Delgado was round-faced, chunky, with dark hair cropped close to the skull and a thick mustache. He glanced up briefly when the newcomers entered, then returned his gaze to the screen.
Stannard nodded, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Have a look at this,” Carlson said, indicating the window and walking toward it.
Jack and Lewis followed. The glass pane was several inches thick and glittered as the result of some glazing treatment.
“Behold the Medusa — and the shield,” Carlson said, a rich note of paternal pride shading his voice.
The window overlooked the interior of the blockhouse. From there it could be seen that the structure had a sunken floor that dropped ten feet below the ground floor. The Snake Pit, then, was an actual pit.
The hangarlike space was lit by strategically placed overhead floodlights and spotlights. They formed flowing cones and pillars of light in the dusky brown gloom of the space.
The basic principle was that of a firing range. The weapon was the laser cannon, Medusa. At the far end of the blockhouse lay the target, a shiny globe on a stand. It looked like a metallic lollipop.
The laser gun was closer to the control viewing module. The main body of the unit — the lasing chamber itself — was contained in a cylindrical housing as big as a school bus. It was bolted to the floor. Extending from its opposite end was a telescoping barrel mounted on a kind of ball-and-socket arrangement permitting it to go up, down, and sideways, allowing for a fair degree of mobility.
Bunches of power cables were bundled together and plugged into sockets in different parts of the housing. They looked like giant black anacondas looping and curving across the floor to batten headfirst on to the laser cannon. Snake Pit, indeed!
The target was a half globe six feet across, mounted on a vertically upright floor stand. The shiny metal hemisphere was hollow, concave. It faced and was aligned with the muzzle of the laser gun. An intricate motorized framework, remotely operated, allowed for large and small adjustments of movement in the target.
Midway between target and gun and placed to the left of both stood a cranelike construction the size of a steam shovel. Its squat boxy base was bolted to the floor.
Its jointed body terminated in a pair of pincerlike grippers; each claw was three feet long. Their inner faces were corrugated like the jaws of a giant pair of pliers. They held a massive slab of gray metal plate that could have been used to armor a battleship and held it aloft in mid-air.
Behind and to one side of the arm and slab was a steel-reinforced concrete block ten feet high, fifteen feet wide, and three feet thick. Block and slab were aligned on a tangent with the target stand.
“You understand the basic concept?” Carlson asked.
“I think so — although what you regard as basic is probably way over my head,” Jack said. “You’re trying to develop laser-resistant alloys, to harden satellites against being blinded or destroyed by enemy lasers — ground-based or space-based.”
Carlson nodded approvingly. “That’s pretty much it. Not so much laser-resistant alloys, though, as laser-reflective.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Resistance means durability. The metal absorbs the beam and resists heat. Reflectivity minimizes absorption and bounces the beam off it. So it doesn’t have to undergo the grueling punishment of exposure to the heat.
“Laser beams are shaped and guided by mirrors. Perseus binds a mirrorlike finish to the alloy to make a proper shield. The hero Perseus slew Medusa because he was armed by the gods with the Shield of Athena, a shield that was polished to mirror brightness. By looking into the mirrored shield, he was able to avoid Medusa’s destructive gaze and cut off her head.
“Our shield features a mirrorlike surfacing to the alloy to reflect the beam. That’s the actual Perseus process. Once it’s perfected, we’ll finish the exteriors of our satellites so they’re impervious to enemy lasers. The technique can also be adapted to the optics, the most sensitive and vulnerable part of a satellite.
“You’ll see it in action during the test. The laser beam will strike the shield. The shield reflects the beam. For our test, we’ve positioned the shield so that it reflects the beam at an angle, toward that metal slab. The slab is untreated by the Perseus method and absorbs the reflected beam and — well, you’ll see what happens.
“You’ll want to wear protective goggles for the viewing. There’s plenty of extra pairs in the room. An extra safety precaution. The window glass has been treated by the process to harden it against any stray bursts of laser light, but the goggles are an extra fail-safe. Strictly precautionary.”
“There’s no danger of the beam running wild and bouncing back at us?” Lewis asked, uneasy.
“Certainly not!” Carlson sounded slightly offended, as if someone had made an off-color remark. He went on, a bit stiffly. “The positioning of the beam is minutely calibrated and computer controlled. In the unlikely event of the beam going off-target — and the odds against such a freak happen-stance are astronomical — a fail-safe device instantly shuts down the laser.”
“Oh. That’s reassuring.”
Carlson glanced at the nearest monitor screen to check on the countdown. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some last minute details to go over. I’ll be back directly to join you for the viewing.”
Jack looked appropriately appreciative. “Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate your taking the time and trouble to explain the system to a layman like me. It helps me do my job better.”
Carlson brightened, hearty once more. “Then I’m doing my job. Now I really must run.” He exited into the control room. Jack and Orne Lewis stood at the window looking out into the Snake Pit.
“You laid it on a little bit thick at the end, Jack.”
“Just soothing his feelings after your crack about the laser running wild.”
They spoke low-voiced, so no one else could hear them.
“Those giant metal claws — that’s the robot arm that did for Freda Romberg?” Jack asked.
Lewis nodded, solemn-faced.
A few minutes later, Nordquist, Carlson, and Tennant filed into the viewing module. Already there were Stannard and Delgado, completing the Perseus Project’s key cadre.
Jack and Lewis stood off to one side at the window, away from the scientists. All in the room had donned protective goggles.
The firing was preprogrammed; the actual operation of the ignition was being handled by the technicians in the control room. Lewis nudged Jack in the side with his elbow. “Hey, we’re the only ones in here without a doctorate,” he said.
“Quiet for the countdown!” Nordquist snapped.
Firing time was at hand. Rhythmic pulsations vented from the laser chamber as it neared the peak of its charging cycle, creating a powerful vibrating buzz. The buzz rose to a higher pitch. Jack thought he could feel it rattling the fillings in his teeth.
Stannard remained seated, hunched over a monitor. “Give us the final count, Don,” Carlson said, voice booming to be heard over the power-up’s shrilling.
“Here it comes: “Five — four — three — two — one — LASER ON!”
Electronic shrieking was instantly supplanted by a low bass drone. The overhead lights in the pit flickered, dimming, deepening the target range gloom.
A spidery beam of red light formed an acute angle between the laser gun, the shield, and the gray metal slab. One instant it did not exist; the next it did.
The beam was thin but a rich ruby-red color, like fine old wine. It painted a line from the cannon muzzle to the center of the hollow hemisphere, and another from the half globe to the slab.
A few beats later, and—
The back of the slab began to glow a dull red. A small spot, a blemish no bigger than a man’s hand. Each successive eye blink found the red spot growing in size and brightening in color.
In less than sixty seconds the armor plate glowed red like the heart of a furnace. The slab sweated drops of molten metal. The
center of the red zone grew yellow, then white-hot. Its heart began flaking off, sputtering incandescence.
Now a thin red line connected the plate’s center to the concrete backing block. The reflected laser beam had burned through armor plate.
The red beam suddenly winked out. It was there — then it was gone.
A fist-sized hole smoked and sizzled in the center of the slab.
The Perseus-treated target half globe was intact, its scintillate sheen untarnished. The test firing was over.
“Results: good,” Nordquist said.
3:53 P.M. MDT
Lobby, Administrative Building,
Ironwood National Laboratory
Jack Bauer and Orne Lewis stood strategizing off to one side near the admin’s front entrance.
The demonstration had made a profound impression on Jack. “Looks like Nordquist and his team are on to something. The Perseus process could be a game changer in the next generation of advanced war weapons. It’s a secret that many would kill for, not once but often. Now I understand the high price in human lives that’s already been paid for it,” he said.
Lewis nodded, thoughtful. “You get used to the fantastic after you’ve been at the laboratory for a while. But this — this is big.”
Jack shook his head as if to clear it. “Let’s not lose sight of the basics. Despite the space war trappings, it’s the munitions makers’ age-old quest: one builds an artillery-proof armor plate, while the next builds a shell that can destroy that plate. Only instead of shells and plates, it’s laser beams and mirrored shields.
“Our business is the same way. Despite the total surveillance environment of Ironwood, we wind up asking questions and getting answers. Some of them may even be truthful. But which ones?”
Lewis was glum. “We made the rounds and it looks like a washout, Jack. Nordquist, Carlson, Tennant, Delgado, and Stannard — none of them had any recent contact with Peter Rhee.”
“So they say.”
“You don’t believe them?”
Jack thought it over. “I don’t believe or disbelieve any of them — yet. I wanted to question each of them separately before Rhee’s death was made public to get them on the record before they had a chance to think it over and get their stories straight. Catch them on the wing. Now they’ve made their denials. None had any recent contact with Rhee. That’s their story and they’re stuck with it.
“Next, we cross-check their statements against the badge scanners’ records of their movements in the building and against Rhee’s movements for the same time period. Against daily entries in his operational log and appointment books. McCoy’s OCI people can do the legwork of putting that information together.
“If the Perseus cadre’s statements hold up, we move on to something else, knowing that we’ve eliminated that possibility. If we find out that one or more of them lied, we question them more intensively and hammer at the soft parts of their story until they crack.”
“You know, Jack, if anyone has vital information, they might have a good reason for withholding it.”
“Such as?”
“Staying alive.”
“There’s that,” Jack conceded. “Rhee might have contacted one or more of them away from the laboratory in the outside world. We’ll want to get hold of his phone records and theirs.”
Lewis stroked his chin with the ball of his thumb. “That’ll take a certain amount of finesse. There’s privacy issues and legal technicalities involved.”
Jack was unmoved. “There always are. Six kills and the high stakes we’re playing for trump all legalities. You’ve been working here for years, Lewis. I’m sure you know what buttons to press to get these things done with a maximum of speed and a minimum of fuss.”
“Your confidence in my abilities is touching.”
Jack allowed himself a small smile. “Getting the same information on McCoy and Derr might be more of a challenge.”
Lewis was wary. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Ask McCoy for them.”
“Just ask him.”
“That’s right. It’s his duty to cooperate in every way with this investigation. In a matter as vital as this, there’s no such thing as a right to privacy. He’ll have to be an open book. Once he’s kicked in his own info, he’s sure to kick in on his deputy, Derr.”
Lewis took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “You suspect OCI?”
Jack wouldn’t be pinned down. “I don’t suspect them or not suspect them. It’s a matter of ruling out possibilities and winnowing out suspects.”
“Suppose McCoy doesn’t want to give?”
“Any initial reluctance is understandable, given human nature. Snoops don’t like to be snooped on. That’s what we are, professional snoops.”
“Agreed.”
Jack went on. “At first there’s sure to be some pushback. That’s only natural. If you have to lay down the law to make him comply, do so. If he still insists on withholding, that would send up a red flag. Then we zero in on him. One way or another, we will get that information. We’re not here to make friends.”
“That part of your mission is sure to be an unqualified success,” Lewis said. “You say ‘we’ but you mean me.”
“That’s a matter of professional courtesy. You know these people, I don’t. I figure it’d go easier coming from you than from me. Make me the villain, hang it all on me, say I’m putting the pressure on and you have to go along. Because it’s true. If you don’t have the stomach for it, I do.
“Take a look at what’s left of Peter Rhee and then tell me the niceties shouldn’t go out the window.”
“I’ll do it…I suppose you’ll be asking McCoy for the same information about me.”
Jack said nothing.
“There’s my answer,” Lewis said.
“McCoy will spill on you. That should incentivize you to dig up the dirt on him.”
A figure came hurrying out of the Science Section, angling across the lobby toward the entrance. Nordquist.
Jack drew Lewis’s attention to the scientist with a slight nod. They were off to one side of the great hall. Nordquist took no notice of them as he forged ahead.
The guards at the front station saw he was a badge holder; that’s where their interest ended. They went back to what they were doing. It wasn’t their job to track exiting badge holders.
Jack noted the gap in the total surveillance program: the guards check you coming but not going.
The scientist exited the building. Jack watched him go. “Nordquist was really moving — I wonder why?”
“Maybe someone offered him a hot deal on a slightly used death ray,” Lewis said.
They exchanged glances, then as one started off in Nordquist’s wake and followed him outside. Nordquist crossed the porticoed pavilion and descended the stone stairway.
Jack and Lewis paused at the pavilion’s edge at the top of the stairs. They stood beside a square-faced pillar, in the welcome shade.
A Cadillac Escalade stood idling at the foot of the stairs. A top-of-the-line model, it looked rich, expensive. It was a silver metallic job with a pearl finish and sparkling front grille and decorative trim. Inside it were two women.
The one in the front passenger seat was thirtyish. She had an auburn pageboy hairstyle and a clean, chiseled profile. She saw Nordquist approaching and raised a hand in friendly greeting. Nordquist nodded grimly at her and went around to the driver’s side of the vehicle.
The driver opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. She and Nordquist stood facing each other.
She was a tall, leggy platinum blond with a sensational figure. She wore a red blouse, skintight white jeans with a red belt, and red leather ankle boots with pointy toes and spiked heels. A white leather handbag dangled by loops from a forearm.
Her coiffure was elaborate yet artfully disarranged, its silvery tones contrasting with her deeply tanned skin. A pair of oversized sunglasses gave her face an insectlike appearance. Mantislike orbs.
High-heeled boots and masses of platinum hair piled high atop her head made her six inches taller than Nordquist.
“Fancy piece of machinery. An expensive toy,” Lewis said appreciatively. “So’s the car,” he added offhandedly, after a pause.
“Who’s the driver?” asked Jack.
“Sylvia Nordquist. The Mrs. Dr. Nordquist, that is.” Lewis’s gaze was intent, avid.
“Attractive woman,” Jack said.
“Gee, you think?” Lewis said sarcastically.
“No point in getting overheated about it.”
“You’re not human, Jack.”
“Who’s the other woman in the car?”
“That’s Carlson’s wife, Carrie. Like goes to like. The Assistant Director’s wife chums around with the Director’s wife. Nice lady, that Carrie Carlson. Good-looking, and is she built! As hot as Sylvia but a lot lower-maintenance.” Lewis smacked his lips.
“You could use some of that Perseus process yourself,” Jack said.
Lewis was only half listening. “How so?”
“You’re starting to burn.”
They were too far away to hear what the husband and wife were saying. Nordquist was doing most of the talking. Lecturing, it seemed like. Whatever his message, Sylvia seemed impervious to it. He might as well have been talking into the wind, except there was no wind. Her beautiful masklike face was impassive, except to make a remark or two when the other paused for breath.
“Spouses can access South Mesa?” Jack asked.
“If they have ID badges they can,” Lewis said. “A lot of them do, especially when their mates are as highly placed as Nordquist and Carlson.”
“That seems like a hole in the security net.”
“Security is the art of the possible, Jack. Make conditions too onerous for the personnel here and they’ll find jobs elsewhere, ones that pay better with less discomfort. Issuing visitors’ badges to spouses is a courtesy. It makes life easier for employees and their families. If one of them needs the car to go shopping or pick up the kids, they can drop their spouses off and pick them up after work as needed.
“But I’ll tell you this. Her husband may head Perseus, but I guarantee that not even Sylvia Nordquist could get past the guard station in the lobby. The badge gets them on Corona Drive and in the parking lots but not in the buildings.” As he spoke, Lewis’s gaze remained fastened on the woman, not looking away.
24 Declassified: Death Angel 2d-11 Page 8