Ground Zero
By Kevin J. AndersonHarperEntertainment
Copyright © 1996 Kevin J. Anderson
All right reserved.ISBN: 9780061056772
Chapter One
Teller Nuclear Research Facility,Pleasanton, CaliforniaMonday, 4:03 P.M.
X Even through the thick windows of his laboratorybuilding, the old man could hear theantinuke protesters outside. Chanting, singing,shouting--always fighting against the future,trying to stall progress. It baffled him more thanit angered him. The slogans hadn't changed from decade todecade. He didn't think the radicals would ever learn.
He fingered the laminated badge dangling from his labcoat. The five-year-old picture, showing him with an awkwardexpression, was worse than a driver's license photo.The Badge Office didn't like to retake snapshots--but then,ID photos never really looked like the subject in question,anyway. At least not in the past five decades. Not since hisdays as a minor technician for the Manhattan Project. Inhalf a century his face had grown more gaunt, moreseamed, especially over the past few years. His steel-grayhair had turned an unhealthy yellowish-white, where ithadn't fallen out in patches. But his eyes remained brightand inquisitive, fascinated by the mysteries hidden indim corners of the universe.
The badge identified him as Emil Gregory. He wasn't likemany of his younger colleagues who insisted on propertitles: Dr. Emil Gregory, or Emil Gregory, Ph.D., or even EmilGregory, Project Director. He had spent too much time in laid-back New Mexico and California to worry about suchformalities. Only scientists whose jobs were in questionconcerned themselves with trivialities like that. Dr. Gregorywas at the end of a long and highly successful career. Hiscolleagues knew his name.
Since much of his work had been classified, he was notassured of a place in the history books. But he had certainlymade his place in history, whether or not anybody hadheard about it.
His former assistant and prize student, Miriel Bremen,knew about his research--but she had turned her back onhim. In fact, she was probably standing outside right now,waving her signs and chanting slogans with the other protesters. She had organized them all. Miriel had alwaysbeen good at organizing unruly groups of people.
Outside, three more Protective Services cars drove up foran uneasy showdown with the protesters who paced backand forth in front of the gate, blocking traffic. Uninformedsecurity guards emerged from the squad cars, slammingdoors. They stood with shoulders squared and tried to lookintimidating. But they couldn't really take action, since theprotesters had carefully remained within the law. In the backof one of the white official cars, a trained German shepherdbarked through the screen mesh of the window; it was adrug- and explosive-sniffing dog, not an attack animal, butits loud growls no doubt made the protesters nervous.
Dr. Gregory finally decided to ignore the distractionsoutside the lab building. Moving slowly and painfully in hisseventy-two-year-old body--whose warranty had recentlyrun out, he liked to say--he went back to his computer simulations.The protesters and guards could keep up theirantics for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, for allhe cared. He turned up his radio to cover the noise from outsideso he could concentrate, though he didn't have toworry about his calculations. The supercomputers actuallydid most of the work.
The portable boom box tucked among books and technicalpapers on his shelf had never succeeded in picking upmore than one station through the thick concrete walls,despite the jury-rigged antenna of chained paper clips hehad hooked to the metal window frame. The lone AMstation, thank goodness, played primarily Oldies, songshe associated with happier days. Right now, Simon andGarfunkel were singing about Mrs. Robinson, and Dr.Gregory sang along with them.
The color monitors on his four supercomputer workstationsdisplayed the progress of his simultaneous hydrocodesimulations. The computers chugged through numerousvirtual experiments in their integrated-circuit imaginations,sorting through billions of iterations without requiring himto throw a single switch or hook up a single generator.
But Dr. Gregory still insisted on wearing his lab coat; hedidn't feel like a real scientist without it. If he wore comfortablestreet clothes and simply pounded on computer keyboardsall day long, he might as well be an accountantinstead of a well-respected weapons researcher at one of thelargest nuclear-design laboratories in the country.
Off in a separate building on the fenced-in lab site, powerfulCray-III supercomputers crunched data for complexsimulations of a major upcoming nuclear test. They werestudying intricate nuclear hydrodynamic models--imaginaryatomic explosions--of the radical new warhead conceptto which he had devoted the last four years of hiscareer.
Bright Anvil.
Because of cost limitations and the on-again/off-againpolitical treaties regarding nuclear testing, these hydrodynamicsimulations were now the only way to study certainsecondary effects, to analyze shock-front formations and fallout patterns. Aboveground atomic detonations had beenbanned by international treaty since 1963 . . . but Dr. Gregoryand his superiors believed they could succeed with the Bright Anvil Project--if all conditions turned out right.
The Department of Energy was eager to see that all conditionsturned out right.
He moved to the next simulation screen, watching the dance of contours, pressure waves, temperature graphs on a nanosecond-by-nanosecond scale. Already he could see that it would be a lovely explosion.
Classified reports and memos littered his desk, buriedunder sheafs of printouts spewed from the laser printer heshared with the rest of his Bright Anvil team members downthe hall. His deputy project head, "Bear" Dooley, postedregular weather reports and satellite photos, circling the interesting areas with a red felt-tip marker. The most recentpicture showed a large circular depression gathered over the central Pacific, like spoiled milk swirling down a drain--elicitinga great deal of excitement from Dooley.
"Storm brewing!" the deputy had scrawled on a Post-itnote stuck to the satellite photo. "Our best candidate so far!"
Dr. Gregory had to agree with the assessment. But they couldn't proceed to the next step until he finished the finalround of simulations. Though the Bright Anvil device hadalready been assembled except for its fissile core, Gregoryeschewed lazy shortcuts. With such incredible power at one's fingertips, caution was the watchword.
He whistled along to "Georgie Girl" as his computers simulatedwaves of mass destruction.
Somebody honked a car horn outside, either in support of the protesters, or just annoyed and trying to get past them.Since he planned to stay late, those demonstrators--wearyand self-self-satisfied--would be long gone by the time Gregoryheaded for his own car.
It didn't matter to him how many extra hours heremained in the lab, since research was the only thing left of his real life. Even if he went home, he would probably workanyway, in his too-quiet and too-empty house, surroundedby photos of the old 1950s hydrogen bomb shots out in the islands or atomic blasts at the Nevada Test Site. He hadaccess to better computers in his lab, though, so he might aswell work through dinner. He had a sandwich in the refrigerator down the hall, but his appetite had been unpredictable for the past few months.
At one time, Miriel Bremen would have stayed workingwith him. She was a sharp and imaginative young physicistwho looked up to the older scientist with something likeawe. Miriel had a great deal of talent, a genuine feel for the calculations and secondary effects. Her dedication and ambition made her the perfect research partner. Unfortunately,she also had too much conscience, and doubtshad festered inside her.
Miriel Bremen herself was the spearhead behind the formationof the vehement new activist group, Stop NuclearMadness!, headquartered in Berkeley. She had abandonedher work at the research facility, spooked by certain incomprehensible aspects of the Bright Anvil warhead. Miriel hadlightweight, faintly greasy, like ash. He sniffed it, caught afaint, sour charcoal smell mostly faded by time.
For your part in the past--and the future.
Dr. Gregory frowned. He scornfully wondered if thiscould be some stunt by the protesters outside. In earlier actions, protesters had poured jars of animal blood on the ground in the front of the facility's security gates and plantedflowers alongside the entry roads.
Black ash must be somebody's newest idea--maybe evenMiriel's. He rolled his eyes and let out an "Oh brother!"sigh.
"You can't change the world by poking your heads in thesand," Dr. Gregory muttered, turning his gaze toward the window.
On the workstations, the redundant simulations nearedcompletion after eating up hours of supercomputer time,projecting a step-by-step analysis of one second in time, thetransient moment where a man-made device unleashed energies equivalent to the core of a sun.
So far, the computers agreed with his wildest expectations.
Though he himself was the project head, Dr. Gregoryfound parts of Bright Anvil inexplicable, based on baffling theoretical assumptions and producing aftereffects that wentagainst all his training and experience in physics. But the simulations worked, and he knew enough not to ask questionsof the sponsors who had presented him with the foundationsof this new concept to implement.
After a fifty-one-year-long career, Dr. Gregory found itrefreshing to find an entire portion of his chosen disciplinethat he could not explain. It opened up the wonder of sciencefor him all over again.
He tossed the black ash aside and went back to work.
Suddenly the overhead fluorescent lights flickered. Therewas an intense humming sound, as if a swarm of bees weretrapped in the thin glass tubes. He heard the snappingshriek of an electrical discharge, and the lights popped and died.
The radio on his desk gave out a brief squelch of static,right in the middle of "Hang on, Sloopy." Then it fell silent.
Dr. Gregory's failing muscles sent stabs of paint throughhis body as he whirled in despair to see his computer workstationsalso winking out. The computers were crashing.
"Awww, no!" he groaned. The systems should have hadinfallible backup power supplies to protect them duringnormal electrical outages. He had just lost literally billions ofsupercomputer iterations.
He pounded his gnarled fist on the desk, then leveredhimself to his feet and staggered over to the window, moving more quickly that his unsteady balance and commonsense allowed.
Reaching the glass, he glanced outside at the other buildingsin the complex. All the interior lights were still shiningin the adjacent wing of the research building. Very odd.
It looked as if his office had been specifically targeted for a power disruption.
With a sinking feeling, Dr. Gregory began to wonderabout sabotage from the protesters. Could Miriel have goneso far overboard? She would know how to cause such damage.Though her security clearance had been taken awayafter she quit her job and formed Stop Nuclear Madness!,perhaps she had managed to bluff her way inside, to interferewith the simulations only she could have known her old mentor would be running.
He didn't want to think her capable of such action . . . but he knew she would consider it, without qualms.
Dr. Gregory swatted at the insistent hissing, buzzing noisethat hovered about his ears, finally noticing it for the firsttime. With all the power suddenly smothered and machinesounds damped to nothingness, silence should have descendedupon his office.
But the whispers came instead.
With a growing sense of uneasiness that he forced himselfto ignore, Dr. Gregory went to the door, intending to shoutdown the hall for Bear Dooley or any of the other physicists.For some reason, the company of others seemed highlydesirable right now.
But he found the doorknob unbearably hot. Unnaturallyhot.
With a hiss, he yanked his hand away. He backed off, staringdown in shock more than pain at the bright blistersforming in the center of his palm.
Smoke began to curl around the solid security-lockeddoorknob, oozing out of the keyslot.
"Hey, what is this? Hello!" He flapped his burned hand to cool it. "Patty? Are you still out there?"
Contained within the concrete walls of his office, the windpicked up, crackling with electrical static. Papers, blew,curled up by a foul breath of heat. The glassine envelope of black powder spilled open, spraying dark ash into the air.
Untucking his shirt and using the tail to protect his handagainst the heat, he hurried back to the door again and reached for the knob. By now, though, it glowed red-hot, athrobbing scarlet that hurt his eyes.
"Patty, I need your help. Bear! Somebody!" His voicecracked, growing high-pitched with fear.
Like an elapsed-time simulation of sunrise, the light in the room grew brighter and brighter, seeming to emanate from the walls, a searing harsh glare.
Dr. Gregory backed toward the concrete blocks, holdingup his hands to shield his face from yet another aspect of physics he did not understand. The whispering voicesincreased in volume, rising to a crescendo of screams andaccusations climbing through the air itself.
Reaching a critical point.
An avalanche of heat and fire struck him, so intense that itknocked him into the wall. A billion, billion X rays broughtevery cell in his body to a boil. Then cam a burst of absolutelight, like the core of an atomic explosion.
And Dr. Gregory found himself standing alone at Ground Zero.
Continues...
Excerpted from Ground Zeroby Kevin J. Anderson Copyright © 1996 by Kevin J. Anderson. Excerpted by permission.
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