This weapon, a venomous creation of fusion—hydrogen to helium—was a cleaner more admirable bomb than its predecessor. It was child’s play to Zen; simple and so very rudimentary. But to these established men of science, it was something of a novelty, to be challenged and conquered. They were almost giddy. It was disgusting! They can have it! Zen boiled. A waste of minds! How such a group of the esteemed and educated could be taken by such mundane science was absolutely astonishing to him. Perhaps it was because the first bomb—the Little Boy, with a uranium payload—had been a sloppy, thrown-together fiasco. Oh, it had worked, miraculously, and ended the war, but there had been more trial and error and conjecture and supposition than pure science in its development. Now this hydrogen-helium fusion process would take center stage. The new golden child to replace the uranium/plutonium relics of the past. And like a beast to blood, having tasted nuclear fusion, these military scientists were drunk on it.
Zen had been appropriated to coddle this new progeny. He had been handpicked, processed and used. Tragically, this realization had come too late, before he realized the full effect of what was happening. He had been played like some pawn in the game of nuclear chess. For weeks he had unwittingly fed their precious project just what it needed to survive. He had shown and directed, explained and taught. He had been this strange icon—a living peculiarity amid their religion of formulas and calculations. He had exploited his knowledge, to fit in, of all things. Like a stupid adolescent left out of the popular clique! He had shown them how to engineer, develop and process this creature of fusion ten times more efficiently. He expedited schedules and cut cost by billions. Yes! I did this, he shamefully pondered in silent reprehension, the regret eating him from the inside out. And did they care? No! They took his notes, read his papers, and snubbed him! Claiming to have advanced, exponentially, of their own abilities and volition. What a fool am I! Zen felt his jaw clench.
He stopped walking and gazed around at the desolate horizon. How small he now felt, and so very insignificant. Yes, Zen had been a fool, and had shared things which he had sworn never to reveal. But he had been lied to, and simply wanted to help, a mistake Zen Reitman would not be making again. Oh yes, this commi-kid from Russia—as they had mocked him, whispering and pointing from across hallways, tables and huddled groups—was onto them now, and had taken control of the game. Very soon, Zen would be dealing himself out.
Zen shook his head at the stupidity of it all and considered, drearily: America. It was to be so different. How had things gone so awry? So wrong in just these few short years?
In that first year at Los Alamos, they had all felt so accepted in their false adulation. Zen was the oldest, he should have known better . . . should have seen through the bureaucratic bull. But like Ruthy and the others, he was so enthralled with this new country, one which seemed to not only want him, but desperately need him.
The scientific advancements of the United States were the envy of the world, or so the Russians had said. And in that first year, it seemed they had been right. Under a veil of friendship and a façade of peace, the young geniuses had unwittingly revealed, taught and explained mathematical enigma’s which would have remained undiscovered, and unsolvable at Los Alamos for decades. Yes, these strange and young Russian scientists were as priceless to the United States Military as gold to Fort Knox. But unlike the shiny bars of precious ore, locked away and heavily guarded, these treasures were of flesh and blood, and were there at Los Alamos for one purpose: to be exploited.
When Zen and his team had first been hastily thrown into this beehive of science and technology, known only to them as Los Alamos Laboratories—a subservient appendage of the United States Military—they had all felt like fresh new fruit being tossed into a bushel of old dried prunes. In just days, they had realized how archaic and indiscriminate were the processes by which this government had produced its first atomic weapon. The American scientists had followed such a difficult path. Had Zen and his team been in the US at that time, they could have taken Los Alamos in vastly different directions. But the youths had already been appropriated into the Republic of the Soviet Union when Germany surrendered at the end World War II.
At that time, it was the Russian government which had taken great interest in the group of Jewish wunderkinds, rescued from an obscure Nazi facility. But international politics—coupled with a cold war heating up—brought an opportunity the Soviet Union could not pass up. It was a mistake they would one day regret with the greatest of vehemence.
Soviet agents being held by the United States were traded for a rumored group of adolescent prodigies whose existence had been previously denied, obviously. It seemed that the Americans had done some sniffing of their own, just enough to catch wind of the obscure young group; and they wanted them, and could make such a demand—their hand being favored in this particular game of espionage. So the hand was dealt, and providence played out beautifully. Neither side having any comprehension of the real value in the trade.
Zen’s entry into the United States, along with his four companions, had come as a welcomed surprise. The youths would get a new home with opportunities never before imagined, a field of technology ripe for the picking. And Uncle Sam? What was his part of the deal? If these four adolescents proved to be the brainy virtuosos Russia purported them to be, the United States stood to leap forward in a range of technologies, especially in the fields of quantum and nuclear physics.
When the youths first arrived in their new country, Zen had been the focal-point of the group, the most tempting fruit in the basket. Because he was the oldest, and therefore seen as the leader, he would be the liaison through which the officials would work. But in truth, Jacob, the youngest of the five—the one who did not age—he was the real prize. This fact, however, was wisely concealed. The youths dared not reveal their true capabilities. Especially that of their youngest companion. At least not yet.
Zen and his team had stepped into their new world eagerly. They wanted to be accepted. They wanted to be loved. Each one of them wanted nothing more than to help the other scientists see the flaws in their formula’s, the faults in their processes and the inadequacies of their equipment. But things rarely turn out the way one expects, and usually, the outcome is on the side of disappointment.
It didn’t take long for Zen and his team to realize that these American scientists—those they so wanted to help—only understood how to leash and lead . . . not learn.
Zen squinted up at the blazing sun overhead. He took off his hat and wiped his face with his handkerchief. His boots had been issued to him via army supplies and they were not a good fit. His feet hurt him and he was getting tired. He looked at his watch: nearly 2:00 P.M. The army chopper would rendezvous in just three more hours.
It had taken weeks of persuasion—and the authorization of three-tiers up the hierarchy of command—before Zen had finally gotten the approval for his land survey, his walk about, as Captain Hensey had mockingly called it. And the final permission had come only because top-brass were convinced that whatever Zen Reitman was looking for, had to somehow be connected to the engineering of their precious bomb. The reasoning Zen had given them was bogus, of course, but it had sounded good at the time and worked, surprisingly. But oh how complete and finished was Zen Reitman with their fixation—this marriage of weaponry and energy. Why couldn’t they understand that in time, all the world would be drawn into their nuclear game? A game which would end in the extermination of all life on earth. The tragic piece to this mounting puzzle was that there were alternatives.
This nuclear creature could be tamed and leashed to serve humankind in ways that had not yet been imagined. It would take time and resources, yes. Most of all, it would take a government’s desire to disseminate knowledge rather than suppress and hoard it.
The tiny atom could be made to relinquish its endless secrets. Spawned in the dawn of time—a marvel, the building-blocks of galaxies, solar systems and all creations therein. Energy was a mere s
uperficial nothing compared to the absolute immensity of the God-crafted particles.
Zen and his young group understood this, yet were completely alienated in their brilliance, their vision. No other mind could gasp nor comprehend the true nature of particle manipulation—just one of the group’s many masteries. Why would no one else listen to them? Why couldn’t these people see the obvious? Of all the great minds which surrounded and smothered them, none could understand beyond the elementary. Theirs was a provincial vision, a drop of water in an infinite ocean of possibilities. Always for destruction! Zen growled to himself. Never to create or ameliorate the needs of others!
At Los Alamos, he had begged an audience with the few men who could sue for change and make a difference; but all his efforts had proved futile. His work was genius, yet avant-garde—too avant-garde, some had claimed. Brilliant and profound alternatives for the use of the atom and its surreptitious characteristics. But all the secrets and all the magic of a vast universe would not sway the hand of the ignorant—men who’s minds were set in stone, chiseled long before change was ever an option.
Zen’s hands had been tightly bound and the strings attached to his every move before he and his companions had arrived at the Los Alamos Laboratory. He soon found that politics could hurl more power than armies. And in a very personal way, the political blade had been brandished at his own throat.
There had been a tacit threat. Extortion had trickled down from somewhere high in the ranks of the government—those holding the purse strings of Los Alamos, no doubt—and had pooled in a powerful coercion against his precious group, the Five, as they were now called. Zen would not risk any unpleasantness to his beloved companions. And so he had quietly submitted to the Dugway Base transfer without hesitation, knowing deep down inside that something foul had touched him and his companions and left its ugly mark.
Ruthanne was the bureau’s true leverage. The military knew that they had Zen’s full complicity as long as his sister was safe and well attended at Los Alamos. The absurdity of it all was that Ruthanne loved it there, as did the others. They had no reason to feel otherwise. Zen had kept the truth of his transfer to himself, opting to play out the game of cat and mouse on his own . . . for now.
The rest of the Five trusted this new government; this family of providers. And why wouldn’t they? They had all gone through a great deal since the end of the war. The United States government had paid a tremendous price for their citizenship from the USSR. And especially in that first year, they had all been treated like rare treasures. In fact, Zen had to admit that amid all the lies and deceit, there was one grateful caveat credited to this foster government—and it was a profound one.
Shortly after their emancipation from the Nazi clinic, the children had been taken to Moscow. During the trip there, some of them had begun the initial stages of an intolerance to ultraviolet radiation—the very light to which they had been deprived in those dark and dank prison cells. Before the Russian doctors had realized what was happening, the twins, Mary and Morty had died tragically. It seemed that all of them, with the exception of Zen, had become highly toxic to sunlight—compliments of the Nazi experiments and injections. Zen had somehow escaped this anomalous plague.
When they arrived in the United States, the doctors were able to stabilize them, but there would be effects which could never be traced, nor explained. The children had been forced into a horrible realization: they would never again feel the warmth of daylight on their faces. And so from that day on, all precautions had been put into effect to keep the youths out of sunlight. All but Zen.
Yes, the Los Alamos doctors may have labored to save his sister and the others at that time, but since then, Zen had come to feel that big brother was more interested in preserving their precious talents, rather than their health. After all, there was still much knowledge to be sucked from him and his team. Zen would not only get his companions out of the business of dominance and destruction, but labor to halt and reverse it. The Five had already tipped the first domino. To their everlasting shame, they had let it fall. Now they had to stop it! Stop the precession and realign the stack. They were the architects, and as such, were the only ones capable of shutting things down. But Zen needed time. Just a little more time to put his plan into action. He needed to find a way to contact the others at Los Alamos, to reveal the truth to them, and stop their projects before it was too late. He would have them all suppress their true capabilities and hold back their potential . . . for now. Then, when the time was right, the Five would emerge, not as puppet scientists, but as a mighty and terrible force for restitution. They would work themselves to their graves to stop what they had so foolishly given: knowledge premature!
Zen gazed around and noticed for the first time that everything which surrounded him, all of which his eyes could view, was the same in all directions. He lifted his canteen and took a healthy gulp. Then, removing his hat, he poured some of the cool liquid over his thick hair. The blowing sand wasn’t an issue, but the salt? Now that caused some irritation. He washed the gritty powder from his face and eyes, then wiped it clean with a rag from his back pocket. He heaved his pack back on his shoulders and took another look around. He decided to make one more large circle before heading back to the rendezvous point. He had felt so strongly that he was in the right area. So sure that he would find something to substantiate the historical archive he had discovered in Salt Lake City.
Yes, perhaps the maps and charts of that time period, the early eighteen-hundreds, were not accurate. And yes, Utah hadn’t even been officially settled. And finally, yes, Zen had to admit he was risking a great deal on a near myth, a pioneer story. Yet it had been recorded . . . once. The account had to be more than speculation or fantasy. It had read so convincingly. Zen’s heart had raced with excitement when he first stumbled upon the archive.
It had been several months ago now. There had been a meeting in Salt Lake City. The list of attendees included politicians, military brass and several affluent magnates with business ties to military causes. Fortunately, it had been uneventful and brief. But Zen had been the protagonist and was displayed like a rare artifact. He had been coached in exactly what to say, and what not to. He had greeted, smiled, and introduced until he thought he was going to lose it. When social hour had finally ended, he had requested a short visit to the local library before returning to the base. Research, he had said. And in fact, he had spoken the truth. As luck would have it, his commanders had been asked to mingle a bit longer, kiss-up time, with the politicians.
Zen’s request was granted, but not without some tagalong soldier to keep an eye on him. Like he was going to get in trouble at a public library? No one even talks. So maybe he had been a bit overzealous when he first spied the large building across the street. Maybe jumped a little too high? Been a little too happy? But the truth was, he just loved libraries! He had memorized every book in the collection at Dugway Base and was desperate for more material.
As it happened, the Salt Lake City library had the very thing Zen was looking for in the form of an old historical archive—priceless information untouched for years. He had unintentionally come across the old manuscript in the Utah Historical Archives section. What were the odds of that?
It was a written affidavit which told of an incident involving a company of early Mormon pioneers. The fated group had evidently taken a shortcut off the old California-Oregon trail, something previous settlers had cautioned against. As feared, they became lost in a terrible sand-storm and ended up trudging across a portion of the desert salt flats.
In the account, a self-claimed survivor from the ill-fated wagon train had sworn on his death bed that his entire company had vanished beneath the earth: wagons, supplies, horses, cattle and people—over a hundred of them—all gone in one great rumble; fallen into what he claimed was a massive underground cavern, monolithic in size and molded of pure salt rock.
The survivor was found days later, wondering aimlessly and half starved.
A notation at the bottom of the archive stated that because he was never able to locate the dreaded site of the tragedy, he was presumed mad. He eventually died, taking the odd tale with him. History would simply record that the doomed wagon train had become lost in a storm or killed by renegade Indians, but no sign of the company was ever seen or heard from again.
This strange account was all that Zen needed. He knew the formation of such chambers could, in theory, exist. It would take tens of thousands of years, but eventually Lake Bonneville—which at one time expanded her blue sheath over a vast portion of Utah, Nevada and Idaho—would evaporate, shrinking her boundaries until—without a natural outlet—all that would be left was the salt saturated lake known as Utah’s Great Salt Lake: a dead body of water so salt saturated that only a single, simple life form claims hold to it: brine, a tiny form of shrimp.
After discovering the record of the odd wagon-train mishap, Zen became obsessed with the history of the Great Salt Lake. He checked out volumes of books and spent days memorizing every detail of the lake’s geographical characteristics.
The catalysts for such a creation was indeed unique to that area. A bed of clay beneath an ultra-heavy layer of near liquid salt. The rise and fall of the lake, over time, would wash out huge sections in the clay portions of the basin, leaving the hard more rigid soil, stable and unchanged. During the dryer centuries, the extraction and evaporation of lake water would cause the salt left behind to layer, harden and crust, forming a solid layer of salt within the caverns. In time, the cycle would change, the wet season would cause the lake to rise, filling the caverns again with the salt laden liquid. The process would repeat itself until the salt cavern formations were complete. They would be left deep, thick-walled and hidden forever away beneath the dry lake bed.
Of Salt and Sand Page 10