Domain (37 page)

Chaney and Marvin give Mick a cynical look.

Mick looks the VP squarely in the eye. “I’m not mentally deranged. I lied about my identity because the police are after me, but I’m not insane.”

Captain Loos reads from a fax. “Says here you’ve been incarcerated for the last eleven years after an incident involving Pierre Borgia.”

Chaney’s eyes grow wide. “Secretary of State Borgia?”

“Borgia verbally assaulted my father, humiliating him in front of an assembly of his peers. I lost control. Borgia manipulated the justice system. Instead of serving time for simple assault, he had me committed to an institution.”

Captain Loos hands Chaney the fax. “Mick’s father was Julius Gabriel.”

Marvin looks surprised. “Julius Gabriel, the archaeologist?”

The captains sneers. “More like the quack that tried to convince the scientific community that humanity was on the brink of destruction. I remember reading about it. His death made the cover of
Time
.”

Chaney looks up from reading the fax. “Like father, like son.”

“Maybe he was right,” Marvin mumbles.

The captain’s face turns red. “Julius Gabriel was a lunatic, Dr. Teperman, and, in my opinion, the acorn hasn’t fallen far from the tree. This man has wasted enough of our time.”

Mick stands, his temper flaring. “Everything I just told you is true—”

“Why don’t you drop the charade, Gabriel. We found your father’s journal in the minisub. The entire purpose of your story is to convince us—and the rest of the world—that your father’s ridiculous theories were true.”

The captain opens the door.

Two armed security guards enter.

“Mr. Vice President, unless you have some further use for this man, I’ve been instructed to throw him in the brig.”

“Instructed by whom?”

“Secretary Borgia, sir. He’s en route, as we speak.”

Sydney, Australia

The Dassault supersonic jet cruises over the South Pacific at twelve hundred miles per hour, its sleek design barely registering a ripple of turbulence. Although there are eight passenger seats within the three-engine, 104-foot double-delta winged plane, only three are occupied.

Ambassador to Australia Barbara Becker stretches as she awakens. She checks her watch as the jet begins its descent over Australia.
Los Angeles to Sydney in under seven and a half hours, not bad
. She stands, then moves across the aisle to her right to join the two scientists from the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research.

Steven Taber, a large man who reminds Barbara of Senator Jesse Ventura, is leaning against the window, snoring, while his colleague, Dr. Marty Martinez, types furiously on a laptop computer.

“Excuse me, Doctor, but we’re going to be landing soon, and there’s still a few more questions I wanted to ask you.”

“Just a moment, please.” Martinez continues typing.

Becker sits down next to him. “Maybe we should wake your friend—”

“I’m up.” Taber lets out a bear-size yawn.

Martinez turns off the computer. “Ask your questions, Madam Ambassador.”

“As you know, the Australian government is in an absolute uproar. They’re claiming more than sixty-seven thousand square miles of geography was vaporized in the explosion. That’s an ungodly amount of terrain simply to vanish into thin air. Based on your preliminary assessment of satellite photos, would you say this accident was caused by a natural phenomenon, like Mount St. Helens, or are we looking at a man-made explosion?”

Martinez shrugs. “I’d rather not say, at least not until we complete our tests.”

“I understand. But—”

“Ambassador, Mr. Taber and I are here on behalf of the United Nations Security Council, not the United States. I understand that you’re in the middle of a political maelstrom, but I’d rather not speculate—”

“Lighten up, Marty.” Taber leans forward. “I’ll answer your question, Madam Ambassador. First, you can forget about anything like a natural disaster. This was no earthquake or volcano. In my opinion, we’re looking at a test explosion of new type of thermonuclear device, the likes of which, if you’ll excuse the expression, frighten the absolute shit out of me.”

Martinez shakes his head. “Steven, you cannot say this for certain—”

“Come on, Marty, let’s cut the crap. You and I both suspect the same thing. It’s all gonna come out in the wash anyway.”

“What’s going to come out? Speak to me, gentlemen. What is it you suspect?”

Martinez slams the top of his computer shut. “Nothing that project scientists at IEER haven’t been protesting for the last decade, Ambassador. Fusion weapons, pure-fusion weapons.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not a scientist. What do you mean by
pure
fusion?”

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of the term,” Taber says. “For some reason, this particular subject has always managed to avoid public scrutiny. There are three types of nuclear devices, the atomic bomb, the hydrogen or H-bomb, and the pure-fusion bomb. The atomic bomb uses fission, which is the process of splitting a heavy atomic nucleus into two or more fragments. Essentially, the A-bomb is a sphere filled with electronically timed explosives. Within the sphere is a grapefruit-size ball of plutonium, at the core of which is a device that releases a spray of neutrons. When the explosives detonate, the plutonium is crushed into a molten mass. Atoms are split into fragments, exciting a chain reaction which, in turn, releases mega amounts of energy. If I’m going too fast for you, just stop me.”

“Go on.”

“In a hydrogen bomb, uranium-235 absorbs a neutron. Fission occurs when the neutron breaks apart to produce two smaller nuclei, several neutrons, and lots of energy. This, in turn, produces the temperature and density necessary for the fusion of deuterium and tritium, which are two isotopes of hydrogen—”

“Whoa, slow down, you’ve lost me.”

Martinez turns to face the ambassador. “The intricacies are not important. What you need to know is that fusion is different than fission. Fusion is a reaction that occurs when two atoms of hydrogen combine together, or fuse, to form an atom of helium. This process, the same process that powers the sun, releases much greater quantities of energy than fission, causing an even larger explosion.”

Taber nods. “The key factor that ultimately determines the strength of a thermonuclear weapon is how the explosion is triggered. A pure-fusion bomb is much different than an atomic bomb or hydrogen bomb in that it doesn’t require a fission trigger to cause fusion. This means that plutonium or enriched uranium is not required in the design. The good news here is that no plutonium means little to no radioactive fallout. The bad news is that the explosive power of a relatively small, pure-fusion device would be much greater than even our most modern hydrogen bomb.”

“How much greater?”

“I’ll give you an example,” Martinez says. “The atomic bomb we dropped on Hiroshima generated an amount of energy equivalent to 15 kilotons or 15,000 tons of TNT. Temperatures at the explosion center reached 7,000 degrees, with a wind velocity estimated at 980 miles per hour. Most of the people within a half mile radius died.”

“That was a 15-kiloton explosion. Our modern version of the H-bomb carries the equivalent of 20 to 50 megatons, or 50 million tons of TNT, the equivalent of two to three thousand Hiroshima-size bombs. A pure-fusion bomb carries an even greater damage volume. It would only take a small 2-kiloton pure-fusion bomb to equal the same impact created by a 30-megaton H-bomb. That’s one ton of pure-fusion TNT to equal fifteen million tons of TNT generated by a hydrogen bomb. If you want to wipe out 67,000 square miles of geography, pure fusion is the way to go.”

My God
… Despite the heavy air-conditioning, Barbara feels herself sweating. “And you think it’s possible that a foreign power was able to develop such a device?”

Martinez and Taber look at each other.

“What? Speak!”

Taber pinches the bridge of his nose. “The feasibility of developing a pure-fusion device hasn’t officially been proven, Madam Ambassador, but the United States and France have been tinkering with it for more than a decade now.”

Dr. Martinez looks her square in the eye. “As I said, none of this should be that shocking. IEER scientists have been protesting the morality and legality of this work for years. All of this is in direct violation of the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty.”

“Hold it a second, Marty,” Taber says. “We both know the CTBT doesn’t mention pure fusion.”

“Why the hell not?” the ambassador asks.

“It’s a legal loophole that hasn’t been addressed, mostly because no nation has ever formally announced its intention of building a pure-fusion weapon.”

“Do you think the French would have sold the technology to the Australians?”

“We’re not politicians, Ambassador Becker,” Taber states. “And anyway, who’s to say it was the French? Could have been the Russians or even the good ol’ U. S. of A., for all we know.”

Martinez nods. “The United States has had the inside track. Field-testing this weapon in Australia keeps everybody guessing.”

Barbara shakes her head. “Christ, I’m walking into a goddam hornets’ nest. All five of the Security Council’s permanent members are sending delegates. Everyone’s going to be pointing fingers at one another.”

Martinez lays his head back and closes his eyes. “You haven’t really grasped the significance in all this, have you, Madam Ambassador? Pure fusion is the doomsday bomb. No country, including the United States, should have ever been permitted to conduct pure-fusion experiments of any kind in the first place. It doesn’t matter which country developed it first, the weapon can destroy us all.”

Barbara registers a dip in her stomach as the Dassault touches down. The jet taxis across the runway to an awaiting Sikorsky S-70B-2 Seahawk.

A tall gentleman wearing a black, neoprene body suit greets them on the tarmac. He approaches Barbara, extending his hand. “Madam Ambassador, Karl Brandt, Australian Geological Survey Organization, how’d you do? Excuse the outfit, but the lead suits we’ll be wearing can become quite confining. I gather these gentlemen are from the IEER?”

Taber and Martinez introduce themselves.

“Very good. Look, I don’t mean to rush you, but Nullarbor’s still a good two hours away, at least what’s left of it, and I don’t want to lose the light.”

“Where are the other members of the Security Council’s delegation?”

“Already waiting in the chopper.”

Gulf of Mexico

Mick kneels by the steel door of the eight-by-ten-foot cell, fighting to stay awake as he probes the keyhole with the metal wire. “God dammit!” He slumps back against the wall, staring at the end of the broken paper clip, now jammed in the lock.

This is no good—I can’t stay focused. I’ve got to sleep, gotta get some rest
. He closes his eyes, then opens them. “No! Stay awake—work the lock. Borgia will be here soon and—”

“Mick?”

The voice startles him.

“Mick Gabriel, are you in there?”

“Teperman?”

A key jiggles the lock and the door swings open.

Marvin enters, leaving the door ajar. “There you are. I’ve had one tough time finding you, eh, this boat is huge.” He hands Mick the leather-bound journal. “Interesting reading. Then again, your father’s always been quite imaginative.”

Mick eyes the door.

“Did you know that I met your father? It was in Cambridge, back in the late sixties. I was a third-year undergraduate. Julius was guest speaker in a lecture series entitled, ‘Mysteries of Ancient Man.’ I thought he was quite brilliant; in fact, it was his speech that pushed me toward a career in exobiology.”

Marvin notices Mick eyeing the door. He turns and sees the paper clip protruding from the lock. “You won’t get very far that way.”

“Dr. Teperman, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I know. Here, take this.” Marvin reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a wad of bills. “There’s a little more than six hundred dollars there, some of it Canadian. It’s not a lot, but it should get you where you need to go.”

“You’re freeing me?”

“Not me, I’m just the messenger. Your father was a big influence, but I wasn’t
that
fond of him.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Your escape has been arranged by someone who despises Secretary Borgia about as much as you do.”

Chaney? “Then, you’re not releasing me because you believe my story?”

Marvin smiles, patting him affectionately on the cheek. “You’re a nice kid, Mick, but like your old man, you’re just a little
meshuga
. Now listen carefully. Turn left and follow this access corridor as far as you can go. You’ll reach a stairwell that will lead you up three flights to the main deck. There’s a hangar located in the stern. Inside, lying on the floor, are the bodies of the victims who died aboard the oil rig. Grab yourself an empty body bag, climb in, and wait. Within thirty minutes, an EVAC chopper is due to arrive to transport the dead to the airport in Merida. After that, you’re on your own.”

“Thanks—wait, what about Dominique?”

“Your girlfriend’s doing better, but she’s in no condition to travel. Do you want me to get her a message?”

“Please. Tell her that I’m going to see this thing through.”

“Where will you go?”

“You really want to know that?”

“Probably not. Better get going, eh, before they lock us both up.”

Southern Australia

Ambassador Becker stares out her window, listening intently to the conversation taking place in the back of the helicopter between the delegates from the Russian Federation, China, and France. Spencer Botchin, the representative from the United Kingdom, leans over to whisper into her ear. “Had to be the French. I just pray they weren’t foolish enough to sell it to the Iranians.”

She nods in agreement, whispering, “They wouldn’t have tested the weapon without support from Russia and the Chinese.”

It is late in the afternoon by the time the chopper arrives over southern Australia. Barbara Becker stares out her window, the sight below literally causing her skin to tingle.