Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (8 page)

“How dare he do something like this,” Lesserec said, standing up and flushing, as if he could argue with the television.
 
Michaelson kept talking smoothly, and Lesserec angrily motioned for the others to be quiet.

“My team at Livermore is already hard at work preparing a spectacular demonstration of the nuts-and-bolts workings of our plutonium handling facility, and I’m pleased to announce the President’s decision just this afternoon to implement the most appropriate use of this virtual reality technology.”
 
Michaelson turned and nodded to the Secretary of Energy, waiting to his left.

The Secretary approached the podium and spoke.
 
“For the first time in many years, we will conduct an underground nuclear detonation using one of the devices that has been kept mothballed as part of our stockpile stewardship program.
 
The Department of Energy’s Nevada Test Site has been placed on alert this afternoon.”

Standing next to the Energy Secretary, Michaelson leaned into the microphone.
 
“The entire team of international delegates will remotely observe this underground detonation from Livermore, California, using our virtual reality sensors.
 
They will be down hole, on the spot, seeing what no human eyes have ever seen before.”
 
Michaelson seemed to glow as he said his words.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Lesserec said, looking at the other amazed techs as if they might have an answer.
 
“He won’t even let us talk about this technology to
American
manufacturers, and now he’s going to hand it on a silver plate to . . . to the competition!
 
He’s nuts!”

“Gary,” Walter Shing said blinking behind his thick eyeglasses, “we always knew Michaelson was nuts.
 
What’s the surprise?”

This deflated Lesserec, and he found no other response but to smile.
 
He shouldn’t have been surprised.
 
Michaelson enjoyed pulling the rug out from under T Program’s feet, seeing how his team scrambled to change the proposals, to modify their work to meet suddenly changed goals.

On the news conference the President opened up to questions from the reporters in the audience, who didn’t seem to grasp the significance or even understand the implications of the International Verification Initiative.
 
They spent more time grilling the President about the scandal
du jour
.

Lesserec didn’t wait around to hear the CNN rehash and commentary about the speech.
 
He understood the subject more than the reporters would anyway.
 
He stood up, feeling his knees shaking.
 
His mouth was dry and too salty from the Doritos.

“All right everybody,” he said, “Call home or call your baby-sitters, whatever you need.
 
Michaelson’s upstaged us.
 
Again.
 
You all know how to deal with it.”

He switched off the television and went to find himself another can of Diet Coke.

CHAPTER 7

Tuesday

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Hal Michaelson slipped out of the White House the same way he entered, through the Old Executive Office Building and onto 17th Street.
 
Men and women clicked past him on the sidewalk, intent on their own versions of urgent business, no one making eye contact, everyone trying to outdo everyone else in their hurry to get where they were going.

Rush hour in the capital city had started four hours before, and the traffic was finally dying away into evening.
 
A truck hauling a trailer with a hand-painted sign proclaiming IMPEACH THE SOCIALISTIC BUMS blared its horn and turned in its slow circle of the White House.

Two young men dressed in crisp blue suits handed out pamphlets by the stoplight.
 
A middle aged woman without any hair played a rambling French horn solo next to the White House fence.
 
Smells of steamed Polish sausage washed over him from a corner food stand.
 
Flares of late twilight colors settled over the historic monumental buildings that glittered white under drenching spotlights.
 
A city bus rushed past with blue curls of greasy exhaust, drowning out honking cars and yelling people.

Michaelson decided to walk back to his room.
 
Cab rates were obscene, and there would be no telling how long he would wait in the traffic for the mile ride to his hotel.
 
Damn the humidity
, he thought and set off, wishing he could strip down to a polo shirt and slacks instead of this damned Washington-mandated suit and tie.

For the first time in years, he didn’t have to catch the next flight back to Livermore.
 
He could get a good night’s sleep—or at least a good night’s bedroom exercises with Amber.
 
The perfect way to unwind.

As he walked around the fence surrounding the White House, a news crew from a local station filmed a group of twenty people carrying signs for yet another demonstration.
 
Ho hum.
 
Every person in America had the right to protest at the nation’s capital, but the fact that so many of them
did
only trivialized their tedious complaints voiced hour after hour, day after day.

Michaelson tried to read the signs, but when he saw the cameraman moving to get him in the picture, he hurried past.
 
No use lending the protestors a bit of credibility rubbed off from the recent press conference.

 
Minutes later, after passing the Treasury Building, he turned right and spotted the George Washington hotel.
 
The traffic abated on the side street, but the cacophony of automobiles still reflected off the stone buildings and surrounded him.
 
Once inside the stately hotel, Michaelson inhaled deeply of the air-conditioned, clammy air and felt the tenseness loosen, his shoulders relax.

His heart fluttered from the exertion of the mile walk—this just wasn’t worth it.
 
He’d overdone it today, first by taking the stairs, and now a damned sprint in the sticky heat.
 
He’d had enough, and he could certainly afford the luxury to lounge back.
 
No more cutting corners.
 
Maybe he could join a health club, or maybe he should just soak in the jacuzzi.
 
Maybe with Amber.

Inside his room, Michaelson turned up the air conditioner, hung up his jacket, and flicked on the television.
 
He searched the channels, but was on the wrong side of the hour to catch any response from today’s IVI announcement, even from CNN.
 
He thought about calling Lesserec and the team back at Livermore to get their reaction, but decided against it.
 
He wanted to give them time to cool down.
 
He’d walked the tightrope on this Virtual Inspectors project for too long.

Right now all he wanted was to relax and savor the moment.
 
He had scored his points for today; he would deal with transitioning the Lab’s work when he flew back to Livermore.
 
Even putting up with Lesserec’s self-importance and constant questions wouldn’t be too bad, since T Program would be getting a new leader anyway, once Michaelson took the reins of the much larger International Verification Initiative.
 
And the new T Program leader sure as hell wasn’t going to be Gary Lesserec.

He laughed at the image of José Aragon trying to explain to Lesserec why the red-headed kid couldn’t be appointed group leader.
 
All that could wait until tomorrow.
 
Tonight, he’d invite Amber to dinner, perhaps a nice French restaurant . . . according to his schedule this wasn’t an opera night, so the
Le Rivage
might not be crowded—

His cellular phone rang.
 
He thought about ignoring it, but not many people had his number, so the caller must have a good reason for bothering him.
 
Probably someone wanting to congratulate him about the IVI.
 
Michaelson grumbled and padded across the suite to his jacket.
 
He dug the phone out of his suit pocket and flipped it open.

“Hal—this is Diana.”

“Diana.”
 
Oh shit
.
 
He lowered himself to the chair with a sigh, trying to keep his voice bright and happy.
 
Years ago Diana Unteling had worked as his executive assistant at the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility.
 
Even back in the old days on the Russian disarmament team, she’d had an uncanny knack of catching up to him when he didn’t want to be bothered.
 
He’d found her prescience and attentiveness to be unbearably sexy before.
 
But it was getting old, as were they both.
 
Amber was so . . . young and energetic.

“Hal, I thought you were going to call me,” Diana said.

“Sorry.
 
Things have been hectic.
 
I . . . forgot.
 
You saw the press conference?”

Silence.
 
“I’m at the office.
 
Can we meet tonight?
 
I’m free for dinner, and afterward.
 
My husband’s working late to arrange one of his Coalition retreats.
 
He won’t notice.”

“Sorry, Diana.
 
I’m heading back to Livermore—the Lab’s going ape over the IVI announcement.”

“You can’t stay?
 
Not even for a few hours?” she said sourly.

Michaelson leaned forward, breathing into the telephone.
 
“You know I can’t.
 
Things are moving fast.
 
I . . . I’ll see you next time I’m out on the East Coast.”

“Hal . . . we need to talk, and this would be a very good time.”
 
Silence again, tinged with desperation.
 
This was really turning him off.
 
Michaelson waited.
 
He knew she wanted him to ask, but he maintained his silence.

Finally she said,
 
“The Secretary’s offered me a political appointment, the Assistant Secretary position, and I need to ensure we’ve got our story straight.
 
They’re going to ask me questions about Livermore, the time we were on the disarmament team.
 
You know how they dig into everything.”
 
She hesitated. “You could take a later flight and we could meet in Crystal City, the Sheraton—”

So the rumor's true that she may be in line for a top job at DOE
, Michaelson thought.
 
How quickly things change. He shook his head.

“Look, I’m in a car now, on my way to Dulles airport.
 
I’m expected to get in late tonight.”
 
He ran a hand through his steel-gray hair, trying to think, to give her a good enough excuse.
 
“Listen, make up whatever story you want me to follow, and I’ll go by it. The committee’s probably going to ask me those same questions when I come up for confirmation as head of IVI.
 
We’ve got plenty of time.
 
I’ll be back within the week.
 
I’ve just got too many loose ends back at Livermore to tie up right now.”

She settled into silence over the phone.
 
Hal imagined her twisting up her face, as if in a battle with herself about what to say next.
 
She’d be kneading a hand against her cheek, and her dark eyebrows arched up against her short gray-blond bangs.

“Don’t give me the brush-off, Hal,” she finally said.
 
“This is important.”

“So is this,” he said softly.
 
“I’ll call before I come out next time.
 
Promise.”

“You know how to reach me.”
 
Her words sounded bitter, and the phone clicked off.

 
Michaelson folded the phone and took several deep breaths.
 
Diana’s political appointment threw a new light over things.
 
Right now he needed some time to think, to decompress.

No telling what would come out in the confirmation hearings. He knew the horror stories of the congressional staff digging up skeletons from the deepest closets, and senators ranting on for hours about some trumped-up fantasy.
 
But in the land of images and egos, he knew it was only the impression that counted, not the substance.
 
VR had made him a master at that.

He wasted no more time before he picked up the phone again, punched up his electronic rolodex to find the name AMBER followed by a phone number.
 
He entered her number, and when a soft voice answered, he said, “This is Hal.”

Ten minutes later, his face washed and suit jacket back on, Michaelson headed out the door to catch a taxi and meet his dinner date.