“On-scene police investigators said something about antipersonnel mines,” said Taff. “The front hallway in Almeda’s townhouse was riddled with Teflon bearings.”
“Like a Claymore?”
Nathan was uncomfortably familiar with military weaponry, thanks to dozens of trips to the “office” with his dad. Sergeant Major Fisher loved to showcase the lethal tools of his trade when Nathan was a child, arranging to bring his young son to Camp Pendleton whenever possible to witness “the sheer joy of firepower.” He’d even bent the rules to put his son behind the standard service-issue weapons. The deafening blasts, sharp cracks, and deep percussions had scared the hell out of him then and, truth be told, still did today, but he never let it show. In fact, he excelled at marksmanship in the company of his father, continuing the deception that would eventually crush Sergeant Major Fisher.
Nathan never took to the joy of weapons and the glory of the Corps as his father had hoped. He talked the Marine Corps talk throughout high school and even joined the NROTC college program at UC Davis as a Marine option, but when it came to signing on the dotted line, Nathan surprised everyone except himself. He quit the program at the end of his sophomore year. That was one long-ass summer in Oceanside, with his dad barely speaking to him.
“Something like that,” said Taff. “Hey, I better give Susan a call and let her know I’m not going to make it to her eight o’clock. Block off time around eleven for me. Say, two hours? I wouldn’t be surprised if they bumped up the Critical Infrastructure Systems review timeline. Bureaucrats have to do something, so we might as well get ahead of them.”
“No problem. I’ll see you on the inside,” said Nathan, disconnecting the call.
The car in front of him surged forward, giving Nathan a fleeting moment of hope. False alarm. The small red sedan shuddered to a stop, forcing him to plant his foot on the brake. Were they searching cars at the gate? What could be taking this long? He’d find out soon enough.
“Tune radio to NPR,” said Nathan.
“Tuning to KPBS-FM,” replied the car.
If anyone had figured it out by now, it would be KPBS. He was convinced that station reporters watched the facility 24-7, all year round. KPBS had been all over the Del Mar project, from start to finish, with a decidedly antinuclear slant.
Environmental concerns. Cost overrun fears. Property value impact. Fraudulent bidding processes. Every negative imaginable was exhaustively aired, leaving out one important aspect of the triad plant discussion—the fact that it endlessly produced three resources critical to California’s survival: fuel, electricity, and freshwater.
Nobody got excited about having a nuclear power plant in his or her backyard, but without the added nuclear sites, California stood little chance of surviving, as an independent economic zone or a full-fledged state of the union. People had lost sight of that, but Nathan lived this fragile reality day in and day out at his job. When you spent your entire day trying to squeeze a few more fractions of a percent out of the population’s wastewater just so they had enough to stay minimally hydrated, you gained an entirely new appreciation for the scope of the problem.
The car’s surround-sound speakers brought KPBS to life inside the car. Before Nathan could process what the voices said, he knew they were talking about the Del Mar plant. The audio had a wide-open outdoor quality, far from the studios.
“… Department of Energy just confirmed that the reactor powering the Del Mar Triad Station was taken offline earlier this morning, explaining early morning brownout reports from San Diego Gas and Electric customers. KPBS has requested detailed information from California’s Nuclear Commission and the California Department of Energy, along with plant officials. Just thirty-five days into the reactor’s life, the emergency shutdown represents a significant setback for the controversial plant, and California’s plan to open additional nuclear reactors …”
Nathan pressed the “Mute” button on his steering wheel. Maybe it was time to consider a more permanent trip out of town. He could take his magic water-making skills where they could make a real difference. A place trying to get ahead of the water crisis—or, even better, trying to prevent it. He’d bring it up with Keira later tonight and see where the conversation landed. At the very least, the discussion would soften the bad news that he couldn’t imagine any scenario leading to a sudden two-week vacation. Today and tonight were going to be miserable.
CHAPTER 14
A double-stacked, parabolic array of flat-screen televisions faced Mason Flagg and Nick Leeds inside the Point Loma operations center. When Leeds returned from his scouting trip to the beach rendezvous site, they started scanning dozens of major news channels between the two coasts, analyzing the impact of the Del Mar operation on the secessionist-fueled media frenzy surrounding Almeda’s assassination.
Initial coverage of the desalination plant’s reactor shutdown had managed to nudge the congresswoman’s murder out of the spotlight—in California. Throughout the rest of the country, where the state was viewed through more of a schadenfreudian lens, Almeda’s spectacular demise dominated news feeds and lead segments. Before the end of the day, national mainstream media pressure would bleed into California, pushing Del Mar aside even here.
They needed a murder on par with Almeda’s—one they could easily blame on the California Liberation Movement. One that might, given the right push from behind the scenes, cast doubt on the media’s initial suggestion that One Nation Coalition supporters were behind Almeda’s assassination.
Flagg finished a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and turned to Leeds, who was drifting asleep in his seat. He snapped his fingers. “You can take a beauty nap later.”
Leeds didn’t startle in his chair. He remained still, his eyes opening slowly to regard Flagg.
“Not enough?” asked Leeds, nodding at the news feeds.
“Unfortunately, trashing a nuclear reactor isn’t enough to grab people’s attention these days.”
“It’s hard to compete with a gun battle on the streets of Georgetown,” said Leeds. “Though I’m sure Olmos and his crew had some fun in the water last night.”
“Too much fun,” said Flagg. “They were nearly two hours behind schedule. I’m still not convinced the boats went unnoticed.”
“Our contact in the department is on it. Nothing called in, texted, or e-reported so far. She’ll comb through the investigative-branch records throughout the day looking for anything related to the incident.”
“These idiots like to walk on their beaches. I’d be surprised if nobody heard or saw the boats.”
Leeds stifled a laugh. “You really hate California, don’t you?”
Flagg stared at him, slowly shaking his head. “I’d nuke the place if that was on the menu.”
Leeds grinned. “Give it time and you might get your wish. We have some trigger-happy clients.”
“Don’t remind me,” muttered Flagg, pouring a glass of ice-cold water from a sweating glass pitcher.
He took a long drink and stared at the screens, his eyes darting between them.
“If anything pops up at county, I want to know about it instantly. If Olmos’s crew did the job right, the reactor shutdown will be attributed to the unusual, but not impossible, failure of a critical part in the seawater-cooling pump. If anyone saw the boats, we might have a problem,” said Flagg. “And get some rest. I have something in mind for tonight that will require your direct supervision.”
“Local?” asked Leeds, pushing up from the chair.
“Sacramento area,” said Flagg. “I think I know how to turn the media tide, and clean up a few loose ends in the process.”
PART II
CHAPTER 15
Nathan sensed movement and looked up from his computer screen. Robert Taff stood in the doorway, looking grim. He glanced at the time on his computer. It was 9:52 a.m. Odd.
“I’m finishing up an e-mail,” said Nathan. “I’ll be right there.”
“E-mail can wait,”
said Taff, holding the serious face. “I need you in Ortiz’s office immediately.”
Odd, indeed. He could count on one thumb the number of times he’d been summoned to the division director’s office before—and Taff never called Susan by her last name. This was either a promotion or a termination.
“What’s up?” asked Nathan, slowly standing.
“I’m not sure,” said Taff, betraying no sign of the friendliness or familiarity he’d oozed for the past six years.
Terminated. Or maybe Susan planned on giving him Taff’s job. Whatever it was had to be serious. Taff looked stiff, like someone was holding a gun to his head. Nathan reached for the keyboard to lock his workstation.
“Don’t worry about that,” Taff said tersely. “They’re waiting.”
“They?”
Instead of responding verbally, Taff raised a probing eyebrow.
“Okayyyy,” added Nathan, stepping through the door and heading toward Susan Ortiz’s office.
He arrived at her closed door ahead of Taff, and stepped aside. Avoiding eye contact with Nathan, his supervisor rapped on the door and opened it a sliver.
“It’s Robert Taff,” he said, pausing. “With Fisher.”
He was Fisher now? This couldn’t be good.
“Come in,” said Ortiz.
As soon as Nathan caught sight of the division’s lawyer, he knew the day was about to go even further sideways than he had suspected. When he saw the pair of suited police-detective types seated at Ortiz’s mini-conference table, he steeled himself for a day flipped entirely upside down. Next to them, Ortiz managed a purse-lipped smile from the head of the table.
His face suddenly felt warm, despite the near refrigerator-level atmosphere in the office. While his skin flashed from the sudden adrenaline rush, his brain ran through every possible scenario imaginable that might have landed the police in his path. Only one situation stood out: his trip to Del Mar. Damn it! He should have listened to Keira. The door closed, and he turned his head, unsurprised to find Taff gone. This all looked several levels above Taff’s pay grade.
“Mr. Fisher, please take a seat,” said Ortiz.
He nodded and did as he was told, scanning the two faces seated in front of him. They looked bored, which he suspected was quite the opposite of how they felt. The dark-haired detective on the right slid her badge holder forward, flipping it open.
“Supervisory Detective Anna Reeves, San Diego County Police Department,” she said, watching him impassively.
“Inspector John Ramirez,” said the angular-faced man seated next to her. “County Energy Commission.”
Nathan pretended to examine their credentials while Ortiz perfunctorily introduced Alan McDermott as the division’s chief counsel. He looked up from the badges, watching Ortiz’s face closely as she cast a nervous glance at the lawyer, leaving Nathan nagging doubts regarding the legitimacy of this meeting. He waited several moments before shrugging.
“I guess I’ll go first,” said Nathan. “How can I help the San Diego County PD?”
Detective Reeves forced a tight smile. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your travel habits, specifically your weekly trips to the beach in front of the San Dieguito River beach preserve. I believe you paid the coastline a visit this morning?”
He nodded hesitantly, unsure whether he should answer the question. Alan McDermott certainly wasn’t here to represent Nathan’s best interest. Ortiz was in full cover-the-county’s-ass mode.
“Is that a yes or no?” asked Reeves.
“Do I need legal representation?” asked Nathan. “No offense, Alan.”
“None taken,” said the lawyer. “I represent the Water Reclamation Authority. Though I’d be remiss if I didn’t suggest you only speak to these detectives in the presence of a retained attorney.”
Ortiz’s face twitched at his mention of retaining an attorney.
“We’re not there yet,” said Detective Reeves. “But by all means, we can continue this conversation downtown in the presence of your attorney—all morning and afternoon—or you can answer some simple questions for us now.”
The chief counsel raised his hands, palms out. “It’s your show, detective.”
Nathan wasn’t sure how to interpret McDermott’s last statement, but his warning rang true, along with the detective’s not-so-veiled threat. He had nothing to hide—well, that wasn’t exactly true. Nothing criminal to hide. A few violations of the California Resources Protection Act, for sure, but that didn’t concern the police, unless he made this harder for them than necessary. He’d heard the stories about “blanket warrant” searches related to state security matters, and there was little doubt that these investigators were digging around for a domestic-terrorism angle related to the Del Mar station. Why else would they question him?
He faced a difficult decision. Admitting why he visited the ocean in front of Ortiz could cost him his job, but it would also likely take him off the county’s list of terror suspects. If he lawyered up and played the role of aggrieved civil libertarian, the police would undoubtedly search his house, sharing information about his supplies with the omnipresent California Resource investigators. Without fail, he’d receive the infamous one-week deportation packet, complete with a list of Realtors or investment groups ready to purchase his home—slightly below market value, of course.
Nathan decided to take a gamble.
“I’ll be glad to answer all of your questions,” he said. “But not in front of these two.” He nodded at Ortiz and McDermott. “I don’t see why they’re here, frankly.”
“Excuse me?” asked Ortiz, exaggerating a quizzical look.
Reeves turned to her. “Both you and Mr. McDermott are excused.”
“This is my office,” said Ortiz.
“And this is my investigation,” said Reeves. “Which I could expand to everyone in Mr. Fisher’s division. You know, just to be thorough. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be out of your way shortly. Or we can spend the entire day here.”
“This is bullshit, detective,” said Ortiz. “No way to treat a fellow county employee. We’re all on the same side.”
“Exactly, which is why I’m asking you politely to stop interfering in our business.”
“What?” asked Ortiz, shaking her head in disbelief. “Interfering? Alan?”
The lawyer shook his head quickly. “We’re not interfering, but why don’t we leave the police alone to conduct their business. Easier that way.”
“I’m worried about the liability,” said Ortiz, holding her seat.
“Don’t worry, Susan,” Nathan said, winking at her. “I won’t hold you responsible if the detectives beat me to a pulp after you leave the room.”
“That’s not what I was going to say, Mr. Fisher,” she said.
“You can call me Nathan,” he said. “Like you have for the past six years.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “I’m still your boss’s boss. We’ll talk about this later.”
“This isn’t a big deal,” said Nathan. “Trust me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Ortiz.
When the door shut behind them, Reeves leaned forward. “Tell us about your visits to the beach.”
“And don’t leave anything out,” said Inspector Ramirez.
“There’s really not much to it, honestly,” said Nathan. “I collect and desalinate seawater every week. Almost every week. I fill three five-gallon bottles and leave.”
The two investigators stared at him without changing facial expressions.
“I own a small desalinator,” said Nathan. “I like the beach in front of the San Dieguito preserve because it’s close and I can park in the lot without a permit. I occasionally go to Torrey Pines or La Jolla Shores Park, but those tend to be a little more crowded in the morning. I don’t like hauling bottles in front of people. I’ve had a few run-ins with local idiots.”
“That’s it?” asked Reeves.
“Sorry to disappoint yo
u, but I didn’t sabotage the seawater-cooling pump,” said Nathan.
“Who said anything about sabotage?” asked Ramirez.
Nathan held his breath. He’d temporarily forgotten about the stealth boats until Ramirez repeated the word sabotage, or so he’d thought. His subconscious clearly hadn’t discarded the memory. He went with the first train of thought available, hoping to avoid a telling pause.
“Why else would you be here? Neighborhood complaint?” asked Nathan. “The media pundits are already suggesting the possibility.”
“I’m no expert in filling up water bottles,” said Reeves, “but it would seem to me that you spent more time than necessary at the beach this morning.”
“I fell asleep in the tall grasses beyond the high-tide mark. I sometimes can’t resist taking a few minutes to stargaze and listen to the surf. I’d been up till midnight working on the desalinator,” said Nathan. “And drifted off for a few minutes.”
“Close to an hour,” said Ramirez. “The seawater-cooling pump failed exactly thirteen minutes after your departure.”
Nathan shook his head. Now that’s a shitty coincidence.
“Look. I’ve done the same thing pretty much every week, with little variation, for the past three years. I’m sure you’ve analyzed the patterns. I occasionally linger to enjoy a quiet moment at the beach. I’ve only fallen asleep a few times, once at Torrey Pines and the rest in Del Mar.”
Reeves glanced at Ramirez and nodded subtly, probably confirming Nathan’s information. The California Department of Energy investigator acknowledged her body language and leaned back in his seat, appearing to be satisfied with his story—for now.
“Did you see anyone or anything at the beach?” asked Reeves.
He felt instantly warm again, like he could break into a sweat. Should he mention the SUV? They already knew about the truck because of the county tracking system. Right? Why didn’t they mention it? Shit. The time between the question and his answer felt like an eternity.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 7