Hunt the Dragon (3 page)

J
ames Ryan
Dawkins wasn't as alert to danger or as physically fit as Crocker. At forty-seven, he had a soft belly and a round face, thinning hair, and owlish eyes. A naturally shy man, he had a yen for performance from his days as an amateur opera singer, which he satisfied by speaking in public—a skill he had perfected through many hours of practice. He now stood at a lectern in the ballroom of the Swissotel Metropole in Geneva, Switzerland, and began his address about the restoration of the ozone layer, which he kicked off with a humorous remark.

Holding up a can of aerosol Velveeta, he said, “I want to begin by taking a poll. How many of you think cheese in a spray can is more important than the continuance of life on earth?”

A half-dozen people in the audience of three hundred raised their hands. Many more chuckled and laughed.

Dawkins, showing his satisfaction with the response with a shy grin, signaled the technician to dim the lights and project the first slide—a shot from a NASA satellite of the earth's ozone layer in 1979. It showed a small patch of dark blue over the South Pole.

Dawkins explained in a deep resonant voice that this was the first time scientists had noticed a significant hole in the ozone layer. In subsequent pictures taken at five-year intervals the dark blue grew dramatically larger, until 2006, when it practically covered the entire continent and extended to the tip of Tierra del Fuego.

That was the bad news, Dawkins explained. The thin shield of ozone helped deflect harmful UV rays—the cause of skin cancer, cataracts, and immune system deficiencies in humans. The good news was that the disruption of the ozone layer had slowed since 2006, due primarily to the worldwide ban on chlorofluorocarbons and bromofluorocarbons. But there was still a lot of work to do.

The speech he was about to deliver, he said, proposed a relatively easy and inexpensive way to restore the ozone layer by injecting oxygen under high pressure into the stratosphere.

Members of the International Society for Ecological Economics (ISEE) and their guests listened for the next thirty-five minutes as Dawkins, using slides showing chemical formulas and wavelength equations, explained the science behind his thesis. He ended with a quotation from former U.S. Secretary of Energy John S. Herrington: “There are no dreams too large, no innovation unimaginable and no frontiers beyond our reach.”

As the assemblage applauded, Dawkins exclaimed into the mike, “I really believe that! All of us should.”

It was the perfect coda to a succinct and thought-provoking presentation.

Afterward dozens of audience members came forward to thank him and ask questions. Standing at the back of the group was an older man with a beautiful head of white hair, wearing an immaculate gray suit, and an attractive blonde in dark blue and white. They waited patiently for well-wishers to disperse, then stepped forward.

“Mr. Dawkins, Darius Milani of Raytheon,” the man said with a slight foreign accent, extending a hand. “This is a colleague of mine, Dr. Naomi Nikasa, professor of physics at St. Andrews University.”

“An inspiring speech, Mr. Dawkins,” she said, extending her hand. She seemed young to be a professor, with high cheekbones, smooth amber skin, and a sweet dimpled smile.

“Thank you,” he responded, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Mr. Milani spoke quickly, his words skimming off the surface of Dawkins's consciousness like stones across a lake. He said that he represented an exclusive group of scientists and wealthy men and women named AVAN, derived from the ancient Greek word for “solution.” He and Dr. Nikasa were members of the acquisitions committee, and were interested in funding practical solutions to global problems exactly like the one Dawkins had outlined in his speech.

Dawkins had never heard of AVAN, but his attention was pulled away from the smooth arc of Dr. Nikasa's neck, the gentle indentation where her collarbones met at the top of her chest. He had immediately made an association with Puccini's
Madame Butterfly
and the beautiful love aria
“Un bel dì, vedremo.”

Milani said, “I know this is somewhat off the cuff, but if you're free, Dr. Nikasa and I would like to invite you to dinner and introduce you to some of our colleagues.”

Dawkins was remembering the time he'd heard that aria sung by Renata Scotto at Wolf Trap, where he sat on a blanket with his then girlfriend, Nan. The memory of the ripe, heartbreaking humanity of it under the stars, and how it had touched him then, brought a tear to his eye.

“Dinner? Uh…the three of us?” He inhaled heavily and glanced at his watch. It was 6:34 local time. Nan, now his wife, was expecting him to call at around seven, which corresponded to 1 p.m. in DC, where she worked at the National Archives as a curator of historical documents. He was going to tell her about his presentation and remind her that his SwissAir Flight tomorrow was scheduled to arrive at Dulles at 5:45 p.m. Since it would be Friday and Nan was Catholic, she'd likely be preparing fish for dinner. Afterward, after he put their adopted eight-year-old daughter to bed, he imagined they'd watch the new season of
House of Cards
on Netflix. Then she'd undress in the bathroom, slip into her side of the bed, and read. Dawkins thought he might suggest his interest in physical intimacy with a mild remark like, “You want us to hold each other?” Usually he wasn't confident enough or sexually compelled to take action on his own, but this time he thought he would.

It emboldened him that Dr. Nikasa smiled at him and let her arm brush his elbow. There were no accidents. Even if the gesture wasn't premeditated, it hadn't happened by chance. Not in Dawkins's mind.

Inhaling the floral aroma of Dr. Nikasa's French perfume, he stammered, “Uh… Well… I—I don't have time for dinner, but maybe a drink.”

“Delighted. Of course,” Milani offered, “we'll keep it brief, so as not to waste your time.”

Dawkins smiled at that, thinking to himself,
If they only knew how pedestrian my life is.

Clutching his briefcase, he took long strides to the elevator with Dr. Nikasa by his side asking about his scientific background. Milani punched the button to the penthouse.

“Actually, I'm not formally trained in atmospheric chemistry, physics, or even climatology,” he explained to her. “My field is aerospace engineering, specifically as an inertial navigation engineer for UTC Aerospace Systems. Do you know it?”

“No.”

“Why would you? Stupid question,” he muttered under his breath, his head cast down.

“That makes you a true scientist,” Dr. Nikasa remarked. “Someone who crosses disciplines in search of practical solutions.”

Said so generously and gracefully, he thought. He imagined he saw a sparkle in her eyes. “I like to think so, yes.”

Milani led them down a beige, teal-green, and sepia-patterned hallway. The thick carpet hugged the soles of Dawkins's Florsheims. For a moment he felt underdressed and ill-groomed, things he normally didn't care about. But the occasion seemed auspicious. AVAN sounded important.

Milani ushered them into the Da Vinci Suite. A large imitation of the great artist's
Leda and the Swan
hung on the entrance wall. Her glowing nude figure stopped Dawkins in his tracks. Female nudity had had a powerful effect on him since he'd first glanced at pictures in
Playboy
. Furthermore, he knew the lurid mythology behind the painting, which had fueled his fantasies. He froze and lowered his head in embarrassment.

His condition grew more acute when Dr. Nikasa touched his shoulder. His whole body trembled as she pointed to two men sitting in the recessed dining area. They rose together and turned to greet him, an Asian man and another who looked elegant and European, and sported a salt-and-pepper goatee.

He carefully descended the three steps as Milani made the introductions. “Dr. Dawkins, this is David Lee of the South Korea Ministry of Technology, and Dr. Luigi Zucarella, a member of our board of directors. Another one of our directors, Elon Musk, CEO of SpaceX, has been delayed and will join us shortly.”

The name Elon Musk pulled him out of himself and into the moment. Instinctively, he reached for his iPhone, which he usually kept in his back pocket. His intention was to text his wife to tell her who he was about to meet. But he didn't have his cell with him, because he'd never purchased the international data feature that would have allowed him to text from Geneva.

Dr. Nikasa touched his arm. “Please have a seat.”

“Oh. Of course.”

The sofa was covered with light-blue-and-purple silk. He was imagining Dr. Nikasa standing in front of him in a kimono when a tall, fit-looking waiter asked him what he would like to drink.

“Iced tea with lemon, please.”

As he oriented himself to his surroundings, Milani told the two other men about the brilliance of his idea for restoring the ozone layer and the skill with which he had delivered his speech. The two men nodded and kneaded their brows as they listened. They sat opposite him on a blue-and-purple brocade sofa identical to the one he now shared with Dr. Nikasa. A glass coffee table with a vase of white orchids occupied the space between them. Milani sat in an armchair to his right.

When the drinks arrived, David Lee asked Dawkins about his interest in atmospheric chemistry, but Dr. Nikasa's proximity continued to distract him. An awkward silence followed. The men seemed to look at him more intently.

As Dawkins opened his mouth to answer, an aide in a dark suit interrupted with the news that Musk had just called from Geneva Airport. “He apologizes for being late, and will be here in ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Milani said. “Before we ask Mr. Dawkins any more questions, maybe we should tell him a little about AVAN and our mission.”

“Of course,” said Lee.

Dawkins nodded, eased back into the sofa, sipped the tart drink, and concentrated hard on what Lee was saying, in an effort to ignore the effect Dr. Nikasa was having on him. AVAN had been created to address global problems—problems so large and complicated that they taxed the capacities of individual governments and bureaucracies.

“Time is our most precious commodity,” Lee explained. “When we look at things like the scarcity of natural resources and global warming, we have to admit that we're running out of it.”

Dawkins nodded and realized that his head felt heavy. His eyes wanted to shut. He reminded himself that he was jet-lagged and hadn't slept well since arriving in Switzerland. But when he forced his eyes open, he couldn't focus, and saw only a swirl of light and color.

That's when it occurred to him that he might be experiencing the symptoms of an incipient stroke or heart attack. Starting to panic, he grabbed his chest and fell forward. He couldn't stop. The communication between his brain and muscles had been compromised somehow.

Without saying anything, Dr. Nikasa caught his head in her hands and guided it into her lap. He felt the fine wool against his cheek and her hard thighs under the skirt. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her but lost consciousness first.

C
rocker lay
on a lounge chair by the Caesars Palace swimming pool in the ninety-degree Las Vegas heat, his skin turning reddish brown from the Nevada sun, obscuring the navy anchor on his forearm, a snake wrapped around a dagger bearing the legend “Too Tough to Die.”

The place he thought he really should be was the Ukraine, but his CO, Captain Sutter, had sent Mancini with him to back up Jeri Blackwell. Crocker suspected it was really an excuse to give him time to get his head together. Everyone on the team knew he was suffering from anxiety and the aftereffects of a string of difficult missions.

Despite the sumptuous surroundings and the nearly naked bodies, his mind drifted back to his recent phone call with Holly. She was happy, she said, with her new life. She had told him in no uncertain terms that their marriage was over. All he could do was pour out his heart to her, as well as he could. No sap; no squishy sentiment. He simply told her, “I love you with all my heart and have always operated under the assumption that we would spend the rest of our lives together. I don't want to be with anyone else.”

She had responded coolly, “I appreciate how you feel, Tom, but that's not a possibility anymore.”

Bam! Door slammed in his face. A whole bucketful of hurt.

Part of it, he knew, was his responsibility, part of it hers. The fact was that while focusing on his work with Black Cell, his marriage had unraveled. He was fully aware that he and Holly had problems. Both of them had been suffering from different forms of PTSD—Crocker from his various deployments, Holly after she had witnessed the execution of a colleague in Tripoli.

But how can you know what's going on in someone else's head?

He had given her space, which is what she said she wanted. They had both sought therapy and supported each other. They both took pride in their physical and mental toughness. They worked things out. The bond between them had seemed rock solid. But it wasn't. Okay, yes, he had gone on another deployment when she'd wanted him to stay home. But this is what he did for a living. It was his calling, his mission. Didn't she understand that?

Maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem. Whenever it was a choice between his teams and her, he always chose the teams. But not in his heart! He carried her and Jenny there always. Thinking of them got him through the tough spots.

He had no interest in fighting with her. He wanted Holly to be happy. He promised her half of everything, but…how could you love someone and do something like this? How could you build so much together and throw it away? Maybe the marriage had never meant as much to her as it had to him. Obviously, she had been imagining a future without him for some time. But it didn't matter. Neither did the beach house, the cars, or their other possessions. Neither did the money he was still sending her every week to cover expenses.

But he still wanted his old life back. Even his eighteen-year-old daughter, Jenny, had moved out and into her own Virginia Beach apartment, where she was living with a friend while she worked three days a week at a clothing store and attended community college.

He wouldn't feel sorry for himself. That wasn't in his DNA. He still had his health, the job he loved, his daughter, brother, sister, father, and teammates.

He turned to Mancini soaking up the sun beside him. The two of them had spent the past several days at the nearby Nellis Air Force Base firing range and kill house. Endless rounds of 5.56mm and 9mm ammo fired at paper targets. Endless repetition of cover tactics, fire angles, engagement points. They had been sent to train SEALs fresh out of BUD/S in desert tactics and close quarters combat (CQC).

By 4 p.m. it had been a long hot day, but Crocker's mind and body still wouldn't settle down.

Maybe I should take a run in the desert, or swim laps in the pool.

Then he remembered he couldn't. He was about to meet a young woman that an ST-6 teammate named Storm had set him up with. All the guys had been looking out for him, which meant a lot.

“You hear from anything from Jeri?” he asked, wondering again if their current assignment wasn't really an excuse to get him some R&R.

“She told us to hang tight,” Mancini replied out of the side of his mouth. Much of his face was covered with thick dark stubble. “She'll call us if she needs us.”

“Yeah.”

“Where's the babe you're supposed to meet?”

He glanced at his Suunto watch—the one Holly had given him. “I don't know if she's a babe,” he responded, “but she's a performer. A gymnast and dancer, according to Storm.”

“I bet.”

The introduction had come after Storm heard that Crocker was going to Nellis. He said, “You two might hit it off. Cyndi's a fun girl—kind and smart. When you're out there, you should look her up.”

Over the past several days he and Cyndi had exchanged e-mails. He learned that she had a five-year-old daughter and had moved to Vegas from Spokane a year ago. She was currently part of the Cirque du Soleil troop performing its show
O
at the Bellagio—described as an aquatic masterpiece of surrealism and theatrical romance. He had a ticket to see it tomorrow night and was nervous about meeting her. Felt awkward and unprepared.

“You stoked?” Mancini asked over the top of the magazine he was reading—his arms, neck, and torso covered with tattoos and scars; his longish dark hair masking the place on his head where he'd been grazed by a terrorist's bullet in a Paris hotel elevator.

“Kind of. Yeah. What're you reading?”

“An article about fractals. Images of dynamic systems found in nature—like trees, rivers, coastlines, clouds, even a young lady's eyeballs. They derive from the principle of recursion but scale differently than other geometric figures.”

“You're a fucking freak, you know that?”

“Thanks, and back atcha. Who got up this morning at six a.m. for a fifteen-mile run in the desert?”

Crocker smiled. He still had a sense of humor about himself. You performed to the limit of your abilities and hoped for the best. The fact that all individuals were islands held apart by ignorance, distrust, and fear wasn't his problem to solve. His job was to protect the sheep from the wolves. To help, protect, rescue, and heal people when he could.

Right now he was trying to relax and quiet the stream of second-guessing about the hearing next week. It seemed as though the entire population of Caesars Palace's four towers had come to cool off in six pools that made up the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis. Male and female conventioneers, tourists from Asia, vacationers, professional gamblers, high-end hookers, young partiers, confidence men, honeymooners, weekend revelers from L.A. fresh off Route 15. All seemed contained in their private bubbles, barely aware of one another and their surroundings.

When Crocker looked closely he saw that the statues were molded of plaster and resin, and many of the human bodies had been sculpted, tucked, and smoothed by surgeons.

“That her?” Mancini asked, pointing to an approaching tall, dark-haired woman in a leopard-print bikini and large designer sunglasses, her back straight, her chest and chin thrust forward as though she were a movie star attending a premiere.

“I hope not,” Crocker said.

The polished and buffed woman, projecting attitude and entitlement, stopped in front of them and pointed at the empty lounge chair beside Crocker. In a low voice she asked, “This taken?”

“Yes it is, ma'am.” The breasts seemed fake, the lips cosmetically plumped, the skin around her eyes and cheekbones pulled too taut.

“Well, it's mine now.” She set her bag on it, turned her back to him, and lowered her skinny ass down.

He was going to say that the chair was reserved for someone else but was too polite. If Holly were present she'd have scolded him, saying that off the battlefield he let people push him around. And he'd have responded, “No, baby, I respect people. Besides, some things aren't worth fighting over.”

As the imaginary argument with Holly continued in his head, Cyndi stepped onto the patio wearing a white baseball hat and a light-blue wrap-type dress, spotted him, and approached.

Her shadow falling over him, she asked, “Tom Crocker?”

He looked up into her sunlit face. An impression formed in his head—friendly, unpretentious, pretty. He stood quickly, smiled, and offered his hand.

“Cyndi? Uh…thanks for coming. It's really nice to meet you.” He suddenly felt like a teenager on a first date.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Of course. Yes, of course.” He stood up, turned, and offered her his chair.

Without the least bit of modesty or hesitation, she set down her tote, untied the sash around her dress, removed it, folded it, removed her hat, and shook out her shoulder-length blond hair. Her torso, legs, and arms were strong and toned.

Crocker couldn't help but stare and admire her near-perfect proportions and the radiance of her skin. Now he looked away awkwardly. Behind the magazine, Mancini shot him a pirate's grin.

“Come with me,” Cyndi said, offering her hand. “Let's cool off.” So easy and natural, like they'd known each other for years.

He followed into the waist-high water in the circular pool built around a colonnade with a golden statue of Julius Caesar at the center. She reminded him of someone, one of the many girls he had dated in high school.

He was trying to remember the girl's name as he offered, “It's really nice to meet you.” Then realized he'd said that already.

“Thanks.”

“So…uh…how do you know Storm?”

“He and my brother went to high school together.”

“Oh, nice.”

She bounced up and down in the water and pushed back her hair.

“You're in great shape,” she said.

“So are you.”

“Thanks. You coming to the show tonight?” she asked sweetly, shielding her blue eyes with her hand.

“No, tomorrow. I'd like to meet you after, for a drink, if you want.”

“That would be nice.”

She was younger than he had imagined from the photo she had sent of her with her daughter, and slightly taller.

Off to the right, glancing off the water, and over “Summertime” by the Zombies playing over the PA system, he heard a man raise his voice. Even in an intimate moment like this, a part of Crocker remained alert to his surroundings. He noticed a large muscular guy standing before two men sitting on the other side of the pool.

“This your first visit to Vegas?” Cyndi asked, lowering her head into the water, then coming up so that it washed down the front of her pink bikini top.

“No, sixth or seventh. I've lost count. I mean, I like it, but it's really not my kind of place.”

“That's what everybody says, and they keep coming back.”

“Yeah, you're right about that.”

The muscular guy seemed to be complaining that the two other men had been taking pictures of his girlfriend. One of the men—who looked Asian—held a camera with a telephoto lens. That appeared to be the problem. The muscular guy in the bathing suit was demanding to see the camera so he could delete the photos. The second man—tall and stocky with short brown hair—gestured to him to go away.

“Something the matter?” Cyndi asked, leaning into him.

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Storm told me a lot about you.”

He blushed like a ten-year-old boy. “Really? What?”

“I'll tell you later.” She turned, wrapped her legs around his waist, and leaned back in the water. “This helps stretch my back.”

Playful and pretty, just like Storm had said. His gaze traveled up her smooth thighs, past her pelvis, into her waiting eyes. In his head they were already in his room upstairs, making love.

He glanced over her right shoulder past the columns for an instant and saw the two men standing and facing the muscular man and a security guard in a maroon blazer. The one with the camera wore an old-fashioned blue bathing suit and leather sandals. The taller man had on plaid pants, a white polo, and loafers. They both looked out of place.

Foreigners?
Crocker wondered.
Pervs.
Snapping photos of topless women sunning themselves?

Lying back in the water, Cyndi pulled nearer until their crotches were close. He was thinking that it would be so easy to enter her in the pool. All he had to do was lower her legs below the waterline, pull the hem of her bikini bottom aside, and lower his trunks.

He slammed the brakes on that train of thought. He barely knew her. There were hundreds of people in the vicinity. Things were happening too fast.

Before he could say anything, he heard men grunting and looked up to see the muscular guy trying to wrestle the camera away from the Asian man. The guy with the camera kneed him in the crotch, then wheeled and kicked him in the chest, causing the muscular guy to stumble backward and hit the tile deck back first. When the security guard tried to intervene, the tall foreigner shoved him so hard he lost his balance and fell into the pool. The men turned and ran toward the casino just as an old woman stepped onto the patio.

Crocker waded forcefully to the side of the pool and shouted, “Lady, look out!”

She seemed momentarily confused by the sound of his voice and blinded by the sun, so she didn't step aside when the first man bolted toward her. He was looking over his shoulder as he ran and crashed into her full force, throwing her off her feet and into the planter behind her.

Others nearby were slow to notice, but not Crocker. He turned to Cyndi, muttered “Just a minute,” hopped out of the pool, and gave chase.

Barefoot and wearing only a bathing suit, Crocker ran across the marble floor, trying not to slip or crash into anyone, past the line waiting to get into the Bacchanal Buffet, and veered left onto a long carpeted hallway decorated with large photos of Ancient Rome. The two fleeing men a hundred feet ahead turned right at a sign that read
AUGUSTUS TOWER
.