Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (18 page)

“But. . .how did he die?”

“Do I look like a coroner?
 
How should I know?” Lesserec said.
 
“Heart attack, I think.”

The PSO clicked the SEND button again.
 
“Uh, apparent coronary arrest.
 
Request backup.
 
We need to get the body over to Medical.
 
We’re going to get a lot of publicity on this.”

“Acknowledged.
 
Backup on its way,” the voice answered.
 
“Will call Health Services and get them ready for an emergency inspection.”

Visibly shaking, the PSO shoved the walkie-talkie back in its holder at his hip.

Lesserec looked around the VR lab.
 
“A lot of this stuff is highly classified.
 
I’ve already cleared the computers and locked up the classified documents Michaelson had lying around.
 
We’ve got to put black cloth over all this equipment.
 
Even just the shapes of some of this stuff is Secret National Security Information.
 
Anybody who doesn’t have a need to know can’t get a glimpse of it—including
you
, so don’t pay attention.”

Flustered, the PSO said, “Uh, yes.
 
Let’s get to work and clean this place up.”

#

The T Program members knew something was up when they came to work because of the flurry of police cars and the extra scrutiny when they came through the double gates into the T Program trailers.

Lesserec called a meeting at 9:00, although the hotshot programmers pretty much came in at all hours of the morning, whenever they pleased.
 
Lesserec assumed he would have to give the same information repeatedly.

He stood, crossed his pudgy arms over his t-shirt, and looked at the confused programmers sitting around the table.
 
No Doritos this time.
 
No festive atmosphere of making catcalls during the President’s news conference.

“All right, listen up,” Lesserec said.
 
Rumors had been flying for the last hour, and some of the rumors were right by sheer chance.
 
“You already know something’s happening,” he said.

Walter called out, “Now presenting, Gary Lesserec, Master of the Obvious!”

Lesserec ignored the catcall.
 
“Michaelson’s dead.
 
I found his body this morning in the VR chamber.
 
Look’s to me like a heart attack while he was working late last night, but we won’t know until Health Services looks him over.
 
He might have to be taken down to Valley Memorial Hospital for a full autopsy.

“Regardless of the cause, he’s dead.
 
And that means it’s up to us to put together the whole dog-and-pony show our dear friend Hal set up for us.”

He gave a short, barking laugh.
 
“Knowing him, I almost think he did this on purpose, and right now his ghost is laughing at us.
 
Michaelson was always shoving us into quicksand and walking off with the rope.”

He sat back down again and looked at their reactions.
 
“Lab management has to make everything tidy and official, but for the moment I’m still acting group leader.
 
I don’t want it, and they’ll probably post the job, but you know the blinding speed any official happens around here.
 
They can’t possibly get anybody else to pick up the reins fast enough to get this international demonstration done in time.
 
It’s
 
going to be crazy to finish it, but a lot of the Lab’s prestige rides on this.

“I’m open to your suggestions, but my gut feeling is we should not ask for a postponement, because a delay will look like we don’t have our act together.”

He lowered his voice and leaned across the table, meeting the scattered stunned expressions.
 
“We don’t need a whole lot of talking the next four weeks.
 
We need a lot of work.
 
We need to finish setting up the virtual presence inside the Plutonium Facility for the first-stage demonstration.
 
I’ll be coordinating with the folks out at the Nevada Test Site so we can rig up the full downhole simulation that Michaelson wanted us to show off.

“I’ve already talked to NTS this morning.
 
They are in as much chaos over there as we are.
 
Testing has been shut down for years, and just to get up and running again is keeping them at Warp 9.
 
They’re gonna set up a preliminary test detonation for us with two thousand tons of high explosive so we can calibrate our sensors and get a good feel for what it’s like to watch the explosion through virtual presence.”

Danielle raised her hand and then stuttered as if she didn’t know what to say.
 
“But, but what about Dr. Michaelson?”
 
Shouldn’t we—take a . . . take a day off or something?”

“And what?”
 
Lesserec raised his voice.
 
“People die, the program goes on.
 
Any other questions?”
 
He stared at them, pleased to see everyone flinch.
 
“All right, then let’s get back to work.

CHAPTER 18

Thursday

Oakland, CA

Loud ringing pierced a fuzzy-headed morning, shattering the vivid reds, yellows, and blues of an impossible dream.
 
Rising through the depths of sleep, Craig Kreident knew he didn’t have to go to work.
 
If he waited long enough, the ringing would stop.

But instead of melting away with the dream, the noise continued until it bore through the fog in his brain.
 
So much for sleeping in.

Craig rolled to his right and slapped at the speakerphone.
 
“Hello?”
 
His mouth tasted dry, cottony.
 
Sunlight streamed into a window, illuminating a bright yellow rectangle on the hardwood floor.

“Craig, this is June.
 
June Atwood.”
 
Her voice sounded loud and tinny from the speaker.

He lifted to an elbow and glanced at the clock, blinking 9:03 in red numbers.
 
“Yes, ma’am.
 
What’s going on?”
 
His mind started to clear from the sleep.
 
“If I’d known you were going to call this early, I wouldn’t have stayed up partying so late.”

“Sorry to get you up.
 
But you did make me promise to call if something came up.”

Craig sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed, wrapping the sheet around him.
 
“I can be downtown in half an hour.
 
Did the NanoWare—”

“This is something different, Craig.
 
A field job.”

Craig’s hopes dropped upon hearing June’s matter of fact tone.
 
What did she have in mind?
 
Asking him to appear before a middle school assembly, speaking about his career as a G-man?
 
“I’m listening.”

“You’re the most experienced agent I’ve got in high-tech investigations.
 
This morning there was a suspicious death on Federal property—at the Lawrence Livermore National Lab.
 
A bigwig scientist was found dead in a sealed area early this morning.
 
The preliminary inspection from the Livermore medical department found high concentrations of some kind of acid on the body.”

“Acid?
 
Like the Phantom of the Opera?” Craig asked.

“Not quite so gruesome, but this guy . . . didn’t have a pleasant time dying.”

“Sounds suspicious to me,” Craig said.

“It gets more complicated,” June continued.
 
““Some sort of high-level multinational team coming out to Livermore in a few weeks, by invitation of the President himself.
 
Couldn’t be worse timing, so we’ve got to look good.
 
Go in, talk to a few people, bless the scene so we can rule the death an accident.”

“
Was
it an accident?”

“You tell me.”
 
Craig’s mind clicked into the problem at hand, focusing his full attention.
 
June rattled off the details of how Gary Lesserec had found Michaelson’s body, and the subsequent uproar.
 
“Death occurred in one of their Exclusion Areas, whatever that means.
 
Top Secret place, I suppose.
 
We’re getting a provisional security clearance sent over there for you within the hour.
 
Naturally our FBI clearances don’t mean anything to the DOE folks, so you’ll have an escort at all times.”
 
She laughed.
 
“I’ll try to get you a cute tour guide, okay?”

Craig thought fast: he still had to shave, shower and hit the can.
 
But he kept plenty of clean suits hanging in the closet.
 
“I can be there by ten thirty.”

June’s voice sounded grim.
 
“I sure hope you find out it’s a straightforward accidental death.”

“You know it never turns out to be as simple as that, June,” he said with a sigh.
 
“I just hope these scientists don’t get confused about who’s on their side.”

CHAPTER 19

Thursday

Sheraton Inn

Pleasanton, California

It was a snobbish thing to do, really.
 
Diana Unteling still had friends in Livermore—dozens of them, and long-time ties that went back for years, long before her husband had formed the Coalition for Family Values.
 
She could have stayed in a nice home close to the Lab, she could have received a home-cooked breakfast after the hard night of traveling, had someone to speak to over morning coffee.

But this wasn’t a social trip.
 
They would also ask too many questions—and she needed time alone to deal with Hal Michaelson.

The Sheraton Inn in Pleasanton, ten miles west of the huge Livermore nuclear lab, allowed Diana to blend in with other travelers.
 
No one really gave a flip at the Sheraton if she was a deputy assistant Secretary of Energy or the Queen of France.
 
She and Hal had met here a dozen times during their years-long affair, but now just the thought of him sent a wave of uneasiness and tension through her.

No one would notice her comings and goings this time either.

Diana came down to breakfast with the freebie hotel copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle
tucked under her arm.
 
She decided to skip the complimentary breakfast buffet and ordered a pot of coffee and a danish.
 
Sleeping in—and simmering anger toward Hal—had soured her appetite, and the three-hour time difference screwed up her metabolism.

Spreading the newspaper in front of her, she ignored the local “puff” news and turned to the National section.
 
She was thankful the Sheraton had stopped handing out
USA Today
—once she had moved from Livermore to Washington, she had grown too used to the
Washington Post
, or “Pravda on the Potomac,” as Hal called it.

She scowled at the thought of him again: tall, imposing, with his pencil-thin moustache and domineering personality that made him seem like a grizzly bear on the outside, but a teddy bear on the inside.
 
Why hadn't he returned her calls
?

Arriving in Livermore late after taking the last flight to San Francisco from Washington D.C., she had spent the previous day hanging out at Hal Michaelson’s dim and empty farmhouse.
 
She knew where Hal hid the spare key and had slipped in, waiting for him, and waiting, and waiting.
 
But he never showed up.
 
She got more furious with him as the hours went by.

 
The success of his International Verification Initiative must have really gone to his head, not that Hal’s ego had ever been small.

In the Sheraton restaurant Diana took a sip of her coffee and tried to concentrate on the paper, but her thoughts kept coming back to Hal.
 
He wasn’t at his home, and all the previous afternoon no one at the Virtual Reality lab would admit he was there.
 
She had refused to leave her name or leave the number of the Sheraton, but no one could be that busy.
 
Not even Hal.

Yesterday, she had grown livid with him for making her waste an entire day.
 
She couldn’t afford to wait any longer, not if she had to prepare for her Senate confirmation hearing.
 
She had fudged one too many imaginary business trips to Livermore already, and she had to get back to DOE Headquarters.
 
If Hal didn’t want anything else to do with her, that only left one thing to do.