WARNING
IN THE EVENT OF FIRE
OR GAS LEAK DO NOT
USE ELEVATOR. BE CERTAIN
SPRINKLER SYSTEM IS ON.
IF NOT. THROW LEVER BEFORE
LEAVING. TAKE STAIRWAY
TO 1ST OR 2ND LEVEL
EMERGENCY EXIT.
Beside the sign, encased in glass, were the fire alarm and the manual lever controlling the emergency sprinkler system. In a rack on the floor were half a dozen hand-held state-of-the-art fire extinguishers. And hanging on the wall were three rubberized exposure suits and an equal number of gas masks.
Abby flattened herself against the wall and listened for any hint that others were around. All was quiet. From her hours of reviewing Kelly's research in the registry of deeds office and the library, she knew exactly where she was--at the bottom of the main shaft of the Patience Mine. Unless she was badly off base, the emergency exits referred to on the sign were two of the three old ventilation shafts that were so carefully camouflaged on the rock face.
Grateful that she was wearing sneakers, Abby stepped cautiously onto the first metal step, waited there a few seconds, then quietly made her way upward. Lighting along the rock wall beside the staircase was minimal--widely spaced low-wattage incandescent bulbs covered by opaque plastic clip-on shades. She could look over the black iron-pipe railing and see straight down alongside the concrete elevator shaft. The first ventilation tunnel was twenty-five feet up the rock wall, exactly where she anticipated. However, the opening was sealed with a locked accordion-type metal gate. Just beyond the gate were tools, bags of concrete, and hand-held drilling equipment indicating that the shaft was undergoing some sort of repair.
USE 2ND EMERGENCY EXIT, the sign wired to the gate read. Abby tiptoed up to the next landing and was now looking a dizzying fifty feet straight down along the shaft. To her right was the emergency-escape passageway, beginning with an opening in the rock similar to the one at the end of the tunnel from the hospital. To her left were a concrete landing and a short flight of stairs going up. She tried the stairs first. At the top of the flight was the pitch-black space Abby knew from A Brief History of the Patience Mine. Although the soft glow from the stairway didn't allow her to see beyond ten or twelve feet, she strongly sensed that the entire cavernous area, called "The Upper Dig" in the monograph, was empty. According to the book, she was now about forty feet below the plant and sixty feet or so above "The Lower Dig."
Abby returned to the emergency-exit tunnel. It was totally unlit, about a foot lower than her height, and no more than two and a half feet from side to side. Once again she paused to listen to the deep silence. She had no sense that anyone was nearby, but her fight/flight mechanism remained on red alert. Cautiously, she made her way down the tunnel, clicking on the penlight every few steps. Ninety or a hundred feet, the diagrams in the mine book indicated. It took quite some time to reach the end of the passageway, because she was forced to move uncomfortably hunched over. She wondered if Kelly had made it this far. The thought of the woman, the image of what she looked like now, added a few more degrees to Abby's anger. Her boiling point wasn't too far off. The door, which she knew blended so well into the rock face on the other side, was plywood. It was painted black on this side, and fixed to holes in the rock walls by six sliding bolts, three on a side. DOOR IS ALARMED, the sign affixed to it read. USE ONLY FOR ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY.
Abby shined the penlight carefully around the margin of the door. Then she turned around with no little difficulty and retraced her steps to the staircase in the main shaft. She had started down, and was ten feet or so from the lowest level, when the elevator gears engaged with a clank that echoed off the rock and startled her into several missed heartbeats. The vestibule at the foot of the staircase was dimly lit and deserted. Uncertain whether the car was moving down or up, she raced to the bottom of the stairs and hid in the shadows of the hospital tunnel. In moments the grinding of the descending car stopped and the door swung open. A slight man with Coke-bottle glasses emerged. He was wearing a lab coat and studying a clipboard. Abby crouched farther back into the shadows, but still, had the man turned to look, he would have been staring right at her. Instead, totally engrossed in whatever was on the clipboard, he passed no more than six feet from her and headed toward the source of the fluorescent light.
Although a retreat back to the hospital seemed like a prudent course, Abby knew that she had come too far not to follow him. She crossed the vestibule, flattened herself against the concrete wall, and inched along it until she could peer around the corner. The space in front of her was vast and gleaming beneath a drop ceiling and brilliant fluorescent lighting. It was separated from the rock by a three-foot tarmac path and an encircling thick glass wall that reached the ceiling. Within the enclosed space were a number of rooms, partitioned by other walls of glass. The man with the lab coat was about twenty feet away, working at a computer in a well-equipped office with four desks. No one else was around. On one wall of the office was a large cork board with an assortment of newspaper and magazine articles pinned up, as well as a number of documents. On the opposite glass wall, hanging from a metal strip, was an American flag.
Still in a crouch, she inched her way along the outside glass wall. Looking through the transparent walls at the various rooms, she could see that one section--a square perhaps twenty feet on a side--was sealed across the ceiling with painted plaster. In addition, it was equipped with four sets of closed ports along with thick gloves that were attached on the inner side to manipulate robot arms. Seated at one of the ports, working on the contents of a small brass vat, was another scientist--a large black man, also wearing a knee-length lab coat. Abby moved back into the shadows, though, as before, she would have been seen easily had the man's attention not been fixed on the mechanical arms.
To her left, in a small area marked with the black-on-yellow universal symbol for dangerous materials, were two dozen or more gas tanks of varying sizes painted in colors identical to markings on the six tubes entering the MRI scanner. They were secured in metal racks and labeled with stenciled lettering. From where she was, it was impossible to read any of the names. But moving much closer--moving at all, for that matter--would greatly increase her risk of being spotted by the man at the computer, who was facing almost in her direction.
Her choices seemed limited: stay partially secluded and risk the arrival of more people and almost certain discovery, or chance moving nearer to the storage area to learn what she could about the contents of the tanks and get back to the hospital. She flattened out on the gray tile floor and moved in a crawl toward the glass outer wall. She was shielded in part by some equipment and was at an angle where the man at the computer would have to turn thirty or forty degrees to spot her. Within ten feet she had moved directly behind the scientist working the robotics. The tanks were no more than fifteen feet away now, the stenciling almost legible. She crawled a few feet closer before risking another look. The word stenciled in black on the red tube made her blood freeze: SARIN.
Following the disaster in the Tokyo subway system, when a radical religious cult had exposed hundreds to the gas, Abby had attended an ER-department briefing on sarin and other chemical weapons. Ironically, the presentation had been made by her friend, toxicologist Sandra Stuart. Sandra was assisted by a physician/researcher from the U.S. Army Chemical School at Fort Something-or-other in Alabama, who spiced up his portion of the talk with a number of terrifying slides dating back to World War I.
Sarin was in the organophosphate class of chemicals and, as such, had a modestly effective antidote. But the molecule-for-molecule potency of the neuroparalytic agent was so intense that even a small exposure would often cause death by suffocation before any treatment could be administered. Suddenly Abby remembered the patient of George Oleander's whose blood had lit up for small amounts of organophosphate. Exposure to fertilizer, Oleander had said. A yearly event for the careless farmer. Nothing to worry about. Bullshit, George!
/> Abby peered through the legs of a table and between two workbenches in time to see the man with the thick glasses push back from his computer and head toward the robotics room. For one paralyzing moment he was directly facing her. She forced herself down and tried to make her body melt into the floor. Then, after half a minute, she risked a peek, half expecting to see him standing right there on the other side of the glass wall staring down at her. Instead, his back was to her as he spoke with the other scientist. The larger man had pulled his arms out of the protective gloves and was laughing. He had a jovial face and wonderfully animated hands when he spoke. Abby wondered how he felt, knowing that he was working every day with a substance so lethal that the contents of a single tank, properly released, could probably wipe out a large city.
After a conversation that lasted only a few minutes, the myopic researcher patted the other man on the shoulder and headed for the elevator. Moments later Abby heard the gears engage. She had dodged a good-sized bullet. And for the moment, at least, it was just Abby and one very absorbed scientist. Immediately, her game plan changed. She was still going to identify the contents of the gas cylinders. But before she retreated through the tunnel to the hospital, she was now intent on getting into the office and seeing exactly what items were tacked on the cork board.
On her hands and knees she moved a few feet closer to the gas-storage room. The stenciling on the yellow tanks became discernible first--TRICHOTHECENE. The chemical--an irritant better known as TTC--was another of the weapons described at the St. John's toxicology lecture. Along with mustard gas, which she then noticed was in the blue cylinders, TTC was one of the most debilitating of the so-called blistering agents.
The pink tanks held something called mycotoxin, and the black ones were labeled VX in white. Neither name rang any bells. The last set of cylinders, green labeled in white, contained phosgene oxime, which the expert from Alabama said had been in worldwide use for well over seventy-five years, most recently by the Soviets against the Afghans and by the Iraqis against the Kurds. Now, it appeared, the U.S. government against Claire Buchanan and others at Patience Regional Hospital could be added to the list.
Had Claire almost died from an accidental overdose, or was it an allergic reaction? If Del Marshall knew this experimentation, or whatever it was, was going on in his department--and it was certainly hard to imagine he didn't--no wonder he looked so pale as Claire was being resuscitated.
Abby had been inside the lab now for twenty minutes. It was time to get out and get back to Lew with what she had found. There were still a number of missing pieces, among them the connection between this subterranean operation and the cadmium exposures in Josh, Willie Cardoza, and the rest. But at this point she had seen enough of what was going on so that the Alliance could try to enlist the intervention of someone with political influence and a conscience--provided, of course, there was such a person.
Once more in the shadows, she worked her way back toward the tunnel. A short run and she would be safely there. Instead, she stopped opposite the door to the glass-enclosed office, essentially out of sight of the robotics man. But once she was inside the office, she would be fair game again.
She dropped back down to her hands and knees. Then she moved to the doorway of the office. Through the far glass wall she could see what was almost certainly the gas-delivery area--a chamber containing tanks of all six colors, plus two other large gas cylinders, one white and one orange. Abby bet herself that one of those tanks contained some sort of cadmium fumes. She remembered Kelly's description of the maximum allowable circulating cadmium--two aspirins pulverized and blown into the air in the Astrodome. Impressive. In vapor form the heavy metal would be right up there in toxicity with some of these other gases.
The more Abby thought about the possibility, the more sense it made. Another puzzle piece might well have fallen into place. A slipup with the cadmium fumes had resulted in the exposure of a number of Colstar employees, including Josh. Then she remembered that there would have to have been more than one slipup, since Gus Schumacher would have been exposed before Josh had even arrived in Patience. Postulating two accidental exposures didn't feel that comfortable as a theory, though it did explain the facts.
There was one thing Abby had no doubt about whatsoever. The array of cylinders in the dosing room were connected to a complex system of tubing, gauges, and digital displays. And at the receiving end of the tubes were the NIWWs.
From the office doorway she could clearly see the headlines on the articles tacked to the cork board.
MANY DEAD, HUNDREDS ILL IN
TOKYO SUBWAY GAS ATTACK
KURDS CHARGE HUSSEIN WITH
USING YELLOW RAIN CHEMICAL--
Hundreds Claimed Dead, Thousands Sick
SARIN, DEADLY SARIN--
WHO WILL BE NEXT?
VETERANS GROUPS RALLY TO
PROTEST INACTION ON
GULF WAR SYNDROME--
"We Were Gassed," Vets Proclaim
There were at least two dozen articles dealing with confirmed or suspected chemical attacks on military and civilian targets around the world. Crouching low, Abby took a cautious step into the office. She was about to cross to the desk when she caught movement far to her left. The hulking scientist had left the robotics room and was heading through the maze of glass doorways toward the office. She was frozen, unable to decide whether to flee or try to conceal herself in the office. The hesitation cost her the option of running. Praying that she hadn't yet been spotted, she dived into the well beneath one of the desks, drew her knees to her chin, and pulled the chair back in place. It had been pure hubris not to leave when she had the chance. Stupid and reckless. And now she was going to pay--possibly with her life. The scientist entered the office humming and walked directly to the desk. Abby breathed slowly through her nose, trying desperately not to make a movement or a sound. He stood behind the chair and rummaged through some papers that were two inches above her head. If he pushed the chair under the desk now, it would hit against her almost immediately.
Still humming, the man moved back from the desk. Abby watched his scuffed shoes, the cuffs of his trousers, and the lower edge of his lab coat as he walked out through the doorway where she had just been standing. Then he turned left toward the elevator. She wondered if he was planning to leave the area completely unattended. But with her heart rate still in the 150 range and her clothes damp from tension, she knew that even if he did, she was finished there. Then, from just around the corner, she heard a door open and close. The toilet, she thought, remembering now that she had seen the door near the elevator with the man and woman symbols on it.
Breathless, she scrambled out from under the desk and sprinted down the corridor and into the tunnel. Almost home. After fifty feet or so she paused and allowed herself a grim smile. She had finished what Kelly had started. Now it was Lew's turn--his and the others in the Alliance. She started back along the pitch-black passageway, praying that Kelly had begun to regain consciousness.
Familiar with the terrain, she moved much more quickly than she had before. She slowed only when she sensed she was reaching the ladder and hatchway beneath the MRI scanner. All that mattered now was making it to Lew without being spotted. Quinn and his Colstar cronies would know that they had been penetrated once, by a woman who was now unconscious. But they would have no idea their secrecy had been pierced a second time. It would be business as usual as long as Kelly was in a coma.
When Abby reached the ladder at the end of the tunnel, she used her penlight for the first time. Everything was as it had been. It was well after ten now. There was no reason to expect anyone to be around the scanner or, in fact, the MRI unit. Still, she slid the latch back very carefully and pushed the hatch open an inch. The scanner room was as dark as the tunnel. She stepped up a rung and guided the hatch back silently until it touched the floor. Then she quietly stepped up another rung, bringing her waist to the level of the floor. At that instant the overhead fluorescent lights
winked on.
Abby blinked until her dilated pupils adjusted to the brightness. Standing a few feet away, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, was Lyle Quinn. Behind him were George Oleander, Joe Henderson, Martin Bartholomew, radiologist Del Marshall, and Police Captain Gould.
"Welcome back, Abby," Quinn said. "We've been waiting for you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Abby stared in stunned silence as Lyle Quinn took a step forward and extended his hand. His black sports coat fell away just enough to reveal a shoulder holster and gun.
"Here, let me help you out of there," he said.
"Don't touch me!"
Abby shrieked the warning.
Quinn retreated.
"Have it your way."
For a few uncomfortable seconds there was total silence. From her spot on the ladder Abby surveyed the group. Only Del Marshall, perhaps unable to get past her lifesaving performance in his department, looked uncomfortable at her situation. He shifted from one foot to the other and stared off at one wall. Finally George Oleander stepped forward. Quinn, his body tensed, his eyes fixed on her like lasers, took a single step to the side.
"Abby, nine or so years ago the town of Patience--the whole valley--was dying," Oleander began in his most paternal voice. "Directly or indirectly, almost everyone's livelihood depended--and still does--on Colstar. And Colstar was going under. Senator Corman did his best to send what military contracts he could our way, and for a time the company looked as if it was going to make it. As you know, Ezra Black lives not too far from here. So even though he owns companies around the world, he feels a special connection to Colstar and Patience Valley. He did his best to hang on while Corman did what he could in Washington."
Critical Judgment (1996) Page 34