The Russians were the first to demonstrate the achievement of high temperatures within a magnetic confinement device in 1956. The US and other countries quickly got on board this fusion development train with their own multibillion-dollar programs. Laser fusion came later and was simply another approach to achieving high temperatures using light energy and not burdened with the confinement problem. The fuel requirements were identical with either device. They both use deuterium-tritium fuel.
Now, in the wake of the revelations about the tritium-limiting-reactant problem, people began to see ominous associations with the United States program and that begun by the former the former Soviet Union. In fact, it was soon pointed out by knowledgeable pundits that the word Tokamak was an acronym for the Russian expression “toroidal’naya kamera v magnitnykh katushkakh,” or in the Russian Cyrillic characters, “тороидальная камера в магнитных катушках,” meaning, toroidal chamber with magnetic coils.
People were outraged to learn that their tax billions were being poured into a communist-inspired rat hole. Still, President Llewellyn was silent. White House spokeswoman, Sandra Level, said that in due course, President Llewellyn would respond to the issues raised by lobbyists for the American Petroleum Institute.
111
Dick Scully was not happy. He called for James Marshall to come to his office and bear the fruit of his unhappiness. Scully was an old-time editor. He did not see news as entertainment, although he knew that to keep his audience, he had to be entertaining or at least interesting. But he still saw it primarily as news, the dissemination of the facts to the people so they can be aware of what was happening that might affect their lives or upon which they might be asked to make a decision or a choice. His business was facts within a story context. Get the facts right. Get the story right. And get it first if you can.
Scully appeared smaller than he actually was as he sat behind his desk. He was fair-skinned with advanced male-pattern baldness, only wisps of brightly white hair on either side of his head. His body was more round when he sat than when he was standing, but still somewhat on the overweight side that older, determined men can pull off gracefully. His white business shirt was open at the collar, tie pulled down, sleeves rolled up. His suit jacket was draped, wrinkled, over the chair back that he was sitting on. He was studying the layout for the front page of the local section of the paper, but his mind was not on it.
He had trusted Jimmy Marshall, he believed now, imprudently. Jimmy’s failure had been as much his own as Marshall’s. He gave Marshall a job to do that he was not prepared for or qualified to do because his gut told him to take the risk. His gut had usually been right. This time, he concluded, he had been wrong.
Marshall had been run around, manipulated, deceived and plain lied to by those people at AJC Fusion. And Marshall’s evident affair with Sylvia Carlyle, while charming—and he was happy for their happiness—gave Marshall nothing newsworthy. On the contrary, while he had chances to follow a story, he followed her instead, letting his private passions rule his professional judgment. No, Marshall had been seriously wounded in the foot by this fusion story and it was time to stop the bleeding.
Dick Scully lit a cigar as Marshall entered his office. Marshall waited patiently until Scully was ready to speak.
“Take a seat, Jimmy,” Scully said. James sat down as Scully inspected the lit end of his cigar. The office was littered with papers, layouts, magazines, trophies, framed pictures on his desk and walls with celebrities, politicians, and family members. “Pass me that ashtray, would you please?” Marshall complied.
Scully took another puff and locked eyes with Marshall.
“Well, Jim, this story seems to have gotten away from you, son.” Scully paused to blow on the lit end of his cigar. “I should have thought about this more carefully,” Scully continued. “In fact a lot of people should have thought about this more carefully, I guess.” He leaned his chair back.
“Jimmy, I’m not going to beat around the bush on this. I’m taking you off this story. It’s gotten too big and I need to put a seasoned investigative reporter on it now.”
Marshall did not respond right away. He was a methodical person who, even in conversation, did not respond quickly to complex issues. Unlike Scully, he had no faith in his gut reactions and learned early on to ignore initial impulses. Scully’s announcement was not entirely unexpected. He knew this assignment was a stretch for a science feature writer. He thought he had done reasonably well, but Scully was a better judge of that than he, so he deferred to his more seasoned experience.
“I understand your decision, Dick. I just want you to know that I did my best and that I appreciate the trust you put in me. I understand completely why someone else should take this over now and I have no problem with your decision.”
Scully looked at James for several seconds, then he quickly rose, came from behind his desk and approached Marshall, who rose when he saw Scully get up. Scully held out his hand to Marshall, shook it, and said, “Good man. I will get with you later this afternoon about what your next assignment will be. Thank you, Jimmy, for taking this well.”
Marshall shook Scully’s hand again and said, “Until this afternoon then.” He turned and left Scully’s office. As Scully went back to his chair he said to himself, “No fire in the belly.”
Marshall went back to his desk and called Sylvia Carlyle.
112
Questions began to arise over the role of General Morgan Slaider in the laser fusion fiasco.
What was Slaider thinking about, getting the United States into such a mess? No, wait, wasn’t it Drummond who started all this? Wasn’t General Slaider against this project with the UN? But wasn’t it Slaider who proposed moving ahead with the National Laser Fusion Laboratory? Wasn’t that his baby? And what about the mess he made of international relations with that reckless seizure of gold at the Federal Reserve? Where the hell was Llewellyn when all this was going on? How do we straighten this mess out? That damned Executive Council dreamed up this kettle of fish. How much was Slaider running that show? Who’s running the ship of state now, Llewellyn or Slaider? How did the military get so involved in all this, anyway? Is this all Slaider’s doing?
Senator Jeb Paxton let slip that he is going to be holding hearings to sort this all out so Congress can get a handle on any legislation that might be needed. One of the talking heads on the Morning Show yesterday saw him hinting in that direction. Paxton was pretty upset. The papers are having a field day as well. Every channel is full of this. The oil guys all have those shit-eating grins. They just can’t stop with their I-told-you-so’s. Hmmm.
113
Special Agent Theodore London reasoned that trying to follow Morgan Slaider was a losing proposition. He was just too well-insulated from people he didn’t want knowing his whereabouts. So he devised another plan. He would stake out Colonel Tommy Tomlinson’s driver. Tomlinson himself being Slaider’s adjutant would undoubtedly be with Slaider like a shadow. He would be less difficult to track than Slaider, and so where Tomlinson was, that’s where Slaider would be. But Tomlinson would have his own ring of protection for the very reason London would want to follow his movements. He was close to the general. It would be less protection than the general’s but still quite robust. No, he would stake out Colonel Tomlinson’s driver. Where the driver went, Tomlinson went. He would have the lowest level of protection of the three. And where Tomlinson went, there Slaider would be found.
Patience is all it would take. It was a mathematical certainty if he followed the driver he would lead to Slaider. He wasn’t interested in Slaider at the TV appearances or on the talk shows or any of the other scripted events where Slaider, the celebrity, was performing. He wanted Slaider off the stage, doing his own thing, his real thing.
Would Slaider slip up and reveal some criminal intent? Director Brock’s fear of a coup d’état seemed unfounded now that a president had been installed and things were operating more or les
s in the former constitutional ways. The military had all turned their emergency duties back to civilian authorities and returned to their barracks. The police and judicial functions had resumed their duties. Except for the actions against the United Nations, London concluded, things were “back to the nuttiness we all call normal.”
But what about Slaider’s trip to Asia? What was that all about? And all this seeming stupidity about laser fusion or for that matter any kind of fusion energy—what was that all about? Whenever really bright or really powerful people act in ways that seem stupid, he always resists the temptation to see things that way. There must be something he is missing. London always took that road first. He could always chalk it up to stupidity later if that finally seemed to be the best explanation. But right now what was he missing? Hopefully, Tomlinson’s driver would lead the way to an answer.
Director Brock was insistent he keep working his assignment. She felt that something would have to break soon. Fusion energy was a dead issue and heads would roll. It was the Washington way. Funding for Tokamak, laser fusion development, and the National Laser Fusion Laboratory—the funding for which was just recently approved with the forceful encouragement of President Llewellyn, were all now being placed under minute scrutiny. The termination of funding for all three ventures was becoming increasingly likely given the intense promotion of the fossil fuel industry’s point of view. And through this all, President Llewellyn remained inscrutably silent, letting everyone else run in all directions with no guidance. What was that all about? London wondered. Pretty ineffectual leadership for the new president to be displaying.
Meanwhile, wait and watch. He placed some cameras in the driver’s home and listening devices in his shoes and in some clothing as time and opportunity permitted. Wait and watch: that’s the ticket.
114
Jeb Paxton had been on the phone all morning, arranging for subpoenas and getting things organized for the senate hearings that he believed would be the most-watched telescreen show of the century. He had cleared some time on his calendar for Sandy Campbell, due in five minutes. Campbell was insistent. Things were going so well with Layland’s campaign that he didn’t understand Campbell’s urgency, but the man was insistent and powerful in many ways and there was no point in antagonizing him if it could be avoided.
His position within the oil industry had always been a little vague to Paxton. Campbell was not directly working for any oil company, but rather for the American Petroleum Institute. He had a distinguished career in the military, moving from SEALs to black ops before retiring. He had been posted to Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Columbia, and Brunei and mustered out with a chest full of medals. He resurfaced as an apparently highly placed troubleshooter within API. In fact, no one seemed to know how high up he went. Everyone who dealt with him seemed to feel it was safer to go along than to oppose him.
Paxton had met men like Campbell before, men who took on the shit jobs no one else would take because they were too dangerous or too political, men who enjoyed working at the edge of their authority or beyond it, men who considered themselves somehow “bulletproof.” They reported to no department, but rather to someone in that hidden world at the top. These men retained their “double” status, one might say, because they got the dirty jobs done. Paxton had not had many occasions to be in the same room with Campbell, but when he did, he recognized immediately what this man was even when he had not yet known who he was.
As soon as Campbell arrived, Paxton’s secretary brought him into the senator’s office, as he had instructed her to.
“Sandy, so glad to see you under these somewhat more pleasant circumstances.”
“Likewise Senator. I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I know how busy you and your staff are, getting ready for your hearings. But I think you and I need to talk before you get started,” Campbell said.
“Well, of course when you make it sound urgent, I’ll always find the time for you, son. Would you like a little shot o’ something?”
“I never turn down an offer of your extrafine bourbon, Senator,” Campbell answered. But there was no smile in his voice or on his face. Senator Paxton buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring in two glasses and a pitcher of ice water and then hold all calls. Paxton then got up and went to a cabinet in his office to retrieve a bottle of Gentleman Jack. This was all done quickly and skillfully.
After clicking glasses and toasting ‘to good times,’ Campbell was ready to begin.
“I’m here to tell you that things look better than they really are.” He paused to see if Paxton would respond. He did not. So Campbell continued.
“Slaider is not a fool, and neither is Llewellyn. They are up to something. They would not let all this brouhaha continue if they didn’t have an ace in the hole somewhere. Layland has done a good job muddying the water and casting suspicion on our newest father figure, our hero, General Morgan Slaider. But it wouldn’t take much to clear up the water if Slaider has something. He’s too smart to go this deep into a hole without defending the executive council’s formation or actions, without defending the decisions regarding fusion energy, without defending the decisions made about the United Nations. It is very unlikely—and I’m telling you this as a former military man myself—that he has not, I repeat, not dug himself into a hole with no exit. It would be foolish on our part to assume he doesn’t know what he is doing or have a plan to extricate himself.”
Paxton took a sip from his glass.
“I hear you, Sandy. What have you all got?” Paxton asked.
“What I’ve got is exactly nothing. And I can’t let that continue. I am just giving you a heads-up that I will find out what he has up his sleeve and you better assume in your hearings that he does indeed have something. Don’t look like a fool when he springs it.”
“Well, I just want to thank you, son, for that good advice. I will take that to my heart as we explore the actions of that son of bitch. In the mean time, let me give you some good advice in return. Don’t you do anything that your momma wouldn’t want to know about you or read in the paper. Or at least don’t get caught. We’ve got their side on the ropes. Don’t do anything that might switch that dynamic. Do you follow me, Sandy?”
“Don’t worry, Senator. I’ll be careful.”
“Famous last words, son, famous last words. And I do mean last.”
Campbell chose to ignore that comment. Instead, he surprised Paxton.
“I’d like to work with your staff attorneys as they prepare for the hearings. I don’t believe either they or you have a clear understanding of the military mind you are dealing with. I think I’d be able to provide important insights as they put together your plan of inquiry.” Campbell looked straight into the eyes of Senator Paxton until Paxton turned away.
“Well, son, we don’t usually have parties with a vested interest in my hearings work for me as staff to the hearings. It raises issues of conflict of interest, you see,” Paxton answered.
“Senator, your power and your position opens up documents and people I just can’t get to. We’ve got the bastards on the run with Layland’s campaign, but I see that as only temporary. Slaider has something, I assure you, that will neutralize Layland’s campaign. Your people are trained to find legislation gaps, areas not adequately covered by federal law. Or they’re trained to find violations of the law. But they are not trained to pick up the nuances, the revelations of a state of mind that I might be able to use to predict what Slaider is up to. I—more than anyone on your staff—know how General Slaider thinks, what’s important to him, the scale of his thinking, how much he’s willing to sacrifice for a bigger objective.” He stared hard at Paxton.
“I want to nail this man one way or the other,” Campbell said, getting up from his seat and leaning over Paxton’s desk to get as close as he could to him. “I don’t really care how. Anyway will do, whatever it takes.” He was silent for few seconds, then added, “Your people may have exactly what I need. I don’t want to wait a
nd watch with the great unwashed masses on the telescreen. I know for every question the committee will ask, there is material for fifty more you won’t have the time to ask. I want to just be able to sift through all that you have. I need this, Senator. You need this. And I need it now.”
Senator Paxton sat quietly, calculating possible courses of action and possible outcomes. He did not care how long he sat silent while Campbell waited. Campbell would just have to live with the silence. Actually, he didn’t even know Campbell’s exact relationship with his employer or for that matter, who exactly his employer was.
“Sandy, let me ask you some questions first before I give you my decision. I need to chew this bone some more. You are surely puttin’ me in a tricky spot. Who exactly are you workin’ for?”
“I am an independent contractor, Senator, under contract with the American Petroleum Institute through a specially funded project subscribed to by a pool of companies that feed the fund. I am not a lobbyist or a company representative. The closest thing to what I am is a consultant.”
“A consultant. Hmmm. We could use a consultant to explain and advise regardin’ military matters and the military culture. Your Ph.D. is in sociology is it not?”
On Deception Watch Page 47
