McGarvey accompanied Gail back down to Hutchinson Island for the simple fact that there was little else he could do in Washington until Otto and Yablonski came up with an ID on the contractor. But so far both men had drawn blanks.
“If we can get back inside the South Service Building, I want to take a look at the rest of the recordings for that day,” she’d said. “Larry told me that the feeds from some of the cameras came up blank, on some sort of a loop that just showed the same frame over and over again.”
“Maybe he missed one,” McGarvey suggested.
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
They rented a car at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport and as they came to the south bridge over to Hutchinson Island, a few miles from the power plant, they encountered the first of the media trucks with satellite dishes on the roofs. “Like hyenas to a fresh kill,” Gail said.
“They’re doing their jobs,” McGarvey said, though he’d never had any particular fondness for newspeople, especially not after he’d faced the Senate when he’d been nominated as director of the CIA.
“They did a number on my father when he was killed,” Gail said bitterly. “Called him a misplaced cop with a hero complex and a pathological need for recognition that could have got some innocent people hurt.”
“I know. I read the stories.”
Gail glanced at him, a hurt look on her face. “They were damned unfair. And I’m next, only I don’t understand why.”
“For the most part they’re just trying to figure out whatever it is they’re covering, so that they can explain it to their audience.”
“In an ideal world I might believe you, Kirk. But a lot of these people are less interested in the truth than they are about increasing their fame, so they can demand bigger salaries.”
But McGarvey had wanted to believe differently after the storm of media coverage when his wife and daughter had been slaughtered by an IED at Arlington Cemetery, because he didn’t want to vent his rage on the press. They had been insensitive, but they had not pulled the trigger. The deaths were not their fault. It was like apologizing for being Americans after 9/11. No, the cause had been radical terrorist hatreds under the guise of the Islamic jihad, which was supposed to spread the true faith. And in turn it was really about power; who had it and who wanted to take it from them.
“Sensationalism,” McGarvey said, seeing her point.
“Voyeurism,” she said. “People driving past a bad accident and slowing down so they can see the blood and gore. There but for the grace of God, go I.”
“Worrying about it isn’t going to help our investigation,” McGarvey said, and he felt like a hypocrite, because that’s exactly how he had operated throughout his career. When he was in the field he worried about everything; in the end it was oftentimes the minor, overlooked detail that cost the agent his or her life.
And across the bridge and onto the island when they were stopped by the first Army National Guard checkpoint, beyond which they could see the fringes of the crowd lining A1A the last five miles to the power plant, his gut reaction was that the media was being manipulated by the Reverend Jerry Schlagel. Many of the people streaming past the checkpoint carried signs with the theme: LEAVE GOD ’ S WORK TO GOD!
McGarvey powered down the window and he and Gail held up their NNSA identity cards for the armed solider. “What’s that all about?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the soldier said. “They started showing up around midnight, and we were ordered to let them through.”
A National Guard lieutenant dressed in BDUs came over and glanced at the ID cards. “Can you tell us what happened?” he asked. He looked a little green.
“We’re working on it,” McGarvey said.
“Any TV people up there?” Gail asked.
“Yes, ma’am. From all over the place. England, Germany, even Japan. It’s like a rock concert.”
There was no need in McGarvey’s mind to ask who the star would be. “How far out is the perimeter?”
“Post One is five hundred meters, sir. But you’ll want to drive up to the staging area just outside the main gate. The on-site commander is up there along with a first aid station and decontamination tent.”
“How about A1A north?”
“It’s closed.”
“Can we get inside the South Service Building?” McGarvey asked.
“I don’t know, sir. But they’ve already started evaluation work, and some cleanup. We’ve been told that it’s nowhere near as bad as it could have been.”
“Call ahead and let them know we’re on the way,” McGarvey said
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said and he waved them through.
Driving the five miles north they passed a nearly continuous mob heading toward the power plant. Most of the people were dressed plainly in jeans or shorts, some with baseball caps, others with straw hats; men and women of all ages, children, some in their mothers’ arms, some in strollers, even buggies, and tiny carriages that were towed by bicycles. None of them drove, except for the few bikes, all of them were on foot, and nearly everyone carried backpacks or big shoulder bags, as if they planned on staying at least overnight, and many of them carried the God signs.
“There has to be twenty thousand people here,” McGarvey said.
“Probably more,” Gail said. “But look at their faces. They’re happy.”
“These have to be Schlagel’s people. Looks like they’re going to a tent revival meeting.”
“Yeah, but why, Kirk?” Gail asked. “What’s the point of calling his flock to a sabotaged nuclear power plant?”
A pair of National Guard Humvees came up the highway and McGarvey had to move over to let them pass. The crowds were spilling out on to the roadway and he had to be careful not to run over anyone, until finally the highway was completely blocked and he had to slow to a crawl, the mob parting in front and surging back behind. It was like being in the middle of a low fog, nothing visible except overhead, until in the distance, finally, the plant’s containment domes came into sight.
Gail sat forward. “They’ve already started to cap the north dome,” she said.
A wall of what at this distance looked like large concrete panels rose nearly halfway to the top of the damaged containment dome. At least three large cranes surrounded the perimeter and as they continued north one of the cranes slowly lowered another concrete slab in place. They could see scaffolding, but they were still too far to see the workmen.
The outer perimeter of Post One was a hundred yards farther, and here the big crowd was spreading out on both sides of the road, some of the people all the way down on the beach, others on the fringes of a swampy area to the west. A pair of National Guard trucks was set up as a negotiable barrier, the first one parked halfway across the road from the right, and the other a few yards away parked halfway across the road from the left. In order to pass the barrier it was necessary to drive around the first truck, then make a sharp turn to the right to get past the second truck. None of the mob was being allowed beyond the barrier. National Guard troops formed a line from the water’s edge to the swamp. And for now, at least, it seemed as if the people were content to come this far and stop, as if they were waiting for something to happen.
McGarvey pulled up at the barrier and he and Gail showed their IDs to a nervous first lieutenant.
“Colonel Scofield is expecting you,” he said. “The CP is in the first trailer.”
A lot of television vans had been allowed through and they were parked on either side of the road, nearly all the way up to the main gate area, where the command post trailer was parked. Several tents had been set up on either side of the highway, and just now there seemed to be a lot of activity inside the main gate. Even from here McGarvey could see that people coming out of the South Service Building were wearing bright silver hazmat suits, bulky hoods covering their heads. The building was evidently still hot.
“Where do we park?” McGarvey asked.
“This side of the CP,” the lieutenant said. “You’ll need to be briefed before you’ll be allowed to go any farther.” He stepped aside and waved McGarvey through.
A number of people in the crowd were watching them. They were not smiling.
