Ground Zero

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Ryan Kamida sat up sharply. “Of course,” he said. “Enika Atoll. That’s where it will take place.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “How could it not take place there?” he practically shouted. With a sharp gesture Kamida knocked his salad plate sideways, hurling it off the table. It smashed on the floor of the greenhouse. The noise was thunderous, but he paid no attention to it. He turned and fixed his milky gaze on Miriel Bremen.

  “Our greatest nightmares are about to unfold,” he said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kamida Residence, Waikiki, Oahu

  Tuesday, 11:17 P.M.

  A blind man has no need for lights. Alone in his spacious house, Ryan Kamida sat in the darkened living room lit only by outside reflections from the moon shining over the placid ocean and a warm glow from the glassed-in fireplace behind him.

  As the evening chill deepened, he had started a fire, carefully stacking small sticks of cedar and pine, aromatic wood that made pleasant-smelling smoke as it burned. Kamida enjoyed the incense of the smoke, the velvet touch of radiating heat. He listened to the snapping and popping as the flames gnawed the wood. It sounded like…whispers.

  He opened the glass patio door so that the ocean breeze could drift in. In the distance he could hear the gentle pounding of the surf, the steady drone of traffic on the coast highway below. Tourists coming to Oahu from time zones all across the world never slept, but busied themselves constantly, sightseeing, shopping, eating.

  Kamida sank back in his chair, scarred hands gripping the rough-textured arms. Waiting. The cushions conformed themselves perfectly to his body. Year after year, the weight of his body had shaped them during this nightly ritual.

  The voices would come soon. He both dreaded and anticipated them. This time, though, the dread felt stronger, more ominous. The situation had changed, worsened. He knew it and so did the spirits. A chill swept down his spine, and he turned his head to the left toward the fireplace, feeling the heat spill on his cheek.

  Bright Anvil. Enika Atoll.

  Kamida was more distressed than Miriel Bremen could ever know. He showed it in a different way. Regardless of the circumstances, though, he could not be with her this evening. He had obligations—to the ghosts.

  The spectral voices demanded their share of his time, and he had no choice but to give it. He could not complain. Ryan Kamida was alive, and they were not.

  Outside, ocean waves continued to roll in, sounding like pebbles rolling in a steel drum.

  On a table next to his chair, close at hand, he kept his collection of tiny soapstone sculptures. He amused himself by picking the small objects up, using the sensitive ends of his fingers to explore the details of their carving. His hands were scarred but his mind was sharp. The intricate yet minuscule figures of dolphins, elephants, dragons, and ancient gods fascinated him.

  Heard through the open porch high up on the hillside, the soughing sound of waves became muted. Kamida sensed a static building in the room, a charge in the atmosphere. His hand tightened around the sculpture in his hands, an image of Pele, the female fire god from many Island mythologies.

  Then the voices buzzed in his ears, speaking his old, never-forgotten language. The phantoms were clustered all around him.

  Kamida had never seen the spectral images directly, though he visualized their distinct shadows in his mind, echoes transmitted by senses other than his fried optic nerves. He knew the spirits bore faces frozen in a shriek at the moment of nuclear conflagration as their every cell became an inferno. He couldn’t see the harsh white light that bathed his own face as the spectres swirled in front of him, filling his home with blazing, cold light.

  But the apparitions did not harm him. These spirits were not here to destroy. Not tonight. They had another purpose altogether; they had a use for Ryan Kamida, the sole survivor of his people.

  The faces separated from the glowing, swirling cloud one by one and floated in front of him, giving him their names, telling of who they had been, describing their lives’ triumphs and losses, their stolen dreams.

  His people’s lives had been cut short, but the phantasms had to relive every moment, force Kamida to witness it all. He remembered for them.

  Though Enika Atoll had never been heavily populated, the mass of demanding ghosts seemed never-ending as they forced him to think of their lives, their names, one by one…as they had done every night for the past forty years.

  Ryan Kamida sat in his chair, helpless, gripping the small figurine of Pele. He had no choice but to listen.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

  Wednesday, 10:09 A.M.

  Following a hunch, Mulder went to see Nancy Scheck’s “friend,” Brigadier General Matthew Bradoukis, in his Pentagon office.

  Mulder thought that he might have to talk fast to bluff his way into a brief meeting with the general, now that the man had had additional time to recover from his shock. Mulder frequently found that people avoided him because of his knack for asking constant, uncomfortable questions. This morning he suspected Bradoukis would be in a convenient meeting or otherwise occupied away from his desk.

  Surprisingly, though, the general’s administrative assistant spoke quickly into the intercom, then motioned for Mulder to make his way back to the large office Matthew Bradoukis called his own.

  The brigadier general stood from behind his desk and extended a beefy hand. His wide, swarthy face looked as if it had been drained of self-confidence—a quality few generals lacked. He squeezed his generous lips together as if to squash his nervousness.

  “I’ve been expecting you, Agent Mulder.” The general’s red-rimmed eyes gave him the appearance of not having slept well in recent nights.

  “Frankly, I was afraid you would refuse to see me, General,” Mulder said. “Some people don’t want me looking into certain aspects of this murder investigation.”

  “On the contrary.” Bradoukis sat back down and folded his hands together, staring at his wooden desktop before raising his eyes to meet Mulder’s gaze. “You might not believe this, but I’ve been looking forward to your arrival—you in particular. I was upset with you yesterday and your embarrassing questions, wondering what the hell an FBI guy was doing at Nancy’s house. But then I looked into your background with the Bureau. I’ve got my sources, and I’ve learned a bit about your reputation, read summaries of some of the cases you’ve investigated. I’ve even met your Assistant Director Skinner. He seems a good enough man. He speaks highly of you, though guardedly.”

  Mulder was surprised by the information. He and the assistant director had been at odds many times, because of Mulder’s insistence on exotic explanations that Skinner didn’t want to hear. Mulder couldn’t tell which side Skinner was on.

  “If you know my reputation, sir, then I’m doubly surprised that you agreed to see me,” Mulder said. “I’d have thought my track record would scare you off.”

  Bradoukis squeezed his hands together as if he wanted to pop all the knuckles simultaneously. His face took on a deeply serious expression. “Agent Mulder, we both know something highly unusual is going on here. I can’t say this in any official capacity—but I think your…willingness to accept certain things that others might find laughable could be a great advantage in this investigation.”

  That got Mulder’s attention. “Are you aware that there were two other bodies found, apparently killed by identical means? One was a weapons designer at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility. The other was an old rancher down at the White Sands Missile Range near the Trinity Test Site. The bodies were found in a condition very similar to Nancy Scheck’s.”

  The general pulled open a side drawer and removed a folder. He tossed it across the desk to Mulder. “And two more,” Bradoukis said, “two you don’t even know about. A pair of missileers at Vandenberg Air Force Base on the central coast of California.”

  Surprised, Mulder opened the file. Glossy photographs revealed the now-f
amiliar details of the hideously burned corpses. Mulder noted the control racks on the walls, the outdated buttons and oscilloscopes, the plastic knobs blackened and folded in on themselves in what appeared to be a cramped room somewhere, a sealed chamber that had contained the deadly blast.

  “Where was this taken?” he asked.

  “Deep underground in a buried Minuteman III missile control bunker. Those bunkers are the safest possible construction, which is why we place them so far below the surface where they can survive a nuclear attack. The bunker is hardened against a direct strike. Only those two men were down there. For security reasons no one else is allowed. We have complete records. The elevator was not used.”

  He tapped the gruesome pictures. “But still…something came in and obliterated them.”

  Leaving Mulder to stare at the photos, the general leaned back in his chair. “I know one of your operating theories in this investigation is that some new weapon under development at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility was triggered in Dr. Gregory’s lab, and that another such device went off at the White Sands Missile Range.

  “Such an explanation, however, fails to take into account these two young officers in the missile control bunker, or—” he stopped and swallowed as his voice caught, “or Nancy at her home.”

  Mulder thought to himself that Scully could probably come up with some far-fetched but scientifically plausible scenario to convince herself that there was still a rational explanation.

  General Bradoukis continued. “Believe me when I tell you this, Agent Mulder. I work at the highest levels of the Defense Department. I manage some of those invisible programs you mentioned yesterday. I can tell you with utter certainty that no weapon we are currently considering or have under development can do this.”

  “So it doesn’t have anything to do with Bright Anvil?” Mulder asked, fishing.

  “Not in the sense you mean,” the general answered, then took a deep breath. “Ah, would you like some coffee, Agent Mulder? I can have some sent right in. Perhaps a pastry?”

  But Mulder would not allow himself to be distracted. “What are you saying, ‘not in the sense you mean’?” he asked. “How are these events connected with Bright Anvil? Is there a spinoff of the weapons project?”

  The general sighed. “Nancy Scheck was in charge of the Department of Energy oversight on the entire Bright Anvil Project, and Dr. Gregory was the lead scientist. The test of the prototype device will be conducted on a small atoll in the Marshall Islands, sometime in the next few days.”

  Mulder nodded. He had surmised or known all of this information already.

  “The Marshall Islands,” Bradoukis repeated. “Bear that in mind, because it’s important.”

  “How so?” Mulder asked.

  “Immediately before those two missileers were killed,” the general said, his voice laden with import, “they had gone through a routine missile-targeting exercise. Since the U.S. and Russia are no longer enemies, we’re not allowed to aim our Minutemen toward them, not even for practice.” He shrugged. “Diplomatic constraints. For the exercises we choose random coordinates around the world.”

  “So how does that tie in?” Mulder said.

  The general jabbed a finger at him. “For that morning’s exercises, their missile was targeted toward a small atoll out in the Marshall Islands—the same atoll where the Bright Anvil test is scheduled.”

  Mulder stared at the general. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I leave that for you, Agent Mulder. You’re reputed to have an active imagination. But you may think of some possibilities I couldn’t suggest to my superiors because I’d be laughed out of my rank.”

  Mulder frowned, looking down at the gruesome photos again.

  “One other piece of information,” Bradoukis said. “The atoll—Enika Atoll—has a bit of history of its own. Another hydrogen bomb test took place there in the fifties—Sawtooth—though you won’t find it in any record book. It took place shortly after we went through such enormous efforts to clear those islanders off Bikini Atoll. In this instance, the scientists and the military were in a hurry, and the island wasn’t as thoroughly checked as it should have been. There is some evidence that an entire group of indigenous islanders was obliterated.”

  “My God,” Mulder whispered. Sick horror prevented him from saying anything else. The general waited, and finally Mulder said, “And you think this…this tragedy on the atoll forty years ago has something to do with these unexplained deaths today?”

  Suddenly he remembered the results of Scully’s analysis on the residue in the vial found in Scheck’s swimming pool. Human ash, four decades old, and grainy sand. Coral sand.

  The general unfolded his hands again and stared at his fingernails. “I suggested no such thing, Agent Mulder. You are, of course, free to think what you choose.”

  Mulder closed the folder and tucked the photographs into his briefcase before the general could take them back. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked. “Do you want to make sure someone is caught for Nancy Scheck’s death?”

  Bradoukis looked deeply saddened. “That is part of it,” he said, “but also, I fear for my own safety.”

  “Your safety? Why?”

  “Nancy was the DOE liaison for the Bright Anvil Project. I am the Department of Defense liaison. I’m afraid I might be next on the list. I’m trying to hide—I’ve been staying in a different hotel every night. I haven’t been home in days. Though I doubt such measures will do any good against a force that can swoop down through bedrock and attack two soldiers in an underground missile control bunker.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions on how we might stop this…thing?” Mulder asked.

  The general flushed again. “Bright Anvil itself seems to be the link. Whatever has been awakened, or at least triggered into violent action, came about because of this impending test. There’s no telling how long the force has been around, but it became active only recently.”

  Mulder jumped in. “Then whatever is going to happen, whatever event these killings are building toward, will probably occur out in the Marshall Islands. That’s the only place we can be sure of.” He plunged ahead without thinking. “General, my partner and I need to be there. I need to be at the site to see what’s happening.”

  “Very well,” Bradoukis said, “my feeling is that these attacks could be attempts to prevent the test from occurring, with some of these other murders perhaps being incidental…or it might be the force, whatever it is, lashing out at other targets and then returning its focus toward the main goal. Since the Bright Anvil test is already in place, I believe that is where the next strike will occur. But I’m taking no chances that it won’t come after me as a loose end.”

  “If Bright Anvil is such a highly classified test,” Mulder said, “how will my partner and I get out there?”

  The general stood up. “I’ll make a few phone calls. I’ll even call Assistant Director Skinner, if need be. Just be ready to get on a plane. We don’t have any time to lose.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mulder’s Apartment, Alexandria, Virginia

  Wednesday, 6:04 P.M.

  With a suitcase lying open on his bed, Mulder dashed back and forth, packing everything he would need for a vacation in the Pacific islands.

  Because of the amount of traveling he did for the Bureau, he kept his toiletries already packed in a small dopp bag in the suitcase; all that remained was to throw in sufficient changes of clothes.

  Smiling, he carefully removed three garish Hawaiian floral shirts from his bottom drawer and placed them in the suitcase. “Never thought I’d be called on to wear these for business purposes,” he said.

  Then he packed a pair of swim trunks; he hadn’t had a chance for a long, strenuous swim down at the FBI Headquarters pool for more than two weeks, and he looked forward to the opportunity. Unless he exercised regularly, he couldn’t keep his body—or his mind—at peak performance.

  He stas
hed a battered paperback of an old Philip K. Dick novel he had been reading and a fresh bag of sunflower seeds in his luggage as well. It would be a long flight across country to the Alameda Naval Air Station, near San Francisco, where their transport plane would depart for Hawaii; then a smaller plane would take them out to Enika Atoll along with the rest of the Bright Anvil team.

  In his living room the television blared loud enough for him to hear. He had seen those old movies a dozen times already, but he simply couldn’t pass up the “Monster Madness Marathon” of black-and-white films from the fifties, each showing a giant lizard or insect or prehistoric beast that had somehow been awakened or mutated by ill-considered atomic tests. The movies were morality plays, chastising the hubris of science while celebrating the genius of the human spirit. Right now, giant ants had infested the cement-lined drainage canals of Los Angeles, much to the consternation of James Whitmore and James Arness.

  In his kitchenette several small white cartons of carry-out Chinese food sat on the table, flaps open, next to two paper plates. He’d already heaped one of the plates with steamed rice, kung-pao chicken, and dry-fried string beans with pork. As he packed, he shuttled back and forth between his suitcase, the television, and the kitchenette, grabbing a few bites to eat.

  With his mouth full of garlicky string beans, Mulder heard a sharp rap on his apartment door. “Mulder, it’s me.”

  He swallowed quickly before rushing to let his partner in. Dressed in professional, though comfortable, traveling clothes, Scully carried a bulging duffel bag. “I’m all packed. I’m even ten minutes early,” she said. “That gives you plenty of time to tell me what’s going on.”

  He gestured her inside. “I’ve arranged for two tickets to paradise. You and I are going off to the South Seas.”