He tromped his booted foot down on the accelerator, and the Jeep sprayed a rooster tail of sand as they spun around and accelerated back toward the control blockhouse. Mulder glanced at his watch. Only ten hours remained. 215
USS
Dallas
Friday, 8:09 P.M.
In the full darkness of early night, the roiling ocean had a greasy cast. No moonlight penetrated the barrier of clouds high above. The wind whistled with a cold metallic tang. Scully shivered as she held the deck rail of the
Dallas
, graypainted ropes cross-woven to look like a chain-link fence. She watched the recovery operations on the
Lucky Dragon
as seamen swarmed aboard the rescued fishing boat. A team of strong young sailors, wet with spray and perspiration, assisted the three fishermen, the scarred blind man, and Miriel Bremen as they reached the relative safety aboard the destroyer.
Captain Ives stared in stunned amazement at the blind passenger, unable to tear his gaze from the blistered scars on the man’s face, the blank look in the refugee’s dead eye sockets as he worked his way up the rattling ladder. The blind man reached the
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deck, seemingly impervious to the gathering hurricane-force winds. He slowly turned and faced Ives, exactly as if he knew the captain was staring at him. A faint smile rippled across his scarred face.
Scully watched the silent encounter curiously, but then turned her attention to Miriel Bremen as the protester came aboard the
Dallas
. For some odd reason Scully felt betrayed, that Miriel had led her along. Scully’s stomach tightened with a sinking feeling, and she wondered just what the other woman might have been up to.
Miriel hadn’t noticed her yet, and Scully spoke sharply into the sound of the wind and waves, “You don’t expect us to believe this is a complete coincidence, do you, Ms. Bremen?”
Surprised, Miriel Bremen turned toward the voice. Then her long-chinned face compressed with sour anger. “So, Agent Scully—it looks like you knew more about Bright Anvil all along. What a sucker I am. You were playing me for a patsy, seeing how much I would tell you.”
Scully was taken aback. “That’s not true at all. I—”
Miriel just scowled and pushed her glasses more firmly onto her face as the wind whipped her mousy brown hair.
“I should have known better than to believe an FBI agent.”
Captain Ives stood next to Scully, looking at Miriel’s bedraggled form. “You know this person?”
“Yes, Captain. She’s a radical antinuclear protester from Berkeley. She was near the scene of the murder of Dr. Emil Gregory, who was originally in charge of the Bright Anvil project.”
Captain Ives narrowed his gaze, his eyebrows clenched together as his forehead furrowed. “You chose a convenient place for a pleasure cruise.”
Scully frowned again. “And you can bet they 217
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selected the name of their vessel quite specifically. The
Lucky
Dragon
—that was no accident. Even if they couldn’t be sure somebody would recognize it, they must have thought it an amusing joke.”
Ives gestured for several of the crewmen to come over.
“Take them all below to one of the empty staterooms each. Get their names and make sure they’re comfortable, but don’t let them cause any trouble. Things might not be exactly what they seem.”
He turned sideways to glance at the blind stranger again. The other man stood rigid, with that faint, contented smile on his scarred face. “We’ll contact Mr. Dooley and ask his opinion on the subject.”
“I think he might be surprised to hear he has more visitors,”
Scully said. “Especially these.”
“Probably,” Ives said.
The three fishermen seemed delighted and relieved to be aboard the large and stable Navy destroyer, while Miriel and the blind man seemed to consider themselves prisoners of war. Miriel walked proudly between the sailors as they escorted her to shelter belowdecks. One of the sailors called up from the deck of the
Lucky
Dragon
. “Captain Ives? Sir, I think you should come down here. We found some interesting items on board that you may wish to inspect.”
“Very well,” Ives answered. “Coming down.”
“I’d like to go with you, Captain,” Scully said.
“By all means,” Ives answered. “You seem to know as many scattered details of these circumstances as I do. It just gets weirder and weirder.”
“Unfortunately, none of us has the whole picture,” Scully said.
They lowered themselves over the side and climbed down the slick metal ladder to the deck of the fishing boat lashed to the
Dallas
. Scully gripped
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the rungs against unpredictable gusts of wind from the storm. Below, the
Lucky Dragon
pitched and rocked, though the large destroyer blocked the worst of the waves. From what Scully could tell, the fishing boat did not appear damaged: its equipment seemed intact, its deck and its hull unscarred—but then she didn’t know enough about small marine craft to be a good judge of its seaworthiness. One crewman came forward to meet Captain Ives and Scully; he rapidly began pointing out some of the anomalies they had found on the
Lucky Dragon
. “All systems appear operational, sir,” the young sailor said, raising his voice over the roar of the ocean. “No damage that I can see, nothing that should have caused them to send out such an urgent distress call. This ship wasn’t in any trouble.”
“Maybe they were just spooked by the storm,” Ives said. Scully shook her head quickly. “I don’t believe they were in distress at all,” she said. “They
wanted
us to go out and pick them up. It was the only way they could be certain of getting to the Bright Anvil test site.”
Captain Ives worked his jaw and ran his hand over his mustache, but said nothing.
Another sailor popped his head out from belowdecks.
“Very unusual hull construction, sir,” he said. “I’ve never seen a small craft designed like this. She’s practically armored. I’ll bet there’s never been a stronger ship this size built.”
“Specially constructed,” Scully muttered. “I wonder if they were planning to take it into a hurricane?”
“Typhoon,” Captain Ives corrected.
“A big storm,” Scully said. “You’d need a special design if that was the purpose of your boat.”
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“But it’s a fishing boat,” the seaman standing next to them said.
“It’s supposed to
look like
a fishing boat,” Scully said. Ives shook his head. “Look at this equipment, the nets—all brand new. Those nets have never even been dropped into water. They’re all props…just for show. I think you’re right, Agent Scully—something goes deeper here.”
Another sailor emerged from the rear cargo compartment.
“No fish down here, sir. No cargo at all, just a few supplies and one storage barrel.”
“Storage barrel,” Ives said. “What’s in it?”
“I thought you might want to take the top off yourself, sir. Just in case it turns out to be something important.”
He and Scully descended into the shelter under the deck, to where a single drum had been chained to the hull wall. Seeing it, Scully’s mind raced, thinking of Miriel Bremen and her radical protest activities, the suspicion of her involvement in Dr. Gregory’s death—and her arrival out here, which was almost certainly to sabotage the Bright Anvil test. Miriel would take whatever measures she deemed necessary…. Ives took a screwdriver from the sailor and began prying up the top of the barrel. Scully looked again at the drum and suddenly cried out. “Wait! It might be a bomb!”
But Ives had already popped the lid off. He froze, as if expecting to be blasted. When nothing happened, he raised the metal lid higher.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just powdery dirt. Black ash of some kind.”
Scully’s heart was pounding as she approached the barrel. One of the crewmen gave her a flashlight, which she shone down into the barrel, illuminating
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the glittering, powdery black residue. The barrel was nearly two-thirds full of it.
“Why would they bring a drum full of cinders all this way?
Is it an incinerator can?” the sailor asked. Scully carefully reached in and touched the ash, bringing out a pinch between her fingertips. She smeared it around, feeling the greasy and grainy texture. It seemed identical to the residue in the small vial found in Nancy Scheck’s pool.
“No, it’s not from an incinerator,” she said. “But I think this provides direct, clear-cut evidence that Miriel Bremen is involved in the murders of Bright Anvil personnel.”
Ives replaced the top on the barrel and turned to the sailors. “Make sure this boat is secure. Agent Scully, let’s get back on board the
Dallas
. I need to find out from Mr. Dooley if he knows anything about this.”
Scully followed him out, but she knew her first priority would be to speak directly with Miriel Bremen, to try and get some answers.
221
USS
Dallas
Saturday, 1:02 A.M.
As Scully looked on, the security officer used a jingling ring of keys to unlock the stateroom in which Miriel Bremen had been isolated. He didn’t bother to knock; no doubt Miriel had heard them approach. Footsteps rang out on the metal deckplates, even over the muffled echoes of the hurricane. Scully waited in the corridor, her eyes burning and itchy from too little sleep and too much thinking in the past few hours. The security officer swung the heavy metal door open and gestured for her to enter. Scully swallowed, raised her head, and stepped inside the small room. Miriel Bremen sat on a narrow bunk, elbows on her knees, long chin in her hands. She glanced up at Scully. Her redrimmed eyes flashed with recognition, but not hope. “Did you at least bring me some bread and water here in solitary confinement?” she said.
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Startled, Scully looked at the security officer, then back at Miriel. “Would you like something to eat? I think we can get a meal fixed for you.”
Miriel shook her head with a sigh, running shaky hands through her mousy brown hair. “No, I’m not hungry anyway. It was just a joke.”
A thought flashed through Scully’s mind, a realization. Miriel Bremen’s entire demeanor had changed since their meeting in Berkeley—and now Scully suddenly thought she had pinpointed the subtle difference. The protester remained as determined as before,
but now she appeared frightened
. Oddly, though, Miriel’s fear did not seem to stem from being held prisoner on board a Navy destroyer. After all, she had not done anything illegal, as far as anyone knew, though her intent to impede the Bright Anvil test seemed obvious. No, Miriel Bremen now looked like someone far from home. From the haggard look on her face, Miriel seemed to be in over her head, pushed too far by her own convictions. With the spectre of the upcoming test detonation, her activism had somehow transformed into outright fanaticism, making her willing to abandon all her work in Berkeley and charge headlong into a typhoon in a small fishing boat. Scully stood just inside the stateroom and tried to cover an uneasiness that ran through her. Ever since meeting Miriel Bremen and setting foot inside the Stop Nuclear Madness!
Headquarters, she had been reliving flashbacks from her first undergrad year, during which she had come very close to joining an activist cause herself. Even allowing for the impetuousness of youth, such activities had been very much against her parents’ wishes. Then again, joining the FBI a few years later had also been against their wishes. Scully didn’t abandon her convictions that easily…but now, looking at what had
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happened to Miriel Bremen, she saw the fine line that she too could have walked. If things had turned out differently, she might have fallen off a precipice just as sharp. Scully turned to the guard. “Would you give us a few minutes of privacy, please?”
The security officer seemed uneasy. “Should I wait just outside in the corridor, ma’am?” he asked. Scully crossed her arms over her chest. “This woman hasn’t been charged with any crime,” she said. “I don’t think she’s a threat to my safety.” Then Scully glanced back at Miriel.
“Besides, I’ve had combat and self-defense training at the FBI Academy at Quantico. I think I can handle her, if I need to.”
The guard looked at Scully with a small measure of dubious respect, then nodded briskly as if barely restraining himself from saluting. He closed the door behind him and marched off down the hall.
“You said it yourself, Agent Scully,” Miriel began. “I haven’t been charged with any crime. I haven’t done anything to you, or to this ship, or to the Bright Anvil test preparations. The only thing I’ve done is call for assistance out in a storm.”
As if hearing her words, the winds outside gusted so loudly that they resonated through the destroyer. Scully could feel the enormous craft rocking in the rough water as they churned back toward Enika Atoll.
“Why am I being held here?” Miriel said, continuing her offensive. “Why was I locked in this stateroom?”
“Because people are nervous,” Scully said. “You know about the impending test—don’t try to tell me your showing up at this precise location and time was a simple accident. We just haven’t figured yet what sort of mischief you might have planned.”
“Mischief?” Miriel sat back on her bunk with an 224
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astonished expression on her long face. “A fallout-free nuclear weapons test is about to be detonated, in violation of all international laws and treaties—and you’re sitting by, a federal representative,
condoning
it—yet you call whatever I might be up to ‘mischief’? What did you think Ryan Kamida and I might do? We have one fishing boat, no weapons on board, no explosives. This isn’t a Greenpeace sabotage raid.”
Scully said, “You brought a barrel of black ash.”
Miriel looked surprised. “So? And what’s that supposed to do?”
“Similar black ash was found at the site of Nancy Scheck’s murder in Gaithersburg, Maryland.”