea there’s more to this.”

  “Exactly,” Brognola said.

  They finished up their coffee quickly, and Bolan paid at the counter while Brognola waited. Bolan noticed that the big Fed was without a briefcase or notes of any kind—everything he had to say was in his head. That was unlike him.

  Thanking the waitress, Bolan indicated to Brognola to follow him. They left the diner without a glance at the two men seated in the window booth. Bolan, did, however, cast a surreptitious eye over them from the outside. Underarm holsters. Discreet but still noticeable earpieces—linked to a listening device? They couldn’t have bugged the diner but they might have a scanner. Assume that. One thing was for sure—they were making no attempt to hide themselves, and in fact acted like they wanted to be seen.

  Bolan guided Brognola down the street, hanging first left and then right. He was walking with a casual gait that belied its speed.

  “Are we actually trying to lose them?” the big Fed asked.

  “I don’t think that would be feasible. They probably have communications open, and they want us to see them. I don’t want to risk them overhearing through any means what you have to say next.”

  Brognola said no more, preferring to save his breath. He showed no surprise when Bolan cornered again, then hauled him into a narrow alley between two buildings. They had moved away from the main drag and were in an area that was growing more deserted as the hour grew late.

  “What if we’ve already lost them?” Brognola whispered.

  Bolan smiled mirthlessly. “You really think I would let that happen?”

  Brognola knew the answer, and did not bother to respond. Instead, he waited for a few moments. Then, as he had suspected would happen, the two suited men walked past, their pace between hurry and panic. Bolan mouthed “wait” and moved behind them, falling into step so that his footfalls would not echo out of time and so alert them.

  This had to be quick. The street was empty and the buildings around had blank windows that did not betray habitation.

  In four steps Bolan had caught up with the two men. One blow to the base of the neck sent the man on the right tumbling forward, stumbling before hitting the sidewalk. The man on the left half turned, flinging out an arm in a swinging chop. He was too slow to react. Bolan had already side-stepped, and jabbing a punch at the base of the jaw that snapped the man’s head back, sending his earpiece skittering across the Tarmac of the road.

  Before he had a chance to react, a second blow rendered the man unconscious. Before he had even hit the sidewalk, Bolan had stepped forward to drag the first man upright by his collar. Another swift jab to the point of the jaw also rendered him unconscious. Bolan still had him, sagging, by the collar, as he looked back to see Brognola peering from out of the alley.

  Beckoning him, Bolan took better hold of the man in his grasp and dragged him back toward the alley. Taking his cue, Brognola came forward and lifted the other man off the sidewalk, puffing slightly as he dragged him backward in Bolan’s wake.

  Once in the alley, he laid his burden down beside the man that Bolan was already searching. Without a word, Bolan moved across and searched the second man. Looking up at Brognola, he shook his head, then beckoned that the big Fed should follow him. He did not speak until they had walked, briskly, at least a hundred yards.

  “Nothing on them. I guess we should assume they’re ours. So why did you want to meet me out here? Who has the ears you didn’t want hearing this?”

  “We’re black, right?”

  “None more so.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not the case. There are others who have a shade of black that would suck the light out of you.”

  “They have an interest in cold fusion?”

  “It’s partly the science. Mostly who the interested parties are and how it’s being sold. It might suit them to let this go ahead.”

  “But it wouldn’t suit you?” Bolan asked.

  “Or you. The greater good. I might be a cynical old bastard who’s been in this job too long, but I haven’t forgotten why I signed up. And neither have you. The Supreme Commander may not even know about a lot of these blacker-than-black teams. I don’t, come to that. I just suspect.”

  “And things happen that add some fuel to that suspicion.”

  “Right. Striker, just where the hell are we going?”

  Bolan chuckled. While they had been talking, he had been leading Brognola across blocks and down streets that the big Fed did not recognize. They were in areas where his suit—and even Bolan’s chinos and black sweater—seemed conspicuously out of place.

  “Off the beaten track, Hal, somewhere where they might not think to look.”

  Brognola shrugged, and allowed Bolan to lead him through a maze of streets until they came to a small basement bar. Descending the steps and entering the stuffy heat of the interior, Brognola had to adjust to the dim lighting and the blare of the wall-mounted TV that pounded out a ball game.

  “Hey, Cooper—I thought you wasn’t going to show your face after the Red Sox. You still owe me twenty on that.”

  “Tiny, I always pay my debts. I was just out of town.” Bolan peeled off two twenties. “Beer, scotch, and one for yourself.”

  “Apology accepted,” Tiny acknowledged. At over six and half feet and around three hundred pounds, the nickname was inevitable. He poured the drinks, handed over a fistful of change, raised a glass to his benefactor and turned his attention back to the screen.

  Bolan handed Brognola the Scotch and indicated a table against the far wall. The two men seated themselves, Brognola leaned over the table so that he could be heard without yelling too loudly.

  “Nice place. You come here often?”

  “Often enough to lose too many bets on games to that big lug,” Bolan replied. “It helps to have somewhere out of the way. I’ll bet that even with the intel you have, you didn’t know about this place.”

  Brognola shrugged. “Nothing personal, it’s just that we need to know where our people can be found.”

  “Right. Bear will be breaking a sweat trying to figure out how I kept this q
uiet.”

  “I won’t tell him. After all, you won’t be here again after tonight.”

  “Right. But for now, it’s secure. So why don’t you fill me in on what you want me to do?”

  “Here?”

  Bolan looked around. The bar was half-full, and the majority of the customers were gathered toward the end of the bar where the ball game was loudly claiming their attention. Of those who were not paying attention, most were in heated and absorbed conversation, with only a few staring morosely into their drinks.

  “You think of anywhere that we’re less likely to be listened in on?”

  Brognola paused, and then shrugged. “Got me there. It goes down like this. A very simple, businesslike email starts making the rounds. Just like any email scam. Except that this is no ordinary piece of spam. It only goes into the inboxes of those with power and influence. And, maybe more importantly, whoever sent it also knew who these people had on their books as consultants, because it lands in the inboxes of those people, too. Scientists who would know Shinola from the more dubious alternative. So the powerful and influential talk to their consultants, and they figure that this is worth a response, all the while getting their other consultants—the security ones—to try and follow up on where the email came from.”

  “Except the IT crowd find that the address and IP are extremely well hidden and have a trail that peters out to nowhere.”

  “Exactly.” Brognola sipped his Scotch and made a wry face. “You don’t come here to drink, do you? No, perhaps not,” he added, noting that Bolan was nursing rather than drinking his beer. He continued: “So those with power and influence speak to those they have power and influence over, and they listen. They like what they hear. A simple affirmative is returned to the inbox of the “company” concerned, and they are told to wait for instructions.”

  “The powerful and influential, Hal—who do they wield this influence with?”

  “We know of several small nations from the old Soviet Bloc. For those on the African and Asian continents, it would provide them with a source of power and independence that would be invaluable. For those in the Middle East it could be a way of keeping some control over fossil fuel prices. As for the Chinese...well, no one’s too sure about what they’ve achieved, but keeping things sewn up would always benefit them.”