The Krone Experiment (48 page)

“We found out this morning that it’s a
private research laboratory, subcontracted to the Los Alamos
Scientific Laboratory, two hundred miles to the north. The man who
runs it is Paul Krone.”

“Krone? Of Krone Industries?” the President
inquired.

“Yes, sir,” answered Isaacs.

The President exchanged a glance with Drefke.
They both knew that Krone had heavily financed his opponent in the
last election.

“And now you’re going to tell me he made a
black hole? There?” The President extended a pin-striped arm and
pointed a finger at the slide without removing his eyes from
Isaacs. “At a government sponsored laboratory? Right in our own
backyard? Without our knowledge? Without my knowledge?”

“Yes, sir, that seems to be the case. When we
discovered the site this morning, I took a team for an emergency
visit to confirm our suspicions.

“There is a machine in this building,” Isaacs
said, using the pointer on the screen, “the details of which we do
not understand. But it is of gigantic proportions and appears to
have consumed the rock missing from this ridge.” He pointed to the
bare patch of mountain top bordering the lab. “That’s about a
hundred million tons of rock, and the strong circumstantial
evidence is that it was compressed by this machine to produce the
black hole.

“We then proceeded to a home that Krone
maintains near the lab. We found him in a semi-catatonic state. He
attempted to commit suicide about four months ago and has some
brain damage. We recovered from his study a set of laboratory
notebooks, of which this is one.”

Isaacs stepped around behind Drefke, picked
up the lab book from his place and walked half the length of the
table to set it by the President’s elbow.

“We haven’t had time to study them, but they
seem to contain a complete record of Krone’s experiments that led
to the creation of the black hole. There may also be important
computer files.”

“It’s burned!” exclaimed the President.

“Yes, unfortunately. A woman who lived with
Krone attempted to burn them. It was a ruse on her part to distract
us while she smuggled Krone out the back door. Some were badly
damaged before we could stop her.”

“She smuggled him out? While you were there?”
The President was incredulous. “Where are they now?”

“The woman got away with him, at least
temporarily. They’re somewhere in the mountains. We have air and
ground search parties after them.”

“Who is this woman?” the Chairman of the NSC
inquired.

“Her name is Maria Latvin. She’s apparently a
refugee,” Isaacs explained. “From Lithuania. Krone met her in
Vienna after she escaped, and she’s been living with him ever
since.”

“A plant?” the Chairman asked.

“Not that we can tell,” Isaacs answered.
“We’re still looking into her background, but the escape from
Czechoslovakia seems genuine enough. It’s in Krone’s character to
take up with such a person, to flaunt the possible security
risks.”

“Why would she run off with Krone?” the
Chairman pressed.

“We haven’t come up with any motive yet.”

The President slumped back in his chair.

“All right, let me summarize this.” He shook
his head in dismay. “Krone somehow eats a mountain at government
expense and makes a black hole. That black hole punches a hole in
this damn Russian carrier?” He looked at Drefke, who nodded his
assent. “The Russians from some perverse instinct, which turns out
to be right, assume we are at fault, and start our first space
war.

“I thought we had everything fought to a
standstill up there,” he jerked a thumb at the ceiling, “eyeball to
eyeball, and all that, and all of a sudden they don’t just blink,
they haul out a baseball bat and crack me upside the head. And turn
all our low orbit stuff into a damn shooting gallery with their
laser. God knows what else they’ve got in mind.

“Now, Howard,” he turned to look at his
Director of Central Intelligence, “you seem to be saying that
what’s happened is that the Russians have followed the clues and
deduced that we made a black hole there and are more convinced than
ever that we’re out to get them.”

Drefke straightened in his chair, his
thoughts equally divided between the crisis before them and the
years of friendship with the man at the center of the table. Those
years would be swept away if he didn’t handle this properly.

“We have no final proof, although we are
working through our contacts in the Soviet Union to find out just
what they know. The circumstances strongly suggest that they
reached the conclusion at virtually the same time we did, that we
manufactured a black hole there. Blowing up our nuclear satellite
was apparently their way of letting us know that they’re on to
us.”

“Mr. President.”

All eyes turned to General Whitehead, the
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was a large man with
bristly close-cropped hair and, at this hour, stubble on his stern
jaw to match.

“I’ve been out of my element with this black
hole stuff, but now we are beginning to get into my territory. As I
see it, we need to get the Russians back into their corner while we
sort all this out. First of all, we need to make crystal clear to
them that they’ve absolutely got to put a cap on any escalation of
the current situation. All this skeet shooting they’ve been doing
is one thing, but if they so much as scorch a surveillance
satellite, they had better put their population on alert. I also
recommend we go after that laser again, to give ourselves some
breathing room.”

Drefke ignored the General and spoke to the
President again.

“The immediate task before us is to defuse
the anxiety of the Russians, not to scare them further. I think
that candor is the best policy here. I recommend you tell them
everything we know, give them all our data and let them reach their
own conclusions. Yes, there is a black hole. Yes, it was made at
that site,” he gestured at the slide. “That should add to our
credibility. We must convince them that it was an accident, not an
offensive act.”

“I agree with that sentiment,” the Secretary
of the State firmly announced. “Mr. President, the problem we face
here is a unique one. We must bear in mind that, although a U.S.
Government lab is involved, the threat is a universal one. I
believe it is incumbent upon us to share the information we now
have not just with the Soviet Union, but with all our major allies,
the People’s Republic, and the Third World.”

There were outbursts of protest. The National
Security Advisor finally gained the floor.

“Mr. President, I sympathize with the desire
of the Secretary for openness and candor, but it seems to me
premature to broadcast this problem until we fully understand all
the ramifications. At all costs, we must avoid the widespread
dissemination of this information and the panic that would
ensue.”

“We already know the basic nature of the
problem,” protested the Secretary, “and we may very well need to
call on the resources of other countries to devise a solution.”

“This country has plenty of resources on its
own,” rumbled General Whitehead, “and in any case I don’t like
telling the Communists any more than we have to.” He shot a glance
at Drefke. “There’s no way they won’t twist this around and throw
it in our face, or somehow use it as a lever against us. We should
keep the Russians on a short leash and the Chinese should certainly
be kept out of it.”

“I don’t disagree that the Chinese have very
little to offer us in the current context,” the Secretary appealed
to the President, “but for the sake of our future relations with
them we must keep them apprised of a problem of this magnitude and
of such universal concern. The same argument applies even more
strongly to our allies.”

“If these fellows are right,” replied the
General, gesturing with a thumb toward Isaacs and Drefke, “we may
not need to worry about future relations.”

“And if that is the case,” rebutted the
Secretary, “there is certainly no point in maintaining your cold
war mentality toward the rest of the world. On the contrary, we can
throw out the historical constraints and solicit the aid of the
world community to tackle this common menace.”

“Rot!” said the General, heatedly. “If
knowledge of this situation becomes widespread, it will just put
more pressure on everyone. There will be an every-man-for-himself
scramble, and the world political situation will go to hell in a
handbasket.”

“If we sit on this until it is too late,” the
Secretary insisted, “and then spring the problem on the world,
something like you describe may well occur. That is why it is of
the utmost importance to proceed immediately and discretely to
inform others of the situation so that a cooperative and measured
response can be orchestrated.”

“Mr. President,” the Security Advisor cut in,
“I think we must make a guarded release of information to the
Soviets. We must make them understand we are aware of the problem
and taking active steps to explore the facts. I believe we must
also inform our closest allies of the basic situation. They deserve
to know what has caused the Soviets to react so dangerously. I
confess I would proceed gingerly in spreading this information any
further than absolutely necessary. I would suggest holding off with
the Chinese and the Third World countries.”

While the Security Advisor was speaking, an
aide came in and handed the President a message.

“Hold it!” he said, cutting off the Secretary
of State, whose mouth was open to reply. The President read the
message through again, then looked around the table.

“We may not have the luxury of designing our
response to the Soviets. I have here a message from Colonel Grigor
Zamyatin, head of Washington KGB.” He turned to fix first Drefke
and then Isaacs with a steely glare. “It says that fifteen minutes
ago Paul Krone and Maria Latvin were put on an Aeroflot flight from
Mexico City to Moscow.”

Isaacs felt the room spin and his hurriedly
consumed meal congeal into a knot.

“Colonel Zamyatin would like an audience,”
the President continued. “He’s waiting at the front gate.”

“You can’t have him in here,” General
Whitehead protested.

“Show him in,” the President addressed his
aide.

The room was deathly quiet as they awaited
the arrival of the Russian. Isaacs strained to understand what had
happened. Had Latvin been a spy? How could she have known what
Krone was up to when his own government didn’t? Or was she put onto
Krone on general principles and just happened to hit the
jackpot?

The door opened and the aide ushered Zamyatin
in. He walked to his left along the wall until he was directly
across the table from the President. The President nodded and there
was some shuffling to vacate that chair. Zamyatin sat in it with
deliberate calm.

“Colonel.” The President greeted him. “I’m
rather surprised Ambassador Ogarkov is not bringing whatever
message you bear.”

“When the river reaches floodtide, new
channels are carved,” Zamyatin replied. “I assure you my authority
comes from the highest levels.”

“That will, of course, be checked,” the
President responded. “Am I to understand, Colonel, that you have
openly confessed to the abduction of an American citizen?”

“Ah, you attempt to seize the initiative,”
Zamyatin replied, unruffled. “But you have a weak hand. Of course
we have taken him, and the event pales next to the heinous act the
individual committed, the one for which you are ultimately
responsible.”

“What act are you talking about?”

The Russian left the question hanging for a
long moment. “If you are going to be stubborn,” he finally said,
“this discussion can be carried on in a more public forum.”

The President met his hard gaze, and again
there was silence.

“Why did you take him?” the President
asked.

“We intend to know everything there is to
know about this crime against humanity. Paul Krone is the ultimate
source of that information.”

“He must be returned to us.”

“Ah,” said Zamyatin, “precisely what we had
in mind.” He enjoyed the look of surprise that flashed on the
President’s face. “We would like to return Dr. Krone to you along
with his charming companion.”

“You just kidnapped him; now you want to
return him,” the President said, with mild scorn. “What’s the rest
of the deal?”

“The deal,” Zamyatin said carefully, “the
deal is an exchange. The two people for the complete set of those.”
His eyes went to the charred lab book that still sat, momentarily
overlooked, beside the President. “Krone is of no use to us in his
present state. We want those lab books and any other written or
computerized records.”

“Mr. President,” General Whitehead said in a
low warning voice, “we don’t know what sort of valuable information
may be in those.”

“Of course you don’t,” Zamyatin snapped, his
gaze fixed on the President, “not the way you have bungled this
affair. Mr. President, there is undoubtedly information in those
books that would be considered priceless for defense matters under
ordinary circumstances. We are not concerned with that now, nor can
you afford to be.

“Mr. President,” the Russian’s voice turned
cold and hard, “you have delivered a mortal blow to my country,
your country, the very planet itself. There is the merest wisp of
hope that the peril can be removed. The Soviet Union is prepared to
take any steps that may rescue us from the monumental insanity that
you have visited upon us.

“First,” he continued in a matter-of-fact
tone, “we must understand the problem in minute detail. That means
knowing what is in those books and other records, and in the mind
of Paul Krone. We have Krone, you have the records and the
sophisticated medical techniques that may restore Krone’s health.
We will swap.”