Chapter 16

A faint rush of electromagnetic waves carried the orders from a Soviet ground station on the Kamchatka Peninsula. On the hunter-killer satellite a switch popped shut, releasing the latent energy in a battery and generating a healthy blue spark elsewhere in the circuit. The spark jostled and heated the fragile molecules of a volatile material. The heated matter expanded violently, its force focused by a tough surrounding casing. A detonation wave raced outward in a fury that shot in a narrow arc into space.

A few hundred yards away, a sleek white cylinder decorated with a small red, white, and blue emblem floated with deadly grace. It was directly in the path of the onrushing explosion. Then the onslaught was full upon it, the pressure soaring ferociously, the outer wall crumpling, the shock wave engulfing everything within. With the shock came heat, heat which triggered circuits in the cylinder.

In a repeat of the pattern played out only instants before, switches tripper, power surged, tiny sparks crackled and carefully designed chemical explosives imploded upon a finely machined, slightly warm sphere of metal, violently squeezing it.

The shock from the first explosion arrived at the same instant. The sphere was warped; the focus of its compression altered. It existed for a brief moment, teetering on the edge of consummation. Each part of it fed neutrons into the others. Deep in the dense nuclei of its atoms, reactions were triggered splitting the nuclei apart, releasing vastly more energy than the penetrating neutrons possessed and more of the catalyzing neutrons as well.

Then the moment passed. The wracking shock and the partial release of nuclear energy amplified the distortions of the sphere. The chain reaction damped, and the sphere of radioactive metal dissolved into harmless shards. In a heartbeat, the cylinder was gone.

Nearby, another cylinder, larger, ungainly, stirred into menacing wakefulness. Ports slid open in its sides. It rotated and slurred. Taking aim. Awaiting instructions.

By shading his eyes from the midday sun, Isaacs could make out the town of Alamagordo as the military transport continued its descent towards Holloman Air Force Base. He glanced around at his companions. Pat Danielson and Alex Runyan whom they had picked up on a quick stop at Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque , and the two Agency men. Although the need was remote, they could provide security backup. The hollow feeling in his gut reflected his anticipation of the significance of this venture. They were headed for the source, the key to the myriad tangled events. He thought back to the simple anomalous seismic signal he had toyed with while on leave last March, over four months ago. His thoughts strayed to Runyan's voracious beast rifling through the earth and to the paranoiac escalation threatened by the note from Korolev.

Maybe not so paranoid. He played a game of role reversal he had often found useful. How would the President of the United States and his military and civilian advisers react to being informed that the Russians, deliberately or otherwise, had created a menace so hideous that it would eat away the substance of the earth? Even with the damage done, the urge to retaliate, fed by hatred and fear, would be strong, visceral. An image of a battered child who finally takes an axe to his tormentor slipped into his mind. He knew there were Americans who would argue that if the Russians had been the perpetrators, the time would have come to rid the world of them, before going on to face the ultimate menace. Could this development be the final straw for the Soviets, the one that pushed them over the brink in an attempt to eliminate their prime antagonist, despite the consequences? And role reversal, hell, he thought. How will the President react when he's informed this evening that his own team has committed this inconceivable atrocity?

The reality was overwhelming. They had a few scant hours to find the keys to defuse the crisis. They needed incontrovertible proof that the incredible event had actually occurred, that a small black hole had been forged on the mountaintop forty miles away. They must discover how and why and then hope the President could use that evidence to convince the Russians that the affair was not an overt act against them. They would also look for any dim shred of evidence that what had been done could be undone.

Already there was a hitch, an aggravating note of uncertainty amplified by the tension surrounding their mission. Where in the hell was Krone? Their flurry of phone calls had only succeeded in contacting some administrative head at the lab. Isaacs had worried about a confrontation with Krone. He might bluster, cover up, delay them. Worse, he might destroy evidence. Isaacs had dissembled with the administrator, told him that they were an inspection team under the auspices of the executive branch. Only a small lie. It would be presidential business soon enough. In any case, Isaacs knew the power of the vague reference to the Oval Office and he had invoked it unashamedly; there was no time for more complex explanations.

Isaacs looked over once more at Danielson, her face in profile as she stared out the small window. She and Runyan had been in good spirits when they met. Was there something between them? Would they both be at top efficiency as matters reached their crux? Isaacs was not sure he should have succumbed to Runyan's pleadings to go to Arizona.'

For the second time in as many days, Alex Runyan had found himself catching a military plane on short notice and heading for a remote corner of the southwest. He and Danielson had taken a military flight for Kirtland and then had transferred to the plane Isaacs had commandeered out of Andrews. Isaacs had filled them in on the progress the Russians had made in duplicating their efforts which gave special urgency to their mission. That had suprised him, but the general chain of events was proceeding as he had foreseen.

Having convinced himself that a black hole was running rampant in the earth, Runyan had found a man-made origin more plausible than other preposterous possibilities. Still, a stunning technological feat was demanded, and he was keenly interested in discovering the details which this trip promised to reveal. His instinct told him that their only hope for salvation lay in fathoming the secrets of creation. Paul Krone. Runyan shook his head. He'd done it this time.

Runyan, too, glanced over at Pat Danielson. This trip promised no chance to renew the relationship started in the warm Arizona night. On the contrary, she seemed to be getting a little withdrawn. When they lay on the mattress, comfortable, chatting, she had confessed to having no close male relations for some time. Could she keep an affair casual, friendly, the way he wanted? Was she the type to suffer second thoughts if no permanent relation was in the offing? Now he'd have to watch his step.

Pat Danielson's mind was in a turmoil. On the noisy flight from Yuma she nearly forgot their mission, as she repeatedly thought of Runyan, budded into the hard utilitarian seat next to her. She relived their undressing in the moonlight that batted the tent, their tender precarious coupling on the narrow mattress, his successful, unhurried manner, the quiet conversation after, cramped cooperative attempts at sleep and his half-comical departure at dawn as the camp came to life.

Then in Albuquerque when they met up with Isaacs the enormity of the situation rushed back upon her. To all the fear and fascination she felt towards the object of their quest, now the burden of keeping the Russians at bay was added.

In Isaacs's presence, all business, she felt pangs of guilt for allowing her personal urges to come to the fore. With guilt came questions. Was it a one shot affair? Had he got what he wanted? Did he really care? He had spoken briefly of a wife and described, honestly it seemed, his estrangement. But was he honest? And even if he was, had he really said anything that implied a commitment to her, to Pat? The more she thought, the deeper became her guilt and embarrassment.

She looked out of her portside window now as the plane flew west, parallel to the main runway below. She made out a sprawling complex of runways, hangars, and military aircraft. That disappeared behind them until the plane went into a left bank which took them perpendicular to the runway, affording a clear view of the base and the Sacramento Mountains rising in the east. She thought she caught a glimpse of their ultimate destination on one of the far ridge tops. Again the plane banked for its final approach, and the only view was the desert plain and bounding mountains stretching endlessly to the north.

The aircraft bumped and twisted slightly in the mild cross-wind at landing. They taxied up to a hangar, the engines were cut, the hatch thrown open, and they scrambled out. They were met by a young lieutenant who banded Isaacs a message. Isaacs read it, crumpled the paper angrily in his fist and then hustled Runyan and Danielson aside. He spoke to them in an intense whisper.

'The Russians have moved already. They triggered one of the hunter-killers a half hour ago and took out our nuclear satellite that was on station with their laser.'

Danielson felt as if she had been shocked out of a state of half-trance.

'It didn't detonate? The nuke?'

'No,' Isaacs seethed. 'They took the chance and pulled it off cleanly. The laser is free to operate with impunity.'

'And what does that mean?' Runyan inquired, leaning over to catch Isaacs's words.

'It means,' Isaacs spat, 'that they can pick off all our early waffling and military communications satellites. We've evolved to the point where we are absolutely dependent on that technology. We'd be blind to a first striker

'I thought we had backups stored in high orbit.'

'Yes, but there's a good chance they could knock them off as they're brought down. Besides, if they go for a first strike, they could pull it off before we could adjust for our losses.'

'Would they go for a first strike, risk retaliation?'

Danielson asked, her eyes searching Isaacs's. 'Maybe they just want to assert their authority to have the laser up there.'

'Maybe. But now they have every reason to think we deliberately manufactured and released a black hole and then lied to them about it. A whole new level of escalation.'

'Escalation of what?' Runyan demanded. 'Surely they know we're as imperiled as they are.'

'The cool heads, yes. It's the hot ones I'm worried about,' Isaacs replied. 'Theirs and ours!'

'In any case we have no choice but to push on,' Danielson said. 'If they pause now to assess our reaction, we can get to the lab and back to the President so he has all the facts to negotiate with. If they choose the insane path, well, those mountains will be as good a place as any to be. She gestured to the slopes rising to the east.

Isaacs was pleased that her common sense, though grim, was asserting itself again.

'Okay, let's go.' He gave her upper arm a squeeze as he guided her towards the waiting helicopter. Runyan hurried forward to help her climb in. Danielson noticed him and paused. With her mind freshly cleared by the heightened air of crisis, she decided a show of independence would be healthy for both of them. She turned to the lieutenant who had delivered the message, smiled at him and offered her arm. The young man leapt quickly to her side and helped her to clamber in, leaving Runyan standing nonplussed on the tarmac. Isaacs watched this quick tableau and then climbed in himself, jaw muscles knotting as he clenched his 'teeth.

The flight up to the research complex headed by Paul Krone took only fifteen minutes. As they approached they could tell that Krone commanded a huge authority. There were six or seven large buildings linked by a maze of roadways. They landed on a pad in front of one of the buildings and were met by a small, jaunty man of about sixty. He wore a plain white shirt, green and white checked pants, and white patent leather shoes. The shirt was anchored at the neck with a large silver and turquoise string tie which clashed with his nineteenth hole outfit.

'Hello,' he bubbled. 'I'm Ralph Floyd, executive site manager here. We're so pleased to have you. We don't get attention from the top levels here very often.' Behind his facade he was troubled, sensing a threat to his conspiracy of silence over Paul Krone's attempted suicide. Who were these people with their peremptory visit, vague credentials?

Isaacs recognized the type. Quintessential bureaucrat, delighted with the sudden interest which this delegation purported to represent, but fearful because he didn't know exactly who they were or what they wanted. Isaacs eyed the man impatiently. An ominous image formed in his mind — the Russian laser gathering power for an imminent onslaught. He gritted his teeth and determined to play out the cover story until he could get a firmer feel of the situation. Where in the hell was Krone? Isaacs introduced the members of his party, and they followed Floyd into the nearby administration building. Floyd led them to his office and seated them. Just the right number of chairs had been brought in.

'Now, what can I do for you gentlemen — and lady,' Floyd corrected himself. Danielson returned his smile with a blank stare. The smile faded and he turned to Isaacs.

'This is very short notice but, of course, we are all at your disposal.'

'The President keeps tabs on all the crucial components in our research and development programme,' Isaac began, Muffing his way. 'He had heard good things about the work Dr Krone and all of you are doing here, and he wants to be brought more directly up to date.'

Floyd boomed possessively, but there was a wariness behind his smile.

'We understand this complex is autonomous,' Isaacs continued.

'Oh, yes,' said Floyd, 'our mandate comes from Los Alamos , and our budget from there and from Krone Industries, but we are self-contained and Dr Krone has a free hand to do as he wishes.' He leaned forward and assumed a frank look. 'Dr Krone is an authentic Genius, you know.'

Isaacs could hear the capital G, but something in Floyd's tone suggested that being a genius was not something proper folk did.

'He does need some help in practical matters,' Floyd continued with a self-effacing smile. 'I do what I can to make his job easier.'

'I'm sure,' replied Isaacs with an answering smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

'We were hoping to see Dr Krone.'

'Ah,' said Floyd, his face drooping mournfully,

'Dr Krone has not been well for some time. We have not seen him at all for a few months. But,' he brightened, 'all our programmes are proceeding actively.'

Isaacs divined that Floyd was in manager's heaven — all programmes routinely active and no boss to foul things up with new ideas, directions, and suggestions. Managing the affairs of a genius would be trying. He fixed on the time Floyd mentioned. A few months. What did Krone's absence imply? That was about as long as they had been tracking the black hole. Could that be coincidence?

'Is Krone available if necessary?' Isaacs persisted.

'Well, that would be difficult,' answered Floyd. 'He has a house up off the road a few miles back. A quite nice one actually, built with money from his patents, a product of his mind, he likes to say. He has always demanded his privacy there and has no phone. I'm afraid he's not in a condition to accept visitors personally.'

'May I ask what the problem is?'

Floyd was silent for a moment, then made a futile gesture with his hands.

'I've been led to understand it's nothing serious, that is to say, nothing organic. The stress, though — Dr Krone carries many responsibilities.'

Isaacs caught the implication — cracked up, occupational hazard for geniuses, not the kind of thing that happens to proper folk. Isaacs fought down a wave of despair. He could feel the mission slipping away, sabotaged, inconclusive, leaving them at the mercy of the deadly laser, on the precipice of war.