Back in the desert, the camp settled into busy routine. Late that morning, one of the Marines relaxed in front of his tent, waiting for lunch. He didn’t understand the technical functions of the camp and didn’t expect to. He was assigned his job and did it. Nevertheless, he thought it strange that the chief of the operation would take time out to squat, motionless, at the edge of the camp with his index finger thrust past the second knuckle into a small hole in the ground.
Chapter 16
A faint rush of electromagnetic waves carried the orders from a Soviet ground station on the Kamchatka Peninsula. On the hunter-killer satellite a switch popped shut, releasing the latent energy in a battery and generating a healthy blue spark elsewhere in the circuit. The spark jostled and heated the fragile molecules of a volatile material. The heated matter expanded violently, its force focused by a tough surrounding casing. A detonation wave raced outward in a fury that shot in a narrow arc into space.
A few hundred yards away, a sleek white cylinder decorated with a small red, white, and blue emblem floated with deadly grace. It was directly in the path of the onrushing explosion. Then the onslaught was full upon it, the pressure soaring ferociously, the outer wall crumpling, the shock wave engulfing everything within. With the shock came heat, heat that triggered circuits in the cylinder.
In a repeat of the pattern played out only instants before, switches tripped, power surged, tiny sparks crackled and carefully designed chemical explosives imploded upon a finely machined, slightly warm sphere of metal, violently squeezing it.
The shock from the first explosion arrived at the same instant. The sphere was warped; the focus of its compression altered. It existed for a brief moment, teetering on the edge of consummation. Each part of it fed neutrons into the others. Deep in the dense nuclei of its atoms, reactions were triggered splitting the nuclei apart, releasing vastly more energy than the penetrating neutrons possessed and more of the catalyzing neutrons as well.
Then the moment passed. The wracking shock and the partial release of nuclear energy amplified the distortions of the sphere. The chain reaction damped, and the sphere of radioactive metal dissolved into harmless shards. In a heartbeat, the cylinder was gone.
Nearby, another cylinder, larger, ungainly, stirred into menacing wakefulness. Ports slid open in its sides. It rotated and slurred. Taking aim. Awaiting instructions.
By shading his eyes from the midday Sun, Isaacs could make out the town of Alamagordo as the military transport continued its descent toward Holloman Air Force Base. He glanced around at his companions, Pat Danielson and Alex Runyan whom they had picked up on a quick stop at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, and the two Agency men. Although the need was remote, they could provide security backup. The hollow feeling in his gut reflected his anticipation of the significance of this venture. They were headed for the source, the key to the myriad tangled events. He thought back to the simple anomalous seismic signal he had toyed with while on leave last March, over four months ago. His thoughts strayed to Runyan’s voracious beast rifling through the Earth and to the paranoiac escalation threatened by the note from Korolev.
Maybe not so paranoid. He played a game of role reversal he had often found useful. How would the President of the United States and his military and civilian advisors react to being informed that the Russians, deliberately or otherwise, had created a menace so hideous that it would eat away the substance of the Earth? Even with the damage done, the urge to retaliate, fed by hatred and fear, would be strong, visceral. An image of a battered child who finally takes an ax to his tormentor slipped into his mind. He knew there were Americans who would argue that if the Russians had been the perpetrators, the time would have come to rid the world of them, before going on to face the ultimate menace. Could this development be the final straw for the Soviets, the one that pushed them over the brink in an attempt to eliminate their prime antagonist, despite the consequences? And role reversal, hell, he thought. How will the President react when he’s informed this evening that his own team has committed this inconceivable atrocity?
The reality was overwhelming. They had a few scant hours to find the keys to defuse the crisis. They needed incontrovertible proof that the incredible event had actually occurred, that a small black hole had been forged on the mountaintop forty miles away. They must discover how and why and then hope the President could use that evidence to convince the Russians that the affair was not an overt act against them. They would also look for any dim shred of evidence that what had been done could be undone.
Already there was a hitch, an aggravating note of uncertainty amplified by the tension surrounding their mission. Where in the hell was Krone? Their flurry of phone calls had only succeeded in contacting some administrative head at the lab. Isaacs had worried about a confrontation with Krone. He might bluster, cover up, delay them. Worse, he might destroy evidence. Isaacs had dissembled with the administrator, told him that they were an inspection team under the auspices of the executive branch. Only a small lie. It would be presidential business soon enough. In any case, Isaacs knew the power of the vague reference to the Oval Office and he had invoked it unashamedly; there was no time for more complex explanations.
Isaacs looked over once more at Danielson, her face in profile as she stared out the small window. She and Runyan had been in good spirits when they met. Was there something between them? Would they both be at top efficiency as matters reached their crux? Isaacs was not sure he should have succumbed to Runyan’s pleadings to go to Arizona.
For the second time in as many days, Alex Runyan had found himself catching a military plane on short notice and heading for a remote corner of the southwest. He and Danielson had taken a military flight to Kirtland and then had transferred to the plane Isaacs had commandeered out of Andrews. Isaacs had filled them in on the progress the Russians had made in duplicating their efforts that gave special urgency to their mission. That had surprised him, but the general chain of events was proceeding as he had foreseen.
Having convinced himself that a black hole was running rampant in the Earth, Runyan had found a man-made origin more plausible than other preposterous possibilities. Still, a stunning technological feat was demanded, and he was keenly interested in discovering the details that this trip promised to reveal. His instinct told him that their only hope for salvation lay in fathoming the secrets of creation. Paul Krone. Runyan shook his head. He’d done it this time.
Runyan, too, glanced over at Pat Danielson. This trip promised no chance to renew the relationship started in the warm Arizona night. On the contrary, she seemed to be getting a little withdrawn. When they lay on the mattress, comfortable, chatting, she had confessed to having no close male relations for some time. Could she keep an affair casual, friendly, the way he wanted? Was she the type to suffer second thoughts if no permanent relation was in the offing? Now he’d have to watch his step.
Pat Danielson’s mind was in a turmoil. On the noisy flight from Yuma she nearly forgot their mission, as she repeatedly thought of Runyan, buckled into the hard utilitarian seat next to her. She relived their undressing in the Moonlight that bathed the tent, their tender precarious coupling on the narrow mattress, his successful, unhurried manner, the quiet conversation after, cramped cooperative attempts at sleep and his half-comical departure at dawn as the camp came to life.
Then in Albuquerque when they met up with Isaacs the enormity of the situation rushed back upon her. To all the fear and fascination she felt toward the object of their quest, now the burden of keeping the Russians at bay was added.
In Isaacs’ presence, all business, she felt pangs of guilt for allowing her personal urges to come to the fore. With guilt came questions. Was it a one shot affair? Had he gotten what he wanted? Did he really care? He had spoken briefly of a wife and described, honestly it seemed, his estrangement. But was he honest? And even if he was, had he really said anything that implied a commitment to her, to Pat? The more she thought, the deeper became her guilt and embarrassment.
She looked out of her portside window now as the plane flew west, parallel to the main runway below. She made out a sprawling complex of runways, hangars, and military aircraft. That disappeared behind them until the plane went into a left bank that took them perpendicular to the runway, affording a clear view of the base and the Sacramento Mountains rising in the east. She thought she caught a glimpse of their ultimate destination on one of
