“The press, I note, has been very keen on Secretary Llewellyn’s announcements regarding energy policy,” Lal said. He wiped the remaining sauce from his plate of tiramisu.
“By the way,” he continued, “it was wonderful, once the emergency relocation protocol was ended in Washington, to learn that only three government officials had actually died during the emergency and that the others were merely sequestered.”
“Yes, it was something we just couldn’t announce during the emergency as it might have been important information to our enemies. Thank god it was only three, not counting Emerson, of course,” Slaider said.
The dining room door opened and the waiter handed General Slaider a sealed envelope. Turning to Ranjit Lal, he excused himself for reading the note. When he was finished, he indicated to the waiter that there would be no response. As quickly and silently as he arrived, the waiter was gone.
“It’s from General Stoner,” Slaider said. “The game is up. He has recognized the inevitable and surrendered. Paul Latimer has left the country. So, it’s over.”
Both men turned silently to their next course.
107
Philip Layland hated these late-night meetings. They were always unnecessary and melodramatic. Just meet in plain sight. The best place to hide is right under someone’s nose. But no, it had to be tonight and it had to be late tonight and it had to be in West-by-God-Virginia. What the hell was he doing in coal country? But, he conceded, if they had to choose a place in West Virginia, then the Charleston Town Center Marriott was a pretty good choice. He didn’t care much for West Virginia, but Charleston had a certain charm, and Yeager Airport was only a shuttle bus away.
When Layland stepped into the lobby of the hotel, he immediately spotted Fred Baxter, who was sitting on the sofa just to the left of the entrance. There were only a few other guests in the lobby. For a Wednesday evening, it was typically quiet. Baxter was engrossed in reading the newspaper when Layland walked up to him and sat down next to him. Baxter looked up to see who had entered what he considered his space and, expressionless, nodded his greeting to Layland.
“Have the others arrived?” Layland asked.
“Not yet. We’re the first,” he said.
Baxter looked nervous. His right foot was bouncing slightly and the ash tray on the table in front of the sofa had several crushed cigarette butts.
“Sandy is coming with Paxton. Their flight was delayed but they should be here soon,” Baxter explained.
“So, okay. What’s the story?” Layland asked, hating being out of the loop. They will never completely trust him, he realized.
“We’re going to need your help, Philip, but I think it best if Sandy explains it all to you.”
Sandy Campbell, Layland thought, was a rare breed. He was the exact opposite of Baxter, whose gaunt aspect made Layland feel that he might not survive the night. Even knowing this was Baxter’s typical appearance, it still alarmed him whenever he met with and looked at Baxter. On the other hand, Sandy Campbell alarmed him for other reasons. His name is so misdirecting, he thought. Sounds like the kid next door playing sandlot baseball with your kid. But in all his life, Layland had never met a person with the combined talents of a quick and elevated intelligence coupled with a trained and willing ability to inflict serious pain. The military chooses its black ops people well and then trains them well. The million-dollar killing machine. But a killing machine that speaks five languages fluently and has a Ph.D. in sociology. Just what is it the military thinks these guys are going to do when they muster out? Become perfect CEOs, of course, he thought.
The last time Layland had seen Sandy Campbell was when he and Paxton and Baxter met with him at his cabin in the mountains. Things have become a lot worse for their side since then. Funny, he thought. “Their” side. Whose side was he on? He wasn’t even sure if there were different sides, since Slaider’s real plans were a mystery to everyone.
“I’m going to the bar for a drink. Want to join me?” he asked Baxter.
“No. I better wait here so when they arrive we can get going quickly.”
“They can find us. How many places can we be this time of night?” Layland said.
“No, I better wait here.”
“Suit yourself,” Layland said, and then turned and walked to the grill. It was open until 11:00 p.m., so there was no rush. He had a little less than an hour left for a Dewars, neat. Or two.
After about twenty minutes, Campbell arrived with a man neither Layland nor Baxter knew. Campbell introduced him simply as “Sergio.” Senator Paxton was not with them. He elected to stay in Washington. There were too many things to manage for him to leave even for one night.
When they registered, Campbell asked them to change his room from a nonsmoking room to a smoking room.
“But the reservation request asks for a nonsmoking floor, sir,” the night clerk said.
“I know. I changed my mind and now I want a smoking room,” Campbell said.
“That will be on a different floor, floor seven, sir.”
“So much the better. Seven has always been my lucky number.”
The clerk quickly complied, and when he was done, handed Campbell his room card.
Baxter found Layland and they all went to Campbell’s room. After everyone had gathered, Campbell gestured to Sergio, who promptly left the room.
“Sergio is just for insurance that no one bothers us. He will wait outside the door until I need him.”
Layland instantly became fully alert. This was unusually cautious.
After Sergio closed the door behind him, Campbell began the meeting.
“As you know, Philip, we are getting our asses kicked everywhere, all the time. That’s showbiz. Okay, we can stand bad press and hostility to the moneyed elite. But what we can’t stand is watching the government put us out of business. And that is exactly what this fusion catastrophe is going to do if we don’t take some strong action to deal with the problem. We aren’t just going to walk away from our assets currently estimated at about a hundred trillion dollars—that’s with a capital T—without some kind of proportionate response.”
“Proportionate to a hundred trillion dollars? What’s proportionate to that?” Layland asked.
“A good point, Philip. Pardon my slip. Let me be more careful. Actually, let me be extremely careful in choosing my words. Let’s say we need to take effective, not proportionate, action. Things are happening too rapidly for us to continue watching from the sidelines hoping for some miraculous set of brakes. Now that Paul Latimer has fled the country and Congress has declared Alexander Llewellyn to be the duly sworn president of the United States, we need to get off the defensive and shift aggressively to the offensive. I have been authorized to initiate certain actions, some of which I can talk with you about tonight, Philip. Are you following me?” Campbell waited for Layland to respond. He expected a response. Baxter remained silent, letting Campbell control this meeting.
“Yes. Go on.”
“First, we are aware of the fuel problem for fusion energy and the hoax that we will have essentially an endless supply of fuel once the technical problems of producing controlled fusion have been worked out. I believe everyone involved in funding and executing the program for controlled nuclear fusion knew it was a hoax, that there was no unlimited supply of fuel so long as the limiting reactant was tritium. I think every president kept funding the work simply because it was prestigious on the world stage and kept a lot of good physicists employed. No one really expected the problem of containment to be solved. And indeed, it hasn’t been solved. The magnetic confinement route is still unsuccessful and the laser-fusion route has materials problems from the spray of neutrons produced.”
“Yes, we all know this now,” Philip interrupted. “What’s your point? What have you been authorized to do that involves me? And I can’t shoot straight, so don’t even think about it?”
“Philip, not to worry. I can shoot very straight. But that’s not why we n
eed your help. We want to begin an aggressive advertising campaign to debunk the whole basis for this program. That the almost century-old dream of unlimited energy is a dream and nothing more. That nothing has really changed because insurmountable problems still exist. Money is no object, obviously. And we want this campaign to start by next Wednesday. On TV, on the web, on billboards, in newspapers and magazines. I want saturation coverage and then we want our lobbyists to lobby the Congress not to waste money in further development of laser-fusion technology and in setting up meaningless new bureaucracies like the National Laser Fusion Laboratory. We need to cut this whole project off at the well. I want credible physicists who will explain why it cannot work. I want engineers to explain why it cannot be built or maintained. I want economists to explain why it will cost everyone more—not less money—to do what they do today. And I want you to run this effort. I’ve been authorized to offer you the position of major domo for the duration. Your former ties with AJC Fusion and your management skills make you the ideal candidate. You will have a one-hundred-million-dollar budget to start. You will need prime PR talent and prime advertising talent. You will need to get the best and get them quickly. Are there any questions?”
Layland let out a slow whistle as if steam was leaking out of him.
“When you say one hundred million dollars to start, what does ‘to start’ mean?”
“Just what you think it means. That there is more where that came from if you are getting positive results. If you are not getting positive results, we will be forced to give someone else the chance to do that. But I strongly recommend that you get positive results. This is not a talent search. There is no time really for a second plan, for a new scenario. These are the cards we are dealt and we have to play them. It would truly be in your best interests financially to achieve positive results. It would also be the healthy thing for you to do. This is not the major league, Philip. This is the league where giants dwell.”
Layland got the message. He wasn’t really being offered this position. It was a command performance and he needed to get it right. He spent the rest of the night until morning working with Baxter and Campbell on details of setting up such an operation, whom he would need immediately, and whom he would need down the line, what lobbyists he would be working with, how the effectiveness of his campaign would be measured, how he would access the money, whom he would report to, how big his personal staff would be. He also wanted to know to what extent he could engage Senator Paxton in this campaign. He was assured that Senator Paxton would cooperate in any way at any time that he was needed. He asked and was told how he would communicate with Senator Paxton.
When they were done, Layland was exhausted, and in spite of his inner cautions, thrilled by the challenge given him. In passing, as they prepared to leave the room to go their separate ways, Layland asked Campbell what his immediate plans were.
Campbell looked hard at Layland and then he said “I will be returning to Washington.”
108
Slaider was in civilian clothes as he entered the bus. His adjutant, Tommy Tomlinson, followed closely behind. Four young Chinese People’s Liberation Army escorts walked briskly on either side of Slaider and Tomlinson. They entered the bus, and the senior officer gave instructions to the driver before taking a seat in the rear. Slaider made himself comfortable in the small furniture arrangement in the middle of the bus. There were two sofas, one facing forward and one facing rearward, with a small coffee table between them. Slaider and his adjutant sat on the forward-facing sofa. His translator sat smiling on the opposite sofa facing him. He offered Slaider a drink.
“What have you got, Tsu?” Slaider asked.
“It is a pretty well-stocked bar, sir. Probably has whatever you want.” Chi Tsu had lived in Berkeley for ten years. His major was English Literature. He spoke both perfect formal English and perfect idiomatic English, primarily West Coast idioms. He was typically short, thin, well-groomed, wore contacts that hid his bookish nature that glasses would have revealed, had he never come to America. He was smart, dedicated, and focused on his assignmentthe American General Morgan Slaider. And he had a good sense of humor and knew when to use it. He understood being “on” and being “off.” When he was off, like so many of his Chinese colleagues, he knew how to party and enjoy himself. He rarely allowed himself to be off when he was home in the People’s Republic of China.
“Okay, Tsu. How about some Poire Williams with a couple of ice cubes.”
Tsu’s expression became agitated immediately. “General,” he started to say, but Slaider stopped him with a gesture.
“I’m only teasing you, Tsu. How about some single malt scotch, neat.”
Looking greatly relieved, Tsu smiled again at Slaider, “Yes, sir. Coming right up.”
“Care to join me?” Slaider asked Tsu.
“Another time, perhaps, General Slaider. How about you, Colonel Tomlinson?”
“The same for me as the general, thank you.”
“As you like. My pleasure.”
Before the bus departed, Colonel Zhang Shichu, the political officer assigned to him, arrived and boarded the bus. He quickly moved to General Slaider and Chi Tsu. Tsu introduced Zhang to Slaider, whereupon the two slipped easily into discussions about the coming events for the next several days.
The trip took a full three hours over better roads than Slaider expected, considering their distance from a big city. Finally, they reached the border of Sichuan Province. The bus arrived at a small air base inside the province. From there, Slaider’s party transferred to a military helicopter for the final leg to the Xichang Space Center, otherwise known as Base 27.
General Slaider and Colonel Tomlinson were met by an honor guard and escorted to the administrative center at the sprawling base. Quickly and efficiently, Slaider and Tomlinson were escorted through several layers of security, arriving at a heavily wood-paneled conference room. Upon entering the room, Slaider immediately recognized Prime Minister Chen Shaoqi. He quickly stood and extended his hand.
“It’s good to see you again,” Slaider said, quickly grabbing and pumping the premier’s hand warmly.
“And I am always delighted to see you, Morgan. Especially under these circumstances.”
109
The torch lights illuminated the missile. It was massiveat least twice the lifting capacity of anything in the US inventory of heavy-lifting rockets. When the gantries pulled away, leaving the rocket standing exposed, steam and vapor shrouding its base in an illuminated cloud, it seemed to Colonel Tomlinson that such a behemoth could never get off the ground. The size of the rocket against the few remaining technicians performing their final tasks near the launchpad provided a reference scale to the rocket’s size that, for Slaider, seemed more like an extreme act of nature than a product of human design.
When the engines fired, in spite of his distance from the launch pad, in spite of his confidence in the protection offered by the command and control center, and in spite of his certain knowledge that the Chinese engineers knew what they were doing, for an instant Slaider felt the thrill of doubt that so much power was really within the prerogative of man to control. This was nothing like the launches he had witnessed at the Kennedy Center and at Brandenburg. It was not just a question of magnitude, of scaling up. He understood “big” and “bigger.”
It was the mission itself that shook the earth, unprecedented in the history of humanity and unthinkable in the prior history of the two nations. Or perhaps it was the American astronauts on board, side-by-side with their Chinese partners.
On the same night, more than nine thousand miles away, President Llewellyn was witnessing a similar scene at Brandenburg Air Force Base, along with the Chief of Rocket Operations for the People’s Liberation Army. The US heavy-lifting capability was not as great as its Chinese counterpart’s, but it would suffice. During the next two weeks, three more launches would be made from each space-vehicle launching base.
110
&nb
sp; Senator Paxton had checked the People’s Poll on President Llewellyn’s performance after one month on the job. Llewellyn’s numbers were adequate, but worrisome considering the circumstances by which he acquired his job. They were worrisome enough to cause uncertainty in those who crave and depend on certainty. Tracking poll results on his handling of the fusion energy issue were beginning to drop. Llewellyn himself had chosen not to respond to recent accusations from spokesmen of the oil and coal industry. His silence stood in stark contrast to the pronouncements of the swell of critics attacking fusion energy as a fraud.
Layland’s efforts had hit the ground running. Scientists whom no one had heard of before were appearing on morning talk shows and network news specials explaining all about a concept the people vaguely remembered from their high school chemistry course: limiting reactants. Pundits were ablaze with indignation and accusations. The talking heads from both parties were firing salvos pro and con as to whether the whole fusion proposition had been a fraud from the beginning. Congress was promising investigations into the initial and continuing expenditures on the Tokamak device. Calls from all sides demanded to know what the government’s present investment in fusion energy was. And who knew what and when.
The Tokamak, everyone was quickly discovering, is a device that is intended to produce a magnetic field capable of confining a super hot stream of plasma, the fourth state of matter. They were learning that the word plasma that they were so familiar with when speaking of their telescreen device monitors also meant a gas so hot that a portion of the electrons had been ripped away from the gas molecules so that a large number of positive and negative ions were independently present, no longer forming whole atoms.
The idea behind the Tokamak is to get the plasma so hot that it can reach temperatures suitable for nuclear fusion without vaporizing the container. The problem was that no known material could withstand the temperatures needed to operate where ignition of a fusion reaction could occur. So, the holy grail of containers would be without walls. Since the plasma is essentially a flowing gaseous current of electrically charged particles that can be deflected by a magnetic field, a magnetic field would be designed to act as an invisible container. The invisible magnetic confinement field would keep the plasma from ever touching a solid surface. It would act in a way similar to magnetic levitation trains. The train doesn’t touch the ground because the magnetic field keeps it suspended, away from the friction caused by two surfaces rubbing against each other: in this case, the train and the ground.
On Deception Watch Page 46