by James Barney
Malachi stepped closer and cleared away several strands of Virginia creeper that were partially obscuring the red lettering. Once the vine was cleared, he could now see the full message, which read:
χ=E·Z(U)
Something suddenly clicked in his brain. This appeared to be a mathematical equation of some sort, although he didn’t immediately recognize it from his working knowledge of physics, chemistry, and mathematics. The more interesting question was why such an equation would be written here, on the side of an abandoned coal station in rural West Virginia. Only one logical explanation came to mind: this message was meant for him. As that realization sank in, a new thought began forming at the edge of his consciousness. Something about the first symbol in the equation, the small Greek letter chi.
The small chi was sometimes used in physics to denote a coordinate. For instance, it was used in Einstein’s equations for the effect of gravity on a light beam. But Malachi knew this particular equation had nothing to do with gravity or light beams. No, in this equation, chi meant something entirely different. He remained motionless in front of the wall for several minutes, moving only to take occasional drags from his cigarette, which he kept skillfully cradled in one hand to avoid the rain. Finally, he took one last puff and tossed the butt to the ground. He now remembered the significance of the letter chi. It was something they had told him during his training. He was “chi.” He was Mala . . . chi.
With this new perspective, Malachi considered the painted equation with renewed vigor. What did it mean that he, Malachi, was equal to E·Z(U)? In physics, the capitalized E most often stood for energy, although it could be used to denote other things, such as an electrical field. But what about Z? The only thing he could think of was the atomic number of an atom, usually written as Z. If that were the case, then “Z(U)” might be thought to represent the atomic number for uranium, which was 92. Yet that made no sense.
Malachi pushed the conflicting thought aside for a moment and focused all his attention on the small dot between the E and the Z, which usually denoted multiplication in mathematics. Did that mean energy times 92? The energy of uranium, or perhaps the energy derived from splitting a uranium atom? Maybe it was referring to atomic energy in general.
He was now thoroughly confused. This “equation” seemed to be nothing more than a meaningless assemblage of snippets from chemistry, physics, and mathematics. He was tempted to move on and seek shelter inside the depot, but he couldn’t. This message had obviously been left for him, and he was determined to solve it. It was the only thing he had.
Something a colleague had once told him suddenly came to mind. “If a problem can’t be solved mathematically, then it isn’t a mathematical problem at all.” Which meant that not everything in life was amenable to a mathematical resolution. There was a place—even in science—for inductive reasoning. Malachi looked with fresh eyes at the mysterious equation on the wall. In fact, the series of symbols wasn’t a mathematical equation. How could it be, if one of the two equivalent expressions was a human being? A human being, with all his unique characteristics and idiosyncrasies, could never truly be “equal” to anything else. But if this wasn’t a mathematical equation, then what was it?
Up until now, Malachi had closely analyzed each of the symbols in this expression except for one. Now, for the first time, he carefully considered the equals sign by itself, weighing its individual import. Did “=” really mean “equals”? If not, what else could it mean? His first hunch was that the symbol might be pictographical in nature.
In mathematics, two parallel lines or curves were usually denoted by equating them with the “||” symbol, an obvious pictographical representation of two parallel lines. The equals sign in modern mathematics was no different; it was literally a pictographical representation of two identical lines. Although few people outside of mathematics realized it, the equals sign was a fairly modern invention, dating only to the sixteenth century. In 1557, a Welsh doctor and mathematician named Robert Recorde published The Whetstone of Witte, in which he proposed the use of the pictographic symbol “=” in place of the more tedious expression “is equal to.”
Malachi now had his answer. He turned and looked at the rusty railroad tracks behind him. At this particular location along the New River, the rails ran due east and west. E and W. A pair of parallels. No two things could be more equal. Malachi quickly returned his attention to the painted expression on the wall and marveled at its elegance—so simple, yet obscure enough to baffle anyone but him.
χ=E·Z(U). Malachi, walk east along the tracks for ninety-two paces.
5
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Dr. Bill McCreary pointed down at the white-haired man strapped to the bed in examination room 2. “As far as we can tell,” he explained to the group, “that man is Dr. Franz Holzberg.”
Califano did a double take. “The Franz Holzberg? The famous physicist?”
McCreary nodded. “I believe so.”
“But he died in—” Califano stopped short, realizing the import of what he was about to say.
“In 1959,” said McCreary, finishing the sentence.
But Califano had already registered the coincidence and was now churning this information in his brain. Holzberg died in 1959, the same year the Winter Solstice program abruptly went dormant. “If I recall my history correctly,” he said, “Dr. Holzberg died in Germany.”
“Yep, that’s how the press reported it at the time,” said McCreary. “We’ve already given orders to exhume the body buried at his grave site in Limburg. Covertly, of course.”
Califano wondered how the CIA went about “covertly” exhuming a buried body, but he decided he didn’t want to know. “If Holzberg were still alive today,” he said, “that would make him, what, ninety-six? Ninety-seven?”
“A hundred and three,” McCreary said.
They all looked down at the old man strapped to the bed, with his tangled white hair and long, twisty fingernails. He certainly looked old, so 103 wasn’t out of the question.
“Where’d you find him?” Califano asked.
Ana Thorne answered that question. “He wandered into a diner in Fire Creek, West Virginia, early this morning with a severe wound to his abdomen. He was incoherent and confused, but he indicated that he’d come from the Thurmond National Laboratory. That’s what prompted the local police to notify the FBI, who notified us. We transported him here about seven hours ago from the trauma unit in Beckley.”
“And who’s ‘we’?” Califano asked, looking back and forth between Thorne and Dr. McCreary.
Dr. McCreary finally spoke up. “Michael, I run the Office of Disruptive Technology here at the CIA. The program actually started at DARPA but was transferred here about six months ago. What I do here is similar to what you do at DOE, but on a larger scale. My team monitors thousands of scientific projects around the world, including government-funded research, academic research, and commercial projects. Like you, we look for trends, anomalies, unexpected events, and what are often called ‘coincidences.’ And like you, we have some very sophisticated computer modeling and data-mining programs at our disposal to help us spot these things.”
Admiral Armstrong suddenly chimed in. “You know, Michael helped design some of those programs.” There was a ring of pride in his voice, almost like a father boasting about his son.
“Oh, I know,” said McCreary with a deferential nod to Califano. “And as a graduate student, too. Very impressive.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Anyway, as I said, the difference between what you do and what we do is the scope and scale of the subject matter. You monitor sixteen national laboratories and a few hundred DOE-funded projects. The focus of my program is the entire spectrum of what we call ‘dangerously disruptive technology,’ so it cuts across all areas of science and technology, from chemistry to biotech to physics to information technology, genetics, communications, and everything in between.”
“Dangerously disruptive
technology,” said Califano slowly, enunciating each word. “I’m curious. How do you define that?”
McCreary seemed a bit put off by the question, but he proceeded to answer it. “The official definition? It’s technology that poses a clear and present threat to the national security interests of the United States.”
“Yeah? How about the unofficial definition?”
McCreary bristled. “Let’s just say I know it when I see it. It’s things like human cloning, genetic engineering, cold fusion, and the like. We have the ability to model these technologies before they even exist, to observe their likely impact on our society, the health and safety of our citizens, the security of our country. If our models indicate that we should be concerned about an emerging area of research, we monitor it.”
Califano was pretty sure they did more than just monitor it. After all, the title of their program included the word “intervention.” But he decided to keep that observation to himself. “Okay,” he said as he began perambulating around the darkened room. “Other than the fact that Franz Holzberg was apparently involved in this program, what else do we know about Winter Solstice? I can tell you that DOE’s file on that program is pretty thin. It lists committee meeting dates, congressional authorization for the use of off-budget funds, and the initial procurement outlays for the construction of the Thurmond National Laboratory from 1955 through 1957. But there’s absolutely nothing in there about the nature of the research or who was involved. How about you guys?”
“Unfortunately,” said McCreary, “we don’t have much more than that. The project was so secret, and so few people were involved, that I’m afraid the details may be lost forever.” McCreary tilted his head toward the unconscious body of Franz Holzberg. “In fact, the last remnants may be locked up in that man’s brain.”
“Whoa, hold on a second,” said Califano. He wasn’t buying any of this. “Surely there must be some other information about this project. Thurmond cost tens of millions of dollars to build back in the fifties. That would be like hundreds of millions today. Somebody would have had to justify that expense to Congress. And by my calculation, the lab operated for at least two and a half years. There must be former employees, technicians, hell, even janitors we can talk to. And what about parallel research efforts? Certainly other labs would have been involved in the project, even if indirectly?”
McCreary shook his head. “Trust me, Mr. Califano, this was a program of a very different stripe. And as far as we know, there was only one other place in the world where this type of research was ever conducted.”
“Yeah?” said Califano. “And where was that?”
McCreary glanced momentarily at Ana Thorne before answering. “Głuszyca, Poland,” he said. “During the German occupation. The Nazis apparently had their own version of a Winter Solstice program near the end of World War Two, although not much is known about it.”
The quick glance had given Califano two valuable pieces of information. First, he deduced that Thorne was probably the CIA analyst assigned to study the Nazi version of Winter Solstice, or whatever had become of it. Second, there was more to this story than McCreary was telling. And it hadn’t just started this morning.
“What about the lab itself?” asked Califano. “What happened to all the materials and the lab equipment, and the lab notebooks? That would certainly give us a clue about what was going on there.”
“Actually, I can answer that question,” said Admiral Armstrong. “Thurmond National Laboratory was sealed shut and officially decommissioned in November 1959, using full radiological controls and an electrified exclusion zone of three miles around the entrance. The decommissioning report, which was later destroyed by executive order in 1981 under President Reagan, indicated that Thurmond experienced some sort of extreme incineration event resulting in vitrification of the surrounding rock and complete destruction of the laboratory and all of its contents. There were six fatalities . . . and no survivors.”
“Oh yeah?” said Califano with raised eyebrows. “Then where’d this guy come from?” He jabbed his thumb toward the window overlooking examination room 2.
There was silence until Armstrong finally spoke up. “Bill, he does have a point. Have you sent an inspection team down into the lab yet?”
“Not yet,” said McCreary. “We wanted to gather as much information as we could before attempting to go in.” He stared down at the grotesque body of the man in examination room 2. “Honestly, we’re just not sure what to expect down there.”
“Well,” said Armstrong. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting any more useful information from him. So what’s our next move?”
McCreary closed his eyes for several seconds before responding. “Admiral, may I use Mr. Califano as a dedicated asset on this investigation?”
“Yes. He’s all yours.”
“Good. Then here’s how we should proceed. Ana, please provide Mr. Califano with a transcript of everything the patient has said since he’s been here. Don’t leave anything out. I want every utterance, no matter how incoherent or nonsensical. Also, give him a copy of the statement that the woman at the diner gave to the police. Mr. Califano, I want you to crunch that information—”
“Whoa, let me stop you right there, Doc,” said Califano. “I know what you’re getting at. You want me to crunch all this info to see if there are any relevancy hits or unexpected trails. And I’m happy to do that. But don’t give me transcripts. I need raw data. I’ll take all the video feed that you have of Santa Claus here. And I know you have it, too.” He pointed to the two cameras mounted on either side of the examination room, both trained on the patient. “In fact, I see from the red lights that you’re recording him right now. And I want to talk to that woman at the diner myself, and to the EMTs and the police officers who responded to her 911 call. In fact, now that I think of it, I want to talk to the 911 operator, and I want a copy of the 911 tape. Also, I’ll need all the clothes this guy was wearing when he wandered into that diner. Was there anything in his pockets?”
McCreary looked stunned. “Uh, yes. A wallet and a set of keys. We can give you pictures of everyth—”
“I don’t want pictures. I’m telling you, Doc, I need raw data. Give me his clothes, and the wallet, and the keys, and anything else you have of his. Once I have all the data, then I can crunch it.”
McCreary gave Admiral Armstrong a concerned look: raised eyebrows, tight lips, deep worry lines around his eyes and mouth.
Armstrong nodded his head ever so slightly.
“Well,” said Dr. McCreary curtly. “Admiral Armstrong did say you were thorough.” He took a deep breath and released it. “Very well. Ana, set up a work space for Mr. Califano in building one where he can go through the patient’s personal effects. There’s a vacant office down the hall from mine that we can probably use as a workroom. And please see to it that he’s provided with all the raw video footage of the patient.”
“All of it?” asked Thorne.
McCreary pursed his lips before answering. “Yes, all of it.”
From this, Califano deduced that he’d likely be seeing some unsavory interrogation techniques. “What about the lady at the diner?” he asked.
McCreary checked his watch. “I’ll arrange for a flight first thing in the morning. In the meantime, we’ll provide you with everything you need here tonight.” He paused a moment and met Califano’s eyes. “I trust you’ll be able to get us some answers by morning?”
Califano shrugged. He wasn’t making any promises.
McCreary looked annoyed. “Ana will be your CIA escort while you’re here. She needs to be with you at all times. No exceptions. Understood?”
Califano glanced at Ana and was unable to keep his eyes from momentarily walking up and down her body. “No problem at all.” This came out a bit slimier than he’d intended.
Thorne’s expression never changed.
“Oh, and I’ll need access to the DOE server tonight,” Califano added.
�
��Ana can arrange that for you,” said McCreary, motioning toward Thorne. “Now, before I leave, is there anything else you need tonight, Mr. Califano?”
“Yeah, just one more thing.” Califano held McCreary’s gaze for a moment. “I need you to tell me the whole story about Winter Solstice.”
Admiral Armstrong interjected. “Michael—”
“It’s okay,” said McCreary calmly. He took a step closer to Califano and appeared to be sizing him up. At six foot three, McCreary was a full two inches taller than Califano, and his considerable heft gave him a hulking presence, albeit in an oafish sort of way.
Califano stood his ground. “I mean, you’ve got a program called Disruptive Technology Analysis and Intervention. You’re obviously mobilizing a lot of resources to get to the bottom of this Winter Solstice program. But, at the same time, you’re telling me you have no idea what it’s about.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Doc. I’m not buying it.”
McCreary removed his glasses with an exaggerated flourish. “Mr. Califano,” he said calmly. “You are treading in a very sensitive area here. The number of people who know anything about this program is six. Four of them are standing in this room right now. The other two are the director of the CIA and the president of the United States. So if there are certain facts that I have chosen not to divulge to you, well . . . there’s a reason for that. I’m sure you remember the concept of ‘need to know’ from your SCI training. I assure you, at this point, you have everything you need to know about Winter Solstice. Is that clear?”
Several profanities were streaming through Califano’s mind, “Fuck you” being chief among them. But none of them escaped his lips. He was in full control of his emotions now. Relax, he told himself. Let it go. He glanced at Admiral Armstrong and then back at McCreary. “I understand,” he said in a restrained voice. “Perfectly.”