Tortoise Soup (15 page)

Gold shag carpeting with a variety of stains covered the floor. The dashboard was crowned with an air freshener decorated with pictures of Jesus. A Star of David hung from the rearview mirror, along with a giant pair of fuzzy dice.

I looked at Noah and arched an eyebrow.

“I like to cover my bases,” he replied as he slapped on a pair of Ray Bans.

Shoving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s between his legs, he thrust the throttle into gear. We jerked off in a series of stomach-churning stops and starts, with a horde of Lhasas yapping behind and the Grateful Dead blasting off the interior walls.

Noah decided to take the scenic route. My back came close to being knocked out of whack as we jolted over rocks and plunged into small gullies. Then we turned a corner and headed down a mountain, and the Suburban almost slid off the road.

“Oh, shit!” I yelped, and grabbed onto the strap above the passenger door.

“That’s exactly why I call those things shit handles, Red.” Noah took a slug of Jack Daniel’s. “It’s a technical term I devised. I’m gonna suggest that Chevy use it as part of their next ad campaign.” He grinned.

I looked at him and wondered what drug he’d dropped this morning, as strains of Jerry Garcia pounded in my head.

“So tell me what you know about a place called Los Alamos,” Noah began.

I pried my fingers, one by one, off the strap. “Well, I know it’s not Spanish for the Alamo.” I leaned over and turned the Dead down a good ten notches. “Let’s see. Isn’t Los Alamos located in New Mexico?” I asked. Noah nodded as I dug through my memory. “And I’m pretty sure it was the birthplace of the atomic bomb.”

“Very good. You get an A in history. More importantly, it’s a facility that’s run by DOE—or as you civilians call it, the Department of Energy.”

“And that’s where you worked?”

“Yep. Believe it or not, under this gorgeous exterior lurks a former physicist. I was in charge of working on a project to transform nuclear waste into harmless material.”

“Is that possible?” I asked.

“Sure it is. The problem is that DOE doesn’t want to spend the time or money to do it.” Noah lifted his bottle and took another swig as we hit the main road at seventy-five miles an hour.

“And that’s why you were fired?” Somehow this didn’t seem like a good enough reason to me.

“Don’t rush things, Porter. That’s what I’m taking you to see,” Noah responded.

About an hour later, we arrived at a spot that didn’t look particularly different than any place else in southern Nevada. Drab green brush and scorched tufts of grass dotted the desert floor, with no other sign of life around. The only thing that stood out was a long ridge off in the distance. It rose up fifteen hundred feet, with a single dirt road leading to it.

A blanket of hot, heavy air wrapped itself around us as we got out of the van and surveyed the scene. I felt a nudge, and Noah handed me a pair of binoculars. I held them up, but saw little of any consequence.

“Take a good look, Red. This is America’s dumping ground. In the past thirty years, nine hundred and twenty-five atomic bombs have been set off in this place,” Noah informed me.

The number seemed unbelievable. “But I’d expect the land to be a barren moonscape,” I protested.

“That’s the clever part. The majority of the bombs were set off underground, so that you can’t see the damage—invisible contamination. But even those explosions were powerful enough to break windows in houses a hundred miles away. When they were set off above ground, you could see the fireballs all the way up in Reno.”

I lowered the binoculars. “So what’s this got to do with you?”

Noah unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a chest already the color of rare roast beef to the sun. “You ever watch the evening news, Porter? Haven’t you heard about the controversy over Yucca Mountain?”

I had vaguely heard about some sort of ruckus between Nevada and the federal government regarding a place called Yucca when I’d been in New Orleans. But Nevada had seemed like another world back then, and I had paid little attention.

Noah rummaged around in the glove compartment of his van and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen. Slapping the liquid on his chest, he heaved a sigh of contentment.

“Let me fill you in here, since you’re obviously missing some important facts,” Noah said. “That big ridge you see over there, situated between Little Skull Mountain to the east and the Funeral Mountains to the west, is known as Yucca Mountain. This little gem has become the designated burial place for all the high-level nuclear waste in this country.”

I stared at the mountain, thinking maybe Nevada wasn’t the place to live after all.

“There are more than a hundred civilian nuclear power plants, not to mention all the nuclear weapons plants, that need to dump their spent radioactive fuel someplace,” Noah continued. “The waste is in the form of nuclear rods, which are among the most highly radioactive objects on Earth. Even the briefest human contact with this stuff can be fatal. And all this spent fuel is permeated with plutonium—which is used in making nuclear bombs. The tiniest flick of that stuff will leave you with a good case of lung cancer.”

Noah rubbed his hand over his stomach, as if calling on a magic genie, while he gave this some thought. “Right now, there are over thirty thousand tons of this shit looking for a place to call home. This hitting you yet, Red?”

“So, you said, the government wants to bury it inside Yucca Mountain?” I asked, feeling somewhat like a dummy.

“That’s the idea,” Noah nodded. “It seems there was this little law passed back in 1982 called the Nuclear Policy Act. What it did was to make DOE responsible for solving this problem by 1998, and time is running out fast. Unless something is done by then, DOE is gonna have to start paying a shitload of damages to all these utility companies—and hell knows, they don’t want to do that.”

Noah bit off a hangnail, spitting it onto a nearby cactus. “So DOE, along with the nuclear industry and the U.S. Congress, looked around and said, ‘Hot damn! We’ve already made Nevada a hellhole. Why not just finish the job?’ And that’s how Yucca was chosen as the holy site. I call it the Screw Nevada Bill.”

I felt like I was back in Science 101, trying to understand what the problem was. “Okay. They bury the stuff. So then it’s over and done with, right?”

Noah slapped his forehead in frustration. “The problem is that this stuff is going to remain radioactive for fifty thousand years, long after the canisters holding the rods have begun to erode and leak. I mean, we’re talking hot, hot tamales. And it’s not a matter of
if
it’s going to happen, but
when
it’s going to happen.” Noah chuckled. “Even better is that these geniuses picked an area with three major fault lines running right through it, plus lots of other little ones branching off in all directions. This is basin and range country that’s still stretching and fracturing.”

Noah pointed up toward the mountain. “See that area over there? That’s the latest fault to be discovered, called the Ghost Dance. Hell, this state is one giant fucking piece of Swiss cheese—it has more earthquakes than any place besides California and Alaska.”

Maybe dealing with Charlie Hickok hadn’t been that bad after all. “Well, if there’s such a problem, why not just move the damn thing somewhere else?”

Noah gave me a sour look before shaking his head. “Rachel, Rachel. DOE has already poured three billion dollars into this project. There ain’t no way they’re gonna pack up their show and take it on the road.”

“But this is all just hypothesis, right, Noah? There isn’t any proof that anything is really going to leak, is there?” I asked, trying my best to believe in the power of positive thinking.

Noah leaned over and planted a big wet kiss on my forehead. “My dear, that’s why we’re all going to go down the fucking drain—because of people like you. DOE maintains one hundred and twenty-seven nuclear facilities, and ninety percent of them leak. I don’t know about you, but if I were placing bets in Vegas, I’d say it don’t sound like good odds to me.”

He was a man after my own cynical heart. “So how do you fit into this whole thing?”

Noah rubbed his hands together as if about to perform a magic trick. “Ah, that’s the interesting part, Red. You see, when I was at Los Alamos, I conducted some experiments and discovered that if enough nuclear waste is packed inside Yucca, there’s a pretty good chance that there’ll be one mother of an explosion.”

Noah pointed his finger toward the ridge like a cocked gun waiting to be fired. “Right now a labyrinth of bunkers is being carved inside that mountain to hold thousands of steel canisters containing up to seventy thousand metric tons of nuclear waste. This is stuff that’s gonna be buried and left for eternity. Now, if any of that were to blow up for some reason, it could set off a chain reaction that would scatter radioactivity all over the place. We’re talking major poisoning of both the air and underground water, Porter. Vegas would suddenly be the ultimate thrill ride.”

My Pepto-pink carpet was beginning to lose its charm. Maybe it wasn’t too late to transfer out of this place. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“Sure I did.” Noah flicked his imaginary trigger. “I huffed and I puffed and I presented all my scientific facts and figures to the powers that be at Los Alamos and DOE. I got kicked out on my ass for my trouble. Since then, they’ve been busy as beavers trying to bury my opposition to the project.”

Noah picked up a piece of grass and twirled it between his teeth. “It’s funny, Red. The dangerous thing about chasing after the truth is that you eventually find it. That’s when shit really happens.”

I leaned down and plucked a piece of grass to place between my own teeth. But Noah knocked it out of my hand.

“Don’t do that. It’s probably contaminated,” he said.

“Then why are you doing it?” I challenged him.

“ ’Cause I don’t care,” he answered in a huff. After a moment, he continued with his story. “I didn’t go down without a fight, though. I released enough information to the press to bring the project to a temporary halt. I’ve become DOE’s worst nightmare.”

So Noah Gorfine was a whistleblower. “Why in the hell would you live in Nevada, with everything you know?” I asked, fully convinced there was a screw loose somewhere in the man.

Noah gave a devilish grin. “What else could I do that would gall DOE more than be a watchdog in their own backyard?”

“Do you expect to win?”

“Hell, no.” Noah spat the piece of grass out from between his teeth. “DOE is the most powerful and dangerous agency in our government. They make the CIA look like a bunch of ninnies. DOE does what DOE wants. All I can do is annoy the hell out of them and make their lives miserable, like some damned gnat.”

Noah spread his arms open wide. “Right now, this is federal land, half of which is managed by the Bureau of Land Management. Part of the holdup is that all this property has to be transferred directly to DOE first, before development on Yucca can be finished. Once that takes place, the Department of Energy will have complete and total control over what happens. All we can do is hope there’s a fuckup somewhere along the line.”

We climbed back into the van and headed for home in silence. But before we got to the ark, Noah made a detour toward the Golden Shaft mine. He parked the van on top of a ridge, and all three of us got out to gaze at the mine below. Noah pulled out his binoculars and scanned the area.

“This is interesting,” he said, handing the binoculars to me.

Peering down, I saw that a giant boring machine was drilling holes in the side of the mountain. For the first time I also noticed that railroad tracks led into the main tunnel entrance.

“What do you make of all that?” I asked Noah, who had sunk to the ground in a half-lotus position.

“Beats the hell out of me,” he answered, his face tilted up to the sun.

It amazed me that he could worry about radioactive contamination but not give UV rays a second thought. “Is there some reason you’re turning yourself into a piece of charred beef?”

Noah let loose a low chuckle. “Cancer from the sun—that’s a good one, Porter. I show you the most dangerous spot on Earth, and you’re worried about a little sunburn. What a wimp.”

Schmuck
, I thought, deciding to let him burn to a crisp. I turned my attention back to the mine. “You know, I paid a visit down there the other day, looking for violations. I was kept waiting for hours while they probably cleaned up the place.”

“You’ve got to learn to beat them at their own game, Red. They play dirty. You have to do the same,” Noah advised.

I focused the binoculars on a tall, lean figure talking to the driver of a haul pak, and my skin began to tingle. It was Brian Anderson, looking good as ever. I must have spoken his name out loud, because Noah grabbed the glasses from me.

“Who did you say that was?” he asked.

“Brian Anderson, the manager of the mine.” I realized that my heart was beating faster and wondered if it was the altitude. It couldn’t have anything to do with the man below.

Noah grunted. “He looks familiar. But then, all those damn cowboy types look the same.”

This cowboy looked better than any of the others I’d seen. And I had yet to thank Brian for giving me Pilot. I’d have to pay another visit to the mine and do just that.

We returned to the ark and I drove back to the office, where I found three red beeps blinking on the answering machine. Pressing Playback, I heard the voice of my mystery woman.

“I see you got conned, Porter. Too bad. I was hoping you were smarter than that. Maybe next time you’ll wise up and won’t tip NDOW about your upcoming visit.”

The phone clicked dead in my ear, leaving me to ponder how she knew about my meeting with Monty Harris. That was one more person with access to my schedule. I glanced suspiciously around the room—I was going to have to check the office for bugs if this kept up.

The second call was from
Las Vegas Sun
reporter Duff Gaines, still trying to write an article on the missing torts.

I flipped Pilot a dog biscuit and thought about munching on one myself while I waited to hear the third message. The deep voice of Brian Anderson emanated from the machine, making him sound as good as he looked.