For a moment, neither man spoke. Then, Price, his eyes flashing with excitement, said, “OK. One: money. The insurance companies have lots of money. Two: money could buy the kind of research needed to accurately predict earthquakes. Maybe the research is being done in secret. Three: evacuation is out, but they would want to save what they could. Four: the Pentagon is conducting a really weird exercise that they are playing down. They have to make it public because with all of the movement, there’d be a million questions anyway. What’s that all add up to?”
“Coincidence.”
Price stubbed out the cigarette and shook his head.
“No way,” he said. “No way. There’s something to this. I want you on it. Now.”
“Boss …”
“Don’t argue with me. I have a very strong feeling something’s up. Talk to some scientists, especially those involved in earthquake prediction. You did that piece two years ago. A lot of things have happened since. Maybe they’ve found an easier way to predict these things.”
Rusty Coleman stared at his boss for a moment and said, “You’ve got something. I know it! I can see it in your eyes!”
Price grunted. “Maybe. Just maybe. But I have to be sure, Rusty. I want you to find out.”
Seven
* * *
For the past few days, the weather had behaved as though Nevada was in the dog days of midsummer. A time when, on rare occasions, superheated air would rise into the sky. The space once occupied by the rising air would be claimed by cooler air dropping down. Then, it too would heat, expand and start its rise. The cycle would continue and intensify until the sand would begin to stir, carried along by the invisible currents, smashing into wood and metal, rubbing it raw. Six hours in this kind of storm would leave an automobile denuded, its steel shell devoid of paint, even primer, looking forlorn in the morning light, gray and dull and sick-looking.
But this was different. It was deep in the night. This particular sandstorm was caused by another kind of weather phenomenon. The jet stream, roaring along at two hundred miles an hour some six miles above the earth, was sucking lower levels of air along with it. Because of a rapid and unusual change in barometric pressure, it was pulling, like a magnet, vast quantities of air from the ground, causing the winds to howl through the canyons and sweep across the flats, the air filled with tiny bits of sand, making it opaque, blotting out the moon and the stars.
The Nevada Nuclear Test Range.
A place of foreboding. Where engineers and scientists tested the newest instruments of death and destruction in the never-ending quest to be the first with the most.
In one small laboratory inside a long, low building, the heavily tinted windows pitted from previous sandstorms, six men sat around a green metal table, examining blueprints and schematic diagrams.
It was three in the morning and they were all tired.
An hour ago, the discussions had become heated. Now, filled with frustration and close to exhaustion, the men were starting to vent their feelings on a personal level.
Insults were being hurled back and forth. Aspersions were being cast on character, sexual preferences, loyalty, trust, even appearances.
Four of the men were there because it was their job to be there. Two of the men were there because they’d been taken there against their will.
They were prisoners.
They’d committed no crime. They’d heard no charges leveled against them. They’d had no trials. Still, they were prisoners being forced to engage in something they would have been happy to do, if only they’d been asked.
That was the rub.
They hadn’t been asked. They’d been ordered to perform.
One of them still found it unacceptable. Instead of participating in the discussions, he’d remained mute, sitting stiffly in his chair, his arms crossed, his eyes aflame, the rage in evidence all over his long, bearded face.
Throughout the night, the others had asked questions of him which he refused to answer. They had pointed to the diagrams and cajoled, almost begged him to answer. Always, he’d refused. They’d turned away from him and carried on, as though he weren’t in the room until, sometime later, they would ask another question.
Finally, he spoke. “You bastards,” the dissident said. “You’ll never get away with this. Never! If you’ve gone this far, who the hell knows where it will end!”
The room was silent, save for the sound of the sand as it pummeled the outside walls of the room. After so many refusals, his decision to speak came as somewhat of a surprise. Five sets of eyes stared at him.
Finally, one of the men, the one from Washington, sensing that a breakthrough was at hand, said, “All right. That’s enough for the moment. We’re not getting anywhere this way. We’re all tired. Let’s all get some sleep. Things will look different in the morning.”
He pressed a button on the table. The door to the office opened, and three uniformed soldiers entered. Jason Shubert, the man from Washington, pointed to the two prisoners and said, “Get them some food and bed them down for the night.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the soldiers said. He reached down to grasp the arm of the bearded man.
The man jerked his arm free and said, “Keep your fucking hands off me, you sonofabitch!”
Shubert sighed and shook his head. “You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” he said.
“Really?” the prisoner said, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Difficult? Is that what you call it? Jesus Christ! You people are incredible! You really think you can get away with this. It amazes me. This is America, not some goddam dictatorship! Sooner or later, no matter what the hell happens to us, this will all come to light and you’ll spend the rest of your lives in prison. Hell, maybe they’ll shoot you.”
Shubert smiled and said, “Look … I understand how you feel. You’re pissed. But it’s only because you don’t see the problem. Your friend here is cooperating because he knows we’re right. Give it time — you’ll feel the same way.”
The bearded man looked into the eyes of the other prisoner, a short, overweight man in his forties. “Is that really how you feel, Vance?”
Vance Gifford shook his head and answered, “Tommy, I know how you feel. I don’t like it any more than you do, believe me. But the fact is, we’re running out of time. If this doesn’t come off, a lot of people are going to die. If I can help prevent that, I’ll do it. You should too. Every small piece of information heightens our chances of success. We need you, Tommy. We really do!”
Tommy Wilson hung his head in frustration. “You were against this,” he said, softly.
Vance sighed deeply and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Yes, I was. No question about it. But the decision has been made, Tommy. That’s the thing you have to face. Nothing you say or do will change that. All you have left is to help pull this off. It’s something you have to do.”
“How am I supposed to live with myself if I do that?”
The man from Washington said, “Tommy … Listen to me. During World War Two, my father was a bomber pilot. He took part in the Dresden raid. They fire-bombed that city for two days. Killed almost half a million innocent people. Innocent people! But it was something that had to be done.
“I’ve talked to him many times about that raid. Certainly, he feels bad about those who were killed, but he understands the reasons for the raid. He sleeps at night. Maybe the analogy isn’t such a hot one, but what I’m trying to explain to you is this: sometimes we’re forced by circumstances to do things that seem totally wrong at the time. We’re not given all of the facts because … well, that’s just the way things are sometimes.
“Right now, we’re faced with the task of saving the lives of millions of people. We’ve been told we can’t evacuate the city because there are just too many problems. Now, I may not agree with that, and I know you don’t. But it doesn’t matter what you and I think. Somebody else has already made that decision. I know you have trouble with that and I’m sorry. We’ve been al
l over that. We’ve beaten it into the ground. The fact is that the decision has been made. So we have to deal with what we can do. And what we can do is something that might prevent the quake.
“You’ve seen the test results. You know what we’re facing. If you don’t help us with this thing, you’ll never forgive yourself. If you’re any kind of a man at all, you’ll realize that by refusing to help us, you’re risking the chance that we might fail because of it. That one small contribution that you could have made might be the difference. You’ve been brought here against your will. That lets you off the hook. Why not do what you can to help us with this?”
Vance leaned forward and rested his hand on Tommy’s arm. “I’m cooperating,” he said, “for one reason and one reason only. It’s like the man says. There are millions of lives at stake here. Something has to be done. Right now, these assholes are the only game in town. It’s wrong, dead wrong, but it’s the way things are. If I don’t contribute to this effort, it will lessen the chances of success. That’s all I care about right now.”
Tommy shook his head. “This is crazy. I don’t care what you say. This is just crazy. By cooperating with these idiots, you’re giving credence to this whole insane operation. I don’t buy it. Not for a second. This isn’t the way it should be done and I’ll never be a part of it. You might as well take me out there and bury me now. Sure as hell, that’s what’s going to happen as soon as this is over.”
Shubert sighed and said, “Nobody’s going to get hurt. You’ve got my word on that.”
Tommy laughed out loud. “Your word! What the hell’s that worth. Zip! You people are so crazy, you’re liable to do anything. The moment we’re let go, the shit hits the fan and you know it. You can’t let that happen.” He turned to Vance and said, “Don’t you see that, Vance? Don’t you see what’s happening?”
Vance stood up and paced the floor for a moment. Then he turned to Tommy and said, “OK! So we both agree that Los Angeles should be evacuated. For reasons they think are sound, the powers that be have decided they can’t do that. All of the screaming and stamping of feet isn’t going to change that, dammit! Don’t you understand that? All that’s left is to try and stop it from happening. What happens to us is of little consequence.”
He took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets and added, “You’ve seen the plan. You know there’s a slim chance it could work. Can you really sit there and do nothing?”
Tommy looked at his friend and wanted to scream in pure frustration. It was a nightmare. Some horrible, impossible nightmare. Silently, he cursed his mother and father for having committed the act that conceived him. He cursed God for having allowed him to live through the ordeal of birth. He cursed the fates for steering him into his profession. And he cursed Vance Gifford for having discovered a way to predict earthquakes. Not knowing would have been infinitely better than this!
He thought about the package he’d sent to Ted Kowalczyk. Surely, by now Ted would have received it. Why hadn’t he done something?
Then again, he remembered cautioning against going to the press. Perhaps Ted had gone to his old employers, the FBI. Perhaps the FBI was in this up to their ears. Perhaps Ted was already stashed somewhere in a prison of his own.
Almost in tears, he turned to face Vance and very slowly nodded his head. “OK,” he said. “In the morning. I’ll work with you in the morning.”
Eight
* * *
Los Angeles Globe Executive Editor Sam Steele pushed his glasses up on his forehead and glared at Bill Price, sitting across the desk, smoking a cigarette. The two men were sitting in the glass-enclosed office of the executive editor, discussing Price’s latest wild idea.
It had been Steele who had been the moving force behind bringing Price to Los Angeles after Price had found himself out in the street for the fifth time. They had worked together once before. Worked well together, as a matter of fact. Sam knew that Price liked to shoot from the hip. He was fully aware of the fact that Price had embarrassed publishers of other newspapers by jumping the gun on a story that later had to be retracted. But, he was also cognizant of the fact that Price had also broken several hard-hitting stories that had covered the same publishers in all sorts of glory. It was the nature of the business that you were expected to be right all of the time.
Steele had managed to convince the apathetic owner of the Globe that Price would be an asset. He’d promised that he would ride herd on this man, exploit his talents and personally guarantee that no embarrassment would befall the newspaper. It had been quite a gamble. So far, it had paid off. The newspaper’s circulation was rising, the staff was relatively happy, and there’d been no increase in the number of legal actions taken against the newspaper.
“When are you gonna wise up and get off those things?” Steele snarled, referring to the cigarette in Price’s mouth.
Price ignored the question. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
Steele shrugged, ran a hand across his stomach and said, “I think you’re wasting your time. You’ve got Rusty on this when he could be doing something more important. I think you should forget the whole deal.”
Bill Price looked like he’d been stabbed in the heart. “You don’t see it?”
“What’s to see?” Steele said, his face taking on a pained expression. “You’ve got some guy you refuse to identify who says that an earthquake is coming. You say he works for the government, but you won’t say anything else because, to use your words, you think his life is in danger. Jesus Christ! How would he know an earthquake was coming anyway? Come on, Bill! Give me a break! You put two and two together and come up with nine.
“You’ve got two scientists who are prepared to state unequivocally that it’s possible to predict an earthquake. Great, except that’s old news. Those two managed to successfully predict one … repeat, one … earthquake a year ago. They tried to predict four others and they were dead wrong. They have very little credibility. There are a hundred other scientists who will say it’s all crap. So where does that leave you? Nowhere! And then there’s ‘Operation Move.’ You say it’s just a scam, but you can’t find anyone to support that contention.”
“It’ll come. There are others in the media who are curious about this thing.”
“Yes. But because they think it’s a waste of time and money, not because they think it’s a scam. Jesus! You’ve got nothing to go on worth a damn! You know that!”
Price groaned. “That’s why I want Darlene to pop the question,” he said. “I figure if she throws a curve at Murphy, they’ll get nervous. They’ll figure somebody leaked something. That might smoke ’em out. It’s worked before.”
Steele winced. Not from the statement, but from a spike of pain that shot through his midsection.
“What’s the matter?” Price asked.
Steele rubbed his stomach again. “I don’t know. Ever since I got up this morning, I’ve had a steady pain in my gut. Every once in awhile, it gives me a real shot. Maybe I’m getting an ulcer. Jesus! Working with you would give anybody an ulcer.”
Price grinned. “You only say that because you mean it. Ever had your appendix out?”
Steele shook his head.
“Maybe you better go to the hospital and check it out.”
Steele tried to shake it off. “No. It’s just something I ate, that’s all.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Now, as I was saying, I think you should …” He stopped in midsentence and grabbed his stomach. “Jesus,” he groaned, a look of surprise on his face, “this is really starting to hurt.”
Price reached over and grabbed the telephone. He punched some buttons and said, “Get some paramedics up here. Something’s wrong with Sam!”
Darlene Yu’s sleep was interrupted by a telephone call from Bill Price. It was three in the morning.
“Darlene?” he asked, “did I wake you?”
“Of course not,” she answered, some heat in her voice. “I’ve been sitting up in
bed waiting for your call. This makes two, I think.”
She heard him mumble something under his breath, and then, “Look, I’m sorry, but I keep getting new information. I want you to be prepared when you finally talk to those clowns at the Pentagon.”
“If you keep calling me, I won’t be able to stay awake once I finally get there.”
“OK. Last time. Murphy said he wouldn’t see you alone, right?”
“Right. He’s upset about all of the interest in this and he says he’ll see a group of us together and answer a few questions and that’s it.”
There was a pause and then, “You told me about three months ago that you wanted to come back to Los Angeles. That still true?”
She felt her heartbeat quicken. Los Angeles! God! It had been three years. Three years of listening to prepared statements read by boring, harried assistants to the undersecretary of whatever. Or long-winded speeches by politicians, each with that same stupid smile on the face, the glad hand, the phony friendliness.
She’d been lied to, propositioned at least a hundred times, promised exclusives that were anything but, and through it all, she’d felt she was just another media soldier, part of an army chasing the same tired stories.
Oh sure, she’d had her moments. There had been stories written under her byline that had found their way to the front page of the Globe, even some that had been reprinted in other newspapers. Had that not been the case, she’d have been yanked out of this prestigious office long ago.
But she hated it. The politicians, the bureaucrats, the lobbyists, and the city itself.
All of it.
Los Angeles was her home. A place that hummed from the pulse of a different heartbeat, with its Hispanic flavor, its craziness, its unpredictability. She loved Los Angeles. Compared to Washington, it was heaven.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “You know I’d love to come back. I told you that. I’ll even take less money.”
The Big One Page 8