Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (6 page)

“Mr. Hopkins, we’re leaving now,” interrupted the woman from the Coalition for Family Values.
 
“Come along.”
 
The others had made their way out the emergency exit door where the security guard continued to watch.
 
The woman from the community group gave a stern smile and raised her eyebrows, motioning for him to hurry.

The man, Hopkins, was startled, mumbled his thanks again, and rushed after the others, pushing Stevie’s wheelchair.

As the chaotic tour group left, Lesserec relaxed back in his chair, thinking how well received the simulation had been.
 
He ran over the possibilities, wondering how people might respond to something really exciting, exotic, not just a vacation snapshot.
 
He couldn’t wait to test out some of the stuff he had been developing at home.

Through the dollar signs in his daydreams, he saw a real chance to make it big.
 
He had Aragon snowed . . . leaving only Hal Michaelson.

CHAPTER 4

Tuesday

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Looking up and down the street, nondescript, Hal Michaelson decided to enter the White House through the most inconspicuous entrance.
 
He doubted anyone would recognize him, despite his height and large frame and distinctive moustache; but the paparazzi permanently stationed by the south entrance hungrily scanned everyone who entered by more obvious means, and Michaelson avoided them on general principles.
 
Most of the reporters wouldn’t care, or even understand, the International Verification Initiative; of course they wouldn’t carry the news conference live.

He entered through the Old Executive Office Building, a five-story gray granite structure that would have looked more at home in 18th century France than next to the White House.
 
The blocky, gothic-looking building held most of the 1,500 staff members who actually served the White House.
 
Two of the entrances were on 17th street, allowing Michaelson to slip inside.

Once he passed the secret-service checkpoint, Michaelson still felt conspicuous.
 
As he walked along the black-and-white checkerboard halls, he fingered his laminated badge that prominently displayed a large V for visitor.
 
Nothing was more likely to attract attention.
 
He had to concentrate on his speech, on his meeting, not worry about pestering interviewers.

He elected to take the circular stairway instead of chancing the elevator where he might run into some desperate reporter.
 
God, he hated stupid questions.
 
He climbed the stairs to the ready room off to the side of the fourth-floor auditorium, where the conference would take place at eight.

Usually Michaelson didn’t mind the attention, since he had made his name through bluster and unorthodox showmanship.
 
More often than not, he had used the press to discredit the tedious boors that infested the bureaucracy, embarrassing them into passing his proposals—as he had done with the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility.

But not now.
 
Now was the time to play his cards close to his chest.
 
He had kept the IVI secret from Lesserec and the rest of T Program; he certainly wasn’t going to spill everything to a random reporter he happened to encounter in the tiled halls of the Old Executive Office Building!

He huffed up the stairs, remembering the last time he had been interviewed at the White House, during the previous administration.
 
His biting denunciation of the fossils running the space program as “the gang that couldn’t shoot straight” had, in part, eventually resulted in the successful testing of a new class of rocket vehicles that had been delayed through red-tape snafus for years.

But today he needed to stay out of the limelight.
 
It was the President’s show, and he would get enough secondary glory from it.
 
As difficult as it was for him, Michaelson needed simply to be present, not to make troublesome statements or stir up controversy.
 
Today, people would be throwing darts at
him
, rather than the other way around.
 
He ran over the words in his mind again.
 
The main question was whether the stupid public would understand the significance of the IVI, or if they would miss the point altogether.

As he moved along, lost in his thoughts, business-suited young men and women clicked past him on the stairs.
 
He watched them, glad he spent most of his life in California where everybody wasn’t wound up so tight and mummified in business clothes.
 
The White House staff was always in a hurry, but their sense of urgency was inversely proportional to their position in the hierarchy.
 
The men wore dark suits, white shirts, modest ties, and expensive black wing-tips; the women, every one of them stunning after hours of applied makeup and expensive dresses, slid by in smart high heels and soft skirts swirling against sheer panty hose.

Michaelson sighed wistfully.
 
The sight of these focused young women made up his mind for him.
 
He made a mental note to cancel his “meeting” with Diana and call Amber instead.
 
He needed a real break tonight, a celebration after the interview.
 
Amber would be enthusiastic and refreshing.
 
He looked forward to it.
 
Diana was getting too rigid . . . too matter of fact.

Out of breath at the top of the stairs, Michaelson paused before making his way to the ready room.
 
The hallway towered twenty feet high, wide enough for several cars to pass through.
 
Recalling T Program’s cramped, modular cubicles, he resented the irrelevant opulence.
 
All of the decadence could have been spent on more scientific research.

Two secret service men stood outside the ready room door, their dress indistinguishable from the White House staffers, except for the radio wire running from collar to ear and the slight bulge from automatic weapons under their jackets.
 
A stream of reporters entered the auditorium from down the massive hall, carrying cameras, lights, and video equipment, trailing long strands of cables behind them.

“Mr. Michaelson?”
 
The secret service man’s voice echoed in the hallway.

He breathed deeply, still catching his breath from climbing the stairs.
 
“Dr. Michaelson.
 
That’s correct.”

“Have a seat inside, sir.”

Checking Michaelson’s name off a roster, the secret service agent nodded him into the ready room.
 
He stepped inside, but saw no one else in the high-ceilinged room.
 
He relaxed to see he was early.
 
He needed some time to settle down.

A pitcher of ice water and several plastic cups, each silkscreened with the Presidential seal, sat on a table next to a mirror.
 
He poured himself a cup and gulped it down.
 
The water tasted fresh and clean, with a slice of lemon.

Michaelson turned to a full-length mirror.
 
Although this room was air conditioned, the humidity and the walk up the four flights of stairs caused beads of perspiration on his brow.
 
He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and started to comb his hair.

The door swung open, and a secret service woman glanced over the room.
 
She stood against the wall like a robot.
 
Michaelson set down the water glass, waiting.
 
Seconds later, the President himself entered.

“Hal, glad you could make it!”
 
He flashed a smile and extended his hand.

“Mr. President.”
 
Michaelson shook the man’s hand as the Secretary of Energy, the President’s chief of staff, and the press secretary squeezed into the ready room.

“You know Renee, of course.”

Hal nodded and shook the Energy Secretary’s hand.
 
“Of course.
 
How do you do, Ma’am?”

“I have a lot riding on your technology, Hal,” the President said.
 
“The Pentagon brass can’t stop talking about your flight simulation demo.
 
You must have pulled out all the stops.”

He recalled the vision of himself standing like a god miles above the surface of the earth, watching an aircraft dogfight.
 
“It’s easy to impress people with impressive technology, Mr. President.”

“Well, no matter what you say, the DOE hasn’t had this much support from the military since you guys designed the neutron bomb.”
 
He cocked an eye at Michaelson, who sat down on the ready room’s sofa.
 
“You all right?”

“Just a little winded.
 
Instead of the elevator, I took the stairs.
 
A bit too quickly, I think.”

“They’re set, Mr. President.”
 
The press secretary appeared at the door to the auditorium.
 
“Any time you’re ready.
 
The heads-up teleprompter will be on either side of the podium.”

The President placed a hand on Michaelson’s back.
 
Not a small man himself, the President still looked tiny beside Michaelson’s six-and-a-half-foot frame.
 
“I might ask you to make some comments after the initial announcement.”

“No problem, sir.”
 
Michaelson nodded to the Secretary of Energy.
 
“I’ve coordinated my remarks through Madam Secretary.”

“Good.”
 
The President straightened and turned to the press secretary.
 
“I’m ready.”

The young woman stepped through the door.
 
Michaelson heard her voice ring out over the buzz of background noise in the auditorium.
 
“Ladies and gentlemen—the President of the United States.”

Michaelson followed in the wake of the Energy Secretary and took his place standing behind the President.
 
He squinted in the bright media lights and tried to recognize the reporters as the applause died down.
 
The President got right to the point, reading from the heads-up teleprompter.

“Today, I am pleased to announce the formation of an exciting new initiative.
 
The end of the Cold War has allowed the United States to turn away from producing nuclear weapons.
 
Now we can peacefully embrace the future.
 
This is a time to ensure that no country will be in a position to inflict the nightmare of a nuclear holocaust.
 
There are few occasions in our country’s history that denote a decisive turning point in human events.
 
Today is such a day.

“In 1945, under the secrecy of the Manhattan Project, our nation developed an unprecedented technological marvel.
 
In three short years, in a crash project that brought together the free world’s greatest minds, our ingenuity brought about the terrible weapon that brought an end to World War II.”

Michaelson’s thoughts wandered.
 
Why do they always say nuclear weapons were terrible—didn't they prevent another world war from starting
?
 
Why doesn't anybody remember that?
 
But Michaelson wasn’t a political type.
 
He didn’t have time for all that baloney.

“In 1960,” the President continued, “our scientific elite was once again called upon, launching an ambitious project to take man to the Moon and back.
 
And today is another such day.”

Michaelson figured the reporters would consider most of the words to be mere hyperbole, but they wouldn’t understand the subtle consequences of the new project.
 
But then, that was they’re problem.

“Today, I officially announce the formation of the International Verification Initiative—the IVI—an ambitious program to use our national labs once again to radically advance science—this time by using virtual reality technologies.
 
The IVI will enable a representative from every country to be ‘present’ at any location that uses sensing devices: during an underground atomic test, at nuclear weapons storage sites, on-board a missile launching into space—anywhere an electronic sensor is used.
 
These Virtual Inspectors will be the watchdogs of the world during these tense times of gradual disarmament.”

He turned and motioned Michaelson to the microphone.
 
“I’ve appointed Dr. Hal Michaelson, whom some of you know from his work heading up our disarmament teams in the former Soviet Union, as the first director of the IVI.
 
Hal, would you like to make some comments?”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”
 
Michaelson coughed to the side, then looked down at the reporters, trying to gauge their interest.
 
For the moment, he had their attention, and now he had the limelight.
 
Right where he belonged.