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Full text of "The X-Files Novels
"
See other formats
DON'T MISS THE X-FILES MOVIE
COMING SOON TO THEATERS!
THE DoF La ES
Created by Chris Carter
DME YORK THES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
T KEVIN J. ANDERSON
DON'T MISS THE X-FILES MOVIE
COMING SOON TO THEATERS!
T HE Comte ss”
& HarperCollins e-books
THE Q)-FILES
GROUND
ZERO
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
Based on the characters created by
Chris Carter
To Katie Tyree
whose constant insistence and enthusiasm convinced me to watch The
X-Files in the first place—at which point, of course, I was hooked.
Without her encouragement, I never would have been able to do this
book.
Contents
One
Even through the thick windows of his
laboratory building, the...
1
Two
The security guard stepped out of a small prefab shack...
12
Three
The thick outfit made Mulder look like an astronaut. He...
24
Four
The safety technicians and radiation
specialists at the Teller Nuclear...
30
Five
A boring routine in a buried trash can that somebody...
35
Six
With his visitor’s badge firmly clipped to his collar, Mulder...
42
Seven
52
The key fit the lock, but Mulder knocked loudly anyway,...
Eight
Two days of maniacal asbestos-removal
construction—destruction, actually—had left a disconcerting...
60
Nine
Scully took the rental car and drove alone into Berkeley,...
66
Ten
Miriel Bremen led the way to a small
microbrewery and...
74
Eleven
From the Coronado shipyards the ocean
sprawled westward, stretching toward...
82
Twelve
As if playing a scene from an old John
Wayne...
90
Thirteen
Scully took her shift driving south from Albuquerque across the...
101
Fourteen
Before reaching the interstate on their trip back to Albuquerque.,...
108
Fifteen
Sitting at his impeccably neat and carefully arranged desk in...
116
Sixteen
After an uneventful weekend—for
once—Mulder drove back to the Teller...
120
Seventeen
Scully returned to the headquarters of the Berkeley antinuclear
protest...
127
Eighteen
Late afternoon in the Washington, D.C., area, hot and humid.
132
Nineteen
The body looked the same as the others, Mulder thought—severely...
139
Twenty
After so much time on the road, Scully found it...
146
Twenty-One
When Miriel Bremen went into the upper
floors of the...
154
Twenty-Two
A blind man has no need for lights. Alone in...
160
Twenty-Three
Following a hunch, Mulder went to see
Nancy Scheck’s “friend,”...
163
Twenty-Four
With a suitcase lying open on his bed,
Mulder dashed...
170
Twenty-Five
The atoll had recovered remarkably well in forty years. The...
175
Twenty-Six
Mulder and Scully arrived in the San
Francisco Bay Area,...
182
Twenty-Seven
Leaving Pearl Harbor behind on a perfect picture-postcard morning,
Scully,...
187
Twenty-Eight
The weather grew even rougher, tossing and batting the small...
193
Twenty-Nine
The pressure of the approaching storm felt like a psychological...
200
Thirty
Mulder looked up at the angry skies.
Wistfully, he thought...
208
Thirty-One
In the full darkness of early night, the roiling ocean...
216
Thirty-Two
As Scully looked on, the security officer used a jingling...
222
Thirty-Three
Scully had just returned to her own cabin for a...
229
Thirty-Four
As howling darkness engulfed the island, Scully and the others...
243
Thirty-Five
Mulder watched Bear Dooley stride over to the countdown clock...
247
Thirty-Six
Captain Robert Ives didn’t know how he
could possibly remain...
254
Thirty-Seven
In the sudden black chaos following the power outage in...
259
Thirty-Eight
“Don’t just stand there,” Bear Dooley
squawked. “Get that damn...
263
Thirty-Nine
The storm spoke to him in its
power—dreadful voices against...
269
Forty
Facing into the storm, it was Mulder’s turn to keep...
272
Forty-One
Mulder’s watch had stopped, but he
suspected it had more...
278
Forty-Two
The FBI Headquarters building in
Washington, D.C., was a concrete-and283
glass...
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Other Books in the X-Files Series
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
Teller Nuclear Research Facility,
Pleasanton, California
Monday, 4:03 P.M.
Even through the thick windows of his laboratory building, the old
man could hear the antinuke protesters outside. Chanting, singing,
shouting—always fighting against the future, trying to stall progress.
It baffled him more than it angered him. The slogans hadn’t changed
from decade to decade. He didn’t think the radicals would ever learn.
He fingered the laminated badge dangling from his lab coat. The five-
year-old picture, showing him with an awkward expression, 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 his days as a minor
technician for the Manhattan Project. In half a century his face had
grown more gaunt, more seamed, especially over 1
THE X-FILES
the past few years. His steel-gray hair had turned an unhealthy
yellowish-white, where it hadn’t fallen out in patches. But his eyes
remained bright and inquisitive, fascinated by the mysteries hidden in
dim corners of the universe. The badge identified him as Emil
Gregory. He wasn’t like many of his younger colleagues who insisted
on proper titles: Dr. Emil Gregory, or Emil Gregory, Ph.D., or even
Emil Gregory, Project Director. He had spent too much time in laid-
back New Mexico and California to worry about such formalities. Only
scientists whose jobs were in question concerned themselves with
trivialities like that. Dr. Gregory was at the end of a long and highly
successful career. His colleagues knew his name.
Since much of his work had been classified, he was not assured of a
place in the history books. But he had certainly made his place in
history, whether or not anybody had heard about it.
His former assistant and prize student, Miriel Bremen, knew about his
research—but she had turned her back on him. 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 always been good at organizing unruly groups of people.
Outside, three more Protective Services cars drove up for an uneasy
showdown with the protesters who paced back and forth in front of
the gate, blocking traffic. Uniformed security guards emerged from the
squad cars, slamming doors. They stood with shoulders squared and
tried to look intimidating. But they couldn’t really take action, since
the protesters had carefully remained within the law. In the back of
one of the white official cars, a trained German shepherd barked
through the screen mesh of the window; it was a drug-and
2
GROUND ZERO
explosive-sniffing dog, not an attack animal, but its loud growls no
doubt made the protesters nervous. Dr. Gregory finally decided to
ignore the distractions outside the lab building. Moving slowly and
painfully in his seventy-two-year-old body—whose warranty had
recently run out, he liked to say—he went back to his computer
simulations. The protesters and guards could keep up their antics for
the rest of the afternoon and into the night, for all he cared. He turned
up his radio to cover the noise from outside so he could concentrate,
though he didn’t have to worry about his calculations. The
supercomputers actually did most of the work.
The portable boom box tucked among books and technical papers on
his shelf had never succeeded in picking up more than one station
through the thick concrete walls, despite the jury-rigged antenna of
chained paper clips he had hooked to the metal window frame. The
lone AM station, thank goodness, played primarily Oldies, songs he
associated with happier days. Right now, Simon and Garfunkel were
singing about Mrs. Robinson, and Dr. Gregory sang along with them.
The color monitors on his four supercomputer work-stations displayed
the progress of his simultaneous hydro-code simulations. The
computers chugged through numerous virtual experiments in their
integrated-circuit imaginations, sorting through billions of iterations
without requiring him to throw a single switch or hook up a single
generator. But Dr. Gregory still insisted on wearing his lab coat; he
didn’t feel like a real scientist without it. If he wore comfortable street
clothes and simply pounded on computer keyboards all day long, he
might as well be an accountant instead of a well-respected weapons
researcher at one of the largest nuclear-design laboratories in the
country. 3
THE X-FILES
Off in a separate building on the fenced-in lab site, powerful Cray-III
supercomputers crunched data for complex simulations of a major
upcoming nuclear test. They were studying intricate nuclear
hydrodynamic models—imaginary atomic explosions—of the radical
new warhead concept to which he had devoted the last four years of
his career. Bright Anvil.
Because of cost limitations and the on-again/off-again political treaties
regarding nuclear testing, these hydrodynamic simulations were now
the only way to study certain secondary effects, to analyze shock-front
formations and fallout patterns. Aboveground atomic detonations had
been banned by international treaty since 1963...but Dr. Gregory and
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 conditions turned 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, buried under sheafs of
printouts spewed from the laser printer he shared with the rest of his
Bright Anvil team members down the hall. His deputy project head,
“Bear” Dooley, posted regular weather reports and satellite photos,
circling the interesting areas with a red felt-tip marker. The most
recent picture showed a large circular depression gathered over the
central Pacific, like spoiled milk swirling down a drain—eliciting a
great deal of excitement from Dooley.
“Storm brewing!” the deputy had scrawled on a 4
GROUND ZERO
Post-it note 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 final round of
simulations. Though the Bright Anvil device had already been
assembled except for its fissile core, Gregory eschewed lazy shortcuts.
With such incredible power at one’s fingertips, caution was the
watchword.
He whistled along to “Georgie Girl” as his computers simulated waves
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—weary and self-satisfied—
would be long gone by the time Gregory headed for his own car.
It didn’t matter to him how many extra hours he remained in the lab,
since research was the only thing left of his real life. Even if he went
home, he would probably work anyway, in his too-quiet and too-
empty house, surrounded by photos of the old 1950s hydrogen bomb
shots out in the islands or atomic blasts at the Nevada Test Site. He
had access to better computers in his lab, though, so he might as well
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 working with him. She
was a sharp and imaginative young physicist who looked up to the
older scientist with something like awe. 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 doubts had
festered inside her.
5
THE X-FILES
Miriel Bremen herself was the spearhead behind the formation of the
vehement new activist group, Stop Nuclear Madness!, headquartered
in Berkeley. She had abandoned her work at the research facility,
spooked by certain incomprehensible aspects of the Bright Anvil
warhead. Miriel had become a turncoat with a zeal that reminded him
of the way some former cigarette smokers turned into the most
outspoken antitobacco lobbyists. He thought of Miriel out there on the
other side of the fence. She would be waving a sign, taunting the
security guards to arrest her, making her point loud and clear,
regardless of whether anyone wanted to hear it. Dr. Gregory forced
himself to remain seated behind the computer workstation. He refused
to go back to the window to look for her. He didn’t feel spite toward
Miriel, just...disappointment. He wondered how he had failed her,
how he could have misjudged his deputy so thoroughly. At least he
didn’t have to worry about her replacement, Bear Dooley. Dooley was
a bulldozer of a man, with a dearth of tact and patience, but a singular
dedication to purpose. He, at least, had his head on straight. A knock
came at the half-closed door to his lab office. Patty, his secretary—he
still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her as an “administrative
assistant,” the current politically correct term—poked her head in.
“Afternoon mail, Dr. Gregory. There’s a package I thought you might
like to see. Special delivery.” She waggled a small padded envelope.
He started to push his aching body up from his computer chair, but
she waved him back down.
“Here. Don’t get up.”
“Thanks, Patty.” He took the envelope, pulling 6
GROUND ZERO
his reading glasses from his pocket and settling them on his nose so he
could see the postmark. Honolulu, Hawaii. No return address.
Patty remained in the doorway, shuffling her feet. She cleared her
throat. “It’s after four o’clock, Dr. Gregory. Would you mind if I left a
little early today?” Her voice picked up speed, as if she were making
excuses. “I know I’ve got those memos to type up tomorrow morning,
but lIl keep one step ahead of you.”
“You always do, Patty. Doctor’s appointment?” he said, still looking
down at the mysterious envelope and turning it over in his hands.
“No, but I don’t really want to hassle with the protesters. They’ll
probably try to block the gate at quitting time just to cause trouble. rd
rather be long gone.” She looked down at her pink-polished
fingernails. Her face had a fallen-in, anxious expression.
Dr. Gregory laughed at her nervousness. “Go ahead. I’ll be staying late
for the same reason.”
She thanked him and popped back out the door, pulling it shut behind
her so he could work in peace. The computer calculations continued.
The core of the simulated explosion had expanded, sending
shockwaves all the way to the edge of the monitor screen, with
secondary and tertiary effects propagating in less-defined directions
through the plasma left behind from the initial detonation. Dr.
Gregory peeled open the padded envelope, working one finger under
the heavily glued flap. He dumped the contents onto his desk and
blinked, perplexed. He blew out a curious breath.
The single scrap of paper wasn’t exactly a letter—no stationery, no
signature—just carefully inked words in fine black lettering.
“FOR YOUR PART IN THE PAST—AND THE FUTURE.”
A small glassine packet fell out beside the note. It 7
THE X-FILES
was a translucent envelope only a few inches long, filled with some
sort of black powder. He shook the padded envelope, but it contained
nothing else.
He picked up the glassine packet, squinting as he squeezed the
contents with his fingers. The substance was lightweight, faintly
greasy, like ash. He sniffed it, caught a faint, sour charcoal smell
mostly faded by time.
For your part in the past—and the future. Dr. Gregory frowned. He
scornfully wondered if this could be some stunt by the protesters
outside. In earlier actions, protesters had poured jars of animal blood
on the ground in front of the facility’s security gates and planted
flowers alongside the entry roads.
Black ash must be somebody’s newest idea—maybe even Miriel’s. He
rolled his eyes and let out an “Oh brother!” sigh.
“You can’t change the world by poking your heads in the sand,” Dr.
Gregory muttered, turning his gaze toward the window.
On the workstations, the redundant simulations neared completion
after eating up hours of supercomputer time, projecting a step-by-step
analysis of one second in time, the transient 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. Gregory found parts of Bright Anvil
inexplicable, based on baffling theoretical assumptions and producing
aftereffects that went against all his training and experience in
physics. But the simulations worked, and he knew enough not to ask
questions of the sponsors who had presented him with the foundations
of this new concept to implement.
After a fifty-one-year-long career, Dr. Gregory 8
GROUND ZERO
found it refreshing to find an entire portion of his chosen discipline
that he could not explain. It opened up the wonder of science for him
all over again.
He tossed the black ash aside and went back to work. Suddenly the
overhead fluorescent lights flickered. There was an intense humming
sound, as if a swarm of bees were trapped in the thin glass tubes. He
heard the snapping shriek 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 pain through his body as he
whirled in despair to see his computer workstations also winking out.
The computers were crashing.
“Awww, no!” he groaned. The systems should have had infallible
backup power supplies to protect them during normal electrical
outages. He had just lost literally billions of supercomputer iterations.
He pounded his gnarled fist on the desk, then levered himself to his
feet and staggered over to the window, moving more quickly than his
unsteady balance and common sense allowed.
Reaching the glass, he glanced outside at the other buildings in the
complex. All the interior lights were still shining in 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 wonder about sabotage
from the protesters. Could Miriel have gone so far overboard? She
would know how to cause such damage. Though her security
clearance had been taken away after she quit her job and formed Stop
Nuclear Madness!, perhaps she had
9
THE X-FILES
managed to bluff her way inside, to interfere with 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 noise that hovered about his ears, finally
noticing it for the first time. With all the power suddenly smothered
and machine sounds damped to nothingness, silence should have
descended upon his office. But the whispers came instead.
With a growing sense of uneasiness that he forced himself to ignore,
Dr. Gregory went to the door, intending to shout down the hall for
Bear Dooley or any of the other physicists. For some reason, the
company of others seemed highly desirable right now. But he found
the doorknob unbearably hot. Unnaturally hot.
With a hiss, he yanked his hand away. He backed off, staring down in
shock more than pain at the bright blisters forming in the center of his
palm.
Smoke began to curl around the solid security-locked doorknob,
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 wind picked 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 hand against the heat, he hurried back to the door again and
reached for the knob. By now, though, it glowed red-hot, a throbbing
scarlet that hurt his eyes.
10
GROUND ZERO
“Patty, I need your help. Bear! Somebody!” His voice cracked,
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, holding up his hands
to shield his face from yet another aspect of physics he did not
understand. The whispering voices increased in volume, rising to a
crescendo of screams and accusations climbing through the air itself.
Reaching a critical point.
An avalanche of heat and fire struck him, so intense that it knocked
him into the wall. A billion, billion X rays brought every cell in his
body to a boil. Then came a burst of absolute light, like the core of an
atomic explosion. And Dr. Gregory found himself standing alone at
Ground Zero.
11
TWO
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Tuesday, 10:13 A.M.
The security guard stepped out of a small prefab shack just outside the
chain-link perimeter of the large research facility. He glanced at Fox
Mulder’s papers and FBI identification, then motioned for him to drive
his rental car over to the Badge Office just outside the gate.
In the passenger seat Dana Scully sat up straighter. She willed the cells
of her body to supply more energy and bring her to full alertness. She
hated catching red-eye flights, especially from the East Coast. Already
today she had spent hours on the plane and now another hour in the
car with her partner driving from the San Francisco Airport. She had
rested fitfully on the large plane, managing only a brief nap instead of
genuine sleep.
“Sometimes I wish that more of our cases would happen closer to
home,” she said, not really meaning it. 12
GROUND ZERO
Mulder looked over at her, flashed a brief commiserating smile. “Look
on the bright side, Scully—I know plenty of deskbound agents who
envy us our exciting jet-setting lifestyle. We get to see the world. They
get to see their offices.”
“T suppose the grass is always greener...” Scully said. “Still, if I ever do
take a vacation, I think Pll just stay home on the sofa and read a
book.”
Scully had grown up as a Navy brat. She and her two brothers and her
sister had been forced to pull up their roots every few years while they
were young, whenever the Navy assigned her father to a different base
or a different ship. She’d never complained, always respecting her
father’s duty enough to do her part. But she had never dreamed that
when it came to her own career, she would end up choosing
something that required her to travel around so often. Mulder guided
the car to the front of a small white office isolated from the large
cluster of buildings inside the fence. The Badge Office appeared
relatively new, with the type of clean yet flimsy architecture that
reminded Scully of a child’s step-by-step model kit.
Mulder parked the car and reached behind him to pull out his
lightweight briefcase. Scully flicked down the mirror on the passenger
side sun visor. She gave a quick glance at the lipstick on her full lips,
checked the makeup on her large blue eyes, smoothed her light
auburn hair. Despite her tiredness, everything seemed in place,
professional. Mulder stepped out of the car and straightened his suit
jacket, adjusted his maroon tie.
FBI agents, after all, had to appear suitable for the part.
“T need another cup of coffee,” Scully said, 13
THE X-FILES
following him out of the car. “I want to be absolutely certain I can
devote my full attention to the details of any case unusual enough to
drag us three thousand miles across the country.”
Mulder held open the glass door for her to enter the Badge Office.
“You mean that ‘gourmet’ brew on the airplane wasn’t up to your
exacting standards?”
She favored him with raised eyebrows. “Let’s put it this way, Mulder
—I haven’t heard of many flight attendants retiring to start their own
espresso franchises.”
Mulder ran a hand quickly through his fluffy dark hair, ensuring that
at least most of the strands fell into place. Then he trailed after her
into the heavily air-conditioned building. The interior consisted
primarily of a large, open area, a long counter that served as a
barricade to a few back offices, and some small carrels that held
televisions and videotape players. A row of blue padded chairs sat in
front of a wall of windows that had been tinted to filter out the bright
California sun, though patches of the modern brown-and-rust tweed
carpet already looked faded. Several construction workers clad in
overalls stood in line at the counter with hardhats tucked under their
arms and folded pink forms in their hands. One at a time the workers
handed their papers to the counter personnel, who checked IDs and
exchanged the pink forms for temporary work permits.
A sign on the wall clearly listed all of the items that were not
permitted inside the Teller Nuclear Research Facility: cameras,
firearms, drugs, alcohol, personal recording devices, telescopes. Scully
scanned the list. The items were familiar from her own experience at
FBI Headquarters.
“PIL check us in,” she said and flipped open a small notebook from the
pocket of her forest-green 14
GROUND ZERO
suit. She took a place in line behind several large men in paint-
spattered overalls. She felt extremely over-dressed. Another clerk
opened a station at the end of the speckled counter and gestured
Scully over.
“I suppose I must look out of place here,” Scully said and displayed
her badge. “I’m Special Agent Dana Scully. My partner is Fox Mulder.
Were here to meet with—” she glanced down at her notebook, “a
Department of Energy representative, a Ms. Rosabeth Carrera. She’s
expecting us.”
The clerk straightened her gold-rimmed glasses and shuffled through
some papers. She punched in Scully’s name on her computer terminal.
“Yes, here you are, ‘Special Clearance Expedited.’ You’ll still need to
be escorted everywhere until official approval comes through, but we
can issue you badges to allow you access to certain areas in the
meantime.”
Scully raised her eyebrows, keeping her best professional Meet-the-
Public composure. “Is that really necessary? Agent Mulder and I
already have full clearances with the FBI. You can—”
“Your FBI clearances don’t mean anything here, Ms. Scully,” the
woman said. “This is a Department of Energy facility. We don’t even
recognize Department of Defense clearances. Everybody’s got their
own investigative procedures, and none of us talks to the other.”
“Government efficiency?” Scully said.
“Your tax dollars at work. Just be glad you don’t work for the Postal
Service,” the woman said. “Who knows what sort of background check
they’d do.”
Mulder came up beside Scully. He handed her a Styrofoam cup full of
oily, bitter-smelling coffee he had taken from a pot on an end table
piled high with flashy Teller Nuclear Research Facility technical
reports and brochures about all the wonderful work the R&D lab was
doing for humanity. 15
THE X-FILES
“T paid ten cents for this,” he said, indicating the contributions cup,
“and Pll bet it’s worth every penny. Creamer, no sugar.”
Scully took a sip. “Tastes like it’s been on that warmer since the
Manhattan Project,” she said, but grudgingly took another sip to show
Mulder that she appreciated his gesture.
“Think of it as fine wine, Scully: perfectly aged.”
The clerk returned to the counter and handed Mulder and Scully each
a laminated visitor’s badge. “Wear these at all times. Make sure
they’re visible and above the waist,” she said. “And these.” She passed
them each a blue plastic rectangle containing what looked like a strip
of film and a computer chip. “Your radiation dosimeters. Clip them to
your badges. Always keep them on your person.”
“Radiation dosimeters?” Scully asked, maintaining a calm tone, devoid
of any obvious worry. “Is there some cause for concern here?”
“Just a precaution, Agent Scully. We are a nuclear research facility,
you understand. Our orientation videotape should answer all your
questions. Follow me, please.”
She set Scully and Mulder at one of the small carrels in front of a
miniature television. She inserted the videotape and pushed PLAY,
then went back to the counter to call Rosabeth Carrera. Mulder leaned
over, watching the static on the leader before the tape began. “What
do you think they’ll have, a cartoon or previews?” he said.
“Do you believe a cartoon designed by the government would be
funny?” she asked.
Mulder shrugged. “Some people think Jerry Lewis is funny.”
The videotape ran for only four minutes. It was a sanitized description
of the Teller Nuclear Research Facility, with a perky narrator
explaining
16
GROUND ZERO
briefly what radiation is and what it can do for you, as well as to you.
The program emphasized the medical uses and research applications
of exotic isotopes, gave constant reassurances about the safeguards
used by the facility, and made comparisons to background levels of
radiation that one might receive taking a single cross-country flight or
living a year in a high-altitude city such as Denver. After a final,
brightly colored graph, the cheery voice told them both to have a
nice, safe visit at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility. Mulder
rewound the tape. “My heart’s just going all pitterpat,” he said.
Together they made their way back to the badge counter. Most of the
construction workers had already gone inside the chain-link fence to
their work site. Mulder and Scully didn’t have long to wait before a
petite Hispanic woman bustled in through the glass doors. She spotted
the two FBI agents half a second later and came over, looking full of
energy, eager to meet them. Scully immediately sized her up as she
had been trained to do at Quantico, visually gathering facts to form an
estimation of a person upon first glance. The woman held out her
hand and quickly shook with the two FBI agents.
“Pm Rosabeth Carrera,” she said, “one of the DOE representatives
here. I’m very pleased you could come out on such short notice. It is
something of an emergency.”
Carrera wore a knee-length skirt and scarlet silk blouse that set off her
dusky skin. Her lips were generous, embellished with a conservative
lipstick. Her full head of rich brown hair, the color of dark chocolate,
was pulled back on her head, held by several gold barrettes, and
cascaded down her back in a glorious tumble of locks. She was built
like a gymnast,
17
THE X-FILES
filled with enthusiasm, not at all the type of dry bureaucrat Scully had
expected.
Scully caught the look on Mulder’s face as he stared into the woman’s
very dark eyes. Carrera laughed. “I could spot you two right away.
This is California, you know. East Coasters and a few high
management types are the only ones around here who wear monkey
suits.”
Scully blinked. “Monkey suits?”
“Formal dress. The Teller Facility is pretty casual. Most of our
researchers are Californians or transplants from Los Alamos, New
Mexico. A suit and tie is a rarity here.”
“I always knew I was somebody special,” Mulder said. “I should have
thought to wear my surfing tie.”
“If you'll follow me,” Carrera said, “I’ll take you into the site and the
scene of the...accident. We’ve left everything the way it was for the
past eighteen hours. It’s so unusual, we wanted to give you a chance
to look at it fresh. We’ll take my car.”
Scully and Mulder followed her out to a pale blue Ford Fairmont with
government plates. Mulder caught his partner’s eye and scratched the
side of his head in a chimpanzee imitation. Monkey suits.
“We keep the doors unlocked around here,” Carrera said, indicating
the car doors as she slipped inside. “We figure nobody’d want to steal
a government car.” Mulder climbed in back, while Scully took the seat
next to the DOE representative.
“Can you give us any more details about this case, Ms. Carrera?”
Scully asked. “We were pulled out of bed early and sent here with
virtually no background. The only information we’ve been given is
that an important nuclear researcher here died in some sort of freak
accident in his lab.”
Carrera drove toward the guard gate. She 18
GROUND ZERO
flashed her badge and handed over the paperwork that would allow
Scully and Mulder to enter the facility beyond the fence. Receiving the
counter-signed papers, she drove on, biting her lip as if mulling over
the details. “That’s the story we’ve released to the press, though it
won’t hold up long. There are too many questions yet—but I didn’t
want to prejudice you before you saw the scene yourself.”
“You certainly know how to build suspense,” Mulder said from the
back seat.
Rosabeth Carrera kept her eyes on the road while they drove past
office trailers, temporary buildings, a cluster of old dilapidated
buildings with wooden siding that looked like something from an old
military installation, and finally to the newer buildings that had been
constructed during the large defense budgets of the Reagan
administration.
“We called the FBI as a matter of course,” Carrera continued. “This is
possibly a crime—a death, maybe murder—on federal property, so the
FBI has automatic jurisdiction.”
“You could have worked through your local field office,”
Scully pointed out.
“We called them,” Carrera said. “One of the local agents, a Craig
Kreident, came out for a first glance last night. Do you know him?”
Mulder touched his lips, as he searched his excellent memory. “Agent
Kreident,” he said. “I believe he specializes in high-tech crimes out
here.”
“That’s him,” Carrera said. “But Kreident took one look and said this
one was out of his league. He said it looked more like an ‘X-File’...
those were his words...and that it was probably a job for you, Agent
Mulder. I don’t understand what an X-File is.”
“Amazing what a reputation can do for you,” Mulder murmured.
19
THE X-FILES
Scully answered the question. “‘X-Files’ is a catchall term for
investigations involving strange and unexplained phenomena. The
Bureau has numerous records of unsolved cases dating as far back as
the early days of J. Edgar Hoover. The two of us have had numerous...
experiences looking into those unusual cases.”
Carrera parked in front of the large laboratory buildings and got out
of the car. “Then I think you'll find this one to be right up your alley.”
Carrera led them at a brisk pace through the building, up to the
second floor. The dim echoing halls, lit by banks of fluorescent lights,
reminded Scully of a high school. One of the tubes overhead was gray
and flickering. Scully wondered how long it had needed to be
replaced.
Cork bulletin boards lined the open spaces of cement-block walls,
posted with colorful safety notices and signs for regular technical
meetings. Handwritten index cards announced rental properties and
time-share condos in Hawaii, cars for sale; one card offered “slightly
used rock-climbing equipment.”
The ubiquitous security awareness posters seemed to be left over from
World War II, though Scully found none that said
“Loose Lips Sink Ships.”
Up ahead an entire corridor had been blocked off with yellow barrier
tape. Since the Teller Nuclear Research Facility couldn’t be expected
to have CRIME SCENE barricades, they had settled for
CONSTRUCTION AREA tape. Two lab security guards stood posted on
either side of the corridor, looking uncomfortable with their
assignment.
Carrera didn’t need to say a word to them. One guard stepped aside to
let her pass. “Don’t worry,” she said to the man, “you’re on a short
shift. Replacements are coming in a few minutes.” Then
20
GROUND ZERO
she gestured for Mulder and Scully to follow her as she ducked under
the flimsy yellow tape.
Scully wondered why the guards should be so concerned. Was it the
simple superstition of being too close to a possible murder scene?
These guards probably had very little outright crime to investigate,
especially not violent crime like murder. She supposed the body
hadn’t been removed yet, which would be very unusual.
Down the hall beyond the yellow tape, all other offices stood empty,
though their still-running computers and full bookshelves showed that
the room had been occupied until recently. Coworkers of Dr. Emil
Gregory’s? If so, they would have to be interviewed. No doubt all of
the workers had been relocated, pending investigation of the accident.
One office door, though, was tightly shut and sealed with more of the
barrier tape. Rosabeth Carrera stood beside it and pulled off her
laminated picture badge from which dangled a dosimeter and several
keys. She searched for the key with the appropriate ID number and
slipped it into the intimidating-looking lock in the doorknob.
“Take a quick look,” she said, pushing the door open and
simultaneously turning her face away. “This is just first glance. You’ve
got two minutes.”
Scully and Mulder stood beside each other at the threshold and peered
inside.
It looked as if an incendiary bomb had gone off in Dr. Gregory’s lab
office.
Every surface had been singed with a burst of heat so intense, yet so
brief, it had curled and crisped the papers attached to Gregory’s
bulletin board— but had not ignited them. His four computer terminals
had melted at the edges and slumped in on themselves, the heavy
glass cathode-ray tubes of the screens tilting cockeyed like the gaze of
a dead 21
THE X-FILES
man. Even the metal desks bowed and sagged from the brief molten
weakness.
An erasable white board had turned black, its enamel finish dark and
blistered, though the colored trails of scrawled equations and notes
left identifiable paths in the soot. Scully spotted Gregory’s body
against the far wall. All that remained of the old weapons researcher
was a horribly crisped scarecrow of a man. His arms and legs were
drawn up from the contraction of muscles in intense heat, like some
sort of insect sprayed with poison and curled up to die. His skin and
the twisted rictus on his face made him look as if he had been doused
with napalm.
Mulder stared at the destruction in the room, while Scully focused on
the corpse, her mouth partially open, her mind already set in that
curious mixture of human horror and detached analysis she slipped
into when inspecting a crime scene. The only way she could stave off
her revulsion was to look for answers. She stepped forward. Before she
could enter the room, though, Carrera placed a firm hand on her
shoulder. “No, not yet,” she said. “You can’t go in there.”
Mulder gave Carrera a sharp look, as if she had just pulled on his
leash. “How are we supposed to investigate a crime scene if we can’t
go inside?”
Scully could tell that her partner’s interest had already been piqued.
From what she could see at first glance she was going to have a hard
time coming up with a simple, rational explanation for what had
happened here in the sealed lab.
“Too much residual radiation,” Carrera said. “You’ll need full
contamination gear before you go inside.”
Scully reflexively touched her dosimeter as she and Mulder both
backed away from the door. “But
22
GROUND ZERO
according to your video briefing none of the labs supposed to contain
dangerously high levels of radiation. Was that just government
propaganda?”
Carrera pulled the door shut again and favored Scully with a tolerant
smile. “No, it’s true—under normal circumstances. But as you can see,
things aren’t normal in Dr. Gregory’s lab. Nothing any of us can
understand...not yet, anyway. There should not have been any
radioactive material here; yet we found high levels of residual
radiation in the walls, in the equipment.
“But don’t worry, those thick concrete blocks shield us out here in the
hall. Nothing to worry about—if you stay away from it. But you’ll
need a much closer look. We’ll let you continue your investigation.
Come on.”
She turned, and they followed her down the corridor.
“Let’s get you both suited up.”
23
THREE
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Tuesday, 11:21 A.M.
The thick outfit made Mulder look like an astronaut. He found it
difficult to move, but his eagerness to investigate the mysterious death
of Dr. Emil Gregory convinced him to put up with the difficulties.
Health-and-safety technicians adjusted the seams of his
anticontamination suit, pulling the hood down over his head,
fastening the zipper in back, then sealing it with another flap Velcroed
over the top to keep chemical or radioactive residue from seeping
through the seams.
A transparent plastic faceplate allowed him to see, but condensation
formed on the inside, and he tried to control his breathing. Canisters
of compressed air on his back connected to a hood respirator that
echoed in his ears and made it difficult to exhale. The joints in his
knees and elbows ballooned as he tried to walk. 24
GROUND ZERO
Mulder felt detached from his surroundings, armored against the
invisible threat of radiation. “I thought lead underwear went out of
style with bell-bottoms.”
Standing next to him, still clad in her stunning blouse and skirt, the
dark beauty Rosabeth Carrera stood with her hands at her sides,
looking uncertain as to what she should do. She had declined to suit
up in anticontamination gear and accompany them onto the scene.
“You’re free to go in and look around as much as you’d like,” Carrera
said. “Meanwhile, I’ve arranged for the paperwork to allow you free
access to the site—you’ll have a ‘needto-know’ clearance for this case
only. The Department of Energy and Teller Labs are eager to find out
what caused Dr. Gregory’s death.”
“What if they don’t like the answer?” Mulder said. Swathed in her
own billowing hood in the anticontamination suit, Scully flashed him
a warning look, one of the usual glances she gave him when he
followed his penchant for blundering down a dangerous road.
“Any answer’s better than nothing,” Carrera said. “Right now all we
have are a bunch of disturbing questions.” She gestured up and down
the hall where the offices of Gregory’s coresearchers had been sealed
off. “The background radiation in the rest of this building is perfectly
normal, except in Gregory’s office. We need you to find out what
happened.”
Scully asked, “I know this is a weapons research laboratory. Was Dr.
Gregory working on anything dangerous? Anything that could have
backfired on him? A prototype for a new weapons system perhaps?”
25
THE X-FILES
Carrera crossed her arms over her small breasts and stood confident.
“Dr. Gregory was working on computer simulations. He had no fissile
material whatsoever in his lab, nothing that even remotely
approached the destructive potential that we see here. Nothing at all
deadly. The equipment was no more dangerous than a videogame.”
“Ah, videogames,” Mulder said. “Could be the heart of our
conspiracy.”
Rosabeth Carrera gave them each a handheld radiation detector. The
gadgets looked just like the kind Mulder had seen in dozens of 1950s
B-movies of uncontrolled nuclear tests that accidently created
mutations whose bizarreness was limited only by Hollywood’s meager
special effects budgets of the era.
One of the health-and-safety technicians gave them a quick briefing on
how to use the radiation detector. The tech swept the sensor end up
and down the hall, taking a sample of normal background readings.
“Seems to be functioning properly,” he said. “I checked the calibration
just a few hours ago.”
“Let’s go inside, Mulder,” Scully said, standing at the door, obviously
impatient to get to work.
Carrera used the key on her badge again, pushing the lab door open.
Mulder and Scully entered Dr. Gregory’s laboratory—and the radiation
detectors went wild. Mulder watched the needle dance high up on the
gauge, though he didn’t hear the frying-bacon crackle of Geiger
counters used so often in films. The silent needle’s signal was ominous
enough.
Within its concrete-block walls, this office had somehow been the site
of an intense burst of radiation that had blistered the paint, seared the
concrete, and melted the furniture. The flash had left residual
26
GROUND ZERO
and secondary radioactivity that still simmered, only fading gradually.
Behind them Rosabeth Carrera closed the door. Mulder’s breathing
resonated in his ears in the self-contained suit. It sounded as if
someone were breathing down his neck, a long-fanged monster riding
on his shoulder...but it was only echoes inside his hood.
Claustrophobia hammered around him as he stepped deeper into the
burned laboratory. Looking at the melted and flash-burned artifacts
sent a shudder down his spine, tapping into his long-standing
revulsion of fire.
Scully went straight to the body, while Mulder stopped to inspect the
heat-slumped computer terminals, the melted desks, the flash-burned
papers on the bulletin board and on the work tables. “No indication of
where the burst might have originated,” he said, poking around the
debris. The walls were adorned with images of Pacific islands, aerial
photos as well as computer printouts of weather maps of the ocean
wind patterns, storm projections, and blistered black-and-white prints
of weather satellite images—everything centered on the Western
Pacific, just past the International Date Line.
“Not the sort of stuff Pd expect a nuclear weapons researcher to
collect on his office walls,” Mulder said. Scully bent over the
scarecrowish burned body of Dr. Gregory. “If we can determine what
he was working on, get some details of the weapons systems and any
tests he was planning to run, we might come up with a more clear-cut
explanation.”
“Clear-cut, Scully?” Mulder said. “You surprise me.”
“Think about it, Mulder. Despite what Ms. Carrera said, Dr. Gregory
was a weapons researcher—
27
THE X-FILES
what if he was working on some new high-energy burst weapon? It’s
possible he had a prototype in here and he accidentally set it off. It
could have flash-fried everything you see here, killed him...if it was
just a small test model, its effect would be limited. It might not
destroy the entire building.”
“Good for us,” he said. “But look around—I don’t see the remains of
any weapon, do you? Even if it exploded, there should be some
evidence.”
“We should still look into it,” Scully answered. “I need to take this
body in for an autopsy. I’ll request that Ms. Carrera find us a local
medical facility where I can work.”
Mulder, preoccupied by Gregory’s bulletin board, reached out with a
gloved hand to touch one of the curled papers still fastened by a
slagged push pin to the crisped cork board. When he brushed the
paper with his fingertips, it crumbled into ash, rippling away into the
air. Nothing remained but a powdery residue.
Mulder looked around for thick stacks of paper, hoping that something
might have been left intact, like the photos on the walls. He searched
Dr. Gregory’s desk for piles of technical reports or journal articles, but
found nothing. Then he noticed the unburned rectangular marks on
the charred desktop.
“Hey, Scully, look at this,” he said. When she came over, he pointed to
the pale rectangular patches. “I think there must have been documents
here, reports left on top of his desk—but somebody’s removed the
evidence.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Scully said. “The reports themselves
probably still have significant residual radioactivity—”
Mulder met her gaze through the thin faceplates on their hoods. “I
think somebody’s trying to do us a 28
GROUND ZERO
favor. They’ve ‘sanitized’ the murder scene to protect us from
classified information that maybe we shouldn’t be seeing. For our own
good, of course.”
“Mulder, how can we possibly expect to solve this if the crime scene
has been tampered with? We don’t have the complete picture here.”
“My feeling exactly,” he said.
He knelt to look at Dr. Gregory’s two-shelved metal credenza. It was
filled with physics textbooks, computer-code user’s manuals, a copy of
Lagrangian-Eulerian Hydrocode Dynamics, and straightforward
geography and physics texts. The bindings were burned and
blackened, but the rest of the books remained intact.
He looked at the burn marks on the shelves themselves. As he had
expected, several books had been removed as well.
“Somebody wants a quick answer to this, Scully,” he said.
“A simple answer. One that doesn’t require us to have all the
information.”
He looked toward the closed lab door. “I think we should inspect each
of these other offices down the corridor, too. If they’re the offices of
Dr. Gregory’s project team, somebody might have forgotten to yank
out the information that was carefully deleted from this scene.”
He went back to the bulletin board and touched another piece of the
crumbling paper. The ash flaked off, but he was able to distinguish
two words before it disintegrated. Bright Anvil.
29
FOUR
Veteran’s Memorial Hospital,
Oakland, California
Tuesday, 3:27 P.M.
The safety technicians and radiation specialists at the Teller Nuclear
Research Facility had assured Scully that any residual radiation in Dr.
Emil Gregory’s corpse remained low enough to pose no significant
safety hazards. Scully found it faintly amusing that none of the other
doctors in the hospital wanted to be with her in the special autopsy
room they had prepared. She was a medical doctor and had performed
many autopsies, but she preferred working alone—especially in a case
as disturbing as this one.
She had dissected corpses in front of her students at the Quantico FBI
Training Facility many times, but the condition of Dr. Gregory’s body,
the specter of a radioactive disaster, bothered her enough on a gut
level that she was glad she could think her own thoughts and not be
distracted by questions or perhaps even rude jokes from the new
students. 30
GROUND ZERO
Rather than providing general autopsy facilities, the Veterans
Memorial Hospital had placed her in a little-used room especially
reserved for severely virulent diseases, such as strange tropical
plagues or unexpected mutations of the flu. But the room had what
she needed. Scully stood in front of Gregory’s body. She tried to
swallow, but her throat was dry. She should get to work.
She had performed more autopsies than she could remember, on
bodies in far worse condition than this burned husk of an old man. But
the thought of how Dr. Gregory had died brought back the nightmares
she had suffered while in her first year of college at Berkeley: grim
and depressing imaginings of the world’s dark nuclear future. She had
awakened to thoughts of these horrors in the middle of the night in
her dorm room. By day she had read the propaganda slogans, the
overblown antinuclear brochures designed to foster fear of the atom.
Before this autopsy, she had reviewed medical texts, concise and
analytical treatments that avoided the imflammatory descriptions of
radiation burns. She was ready. Scully drew a long, deep breath
through the respirator mask. The dual air-filtering cartridges hung
heavily from her face, like insectoid mandibles. She wore goggles as
well, to keep any of the cadaver’s fluids from spraying into her eyes.
She had been assured that this simple protective clothing would be
sufficient against the low radiation levels in Dr. Gregory’s body, but
she thought she could feel invisible contamination like gnats on her
skin. She wanted to hurry and get this over with, but she was having a
hard time getting started.
Scully inspected the surgical implements on the tray next to her
autopsy table, but it was merely a 31
THE X-FILES
stalling tactic. She chided herself for avoiding the corpse. After all, she
thought, the sooner she got to it, the sooner she could be finished and
out of there. At the moment, though, she would much rather have
been with Mulder interviewing some of Dr. Gregory’s fellow scientists
—but this was her job, her specialty. She switched on the tape
recorder, wondering if the radiation seeping out of the body might
affect the magnetic tape. She hoped not.
“Subject: Emil Gregory. Male Caucasian, seventy-two years of age,”
she dictated. Curved mirrors reflected the harsh white fluorescents
overhead down onto the table. These, along with the surgical lamps,
washed away all shadows, allowing no secrets to be hidden.
Gregory’s skin was blackened and peeling, his face shriveled to a
burned mask over his skull. White teeth poked through the split and
charred lips. His arms and legs had been drawn up, folded together as
his muscles contracted with the heat. She touched him with one
heavily gloved finger. Flakes of burnt flesh fell off. She swallowed.
“Apparent cause of death is sudden exposure to extreme heat.
However, other than the several external layers of complete
charring...” she nudged the burnt layers that peeled away, revealing
red, wet tissues underneath “...the musculature and internal organs
appear relatively intact.
“There are some indications of the damage normally seen when a
victim dies in a fire, but other indicators are missing. In a normal fire,
body temperature rises throughout, causing extreme damage to
internal organs, massive trauma to the entire bodily structure, rupture
of soft tissues. However, in this case it appears that the heat was so
intense and so brief that it incinerated the subject’s exterior, but
dissipated 32
GROUND ZERO
before it had time to penetrate more deeply into his body structure.”
After finishing with her preliminary summary, Scully inspected the
tray and took a large scalpel, holding it clumsily in her gloved hands.
When she cut into Dr. Gregory’s body cavity, the sensation was like
sawing through a well-done steak.
In the background the Geiger counters clicked with stray bursts of
background radiation, sounding like sharp fingernails tapping on a
window pane. Scully froze, waiting until the counts died down.
She adjusted the lamp overhead and went back to work, probing in
detail for any clues the old man’s body had left for her to find. She
dictated copious notes, removing the intact organs, weighing each
one, giving her impression of their condition—but as she proceeded, it
became clear to her that something was terribly wrong.
Finally, still wearing her gloves, she went over to the intercom
mounted on the wall, glancing back over her shoulder at the remains
of Gregory’s body. She punched in the extension for the Oncology
Department.
“This is Special Agent Dana Scully,” she said, “in Autopsy Room...”
she glanced up at the door, “2112. I need an oncology expert to suit
up and come down here briefly for a second opinion. I’ve found
something I’d like to have verified.” Though Scully had requested
consultation with a specialist, she was already virtually certain as to
what they would find.
The voice on the other end of the line reluctantly acknowledged.
Scully wondered how many of the specialists would suddenly
disappear for lunch breaks or rush off to long-forgotten games of golf,
leaving the remaining few to draw straws to see who would have to
come in to the room with her and study the burned corpse.
33
THE X-FILES
She went back to the body on the polished metal table and looked
down, still keeping her distance. Her inhalations through the
respirator packs at her mouth hissed like the steaming breath of a
dragon.
Long before Dr. Emil Gregory had died from his fatal flash burn, his
entire bodily system had been ravaged from within. Tumors upon
tumors permeated his system, disrupting his functions.
Even without this bizarre and extreme death, Dr. Emil Gregory would
have succumbed to terminal cancer within a month.
34
FIVE
Vandenberg Air Force Base, California
Underground Minuteman Missile Control Bunker Tuesday, 3:45 P.M.
A boring routine in a buried trash can that somebody considered an
office. Some assignment. Captain Franklin Mesta had once thought
being a missileer would be exciting, protected in an underground
fortress with the controls of nuclear Armageddon at his fingertips. Dial
in the coordinates, turn the keys—and the fate of the world rested in
your hands, just waiting for a launch order. In reality, it was more like
solitary confinement...only without the privacy of solitude.
Mesta was stuck down here in a little cell, his only company a
randomly assigned partner with whom he had little in common. Forty-
eight straight hours without seeing the light of day, without hearing
the wind or the ocean, without stretching his muscles, or getting a
good workout. What was the point of being stationed on the 35
THE X-FILES
spectacular central coast of California if he had to pull duty down here
under a rock? He might as well have been in Minot, North Dakota.
One underground control bunker looked like any other underground
control bunker. They all had the same interior decorator—no doubt a
low-bid government contract. Maybe he should have asked for EOD
duty instead. At least Explosives Ordnance Disposal offered the chance
that something unexpected and exciting would happen. From his chair
he turned to look at his partner, Captain Greg Louis, who sat out of
arm’s reach in an identical scuffed red Naugahyde chair. The chairs
were mounted to steel rails on the floor that kept the two missileers
permanently at right angles to each other. Regulations required that
each man remain buckled in his seat at all times. A circular mirror
mounted in the corner between them let the two men look into each
other’s eyes, but prevented them from being able to touch physically.
Captain Mesta supposed there had been instances at the end of a long
shift where stircrazy missileers had tried to strangle each other.
“What do you suppose the weather’s like topside?” Mesta asked.
Captain Louis worked intently on a pad of paper, scribbling
calculations. Distracted, he looked up, blinking at Mesta in the round
observation mirror. Though Louis’s flat face, wide set eyes, and full
lips gave him a perpetually stupid expression, Mesta knew his partner
was a whiz at math.
“Do you want me to call up?” Louis asked. “They can fax us a full
report.”
Mesta shook his head and looked aimlessly around the old metal
control banks. Everything was painted battleship gray or, even worse,
sea-foam
36
GROUND ZERO
green, with clunky black plastic dials and analog numerical readouts
—technology straight from early Cold War days.
“No, just wondering,” he said with a sigh. Louis could be so literal.
“What are you figuring out now?”
Louis set down his pencil. “Taking the projected area of our chamber
here, and our depth beneath the surface, I can estimate the volume of
material in a cylinder above us. Then I’m going to use the average
density of rock to calculate the mass. When I’m done, we'll know
exactly how much stone is hanging over our heads.”
Mesta groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding, man! You’re psycho.”
“Just occupying my mind. Aren’t you curious?”
“Not about that.”
Mesta slid his chair along the rail bolted to the floor, allowing him to
check another station, one he had inspected only five minutes earlier.
All conditions remained the same. He looked at the heavy black phone
at his station. “I think I’m going to call up and get permission to use
the head,” he said. He didn’t really have to go, but it was something to
do. Besides, by the time the decision came down from the watchdogs,
his bladder might well be full.
“Go ahead,” Louis answered, intent on his calculations again.
A single cot sat behind a heavy red curtain that provided minimal
privacy—and minimal stretching space—but each man was allowed to
use it only once during a shift, and Mesta figured he could stay awake
a while longer. Then the red phone rang.
Both men instantly transformed into crack professionals, alert and
aware, snapping into the
37
THE X-FILES
programming that had been hammered into them. They knew the
drill, and they took each alarm seriously. Mesta picked up the phone.
“Captain Franklin Mesta here. Prepare for code verification.” Grabbing
the black three-ring binder, he flipped through the laminated pages,
searching for the proper date and authorization phrase. The voice on
the phone—flat, high-pitched, and oddly genderless—rattled off
numbers in a crisp, precise drone.
“Tango Zulu Ten Thirteen Alpha X-ray.”
Mesta followed the digits with his finger, repeating them into the
phone. “Tango Zulu One Zero One Three Alpha Xray. Verified.
Second, do you concur?”
At an identical phone, Captain Louis studied his own threering binder.
“Concur,” he said. “Ready to receive targeting information.”
Mesta spoke into the handset. “We are prepared to input coordinates.”
Mesta felt his heart pounding, the adrenaline running through his
veins, though he knew this had to be just an exercise. It was the
military’s strategy to keep the men from going insane with boredom—
putting the teams regularly through routine drills, constant practice in
aiming their missile, their personal Big Stick, housed in a silo
elsewhere at Vandenberg.
In addition to providing simple practice and relief from the tedium,
Mesta knew, the constant and unforgiving drills were designed to
program the missileers into following instructions without thinking.
Buried under however many tons of rock Louis had calculated, the
two partners were so isolated they could never know whether they
were preparing for a real launch, or just going through the paces. That
was exactly the way their superiors wanted it. 38
GROUND ZERO
But as soon as the coordinates came in, and both captains dialed them
in using analog numerical wheels, Mesta knew the launch could never
be real. “That’s out in the Western Pacific...somewhere in the
Marshall chain,” he said. He glanced at the world map taped up on the
metal wall, its edges curling from age. “Are we nuking Gilligan’s
Island, or what?”
Captain Louis answered in a terse, no-nonsense tone.
“Probably in keeping with the government’s new nonthreatening
posture. The Russians don’t like us even pretending to aim the birds at
them.”
Mesta punched in the TARGET LOCK VERIFIED sequence, shaking his
head. “Sounds like somebody just wants a few radioactive coconuts.”
Still, he thought, the very possibility of an actual launch, a no-turning-
back instigation of nuclear war, was enough to bring out a cold sweat
—drill or no drill.
“Ready for key insertion,” Louis prompted. Mesta hustled, ripping
open his own envelope to pull out the metal key on its dangling
plastic chain. “Ready for key insertion,” he repeated. “On my mark—
three, two, one. Keys in.”
Both men jammed their metal keys in the slots, then simultaneously
let out a relieved sigh. “Exciting, isn’t it?” Mesta said, breaking
through his professional demeanor. Louis blinked and looked
strangely at him.
Now it would all depend on the command station, where someone else
in some other uniform would arm the missile, de-safe the warheads,
the small conical cluster of atomic bombs. Each component of the
MIRV, the multiple independently-targeted reentry vehicles, packed
hundreds of times the wallop of the Hiroshima or Nagasaki bombs. 39
THE X-FILES
The voice on the telephone spoke. “Proceed with key rotation.”
Mesta gripped the round end of his key in the slot, feeling perspiration
slick his fingertips. He glanced up at the round observation mirror to
see that Captain Louis had done the same, waiting for him to give the
order. Mesta began his short, careful countdown.
At “one” they turned their keys.
The lights went out.
Sparks flew from the old control panels, transistors and capacitors—
possibly even obsolete vacuum tubes—overloading.
“Hey!” Mesta shouted. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Despite his bluster, he suddenly felt a primal fear of being trapped in
absolute darkness, buried deep underground in a metal cave swarming
with tarlike blackness. He thought he could sense every single ounce
of the overlying rock Captain Louis had calculated. Mesta was glad his
partner could not see the expression on his face.
“Searching for emergency controls,” Louis’s voice called, eerily
disembodied in the blackness. His voice remained pretend-calm,
professional, but with a ragged edge that belied his cool demeanor.
“Well where are they?” Mesta said. “Get the power back on.”
Images of suffocation and doom swirled in Mesta’s mind. Without
power, they wouldn’t have air, they couldn’t call up topside and
request an emergency evacuation. What if the launch had been real?
Had the United States just been obliterated in a nuclear fire?
Impossible!
“Switch on the damn lights!” Mesta shouted.
“Here they are. No time for a self-diagnostic.”
40
GROUND ZERO
Instead, Louis’s voice howled in pain. “Aaaah! The controls are hot! I
just fried the palm of my hand.”
Mesta could make out the silhouettes of the control banks as the metal
racks began to glow a deep brownish red, like a stove burner. A
renewed shower of sparks skittered across the electronics. Then
another, brighter glow seeped through the wall plates themselves.
“What is going on here?” Mesta said.
“Phone’s dead,” Louis answered, maddeningly calm again. Mesta
swiveled back and forth in his chair, sweating, hyperventilating. “It’s
like we’re in a giant microwave oven! So hot in here.”
The seams in the steel-plate walls split. Rivets shot like bullets from
one side of the enclosed chamber to the other, ricocheting and
shattering glass instrument panels. Both men screamed. Blazing light
poured in.
“But we’re underground,” Louis gasped. “There should be only rock
out there.”
Mesta tried to leap to his feet, to run to the emergency ladder, or at
least to the secure elevator—but the straps and seatbelts trapped him
in the uncomfortable chair. Smoke began to rise from the upholstery.
“What’s that noise?” Louis asked. “Do you hear voices out there?”
Light and heat rushed in through the cracks in the walls, like a
blinding storm from the core of the sun. The last thing Captain Mesta
heard was a raging roar like a whirlwind of vengeful whispers.
Then all the seams split in the walls as the last barrier evaporated. A
tidal wave of blazing, radioactive fire flooded over them, engulfing
the chamber.
41
SIX
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Tuesday, 3:50 P.M.
With his visitor’s badge firmly clipped to his collar, Mulder felt like a
door-to-door salesman. He followed his map of the Teller Facility on
which Rosabeth Carrera had circled the building number where Dr.
Gregory’s project team was temporarily stationed.
He found the building, a dilapidated, ancient barracks, two stories tall,
with windowpanes so old that the glass had begun to ripple with age.
The doors and window frames were painted a putrid, yellowish tan
that reminded him of the Number 2 pencils given out for standardized
tests in public schools. The exterior walls were sided with composite
shingles, flexible asphalt sheets slapped on in a repetitive overlapping
pattern. They looked like the wings of a freakish mutant moth grown
to gargantuan size.
“Nice digs,” Mulder said to himself.
42
GROUND ZERO
From a brochure he had picked up in the Badge Office, Mulder knew
that the Teller Nuclear Research Facility occupied the site of an old
U.S. Navy weapons station. Looking at the barracks, he decided that
these must be a few of the original structures that had just barely held
on while others were demolished and replaced with prefabricated
modular office buildings.
He tried to guess what groups would be relegated to these forlorn
places: projects winding down after losing budget battles, new
employees awaiting their security clearances, or administrative staff
who didn’t need the high-tech laboratories of the bread-winning
nuclear researchers. It looked as if Dr. Gregory’s project had lost a bit
of prestige.
Mulder trudged up the old wooden stairs and yanked at the door,
which stuck briefly in its frame before opening. He entered, ready to
flash his visitor’s badge and his FBI ID
card, even though Rosabeth Carrera had assured him this section of
the research facility was open to approved visitors. The building was
inside the perimeter fence and therefore remained inaccessible to the
general public, but no classified work could be performed in any of
these offices. The hall was empty. Mulder saw only a kitchenette with
a coffeemaker and a big plastic jug of spring water perched on a
cooler. A laser-printed sign on salmon-colored paper was tacked to the
wall, and Mulder saw several other copies posted up and down the
hall on doors and bulletin boards. WARNING, ASBESTOS AREA.
THE HAZARD REMOVAL TEAM WILL BE
WORKING
THE FOLLOWING DATES: ___
43
THE X-FILES
Naturally, the dates handwritten on the blank line were precisely the
days he and Scully planned to be in the area. Beneath, in a brush-
stroke script, as if someone had gotten cute changing fonts on their
word-processing program:
“Please pardon the inconvenience.”
Mulder followed the short kitchenette-hall to where it intersected with
the main corridor of offices. The ceiling creaked, and he looked up to
see water-stained acoustic tiles barely hanging on to a suspended
structure around fluorescent lights. Footsteps on the second floor
continued; the old support beams groaned with weariness.
He stopped at the end of the hall. The entire area to his left was
swathed in plastic wrap, as if some mysterious preservation activity
was underway. Workers wearing overalls and heavy, full-facepiece
respirators wielded crowbars behind a translucent plastic curtain,
tearing the sheetrock off the walls. Others used high-powered shop
vacuums to suck away the dust that came out. They made a
tremendous racket. Yellow tape blocked the corridor farther on, with
another handmade sign dangling from the flimsy X barricade.
ASBESTOS REMOVAL OPERATIONS IN PROGRESS. DANGER!
DO NOT CROSS.
Mulder glanced at the little yellow note of paper on which he had
written Bear Dooley’s temporary office number. “I hope it’s not down
there,” he said, looking at the asbestos work site. He turned right
instead and began checking doorways, most of
44
GROUND ZERO
which were closed—not necessarily because the rooms were empty,
but because the people couldn’t work with so much noise in the halls.
He followed the room numbers down the hall, listening to the
construction workers batter away, excavating the old asbestos-
contaminated insulation, which would be replaced with new approved
materials. Asbestos insulation had been considered perfectly safe
decades earlier. But now, because of new safety regulations, the
workers seemed to be creating an even larger hazard. To fix the
problem, they gutted the old building, spending huge amounts of the
taxpayer’s money, and quite probably releasing far more broken
asbestos fibers into the air than would ever have been released in the
natural lifetime of the building during normal use. He wondered if, a
decade or two down the road, someone would decide that the new
material was also hazardous, and the entire process would repeat
itself. Mulder remembered a joke from an old Saturday Night Live that
he had considered enormously funny while sprawled out on his sofa
late one Saturday evening. The Weekend Update commentator
proudly announced that scientists had at last discovered that cancer
was actually caused by...(drum roll) white lab rats!
Now, though, the joke didn’t seem quite as humorous. He wondered
how Scully was doing with her autopsy on Dr. Gregory’s body.
He finally reached Bear Dooley’s half-closed office door, which was
burdened with numerous layers of thick brown paint. Inside the dim
room, a burly man wearing a denim jacket and flannel shirt and jeans
stacked boxes onto tall black file cabinets, arranging items hastily
retrieved from his old office.
45
THE X-FILES
Mulder rapped on the door with his knuckles and pushed it farther
open. “Excuse me. Dr. Dooley?”
The broad-shouldered man turned to look at him. He had long,
reddish brown hair and a shaggy beard that looked like it was made of
copper wire, except for a striking shot of white down the left side of
his chin, as if he had spilled a dribble of milk there. His mouth and
nose were covered with a white filter mask.
“Get a mask on—are you crazy?” he said. Dooley moved like a
quarterback to the battered temporary desk, where he popped open
the top right-hand drawer and snatched out a filter packet. With his
meaty hands he tore off the plastic and tossed the mask to Mulder.
“You FBI guys are supposed to be so smart—I’d think you could
manage a few simple safety precautions.”
Mulder sheepishly fastened the mask around his face with a long
elastic band and breathed through the paper-smelling covering. He
held his badge in his hand, flipping open his ID to display the photo
and badge. “Bear Dooley, I presume?
How did you know I was from the FBI?”
The big man let out a loud laugh. “Are you kidding? A suit and a tie
means you're either with the DOE or the FBI—and with Dr. Gregory’s
weird death I assumed you were FBI. We were told to expect you and
to cooperate.”
“Thanks,” Mulder said, coming in and sitting in a chair next to the
man’s cluttered desk without being invited. “I’ve got only a few
questions for you at the moment. Pll try not to take too long. We’re
still at the beginning of our investigation.”
Dooley continued to unload his possessions from cardboard boxes,
shoving folders into file-cabinet drawers and dumping pens and
notepads into the long center drawer on his desk.
46
GROUND ZERO
“First off,” Mulder said, “can you tell me about the project you and
Dr. Gregory were working on?”
“Nope,” Bear Dooley said, turning back to pull out framed photos and
some sheaves of what appeared to be weather satellite printouts,
technical reports, water temperature maps of the oceans. “Can’t tell
you about that. It’s a classified project.”
“T see,” Mulder said. “Well, can you think of any unclassi- fied way that
any part of this project might have backfired and killed Dr. Gregory?”
“Nope again,” Dooley said.
Mulder got the impression that Bear Dooley was usually this gruff
with newcomers—that he did not suffer fools gladly—but that right
now the man was particularly distracted. Perhaps he was more than a
little overwhelmed to have the entire project thrust upon him so
suddenly. Mulder watched the engineer’s movements, listened to his
abrupt answers. He tried to piece together a scenario where Dooley,
wanting to become the new big shot, would arrange for the death of
the real project head, thereby setting himself up to become the
obvious successot....
But it didn’t ring true. Dooley didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.
“Maybe we’d better try a safer area. How long have you worked for
Dr. Gregory?” Mulder asked.
Dooley stopped and scratched his head. “Four or five years, I guess.
Most of the time as a technician. Thought I was working hard then,
but now he’s left me with a set of big shoes to fill.”
“How long have you been his deputy project director?”
Dooley answered that one more quickly. “Eleven months, ever since
Miriel flaked out on us.”
Outside in the hall a circular saw made a loud racket, followed by a
sharp yelp. The clanging sound of metal and dropped pipes, crashed
sheetrock and
47
THE X-FILES
wood prompted a brief outburst of cursing and a scurry of frantic
efforts to get the hazardous asbestos under control. It made Mulder
think of a dentist drilling deep into a patient’s molar, and suddenly
whispering “Oops!” under his breath. His stomach knotted.
“What is all this stuff about the South Sea Islands?” he said, gesturing
to the photos. “Aerial images and weather patterns.”
Dooley shrugged and hesitated a moment as he concocted an
explanation. “Maybe I’m planning a vacation—get away from it all,
you know. Besides, that’s the Western Pacific, not the South Seas.”
“Funny. Dr. Gregory had similar photos in his office.”
“Could be we had the same travel agent,” Dooley answered.
Mulder leaned forward. He found it difficult to conduct a serious
interrogation while both of them were wearing these absurd filter
masks. His breathing made his cheeks and lips hot. His voice was
muffled and subdued. “Tell me about Bright Anvil.”
“Never heard of it,” Dooley answered crisply.
“Yes you have.”
“You don’t have a need-to-know,” Dooley countered.
“T have a security clearance,” Mulder said.
“Your FBI clearances don’t mean a damn thing to me, Agent Mulder,”
Dooley said. “I’ve signed papers. I’ve gone to my security briefing. I
know the level of classification my work falls under. Unlike certain
other assistants of Dr. Gregory, I take my oaths seriously.”
Dooley pointed a blunt finger at Mulder. “You might not realize this,
Mr. FBI—but you and I are on the same side. I’m fighting for this
country, doing what our government deems necessary. If
48
GROUND ZERO
you want a blabbermouth, why don’t you go see Miriel Bremen at her
Stop Nuclear Madness! headquarters? You can find the address in any
one of the thousand or so leaflets they left scattered in the ditches and
along the fence yesterday. Go ask her your questions. Then arrest her
for divulging national security information.
“In fact, why don’t you ask her a lot of questions. She was around
when Emil Gregory died, and she had plenty of motive to mess up our
project.”
Mulder looked sharply at him. “Tell me more.”
Bear Dooley’s color deepened as his long-standing resentment boiled
to the surface. “She and her protesters were here the whole time. They
threatened to stop at nothing— nothing, if you take the clear
implications of that word—to sabotage our work. Miriel would know
how to do it, since she worked here long enough. Maybe she’s the one
who planted something in Gregory’s office. Maybe she’s behind it all.”
“We'll check it out,” Mulder said.
Dooley set a box full of office supplies down heavily on the desk. Pens
and pencils and scissors clattered next to his stapler and tape
dispenser.
“Now I’ve got a lot of work to do, Agent Mulder. I was already up to
my nose in responsibilities, and now it’s gotten even worse. Add to
that the fact that I’ve been pulled out of my comfortable offices and
stuck in this godawful hole trying to make do, working on a project in
a barracks building where I can’t even pull out any of my classified
papers.”
Mulder thought of something else as he stepped to the door. “I noticed
in Dr. Gregory’s office that some of his reports and papers had been
taken away from the death scene. Disturbing the evidence at a crime
scene is a serious offense. You didn’t have anything to do with that,
did you?”
49
THE X-FILES
Bear Dooley emptied the last items out of a cardboard box, then
upended it on the floor and took great pleasure in stomping the
cardboard flat. “All of our project reports are controlled documents,
Agent Mulder—numbered and assigned to a specific user. Some of Dr.
Gregory’s reports were one-of-a-kind. Maybe it was something we
needed for our work. Our project takes precedence.”
“Over a murder investigation? Who told you that?”
“Ask the Department of Energy. They might not tell you much about
the project, but they will tell you that much.”
“You sound pretty confident,” Mulder said.
“As my old girlfriend used to say, self-confidence isn’t one of my weak
points,” Dooley said.
Mulder pressed the issue. “Could I get a list of the documents that you
took from Dr. Gregory’s office?”
“No,” Dooley answered. “The titles are classified.”
Mulder kept his cool. He reached into his pocket and removed one of
his cards. “This is the main office of the Bureau. You can reach me
through the federal telephone system here on your lab phone, or call
me on my cellular if you think of anything else you can tell me.”
“Sure.” Dooley took the card and offhandedly opened up the center
desk drawer already cluttered with pens and rulers, push pins, paper
clips, and other debris. He tossed the card inside, where he would
probably never be able to find it again, even if he wanted to.
Mulder didn’t get the impression Bear Dooley would want to.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Dooley,” he said.
“That’s Mister Dooley,” the engineer said, then lowered his voice.
“Never finished my Ph.D. Been too busy working to worry about
things like that.”
50
GROUND ZERO
“TIl let you get back to your project then,” Mulder said, and slipped
out into the hall, where the construction workers continued to rip out
sheets of asbestos-containing material behind thin curtains of plastic.
51
SEVEN
Gregory Residence, Pleasanton, California Wednesday, 10:28 A.M.
The key fit the lock, but Mulder knocked loudly anyway, pushing the
door open a crack before poking his head inside.
“Ding, dong—Avon calling,” he said.
Emil Gregory’s home greeted him with only a shadowy silence.
Beside him, Scully pursed her lips. “There shouldn’t be anyone here,
Mulder. Dr. Gregory lived alone.” She opened the folder that she had
been holding against her dark blue jacket. “It says in this report that
his wife died six years ago. Leukemia.”
Mulder shook his head, frowning. He thought of the terminal cancer
Scully had found while doing the autopsy on Gregory’s body the
previous afternoon. “Doesn’t anyone die peacefully in their sleep of
old age anymore?”
The two of them hesitated outside the cool, dusty house that sat alone
at the end of a cul-de-sac. 52
GROUND ZERO
The architecture of Gregory’s home seemed out of place compared to
the neighboring houses, its rounded corners and curving arches
reminiscent of a Southwestern adobe mansion. Colorful enameled tiles
lined the front doorway, and grapevines coiled around an arbor that
shaded the porch area.
After waiting a few extra seconds, Mulder pushed the door all the way
open. In the foyer, they walked across large, cool terra-cotta tiles and
took two steps down to the main living level.
Though Gregory had died only a day and a half before, the place
already had an abandoned feel to it, like a haunted house. “Amazing
how fast that oppressive atmosphere can settle in,” Mulder
commented.
“Its obvious he was a bachelor,” Scully said. Mulder looked around
and saw no particular untidiness to the house. In fact, it reminded him
of the condition of his own apartment much of the time. He wondered
if she was somehow ribbing him.
The main room had all the usual furniture—sofa, love seat, a
television, a stereo set—but it didn’t look as if it had been used
terribly often. On the coffee table in front of the sofa a pile of old
magazines lay partially buried under a dozen technical reports bearing
the logo of the Teller Nuclear Research Facility and several more from
the Los Alamos and Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories. The
pale tan walls had a smooth and buttery appearance, like soft clay.
Alcoves molded around a fireplace displayed an assortment of small
knick-knacks. Painted Anasazi pots sat on small shelves; bright spirit-
catchers decorated the walls. A wreath of dried red chili peppers hung
centered over the mantel.
The entire house had the authentic Santa Fe 53
THE X-FILES
flavor, but Mulder got the impression these decorations must have
been artfully arranged by Dr. Gregory’s long-dead wife, and the old
scientist had not had the stamina or the incentive to redecorate the
main part of the house in his own style.
“After he lost his wife, Dr. Gregory didn’t seem to have any interests
aside from his work,” Scully said, flipping through the dossier again.
“According to this record, he took a two-month leave of absence to
arrange for the funeral and to get his mind back on things—but
apparently he didn’t know what to do with himself. Since his return to
work at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility, his employee file is
stuffed with commendations. It seems he threw himself into his
research with complete abandon. It was his entire life.”
“Any record there of what he was really working on?”
Mulder asked.
“Because his project was highly classified, it doesn’t specify.”
“Same old story,” Mulder said.
In the kitchen Scully found several bottles of prescription pain killers
on the countertop. She shook them and studied the labels. Some of the
bottles were half empty.
“He was taking some pretty heavy medication...analgesics and
narcotics,” she said. “The pain from his cancer must have been
incredible. I haven’t gotten his personal medical record unsealed yet,
but Dr. Gregory undoubtedly knew he only had a few months to live.”
“Yet he still went to work every day,” Mulder said. “Now that’s
dedication.”
He wandered around in the empty house, not sure what he was
looking for. He crossed the living room and stepped down a side
hallway that led to the back bedrooms and study. Along these walls,
in
54
GROUND ZERO
the private part of Gregory’s home, was a completely different style of
decoration.
Framed photos adorned the wall in a haphazard arrangement that
implied a man with a hammer and a nail, but without the patience or
desire to use a yardstick and level. It looked as if the photos had been
mounted as Dr. Gregory collected them over the years, one at a time,
and placed wherever he found room.
Each image was different, yet with one striking similarity: the
repetitive fury of huge atomic mushroom clouds, nuclear blasts, one
after another—some more powerful than others. Mulder spotted a
desert backdrop behind some of the blasts, while many others showed
the ocean and Navy destroyers. Teams of scientists, identifiable in
their cotton shirts and black-rimmed glasses, smiled for the camera
beside military officers and other men in uniforms.
“And to think some people collect paintings of Elvis on black velvet,”
Mulder said, studying the mushroom clouds. Scully came up beside
him. “I recognize some of those pictures,” she said. “Classic photos.
Those were the Marshall Islands hydrogen bomb detonations of the
mid-fifties. These others...I think they were aboveground blasts at the
Nevada Test Site, a few shots from Project Plowshare.” She stared at
the photos. Mulder looked at her, surprised by the disturbed
expression on her face.
“Something wrong?”
She shook her head, then tucked a strand of light auburn hair behind
her ear. “No...no, it’s not that. I was just remembering that, according
to his file, Dr. Gregory had worked on nuclear weapons since the days
of the Manhattan Project. He was present at the Trinity Test, then
worked at Los Alamos.
55
THE X-FILES
He took part in many of the H-bomb detonations in the fifties.”
Mulder stared at what appeared to be the largest mushroom cloud, an
enormous eruption of water and fire and smoke out in the ocean. It
looked as if an entire small island had been vaporized. Handwritten
on the bottom border of the glossy were the words “Castle Bravo.”
“Must have been quite something to see,” he said. Scully gave him a
quick surprised look. “Not something I’d ever want to see,” she said.
He quickly ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Rhetorically
speaking, I meant.” He read the strange names scrawled on each of the
photos. They had been written with different pens but obviously by
the same hand. Some of them had faded over the years; others had
retained their color and darkness better.
“Sawtooth”
“Mike 2)
“Bikini Baker”
“Greenhouse”
“Ivy”
“Sandstone X-ray”
“What’s this, some kind of code?” Mulder said. Scully shook her head.
“No. Those were the names of the test shots, different bomb designs.
Each one was given a kind of nonsense name. The tests themselves
weren’t a particular secret, just the details of the device, time,
anticipated yield, and core assembly. One whole series of underground
blasts out at Nevada was named after California ghost towns. Another
series used the names of various cheeses.”
“What a bunch of funny guys.”
Mulder left the photo gallery behind and stepped 56
GROUND ZERO
into the large, disorganized office where Gregory had done his work at
home. Despite the clutter of papers, notes, and books scattered in
various piles around the room, he suspected that Dr. Gregory could
have found any item at a moment’s notice. A den or an office in the
home was a man’s private sanctum, and, despite the random
appearance of all the paraphernalia, over the years the old scientist
must have gradually arranged it exactly the way he wanted. Now,
seeing unfinished ideas jotted down on yellow legal pads and in
bound lab notebooks, Mulder experienced the poignant sense of a life
suddenly stopped. It was as if an amateur filmmaker had placed his
videocamera on PAUSE
while Dr. Emil Gregory did an EXIT STAGE LEFT, leaving all the props
in place and untouched.
Mulder carefully looked at the notes, papers, technical reports. He
found a stack of colorful travel brochures for various small Pacific
islands. Some were flashy and produced professionally while others
appeared to be crudely made by people who didn’t exactly know what
they were doing.
“You don’t expect to find anything here, do you?” said Scully. “It’s
unlikely that Dr. Gregory ever took any classified work home.”
“Probably not,” Mulder said. “But he was brought up during the
Manhattan Project days. Security was a little more lax than it is now,
since everyone was working on the same team against the same bad
guys.”
“And here we are still building bombs to fight against the bad guys—
yet we're not at all certain who the bad guys are anymore,” Scully said
quickly, almost as if by reflex. Mulder looked sidelong at her, raising
his eyebrows. “Was that an editorial comment, Agent Scully?”
57
THE X-FILES
She didn’t answer. Instead she picked up a framed certificate that had
been taken off the wall and set atop one of the low bookshelves.
Mulder could still see the naked nail on the wall where it had hung.
“T wonder why he took this one down,” she said, tilting it so he could
see.
The certificate was a competently made printout from a laser printer
with a logo designed with a low-end computer art program—just a
joke, but someone had obviously spent a lot of time on it. The symbol
in the center of the parchment was a stylized bell with a clapper
dangling beneath its shell. Superimposed on top was the slashed circle
of the universal
“No” symbol. The words underneath read, “This prestigious NO-BELL
prize awarded to Dr. Emil Gregory by the Bright Anvil Project staff.”
“No-Bell prize,” Mulder said with a groan. “The strangest part, though,
is that Bear Dooley—Dr. Gregory’s number one man—insisted to me
vehemently just yesterday that the Bright Anvil Project doesn’t exist.
Who signed that certificate?”
Scully glanced down. “Miriel Bremen—the woman who used to work
for Gregory but then quit to become a protester.”
“Ah,” Mulder said. “Based on this, and what Bear Dooley told me
yesterday, I think it’s time we spoke with Miriel Bremen. The offices
of the protest group are in Berkeley, aren’t they? Not far from here.”
Scully nodded, preoccupied. Her answer surprised him.
“Td like to go see her by myself, Mulder.”
“Any particular reason why you’re giving me the afternoon off?”
She shook her head. “Old stuff, Mulder. Nothing to do with this case.”
58
GROUND ZERO
Mulder nodded slowly. He knew enough not to push her when she
didn’t want to come out with what was bothering her. He trusted his
partner to tell him in her own time. 59
EIGHT
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Wednesday, 12:08 P.M.
Two days of maniacal asbestos-removal construction— de struction,
actually—had left a disconcerting whitish film all over Bear Dooley’s
desk, his notebooks, his computer terminal, and his telephone.
Using an industrial-strength paper tissue, he wiped down the exposed
surfaces, telling himself that it was probably just flakes of drywall,
gypsum from the plasterboard, nothing hazardous. All of the stray
asbestos fibers would certainly have been removed with meticulous
care. The contractors were, after all, government employees.
That thought sparked uneasiness in him all over again. Dooley wanted
his old office back. He passionately disliked these temporary quarters.
He felt as if he were camping in his own workplace. “Roughing it,”
Mark Twain would have called it.
Such distractions annoyed him. The Bright 60
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Anvil project was too important for him and his coworkers to “make
do” while the investigation into Dr. Gregory’s death continued. What
did that have to do with the progress of the test? Who set the
priorities around here, anyway? The project had a very narrow
window of time, and conditions had to be exactly right. A murder
investigation could continue indefinitely, regardless of the time of
year or weather conditions. Just let Bright Anvil go off without a
hitch, he thought, and the FBI agents could have all the time they
wanted. He glanced at his watch. The new satellite images were ten
minutes overdue. Dooley reached for the phone, then heaved a sigh of
disgust. It wasn’t his own phone in his own office with numbers
preprogrammed on the dialing pad. Instead he had to ransack the desk
drawers for a facility phone book and flip through the pages until he
found Victor Ogilvy’s extension. He punched it in, rubbing his fingers
together and looking at the fine white dust he had picked up.
Scowling in disgust, Dooley wiped his hand on his jeans. The phone
rang twice before a thin voice answered.
“Victor, where’s that weather report?” he said without wasting time
on greetings or cordialities. His young assistant could certainly
recognize his booming voice by now.
“We’ve got it, Bear,” came the researcher’s nasal reply. “I was just
double-checking and triple-checking the meteorological projections.
Uh, I think you'll like them this time around.”
“Well, get ’em over here,” Dooley said, “so I can check them a fourth
time. Things have to be exactly right.”
“On my way!” Victor hung up the phone.
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THE X-FILES
Dooley sat back in the creaking old chair, trying to get comfortable.
The air-conditioning was turned up too high in the old barracks
building, so he had not taken off the denim jacket that covered his red
flannel shirt. With his long hair and bushy beard he looked like a
mountain man. His demeanor intimidated many of the people around
him, particularly those who didn’t work for him. Bear Dooley didn’t
think he was all that difficult a taskmaster, so long as everyone did
what they were expected to do. If they weren’t willing to do their jobs,
then they shouldn’t have bothered to apply in the first place. Victor
and the other engineers who had been on Dooley’s team for several
years understood that he was perfectly easy to get along with, that he
trusted them and their abilities—but his team members also knew
they’d better run for cover if they ever let him down. Out in the halls,
the construction workers continued their hammering and pounding,
tearing down the walls. Plastic sheeting lay draped over everything as
the laborers ransacked another wing of the building.
The barracks’ outside door opened, and redheaded Victor Ogilvy
bounded up the wooden stairs, then down the linoleum hallway to
Dooley’s temporary office. He burst in, his face florid, grinning with
the eagerness of Jimmy Olsen hot on a news story. His wire-rimmed
glasses slipped down his nose.
“Here’s the satellite printouts,” he said. “And here’s the overlays.” He
spread the projections on Dooley’s cleared desk, weighting the curling
edges with a stapler and a pair of scissors.
“See the storm clouds here, Bear? Ninety-five percent probability that
this depression will follow the path I’ve marked with red dashes.” He
traced a
62
GROUND ZERO
big-knuckled finger along a contour in the Western Pacific, just past
the International Date Line in the Marshall Islands.
“lve looked for projected landfalls, and there seems to be an
absolutely perfect target—right here.” Victor’s finger completely
obscured a minuscule dot that looked like a printer’s error in the
middle of the ocean. “Bingo!”
Dooley looked down. “Enika Atoll.”
“Its in the ephemeris,” Victor said, then jerked his head over to
Dooley’s bookshelf.
Dooley leaned back in his chair to grab the thick book, blowing the
white gypsum dust from its spine. He riffled the pages, studying the
nautical coordinates and finding the brief listing for Enika.
“Oooh, exciting,” he said, reading the brief description.
“A big flat rock out in the middle of nowhere. No recent photos, but it
sounds tailor-made for our purposes. No existing settlements, not even
any history.”
“Nobody will ever notice anything there,” Victor agreed.
“Let me see those weather charts again.” Dooley reached forward,
snapping his fingers to make Victor hurry. The younger man spread
out the charts again, showing the angrylooking knot of cloud swirling
across the ocean like a clenched fist.
“Hurricane warnings have gone out to all the adjacent islands. There’s
not much in the vicinity, only a few sparsely populated islands such as
Kwajalein and Truk. It’s even in U.S. protectorate waters.”
“And youw’re sure the storm is going to hit land there?”
Dooley asked. He was already convinced, but he wanted someone else
to say it.
Victor gave an exasperated sigh. “Look at the size of that storm
system, Bear! How could it miss? We’ve got a week until projected
landfall—that’s an eternity 63
THE X-FILES
as far as weather projections go, but not much time to set up our
preparations...if we decide to go, that is.” The whipthin redhead
stepped back, shuffling his feet as if he had to go to the bathroom
badly.
Dooley fixed Victor with his best don’t-give-me-any-bullshit glare.
“What do you mean, if we decide to go? Is there anything to
recommend against it? Be straight.”
Victor shrugged. “Nothing that I can see—but it’s still your call, Bear.
Without Dr. Gregory, you’re the one pulling all the strings.”
Dooley nodded, knowing full well when he could trust his people—
and this was one such time. “All right, let’s start making phone calls.
As of right now I am activating Bright Anvil. We’re on our way. Let’s
get the Corps of Engineers flown out to Enika, get our destroyer on
standby down at Coronado Naval Base ready to move out as soon as
we arrive.”
Victor nodded quickly. “We’ve already done the paperwork with the
Department of Transportation for the SST. The Bright Anvil
equipment, diagnostics, and the device itself will be shipped down to
San Diego posthaste. The Coronado Base is waiting to receive it.”
Dooley nodded. Sending the SST, or Safe Secure Transport, was no
minor task, requiring clearances from numerous counties, the federal
highway system, as well as city commissions.
“Pull everybody’s travel papers. We need to get a move on,” he said.
“TIl be with the first crew going out to Enika. Support Team B—that’s
you, Victor—will be ready to take a transport plane out to the islands
once everything’s set up.”
Victor scrawled copious notes in handwriting that Bear Dooley had
once foolishly tried to decipher, but never again. Breathless, Victor
looked as if he might suffer from a stroke in his excitement.
64
GROUND ZERO
“Let’s go. No time to waste,” Dooley said. The young assistant scuttled
toward the door, but Dooley called after him. “Oh, and Victor?” The
other man turned, blinking owlishly behind his glasses, his mouth
partly open.
“Don’t forget to pack your swim trunks.”
Victor laughed and disappeared down the hall. Dooley stared down at
the maps and weather charts again, letting a smile creep across his
face. Finally, after all this time, they were moving on to the next step.
There could be no turning back once the wheels started moving.
Besides, he had to admit he wasn’t terribly sorry to get away from
those nosy FBI investigators. He had work to do. 65
NINE
Stop Nuclear Madness! Headquarters,
Berkeley, California
Wednesday, 12:36 P.M.
Scully took the rental car and drove alone into Berkeley, following
once-familiar highways. Now, though, she sensed she had become an
intruder in a place where she had previously felt at home. Heading
down Telegraph Avenue toward the campus, Scully saw that the
university remained basically unchanged. It stood like an island of
ferociously independent culture—the People’s Republic of Berkeley—
while the rest of the world went on its way. The unbroken string of
pizza joints, student art galleries, falafel stands, and recycled clothing
shops made her feel warm with nostalgia. She had spent her first year
of college here, getting her first taste of independence, making her
own choices on a day-to-day basis.
Scully watched the usual smattering of students, some on old bicycles
wearing white helmets, some 66
GROUND ZERO
jogging, some even Rollerblading. Young men and women wore
clothes that were somehow one step sideways from fashion; they
moved as if their every action was a Statement. Behind the steering
wheel of the new car—itself out of place—Scully surprised herself by
looking down at her conservative business jacket and slacks, her
professional briefcase, with some measure of embarrassment.
As an undergrad at Berkeley, Dana Scully and her friends had laughed
at people very much like what she herself had become.
Scully parked in a public ramp and walked out into the sunshine,
pushing sunglasses up on her nose and scanning the streets to get her
bearings. She walked along, glancing at kiosks that announced student
film festivals, rallies, and fund-raising events.
A black dog lay panting beside a tree to which it had been leashed. A
long-haired woman sat on a blanket in front of a strewn display of
handmade jewelry for sale, though she seemed more interested in
strumming her guitar than in pressuring potential buyers. Outside the
door to an old apartment complex, a cardboard box stuffed with
ragged paperbacks begged for customers; a sign taped to the box
announced that the books were “50 cents each!” A coffee can sat next
to the box, awaiting contributions. Tracking addresses by the numbers
on the sidewalk, Scully finally found the Stop Nuclear Madness!
Headquarters in a tall old building that looked as if it could have been
the set for a courthouse in an old black-and-white movie. A diner and
coffee shop shared the street level of the building with a large new-
and-used bookstore that catered to students buying and selling their
used textbooks as well as grabbing a quick read between exams.
A short flight of concrete steps led down from 67
THE X-FILES
the sidewalk to below street level. An easel propped beside the stairs
held a posterboard with stenciled letters announcing the protest group
and something called the “Museum of Nuclear Horrors.”
Scully went down the stairs, her heels clicking on the cement. The
place was typical of temporary headquarters on any university
campus, she thought. The owners of these old buildings specialized in
low-rent, short-term-lease offices, utilizing their extra space as quick-
setup bases for political campaigns, activist groups, and even tax-
preparation businesses around April. On the building’s outside wall
she noticed a faded Civil Defense symbol, the three-bladed radiation
sign surrounded by deep yellow, identifying the lower levels of the
building as a bomb shelter in the event of a nuclear emergency. Scully
stared at the symbol for a minute, thinking of the irony...and
experiencing a sense of familiarity as well. She had been in places like
this many times during her own student days. She pushed open the
basement door and entered the Stop Nuclear Madness! Headquarters.
She felt transported back in time. She remembered when she had been
younger, filled with enthusiasm to change the world.
Even in her first year she had been a good student, dedicated to her
physics classes and to learning. She knew how much money her
parents were spending on tuition, a good portion of her father’s Navy
salary, just to give her the chance to go to a big university.
But swept up in the alienness, the excitement of a culture so different
from her military upbringing, Scully had flirted with activism. She
read the pamphlets, listened to her fellow students talk far into the
night, and grew more and more upset at what
68
GROUND ZERO
she heard. Believing everything she read and discussed, she had spent
long sleepless nights in her dorm room, imagining what she could do
to Make a Difference. She had even contemplated joining one of the
protests scheduled out at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility—but
ultimately she had been too practical to follow through on the idea.
Still, her involvement had been enough to let her engage in spirited
discussions—no, she decided to be truthful with herself: they had been
outright arguments—with her father, a conservative and dignified
Navy captain stationed at the nearby Alameda Naval Air Station. It
had been one of the first subjects on which she and her father had
truly disagreed. That was before she had decided to join the FBI,
which had also brought her parents’ disapproval.
Scully loved her father greatly. She had been profoundly affected by
his recent death just after the Christmas holidays. He used to call her
Starbuck, she called him Ahab...but that was all in the past. She
would never see him again. Scully had spent only a year at Berkeley
before the Navy had transferred her father, and she herself had gone
to the University of Maryland to study. Most of their wounds had been
bandaged a long time before, and no doubt her father had simply
considered her brush with the protesters to be an example of the
brashness of youth.
Now that she stood on the threshold of the Stop Nuclear Madness!
Headquarters, those sore spots grew tender again. But Scully had not
come here to join in the protest movement this time. She had a death
to investigate. And some of the clues had led her here.
As she entered the small offices, the woman behind the desk turned to
give her an automatic smile—but froze with instant suspicion upon
seeing
69
THE X-FILES
her professional garb. Scully felt a sinking in her stomach. The young
receptionist was in her early twenties, with skin the color of light milk
chocolate and bushy hair knotted into a medusa swirl of dangling
dreadlocks. Her necklace consisted of enormous rectangles of
enameled metal; the voluminous wrap covering her body was a
dizzying geometric pattern—some sort of Swahili tribal dress, Scully
decided. She glanced down at the fancy engraved nameplate—
probably a minor concession of importance for the volunteer workers
—on the table that served as a makeshift front desk.
“Becka Thorne.” Beside the nameplate, the table held a telephone
book, telephone, an old typewriter, and some preprinted leaflets.
Scully pulled out her ID. “I’m Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI.
I’m here to speak with a Ms. Miriel Bremen.”
Becka Thorne’s eyebrows went up. “I...I’ll see if she’s here,” she said.
Her voice was cold and uninviting, her guard up. Again Scully felt a
pang of disappointment. Becka Thorne seemed to be pondering
whether or not to lie. Finally she got up and glided to the back of the
offices, her colorful wrap swishing as she moved. Somewhere out of
sight behind movable fabric partitions Scully could hear an
overworked photocopy machine churning out leaflets. While she
waited, Scully studied the posters and photo enlargements mounted
on the wall, presumably the Museum of Nuclear Horrors promised on
the sign outside. A computer-printed banner had been tacked up at
ceiling level, proclaiming in large dot-matrix letters: “WE’VE
ALREADY
HAD ONE NUCLEAR WAR—WE MUST
70
GROUND ZERO
PREVENT THE NEXT ONE!” Grainy black-and-white enlargements of
awesome mushroom clouds adorned the painted cinderblock walls.
They reminded her of the hallway in Dr. Gregory’s home. There,
though, the photographs had been trophies occupying honored
positions. Here they were accusations. One poster listed known
international atomic bomb tests and the amount of radiation each
aboveground blast had showered into the air. She saw a chart with
rising bars that showed the increase of cancer in the United States
attributed to such residual radiation, particularly strontium 90
contamination in grass consumed by dairy cows, which was then
carried into their milk and ingested by children who poured it over
their artificially sweetened breakfast cereals. As the bars rose from
year to year, the numbers appeared staggering. Another display listed
the islands that had been destroyed in the Pacific Ocean, with pathos-
filled photographs of natives from Bikini Island and Eniwetok Atoll as
the U.S. military evacuated them from their island paradises to make
way for atomic bomb tests.
At the time, the evacuation efforts had been undertaken at enormous
cost. For years the Bikini Islanders had petitioned the United States
and the United Nations to be allowed to return to their homeland, but
only after the United States footed the atrocious bill to remove the
residual radioactivity from their coral reefs, their beaches, their
jungles. Thinking of the island photographs on Dr. Gregory’s walls, as
well as the satellite images and weather projections in his lab office,
Scully inspected the exhibit with greater interest. In 1971 the Bikini
Atoll had been declared safe, and the islanders were allowed to return.
But tests in 1977 showed that the atoll still seethed with
71
THE X-FILES
dangerous levels of radiation, and the inhabitants were forced to
evacuate again. Residents of Eniwetok Atoll, which also was used for a
prolonged series of hydrogen bomb tests, returned to their homes in
1976, only to learn that a nuclear waste dump on the islands would
remain contaminated for thousands of years. In the early 1980s it was
found that residents of islands even one hundred and twenty
kilometers away from the original tests had developed an unusually
high incidence of thyroid tumors.
Shaking her head, Scully moved on to the worst part of all, the
centerpiece of the museum—a gallery of gut-wrenching photos
showing the blasted remains of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, burned
corpses left in the wake of the fireball that had blazed across Japanese
skies a half-century before. Some of the bodies had been incinerated
so completely that nothing remained but greasy shadows of black ash
splashed against the walls of surviving buildings. Worse even than the
corpses were the blistered and suppurating survivors. As Scully looked
at the photos she noticed an unsettling familiarity between those
bodies and the corpse of Dr. Emil Gregory in his own radiation-
washed laboratory.
“Yes, Agent Scully?” a woman’s terse voice said. Scully turned to see
Miriel Bremen, a tall woman with short, wavy mouse-brown hair cut
in an unflattering squarish style. Her chin was long, her nose pointed,
and her gray eyes seemed weary. She was not an attractive woman,
but her bearing and her voice bespoke a no-nonsense quality of
intelligence.
“So now what did we do?” Miriel said impatiently, not allowing Scully
to speak. “I’m getting tired of all this harassment. We’ve filed the
appropriate papers, given the required notices, obtained
72
GROUND ZERO
the correct permits. What on earth has my group done to attract the
attention of the FBI?”
“Pm not investigating your group, Ms. Bremen,” Scully said. “I’m
looking into the death of Dr. Emil Gregory two days ago at the Teller
Nuclear Research Facility.”
Miriel Bremen’s cool mask cracked, and her whole body sagged. “Oh,”
she said. “Emil...that’s different.”
She paused, gripping the receptionist’s table with one hand and took a
deep breath. Becka Thorne watched to see if she could help, then
surreptitiously disappeared to attend to the photocopy machine. Miriel
glanced around as if for reassurance at the posters of Nagasaki
victims, at the forlorn Bikini Islanders.
“Sure, let’s talk, Agent Scully—but not here.”
73
TEN
Triple Rock Brewery and Cafe,
Berkeley, California
Wednesday, 1:06 P.M.
Miriel Bremen led the way to a small microbrewery and restaurant
only a few blocks’ walk from the heart of the university. Scully
followed Miriel through the wood-framed glass doors into a room full
of booth tables layered with a thick armor of glossy varnish, and a bar
lined with empty stools. The droning background noise of pedestrians
on the sidewalk and constant traffic on the main streets faded as they
stepped inside.
Metal signs advertising long-out-of-business beer manufacturers from
the 1940s and 1950s covered the walls. Above the brass-railed bar, a
chalkboard listed the four handmade brews on tap. On the back wall,
next to a dartboard and pool table, a large green slateboard suggested
deli sandwiches, hot dogs, nachos, or salads from the food-prep
window.
74
GROUND ZERO
2)
“You order food over there,” Miriel indicated a smaller counter.
“Vegetarian chili is their specialty, but the soup’s pretty good, too...
and of course a sandwich is a sandwich is a sandwich. People come
here for the beer. Best you’ll find anywhere.”
She left Scully to prop her briefcase in one of the booths far from the
door and gestured with her shoulder at the list of house beers on tap.
“What are you having?” Miriel said.
“The stout is to die for.”
“TIl just have an iced tea,” Scully said. “I’m on duty.”
Miriel frowned at her. “Listen, Agent Scully—the whole point of going
to a microbrewery is to taste some decent beer. This isn’t Budweiser
Lite, you know. They’d probably throw us out on our ears if we
ordered iced tea in here.”
Scully didn’t think the manager would do any such thing, but the
place did remind her of her student days enough that she felt a pang
inside. She wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but Scully couldn’t afford to
scorn an overture of friendship, if she wanted Miriel to open up and
answer probing questions.
“All right, let me try one of the stouts, then. But just a small one—and
only one.”
Miriel forced a faint smile onto her hard face. “That’ll be up to you to
decide.” She went to the bar while Scully perused the list of
sandwiches. “Get me a hot dog and a cup of chili,”
Miriel called back. “I take it Uncle Sam is paying?”
“T am,” Scully said, noting the prices and realizing that they both
could get by on less than ten dollars for lunch. When they returned to
their table, Scully sat down, reaching across the table to pick up her
pint of dark malty stout. “Looks thick enough to hold up a spoon,” she
said. 75
THE X-FILES
She took a sip and swallowed, surprised at the density of the drink.
The taste was overpowering, almost chocolaty. A true liqueur of a
beer, not the light, sour-tasting stuff she occasionally drank very cold
out of a can at picnics or birthday parties. Scully raised her eyebrows
and nodded in approval at the woman in the seat across from her. She
tried to think of where to begin, but Miriel pre-empted her. The
protester seemed to have no problems with self-expression, bypassing
time-consuming pleasantries and the dance of conversational give-
and-take before Scully could get around to the real questions.
“So, let me tell you why I think you’re here,” Miriel Bremen said. “It’s
one of two possibilities. Either you think I, or someone from my
protest group, has in some way caused the death of Emil Gregory—or
you’ve been stymied by your escorts at the Teller Facility, your lack of
appropriate security clearances, and your inability to access classified
documents. Nobody’ll tell you anything, and you’ve come to me
thinking I have some answers.”
Scully spoke slowly. “A little of both, Ms. Bremen. I’ve completed the
autopsy on Dr. Gregory. There’s little doubt as to the primary injuries
that resulted in his death, but I haven’t yet been able to determine
how they came about. What could Dr. Gregory have stumbled into
that caused his death?
“TIl have to admit that your protest group does have a credible motive
for wanting Dr. Gregory out of the picture, so I have to look into it. I
also know that Dr. Gregory—a man you worked with—was involved
in some sort of classified weapons project, something called Bright
Anvil. But nobody will tell us what that is. And here you are, Ms.
Bremen, at the intersection of both of my lines of investigation.”
76
GROUND ZERO
“Well then, let me tell you something,” Miriel Bremen said, folding
her hands around her pint of dark beer and taking a long swallow. “It
sounds clichéd to say that I have nothing to hide—but in this instance
I truly don’t. It works to my benefit to tell more and more people
about what’s really going on at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility.
I’ve been trying to blow the whistle on them for the past year. Here, I
brought along some of our group’s brochures.” She reached into her
pocket and handed over two of the hand-folded, photocopied
pamphlets that some volunteer had no doubt designed on a personal
computer.
“Back when I worked at the Teller Facility, I was quite a devoted
assistant to Emil Gregory,” she said, settling her long chin into her
hand. “For many years he was my mentor. He helped me through the
politics and the paperwork and the progress reports so I could do
some real work.
“Your imagination is probably going to blow this out of proportion,
thinking we were lovers or something—but that’s just plain wrong.
Emil was old enough to be my grandfather, and he took an interest in
me because he saw that I had the talent and the enthusiasm to make a
good partner. He coached me, and we worked well together.”
“But you had some sort of falling out?” Scully said.
“In a sense...but not exactly the way you might be thinking,” Miriel
said, then sidestepped the question. “You want to know what Bright
Anvil is? It’s an unorthodox type of nuclear explosive. These days,
despite the end of the Cold War and the supposed downscaling of
nuclear weapons development, we're still designing new ones. Bright
Anvil is a very special type of warhead using a technology that...” She
paused, then stared at the walls, her
77
THE X-FILES
eyes unfocused, as if she was thinking of anything but the decorative
metal signs.
“A technology that...?” Scully encouraged. Miriel sighed and met
Scully’s gaze. “It’s a technology that seems to operate beyond the laws
of physics, as I know them—and I do know physics, Agent Scully. Pm
not aware of how much physics they taught you in your training as an
FBI agent, but—”
Scully interrupted her. “My undergraduate degree was in physics. I
spent one year here at Berkeley before I transferred to the University
of Maryland. I wrote my thesis on Einstein’s Twin Paradox.”
Miriel’s eyes widened. “I think I might have read that.” She
contemplated. “Dana Scully, right?”
Scully nodded, surprised. Miriel sat up and looked at her with greater
respect. “That was interesting stuff. Okay, now I know I don’t have to
put it in kindergarten terms—but I wish I could, because I don’t
understand it myself.
“The whole Bright Anvil Project was funded by non-traditional means,
invisible on the ledger sheets, money skimmed from other projects, to
pay for new tests, cutting-edge research, unorthodox concepts. Bright
Anvil was never listed on any budget submitted to Congress, and you
won’t be able to track it down.
“Emil had worked in the nuclear weapons industry for decades. He
was even at the Trinity Test, back in 1945.” She smiled wanly. “He
used to tell us stories....” Her lips trembled for just a moment, but she
covered it by eating some of her vegetarian chili. “But by now he was
at the end of his career. He thought he was hiding it from all of us, but
I don’t think he was in very good health.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Scully said.
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Miriel nodded, but asked no further questions. “Emil wanted to do
something important to end his career on a high note. He wanted to
leave a legacy behind. But all the work he’d been doing in the past
decade or so was just ‘fine tuning a paper bag,’ as we physicists call it.
“Then Bright Anvil fell in his lap. Someone else had done the
preliminary physics. We got designs for exotic, high-energy, pulsed-
power sources. It was a done deal. The components worked. I couldn’t
figure out how or why—but Emil didn’t worry about that. He got all
excited. He saw how such technology could be used to create a
fundamentally new kind of warhead. Emil took it and ran with it.
“Even from the start, I had my doubts—but I kidded myself. I followed
along because Emil had done so much for me. This was our new
project. I helped him run simulations, scenarios that had little
likelihood of ever coming about for real. But the more I worked with
it, the creepier it became. Bright Anvil was just too weird. It didn’t
seem to come from any physics I was ever taught in school. No
technology I know can do what it does. Some of the components of
the device were fabricated elsewhere. We never knew where or how—
we just received them from the program offices in Washington.”
Miriel finished off her beer. She glanced over at the bar as if she
wanted to order another one, but instead settled back to look across
the table where Scully sat in rapt attention. Miriel leaned over,
placing her elbows on the polished tabletop.
“Tm a scientist by training. But for me to understand, my science has
to have some foundation. And Bright Anvil has no scientific basis that
I can grasp. It’s something so exotic I couldn’t conceive of it with my
wildest imagination. So I backed off, I raised too
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many objections, and in the process made a lot of enemies.
“Then, in one of those serendipitous occurrences, I went to a
conference in Japan. Just out of curiosity I took a side trip to
Hiroshima and Nagasaki—you know, a weapons researcher’s
pilgrimage. Both cities have been rebuilt, but it’s like putting makeup
over a scar. I began to check into things. I read the literature that Pd
studiously avoided before, not wanting to look too closely at my own
conscience.
“Do you know what they did to the Marshall Islands with the nuclear
tests in the fifties? Do you know the horrible aboveground tests they
did out in Nevada, staking out livestock at various distances from
Ground Zero just so they could analyze the destructive effects of the
blast and flash on living tissue? Do you know how many Pacific
Islanders were booted off their homes, their peaceful idyllic island
existence destroyed, just so somebody could blow up a big bomb?”
“Yes,” Scully said. “I know.”
Miriel Bremen shoved her plate away, having finished most of her
lunch. She brushed off the front of her shirt. “I apologize. I was giving
you a sermon.” She nudged the Stop Nuclear Madness! brochures
across the booth closer to Scully.
“Read these if you want more information about it, and about us. I
won’t take up any more of your time.” She slipped out of the seat.
Scully glanced down and saw that she had eaten only half of her own
meal. Miriel Bremen had already ducked out the door, leaving Scully
alone in the restaurant before she could think of an intelligent follow-
up question. Considering what she had just learned, Scully picked up
her sandwich and chewed slowly.
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Someone dropped a quarter in the jukebox, which began blasting a
classic Bob Seeger single that seemed too rowdy for the lunch hour.
Scully quickly finished her meal and picked up the protest brochures
before stepping outside to head back to the parking ramp. Mulder
would be interested in the details, the new developments. She stopped
on the sidewalk at a wire trash can as a big city bus heaved by,
belching oily blue-gray exhaust. A skateboarder rattled past, dodging
pedestrians with reckless ease.
Scully stood tapping the homegrown pamphlets against her palm, on
the verge of tossing them into the wastebasket. Then she reconsidered.
“STOP NUCLEAR MADNESS” the title proclaimed.
Giving herself the excuse that she could consider them evidence,
Scully pocketed them instead. 81
ELEVEN
Coronado Naval Base, San Diego, California Thursday, 10:15 A.M.
From the Coronado shipyards the ocean sprawled westward,
stretching toward the curve of the earth, deep blue and dazzling with
reflected morning sunlight. The downtown skyscrapers rose high and
white across the narrow San Diego Bay. Cruise ships waited like
colorful behemoths at the public docks; a maze of piers bristled with
the masts of sailboats. The weather struck Bear Dooley as incredibly
mild, sunny but cooled by fresh breezes, so that even his flannel shirt
and denim jacket were tolerable. While riding in the taxi from the
airport, he drank in the colorful and clean city, surprisingly pleasant
for such a large urban area. But here, on the thin peninsula, the naval
base looked like a naval base, and the ships at the restricted docks
demonstrated quite clearly why the color had been named battleship
gray. 82
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A young officer in white dress uniform met Bear Dooley at the docks.
Dooley didn’t know the regulations of when sailors were supposed to
wear certain uniforms, but he got the impression that this blond-
haired, clean-cut Navy man might be someone of more-than-average
importance. The sailor—Dooley corrected himself: they probably
wanted to be called “seamen”—gave him a smart salute, though
Dooley didn’t believe he warranted one, according to military
protocol. He clumsily returned the salute without knowing whether
that was correct either.
2)
“Mr. Dooley, sir,” the man said, “I’m Commander Lee Klantze,
executive officer of the USS Dallas, here to escort you on board our
ship. If you’ll follow me, sir, Captain Ives is ready to see you. We’ve
recalled the entire crew and kept them busy provisioning the ship and
preparing to shove off. We’ll be ready to get under way as soon as
you're situated.”
Dooley’s jeans and flannel shirt were a marked contrast to the razor-
folded and bleached-white uniform of the Navy destroyer’s exec
officer. But Dooley wore his own personality like a shield. He never let
his attire bother him. He had been hired for his abilities, not for his
appearance. Dooley had trimmed his beard and shaved his cheeks and
neck that morning before rushing off to the San Francisco Airport for a
quick shuttle flight down the coast. He had spent the last two hours in
the air and then being taxied through the sparkling city of San Diego
over to the spit of land that held the Coronado Naval Base. He had
then wasted another half hour bulldozing his way through paperwork
and clearances and approvals, even though everything had already
supposedly been taken care of. Dooley hated to think of
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what hassles he would have encountered if everything hadn’t been in
order. The military did have its way of doing things, and little short of
an all-out war could get them to streamline their operations.
“How was your trip?” Klantze asked. “No complications other than the
military inefficiency getting on the base?”
“Yeah, the flight was fine, but nobody will give me a straight answer,”
Dooley said. “Did the SST arrive okay, all equipment safe and on
board?”
“T believe so, sir,” Klantze answered. “Sometime late last night. Sorry
for all the added security.” He pushed his wirerimmed glasses up on
his nose. Their Photogray lenses had turned dark, so Dooley could not
see the man’s eyes directly. The disguised and armored semi truck, the
Safe Secure Transport, had left at sunset the previous day and driven
south through the night on the California freeways to reach San Diego.
The drivers were escorted front and back by armed, nondescript vans,
whose drivers and passengers had orders to shoot to kill, no questions
asked, should anything threaten the nuclear device. No part of the
caravan was allowed to stop for so much as a bathroom break. Dooley
was glad he didn’t have to bother with those difficulties. He would
have preferred to have the entire expedition depart from the Alameda
Naval Air Station, a short hop away from the Teller Nuclear Research
Facility. But the Navy destroyer assigned to take them out to the
Marshall Islands was docked in San Diego. It was easier—and less
conspicuous—to move the Bright Anvil device and all its equipment
than it was to move an entire destroyer. Klantze turned about, ready
to march off, then glanced over his shoulder in sudden
embarrassment. “Oh, excuse me, sir—may I take your duffel, or your
case?”
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“Sure.” Dooley handed over the soft-sided satchel that contained a
week’s worth of clothes crammed into its various pockets. “I’ll carry
the briefcase though,” he said—not that it was handcuffed to his wrist
as in a spy thriller, but it contained classified documents crucial to the
Bright Anvil Project. It was securely locked, and Dooley planned to
hold on to it.
“As you wish, sir.”
The two of them strode along the dock, past several other chain-link
fences and gates guarded by armed military police. Dark, creosote-
covered planks formed the edge of the dock, while a narrow paved
road ran along the center. Klantze walked down the middle of the
road, keeping an eye out for government vehicles and puttering
Cushman carts that traveled up and down the dock on military
business. Finally, Dooley saw the large Navy destroyer that had been
assigned to his project. The enormous, sleek ship looked like a
skyscraper in the water, with weapons mounts and control towers,
radar antennas, satellite uplink dishes, meteorologic instruments, and
various superstructures Dooley could not identify. Navy stuff, he
figured. Along the deck ran barricades of rope mesh, painted to look
remarkably like a chain-link fence. Everything was the same shade of
gray—the rails and pipes and rigging and steps and ladders. Even the
long cannons. Only the bright orange life preservers mounted every
fifty feet along the hull provided a few spots of color. The U.S. flag
and Navy flags flew from all four corners of the ship. Dooley stopped
and looked along the length of the gigantic cruiser. Despite his usual
gruff demeanor, he was impressed with the vessel.
“There she is, Mr. Dooley,” Klantze said. He snapped to attention and
began to rattle off the
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ship’s statistics. They seemed to be a matter of pride with him, rather
than a memorized speech.
“The Dallas, Spruance Class, built in 1971. Five hundred sixty-three
feet overall length, powered by four sets of GE
gas turbines. She’s got a small captain’s gig for quick trips ashore, plus
an entire surface-to-air missile battery, antisubmarine weapons, and
torpedo tubes. This class of destroyer was designed primarily for
antisubmarine warfare, but she’s lightly armed and carries a minimal
crew. The Dallas is the finest vessel in her class, if you ask me, sir.
She'll get us out to the islands, no matter what the weather.”
Dooley looked sharply at the exec. “You already know the details of
our mission, then?” He had thought that very few of the crew
members would have been briefed on the assignment out to Enika
Atoll.
“Captain Ives has explained it to me, sir,” Klantze said, then smiled
faintly. “I am the executive officer, if you'll recall. If my information is
correct, and if your device is successful, nobody on board is going to
be unaware of the test.”
Dooley agreed. “I suppose it’s tough to keep a secret on board a ship.”
“Its also difficult not to notice a giant mushroom cloud, Mr. Dooley.”
The exec led him up a wide gangplank the size of a freeway entrance
ramp and marched him across the deck and up several flights of hard
metal steps to the bridge tower, where he introduced Dooley to the
captain of the Dallas.
“Captain Ives, sir, this is Mr. Dooley,” Klantze said after he had
exchanged salutes with the captain. The executive officer nodded to
Dooley. “Pll take your duffel to your stateroom, sir. I’m sure Captain
Ives wishes to speak with you privately in greater detail.”
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“Yes I do,” the captain answered. Klantze spun about sharply, like a
mechanical marionette on a glockenspiel, and marched off.
“Pleased to meet you, Captain Ives. Thanks for your help.”
Dooley extended his hand, and the captain took it with a firm shake.
The captain’s arms, contained within his captain’s uniform, had
muscles like steel wires. Dooley got the impression that he could crack
walnuts in his fist. Ives was a lean man in his late fifties, as tall as
Dooley but less burly. His stomach remained washboard flat. He
moved with a spare grace, as if every exertion counted for something
important. His chin was narrow, his eyes slate gray under heavy salt-
and-pepper eyebrows. A bristling mustache rode his upper lip, and
steel-gray hair lay neatly beneath his white captain’s cap. He showed
no sign of sweating in the heat. Perhaps he didn’t allow it.
“Mr. Dooley, Pm sure your first concern is for your delicate
equipment. Let me reassure you that everything arrived safely and
intact, as far as we can tell.”
“Good,” Dooley said, his voice curt. He wanted to make certain at the
outset that the captain understood that Dooley was in charge and that
his instructions were not to be questioned. “If that equipment is
damaged, we might as well not even bother to go. When do we set
sail?”
“The Dallas can leave port at about four o’clock this afternoon.”
Captain Ives said. “But you may have noticed that this vessel has no
sails.”
Dooley blinked at him, then understood. “Oh, just a turn of phrase,”
he said, annoyed. “Do you have any weather charts or updates for
me?”
“We received an encrypted signal,” the captain said, “a report from a
fast flyby of an aircraft out of our Kwajalein tracking station. Enika
Atoll checks
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out. We’ll be heading out for the Marshall Islands at full throttle, but
it’ll still take us five days.”
“Five days?” Dooley said. “I was afraid of that.”
Ives met his look with a steely gaze. “This isn’t an aircraft, Mr. Dooley.
It takes a long time to get a ship this size across that much water.”
“All right, all right,” Dooley said. “I suppose I knew that. Do we have
weather satellites? Is the storm system still doing what we expected?”
Ives led him over to a chart table where weather maps and satellite
photos lay spread out. With one long finger the captain indicated the
swirl of clouds out over the deep, featureless water. “The tropical
depression is worsening, as expected. Within a few days it should be
at full hurricane strength. According to our projections it is heading
straight toward the atoll.”
“Good, good.” Dooley leaned over, rubbing his hands together.
Though he was a physicist and an engineer, he had learned a great
deal about meteorology during the preparations for this test. Captain
Ives leaned closer and lowered his voice so that the other crewmen
would not hear him from their communications or navigation stations.
“Let me be blunt, Mr. Dooley. I have already notified my superiors of
my extreme objections to the entire purpose of this mission. I have
grave doubts about the wisdom of resuming aboveground nuclear
tests, no matter where they occur.”
Dooley stiffened, pausing just a moment to scratch his beard and
allow his blood pressure to drop slightly. “Then maybe you just don’t
understand the necessity, Captain.”
“T understand all right—more than you know,” Ives replied.
“T’ve been present at several hydrogen bomb tests already, one of
which I doubt even you know about, since all results were highly
classified.”
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Dooley raised his eyebrows. “When?”
“Back in the fifties,” Ives said. “I was just a seaman recruit then, but I
was there, out in the islands, Eniwetok, Bikini, even Johnston Atoll
near Hawaii. I worked with plenty of eggheads who were completely
amazed by their own calculations, absolutely confident in what they
had invented. But I can tell you this, Mr. Dooley: every single time,
those weapons developers, like yourself—people who were so smug
about their own abilities—were literally turned to jelly with awe when
they watched their devices go off.”
“T look forward to it then,” Dooley said crisply. “You have your orders.
Let me take care of the test details.”
Captain Ives stood straight, backing away from the chart table. He
adjusted his white cap. “Yes, I have my orders,” he said, “and I will
follow them, despite my objections—not the least of which is that it
goes against all of my years of seamanship to head deliberately into a
brewing hurricane.”
Dooley walked around the bridge, puffed up with his own importance,
glancing offhandedly at the outdated computer monitors, the various
tactical stations. He turned to look back at the reluctant captain.
“The hurricane is the only way we can pull this test off. Let me do my
work, Captain Ives. You just keep the ship from sinking.”
89
TWELVE
Jornada del Muerto Desert, Southern New Mexico Thursday, 3:13 P.M.
As if playing a scene from an old John Wayne movie, Oscar McCarron
slid out of the saddle and tied his horse, a spry two-year-old palomino
mare, to the fence post outside the General Store. He made sure to
stomp his worn, pointy-toed cowboy boots on the boardwalk porch.
The spurs gave a satisfying jingle as he ambled—the English language
had no other word for it—to the store entrance. McCarron’s face was
as seamed and leathery as his old boots, and his pale blue eyes wore a
perpetual squint from a lifetime spent in the pounding desert sun. He
eschewed sunglasses—they were only for sissies.
He had shaved this morning for his weekly trip into town, though the
grizzled old whiskers could barely punch their way through his tough
cheeks anymore. He didn’t bother wearing gloves; with the
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GROUND ZERO
several layers of calluses on his hands (calluses that penetrated to the
bones themselves) gloves would have been redundant. His squash-
blossom silver-and-turquoise belt buckle was so large it could have
been used as a coaster for cold drinks; it was one of his most prized
possessions. McCarron rode into the don’t-blink-or-it’s-gone town from
his outlying ranch no more often than once every seven days to pick
up his mail. There were limits to the amount of human companionship
one man could stomach. The door creaked as it always did when he
stepped inside the General Store. He moved his left boot over by one
floorboard so he wouldn’t step on the loose plank.
“Afternoon, Oscar,” said Fred, the store owner. His elbows rested on
the countertop, but other than shifting his gaze, Fred didn’t move a
muscle.
“Fred,” he replied. It was all the greeting he could manage. A man
who was eighty years old couldn’t afford to change his public
personality this late in life. “Get any mail this week?”
He had no idea what Fred’s last name was. He still considered the
shopkeeper a newcomer to the area, though Fred had bought the
General Store from an old Navajo couple a full fifteen years earlier.
The Navajos had run the store for thirty-five years or so, and
McCarron had considered them part of the landscape. Fred, on the
other hand...well, Fred he still wasn’t too sure about.
“We’ve been waiting for you to come in, Oscar. You’ve got the usual
junk mail, but there’s a letter here from Hawaii. Postmark says Pearl
Harbor. Imagine that! It’s a package. Any idea what it is?”
“What it is, is none of your damn business,” McCarron said. “Just get
me my mail.”
Fred levered himself off of his elbows and 91
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disappeared behind the counter to the small post office and storeroom
in the back. McCarron brushed his hands down the snaps of his denim
shirt and pants, knocking the whitish desert dust away. He knew
everyone else called them “blue jeans” these days, but he hadn’t
gotten used to thinking of them as anything other than dungarees.
Fred returned with a handful of mail, junk newspapers, solicitations,
advertising circulars, a few bills, and no letters. Nothing interesting—
except for a medium-sized padded manila envelope.
McCarron took the stack and deliberately flipped through the junk
mail first, driving back his own curiosity, knowing it would fluster
Fred to no end. The junk mail always did a good job of starting his
campfire when he slept out under the stars every Thursday night after
coming into town. Finally, he held up the padded envelope, squinted
at the postmark: Honolulu, Hawaii. The package bore no return
address.
Fred leaned over the counter, cracking his big knuckles and blinking
his brown eyes eagerly. His cheeks sagged on his lantern-jawed face.
When he got a little older the shopkeeper would have jowls like a
bulldog’s. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Fred asked.
McCarron glared at him. “Not in front of you, I ain’t.”
He had never forgiven Fred for his blatant indiscretion two years back
of opening one of McCarron’s packages when he was a day late
coming into town. It had happened to be a boxed set of videotapes,
the old Victory at Sea series, one of McCarron’s favorites. He had
always been fascinated by World War II.
Fred had been scandalized, not because of the subject matter of the
tapes—McCarron suspected the old store owner had a few girlie films
hidden back in 92
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his own house behind the store—but because Oscar McCarron had
ordered the tapes at all, thereby exposing the secret that the old man
actually had a television set and a videotape player. That went
completely against the rancher’s carefully cultivated image of living
off the land and scorning all modern conveniences. Back at his own
ranch, McCarron kept an outhouse in plain sight of the main building
and had a pump out front for water that came up pure and sweet from
the White Sands aquifer. But in truth, he had modern bathroom
facilities inside the house, electricity, and not only a TV and VCR but
also a large satellite dish hidden back behind the adobe main house.
He had purchased all the equipment up in Albuquerque, had it
brought down and installed without telling anyone in the small town.
McCarron enjoyed keeping up his
“old codger” image, but not at the expense of his own comfort. Fred
had indeed kept his mouth shut over the past two years, at least as far
as McCarron could tell, but he would never forget the offense.
“Awww, come on Oscar,” Fred said. “I’ve been waitin’ all day for you
to come in just so’s I could see your smiling face.”
“Ain’t that sweet,” McCarron said. “Next thing, you’re gonna be asking
me to marry you, like one of them California faggots.” He slapped the
padded envelope unopened on the top of his junk mail and tucked the
pile under his armpit. “If the package contains anything that concerns
you, Pll be sure to tell you next time I come in.” He turned and
ambled back toward the door, intentionally stepping on the creaking
board this time.
Outside, the still-hot afternoon sun had turned a buttery yellow as the
light slanted toward the black lava teeth of the San Andres Mountains.
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The palomino whickered when she saw him and stamped her foreleg,
impatient to be off and trotting again. Seeing no one else out on the
sleepy street, McCarron allowed himself to break into a smile of
delight. The young mare was so eager. She seemed to love these pack
trips even more than McCarron did.
His curiosity burned within him to see the contents of the mysterious
envelope. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to show any outward
interest, not within sight of the General Store, where Fred was
probably even now peering at him through the fly-specked windows.
He untied the horse and mounted up, stuffing the mail into one of the
saddlebags before he rode off down the street, and then headed east
overland into the sprawling open desert of the White Sands Missile
Range.
Through long habit, McCarron found the loose gate in the barbed-wire
fence that ran for hundreds of miles along the government-owned
wasteland. He slipped the wire loose and led the palomino through
the fence, fastening the gate behind him.
He fingered the bent but laminated old pass card that had been issued
to him so long ago that every one of the original signers had died
years ago. Oscar McCarron’s right to go onto the missile site hadn’t
been questioned for several years now, not even by the hot-rodding
young MPs who loved to roll over the dazzling gypsum sands in their
all-terrain vehicles, as if they were surfers in dune buggies going to a
beach party. But McCarron had a deep respect for authority and for
the government itself, after all Uncle Sam had done for him.
Besides, he didn’t want to mess with patriotic 94
GROUND ZERO
young enthusiasts who were willing to defend even such a desolate
wasteland against foreign invaders. That kind of mindset was
something you didn’t play around with. McCarron rode toward the
low craggy foothills. The desert was stark and flat, like a huge stretch
of Nebraska sprayed with weed killer, then plopped down inside a
ring of volcanic mountains. The bleakness somehow had made it an
appropriate place to have hosted the world’s first atomic explosion.
Oscar McCarron’s family once had owned all of this land, a worthless
swath of New Mexico, not good for ranching or even mining, since it
was devoid of desirable minerals and ore. But back in 1944 the
Manhattan Engineering District had expressed a passionate interest in
the land—and McCarron’s father had been only too happy to strike a
deal. He had sold the spread for a small price, but still far more than it
was worth.
The government paid extra when McCarron’s father agreed to allow
them to doctor the Land Bureau documents, removing his name from
original ownership, keeping the land transfer secret so that it would
show on archival documents that the government had leased it from a
fictitious ranch family, the McDonalds.
The government and its Manhattan Project engineers had erected farm
buildings and a windmill, concocting a story of the McDonalds who
had lived at the Trinity Site. Only later, after the Trinity atomic bomb
test in July 1945, had McCarron understood the reason for such
secrecy. The nuclear detonation had taken place in what would have
been the landowners’ backyard. But reporters and, much later,
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McCarron’s father had driven another hard bargain as part of the deal.
It was during the bleakest part of World War II, when the Germans
seemed to be making great strides toward global conquest and the
Japanese Empire was sweeping the Pacific Rim. American soldiers
were dying in record numbers. McCarron’s father had not wanted to
count his young, strong son as one of the casualties. He had
exchanged the land in a secret transfer in order to make his son
forever exempt from military service.
Also, because he loved the land despite its seared countenance, he and
his family were guaranteed permanent access, if they chose to visit.
Because that had meant so much to his father, dead these thirty-four
years now, Oscar McCarron had made it a tradition to spend at least
one night a week out in the open, reveling in the solitude under the
vast desert skies on the land they had once owned.
The palomino enjoyed the desolate landscape, and without
encouragement from McCarron, broke into a trot that gradually gave
way to an all-out gallop as the energetic horse stretched her muscles,
leaping over low basalt outcroppings and pounding across the baked
hardpan. McCarron had his favorite camping spot, and the palomino
knew full well how to get there.
They reached the bowl-shaped depression with daylight to spare.
Hardy lichens spattered the black rocks, showing off their vitality with
a display of bright colors. Gypsum sand filled the depression, as if a
hot blizzard had cascaded across the desert. A sinkhole between the
rocks cradled a small, pure pool from a spring that bubbled up,
filtered clean through yards of fine sand.
McCarron went first to the spring and took deep gulps of water, which
was cool from being in shade all day long. He swallowed the sweet
wetness, not
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GROUND ZERO
wanting to waste the water in his canteens. The palomino nudged his
shoulder, urging him to hurry. But McCarron took his time, enjoying
the water before the palomino could slobber all over inside the spring.
Then he let her drink her fill.
He unsaddled the horse and tied her to a gnarled stump. He went out
with his hatchet to chop up some of the dead mesquite brush and haul
it back to his makeshift firepit. The fire would burn hot, crackling and
popping into the night, filling the still air with a rich aromatic smoke.
Taking his mail out of the saddlebag, he held the mysterious padded
envelope for an extra second, then decided to let the curiosity tickle
his belly a little more. Oscar McCarron got few surprises in his life
these days. He rolled up the advertising flyers and junk mail and
placed them under the chopped mesquite wood, then lit the fire with a
single match, as he usually did. The twigs were so dry they practically
ignited themselves. McCarron unrolled his blanket and thin sleeping
bag, then got out the cooking utensils. Looking up into the sky, he
watched a shower of stars spray across the deepening darkness, the
swarms of bright lights twinkling with a diamond richness that city
dwellers never saw in their light-polluted skies.
As the resinous flames blazed bright and hot, McCarron finally sat
back on his favorite rock, took the padded envelope, and tore it open.
He dumped the contents into his callused palm.
“What the hell?” he said, disappointed after his hours of anticipation.
He found only a scrap of paper and a small glassine envelope filled
with a powdery residue, some sort of greasy black ash that squished in
his fingers as he pressed the envelope. A scrap of paper also fell
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THE X-FILES
out, displaying a message inked in precise razor-edged letters.
“FOR YOUR PART IN THE PAST.”
No signature, no date, no address.
“What the hell?” he said again. “For my part in the past of what?”
He cussed at the horse, as if the palomino might somehow be able to
give him an answer. The only thing of significance Oscar McCarron
could think of having done in his entire lifetime had been an accident,
a coincidence of fate—having owned the land on which the Trinity
Test had taken place. He did feel deeply proud of that part in his
country’s history, helping to spark the beginning of a nuclear age that
had ended World War II and prevented those bloodthirsty Japanese
from conquering half the world. That single successful atomic test
had, in effect, begun the Cold War, leading to the development of
more powerful superweapons that had kept the Commies in check.
Sure, Oscar McCarron had been proud of his part in all that...but it
wasn’t as if he had actually done anything.
What else could the mysterious message mean?
“Some crazy nutcase,” he muttered. With a rude noise, he tossed the
note and the package of ash into the crackling mesquite fire.
He unbuckled his food pack and pulled out a can of chili, which he
opened with a handheld can opener. He dumped it into a pot, which
he hung from a tripod above the flames. He took out his special
treasure, plastic zipper-lock bags of jalapenos and fresh-roasted Hatch
green chilis, which he added to the mix to give the bland,
commercialized recipe a little more bite.
As the food simmered, he listened to the utter quiet, the absence of
birds or bats or insects. Just the desert silence, an opaque stillness that
allowed him
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GROUND ZERO
to hear himself breathe, hear the pulse in his ears, hear his own
thoughts without being disturbed by a chatter of background noises.
He let his eyes fall closed as he inhaled deeply of the stinging spices in
the sizzling chili. The palomino snorted and whinnied, breaking the
silence.
“Awww, shut up,” McCarron said, but the mare blew loudly through
her nostrils again, stomping from side to side as if afraid of something.
She tossed her head, sniffing and snorting.
“What is it?” he asked, slowly rising to his feet on creaking old knees.
The horse acted as if she had scented a cougar or a bear, but
McCarron knew that was ridiculous. Nothing larger than a few lizards,
rattlesnakes, and kangaroo rats could survive out here in the Jornada
del Muerto Desert. Then he heard the voices, whispering, like a wind
of words in a foreign language, a chant, drumbeats, building to a
scream. The hissing white background noise reminded him of the
harsh static he heard when his TV was turned up too loud and the
videotape ran out.
“What the hell is it?” he said. “What’s out there?”
McCarron stood and went to his saddle to pull out his rifle. The wind
picked up, and he felt a hot breeze against his leathery cheeks—much
hotter than the desert night. A dust storm? Brush fire?
The palomino thrashed back and forth, straining against the rope. Her
eyes rolled, wild and white. The mare reared and then leaped
sideways, crashing into the rough lava as if pinned to the walls of the
shallow depression.
“Easy, girl! Easy!” McCarron turned to see a smear of blood on the
rock from where the horse had scraped her flanks raw. But he didn’t
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He waved the rifle’s barrel back and forth into the buzzing, roaring
night air. Somebody, or something, had to be out there.
“If you think you’re gonna mess with me, you got another think
coming!” he shouted. His eyes watered, stinging. He fired a shot into
the air, a warning, but the crack of the rifle vanished in the rising,
howling noise.
The desert air seared his mouth like a blast from the hottest oven,
parching his throat, burning his teeth. He backed away. The horse
squealed in terror, a bizarre animal insanity that frightened the old
man more than his own confused senses possibly could.
Suddenly the night around McCarron exploded as the angry presence
behind those voices, behind the whispers and screams and the sudden
heat, surged into the depression, as if someone had dropped a
miniature sun right into his lap. Oscar McCarron’s world filled with an
intolerable burst of atomic fire.
100
THIRTEEN
Trinity Site, near Alamogordo, New Mexico Friday, 11:18 A.M.
Scully took her shift driving south from Albuquerque across the flat,
dry southern half of New Mexico. The air-conditioning in the rental
Ford Taurus began to complain as she drove up a steep grade and then
began the long descent into the deeper desert.
Beside her in the passenger seat Mulder folded and unfolded his copy
of the faxed Unusual Occurrence Report that DOE representative
Rosabeth Carrera had given him early that morning.
“Thought you might find this of interest, Agent Mulder,”
the dark-haired woman had said, pointing to the brief description that
had come to her office on a standard distribution list from the
Department of Energy headquarters. “The DOE
requires that certain people be notified of unusual accidents relating
to radiation. I’m one of those people—and this incident certainly
qualifies.”
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Scully had taken the sheet from her partner, scanning the description
of yet another mysteriously burned body, presumably washed by a
flood of radioactive fire. This one had occurred far from the Teller
Nuclear Research Facility, out in the White Sands Missile Range, near
a barren memorial that Scully knew of all too well—the Trinity Site,
the location of the first test of an atomic explosion back in July 1945.
“But how can this incident be relevant to Dr. Gregory’s death?” Scully
had asked. “The victim was an old rancher, with no connection to
current nuclear weapons research.”
Rosabeth Carrera simply shrugged. “Look at the details. How could it
not be related? These sorts of deaths don’t occur every day.”
Mulder had eagerly taken back the Unusual Occurrence Report,
rereading the summary. “I want to check it out, Scully. This could be
the lead we’ve been looking for. Two clues instead of one.”
Scully sighed and agreed. “The very fact that they seem so unrelated
could be the break we need...once we figure it out.”
And so they had raced to the Oakland airport, hopped a Delta flight to
Salt Lake City, and then down to Albuquerque, where they had rented
a car for the long drive south. Scully kept the car at ten miles over the
speed limit, but the traffic still roared by in the fast lane. She gripped
the steering wheel more tightly as a large three-trailered semi truck
exploded past.
Scully ran ideas by her partner as she drove. “Mulder, so far our
working theory is that a weapons test went wrong in Dr. Gregory’s
lab, or possibly that a protester engaged in some sabotage that led to
his death. I don’t see how any of that fits with a dead rancher out on a
deserted missile range.”
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GROUND ZERO
Mulder folded the Unusual Occurrence Report and stuck it in the
pocket of his jacket. “Maybe we’re not thinking big enough, Scully.
Maybe there’s a broader connection, an overall relationship to nuclear
weapons. Missile range...nuclear research lab...”
“You may as well include the whole government, Mulder,”
she said.
“At least it gives us plenty of room to maneuver,” he said. After a brief
moment of silence, Mulder narrowed his eyes and looked at Scully.
“We’ll know more when we get there, I hope. I made a call back to
Headquarters while we were at the airport. Pm expecting the people
at White Sands to have some information faxed to them, a broader ID
check on Oscar McCarron. We’ll see just how disconnected he is from
Dr. Gregory. It might be something really obvious.”
Scully returned her attention to the road unreeling ahead of her. “All
right, we'll see.”
They decided to table further discussion until they actually arrived at
the site where the old rancher’s burned body had been found.
Mulder fidgeted, trying to avoid the heat that baked through the
windows. “Next time let’s find out if the car has black seats before we
sign the rental papers,” he suggested.
“I agree.” As Scully drove, letting the speedometer top seventy-five,
then eighty, she recalled that New Mexico with its desert highways
had traditionally been the first state in the country to raise its speed
limits, to the cheering of the state’s residents.
They passed signs on the highway that read, “NOTICE! DO
NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. PRISON FACILITIES NEARBY.”
“Charming place,” said Mulder.
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The Ford Taurus reached a small town past Socorro, called San
Antonio, where they turned east, heading deeper into the Jornada del
Muerto—the aptly named “Journey of Death”
desert. At Stallion Gate, the northern entrance to the White Sands
Missile Range, they stopped at a guard checkpoint and flashed their
papers. A military escort came out to meet them, and then waved
them through onto the bleak missile test site.
Scully shaded her eyes and looked at the uninviting landscape—like
the corpse of a once fertile land. She had seen the place in photos, but
had never made it down to visit.
“These gates are opened once a year,” she said, “so that tourists and
pilgrims can go out to the actual Trinity Site and see what’s left of the
McDonald Ranch. That’s ten miles deeper into the missile range, if I
remember correctly. Not much to see, just a cairn of stones and a
commemorative plaque.”
“Just what I want to do on my summer vacation,” Mulder said. “Go
out and stand right on Ground Zero.”
Scully kept her silence. She didn’t think her partner knew about her
peripheral involvement in protest activities in the past, and she
preferred to keep that bit of her life private. It made her
uncomfortable, though. She had always shared so much with Mulder.
This uneasiness felt foreign to her, and she tried to identify her
feelings. Embarrassment? she wondered. Or guilt? She drew a deep
breath. They had a job to do here.
Two military policemen pulled up in a Jeep. Scully and Mulder
reluctantly left the air-conditioning of their Taurus and climbed down
to meet the MPs. Neither of them was dressed properly for driving
across the dusty gypsum sands, but the MPs didn’t seem to notice.
They motioned for the two FBI
104
GROUND ZERO
agents to join them. Mulder secured their briefcases under the seat,
then helped Scully climb into the back of the vehicle. The two of them
sat on hot seats in the jouncing vehicle, holding on for dear life as the
Jeep roared across the rutted flatlands, oblivious to the lack of any
road. The MPs tightened their helmets and gritted their teeth against
the flying dust.
They arrived at a bowl-shaped depression where a dozen other MPs
and Air Force officers stood at a cordoned-off site. Someone wearing
anticontamination clothes and carrying a handheld Geiger counter
had stepped deeper into the blockaded area, inspecting the site.
Scully got out, ignoring the pain in her stiff legs. She felt dread build
within her. Mulder walked silently beside her as they came to the
edge of a depression bordered by dark volcanic rock.
It looked as if the entire hollow had been melted. She and Mulder
introduced themselves. A colonel waiting there had expected them. He
handed Mulder a drooping sheet of thermal fax paper. “This came
from your Bureau Headquarters, Agent Mulder,” he said, “but I could
have told you that information. We know all about old Oscar. That’s
how we found him there.”
“So tell me,” Mulder said, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
“We need every detail you can give us.”
“That rancher is an old fart who’s come out here practically every
week since before the Red Sea parted. He and his father originally
owned the ranch land around here that was deeded to the Trinity Site
—for the test, you know—but because of some wartime secrecy act,
the names were changed on the paperwork so it couldn’t be
discovered who had originally owned the land. I guess they were
afraid 105
THE X-FILES
of crazy protesters even back then, or maybe Nazi spies.”
The colonel nodded down toward the blasted bowl. “And maybe they
had good cause, considering what’s happened.”
Scully couldn’t tear her eyes from the scene. The gypsum sand had
been roasted by such extreme heat that it had become like a pottery
glaze, turning into hardened glass with a greenish, jadelike
consistency.
“Trinitite,” she said.
“What’s that?” Mulder asked.
She nodded toward the glassy fusion that lined the sands.
“TIl bet we’ll find out that glassy sand and rock is Trinitite. Around
Ground Zero during the Trinity Test the heat was intense enough to
fuse the surrounding sand into a glasslike solid. Very unusual. People
even collected the stuff.”
“Come on, we can go closer,” the colonel said. “You’ll want to take a
look if you’re to get any information from this.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel,” Scully said. The gaunt,
sunburned man turned to her. “We sure don’t want to have to solve
this one, Agent Scully. You’re welcome to it.”
She followed the colonel past the cordon, and down toward the flash-
burned sands. Against one rock wall they could see the sprawling
bowl glittering in the sunlight where the gypsum had turned molten.
Fused into the ground by the intense heat were the blackened remains
of two burned figures, a nearly disintegrated man, and a horse,
flattened and incinerated, pushed into the melted sands. The hardened
glass had frozen the corpses into an eerie tableau, like tortured insects
in amber. Mulder shuddered and turned away from the 106
GROUND ZERO
crisped horror of the victim’s face. He grasped Scully’s arm briefly for
support. “I really hate fire,” he muttered.
“I know, Mulder,” she said. She didn’t tell him how much she herself
hated the threat of radiation and fallout. “I don’t think we should stay
here any longer than we have to.”
As she turned away, all she could think of were the hideously burned
corpses, the photographs of Nagasaki victims at the Stop Nuclear
Madness! museum in Berkeley. How could it be happening again,
here?
107
FOURTEEN
Historic Owl Cafe, San Antonio, New Mexico Friday, 1:28 P.M.
Before reaching the interstate on their trip back to Albuquerque,
Scully and Mulder decided to stop at the “Historic” Owl Cafe, a rusty-
tan adobe building that looked like an abandoned movie set. The large
building seemed the only thing of note in the entire city of San
Antonio, New Mexico. The gravel parking lot hosted four battered and
dirty pickup trucks, two Harley-Davidsons parked side by side, and an
old-model Ford station wagon.
“Let’s risk it, Scully,” Mulder said. “We’ve got to grab lunch anyway.
It’s a long drive north.”
Scully folded the highway map and climbed out of the car into the
sweltering heat. She shaded her eyes. “I wish at least one other city in
this state had a major airport,” she said. She followed Mulder to a big
glass door encrusted with road dust. He held it open for her, and she
noted from the sticker on the glass that the restaurant was AAA
approved. 108
GROUND ZERO
Inside, the place was a dim and noisy dive, just the type of place she
generally avoided. Mulder adored it. “Come on, Scully,” he said. “It’s
historic. Read the sign.”
“Wait,” she said. “I think I’ve even heard of this place before.
Something to do with the Manhattan Project or the Trinity Test.”
“Then we’ve stopped at the right place,” Mulder said. “Our
hamburgers will be work-related.”
Shadowy figures hunched over the counter: ranchers who had not
deigned to take off their wide cowboy hats, a few truckers wearing old
baseball caps, and a tourist or two. Someone played pinball in the far
corner. Neon signs for various brands of low-end beer flickered over
the bar and in the dining area.
“Looks like genuine Naugahyde seats,” Mulder said. “This place is
great.”
“You would think so, Mulder.”
A big Navajo man with long gray-black hair tied in a ponytail came
around the corner to the cash register. He wore jeans, a checked
cotton shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps, and a turquoise bolo tie.
“Take any seat,” he said, gesturing to the array of empty booths like
an ambassador welcoming them into his kingdom. He went back to
wiping down the Formica counter where others were eating and
swapping loud unbelievable stories.
The walls of the Owl Cafe were dotted with posters, framed
photographs of White Sands experimental missile launches, along with
official-looking certificates of participation in Nuclear Emergency
Search Team exercises. Photographic prints of mushroom clouds from
desert detonations hung framed on the paneled walls, while smaller
reprints were available for sale in the small glass display case near the
old cash register...as were glassy jade-green rocks—Trinitite.
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“Pd like to look around, Mulder,” Scully said. “Might be some
interesting stuff here.”
“Let me just grab us a seat,” he said, “and Pll order for us.”
“I don’t know if I should trust you to do that,” she said. He waved
good-naturedly at her. “Have I ever been wrong?” He disappeared
deeper into the dim labyrinth of Naugahyde booths before she could
give him an honest answer. She waited by the display case beneath
the cash register and picked up a small mimeographed brochure
showing a grainy photo of the Owl Cafe. The poorly written text
described the restaurant’s claims to fame. She scanned the words,
refreshing her memory—and it all came back to her from when she
had obsessively studied the Cold War and the arms race and the
beginnings of the U.S. nuclear program. In the days before air-
conditioned cars, the Owl Cafe had been an unofficial stopping place
for Manhattan Project scientists and engineers during their frequent
long drives from the northern mountains at Los Alamos down to the
Trinity Test Site. They had no interstate highways, only state roads,
and the trip must have been gruesome in the heat of summer in 1945.
Technically, the crews were not allowed to stop along the way. They
were ordered by the military to drive straight through. But the Owl
Cafe, isolated at a desert crossroads out in the middle of nowhere, was
ideal for the small automobile convoys to stop at before heading east
into even more murderous terrain. The crew couldn’t help but want
lunch or a cold drink before heading out to the restricted land area the
government had set aside for the first atomic bomb blast. 110
GROUND ZERO
The big Navajo saw Scully standing by the display case and came
over, speaking in a rich deep voice. “What can I get for you?”
Startled, Scully looked down and pointed to the selection of small
rocks. “Pd like one of those pieces of Trinitite, please.”
“That five-dollar one?” Without another word the broadshouldered
man pulled out a little key and opened the rear of the display case,
removing one of the smallish rocks. After a pause, he set it back down
on the shelf, selecting a larger sample instead. “Here, take this one,”
he said. “They’re all overpriced anyway.”
Scully took the glassy lump and squeezed it in the palm of her hand,
trying to imagine the hellish fury that had created it—not any
geologic process deep in the core of the earth, but a man-made inferno
that had lasted only a few seconds. The stone was cool and slick on
her palm; any tingle she felt came strictly from her imagination. Scully
paid for the rock and wandered over to the other exhibits.
An old bottle collection covered half of one wall. Brown glass, green
glass, clear glass, even a few bright blue bottles, were all on display
without identifying tags—except for a single typewritten sheet of
paper, yellowed with age, tacked to the wall.
The bottle collection had been there since before World War II, the
prized possession of another old Navajo who had originally owned the
Owl Cafe. The former owner knew nothing of the secret nuclear
project or the impending test, although he couldn’t help but notice the
official government vehicles, military brass, and the suit-and-tie
engineers who could never disguise themselves as local ranchers or
reservation Navajos. In fact, Scully thought, the Manhattan Project
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engineers must have looked as out of place as she and Mulder did this
afternoon. She continued reading. Several days before the actual test
explosion in July 1945, one of the engineers, a regular—if unofficial—
customer at the Owl Cafe, had tipped off the old owner. He gave no
classified details, said only that it might be wise to take down the
fragile bottles for a few days. The skeptical Navajo owner had
complied...and thus the bottle collection had been saved when the
Trinity blast had rattled walls as far away as Silver City and Gallup,
nearly two hundred miles distant. The name of the considerate
Manhattan Project engineer was not mentioned, no doubt to keep the
man from getting into trouble.
Taking her Trinitite souvenir, Scully wandered back into the dining
room in search of Mulder. He was slumped back comfortably on the
Naugahyde seat as he reread the fax he had received out at the White
Sands testing range. He sipped iced tea from a red plastic cup.
Scully slid into the padded seat across from him and saw that he had
ordered her an ice tea as well. She set the lump of glassy rock on the
Formica table in front of him. He picked it up, turning it over in his
hand with curiosity.
“You once called me a sucker for buying souvenirs at a tourist-trap
cafe like this one.”
“This is different,” she said.
“Of course.” He gave her a wry smile.
“It is. That’s Trinitite,” she said, “the stuff I was telling you about.”
He studied it under the dim light cast by a flickering Coors sign.
“Looks just like the stuff out at the death site.”
She nodded.
The waitress interrupted by bringing their meals. She gave each of
them a basket of sizzling
112
GROUND ZERO
french fries and an enormous burger so juicy it had to be wrapped in
paper to catch the grease.
“You’re gonna love this, Scully,” he said. “The house specialty, a green
chili cheeseburger.” Mulder held his up, took a big bite, and spoke
around a dripping mouthful. “Delicious!
They grind their own meat here, and the green chilis really enhance
the flavor. You can’t get this stuff in Washington, D.C.”
“Pm not sure ld want to,” Scully said, picking up her own huge
burger. She inspected it to determine the best method of attack,
making sure she had plenty of napkins within easy reach. Despite her
skepticism, though, she found the meal absolutely delicious, the bite
of green chilis unlike anything she had ever expected.
“So, Scully,” he said, finally getting down to business, “let’s see what
we can come up with. We now have two bodies—three, if you count
the horse—killed by a sudden flash of heat like a miniature atomic
explosion. One in an isolated weapons lab office, and another out here
in the middle of the desert.”
Scully held up one finger, saw that some ketchup had run down to her
knuckle, and plucked up a napkin to wipe it clean. “The laboratory
death site was being used by a nuclear weapons researcher developing
a secret and intense new atomic device, and the second death
occurred out in the White Sands Missile Range, where the military
might be expected to test such a device. Could be a connection.”
“Ah,” Mulder pointed out, “but Dr. Gregory’s office was not an
engineering and experimental lab. In fact, it wasn’t much more than a
room full of computers. You wouldn’t find a nuclear warhead stashed
in his file cabinet drawer. And, if the military intended to test this
Bright Anvil device, why do it out at White Sands? The government
already 113
THE X-FILES
has a perfect nuclear testing site in Nevada. It’s official and
everything, with all the security they could ask for. Besides, did you
get the impression that the colonel at White Sands expected this?”
Scully had to admit he was right. “No, he didn’t seem at all prepared
to deal with the situation.”
Mulder wiped his mouth with napkin. “I think we should look for a
broader connection—and it might not have anything at all to do with
Bright Anvil.”
“Tf not Bright Anvil, then what do you have in mind?”
Mulder finished the last bite of his cheeseburger, then set to work on
his remaining fries. “Emil Gregory and Oscar McCarron had a few
obscure connections dating all the way back to World War II. Oscar
McCarron was an old rancher who had probably never set foot out of
New Mexico in his entire life. Dr. Gregory was also from New Mexico.
He worked on the Manhattan Project more than fifty years ago, then
spent time at Los Alamos before coming to the San Francisco area to
work for the Teller Nuclear Research Facility.”
“So what are you suggesting, Mulder?”
He shrugged. “It’s only a shot in the dark, and I’m not sure I’ve come
up with anything yet. Just thinking that maybe we should use our
imaginations a little, consider alternative possibilities. What else could
those two men have in common? We know Gregory worked on the
Trinity Test, and McCarron’s family owned the land where the test
took place.”
Scully picked up a french fry and ate it quickly. “Mulder, sometimes
your imagination is far too active.”
He pointed to himself, miming Moi? “And how often are my
alternative solutions proven to be correct, Scully?”
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GROUND ZERO
Scully ate another fry. “That all depends on who you ask.”
Mulder sighed. “Scully, you’re an impossible skeptic sometimes—but I
like you anyway.”
She rewarded him with a smile. “Somebody’s got to keep you in line.”
Wiping his hands on another napkin, Mulder pulled out their map of
New Mexico. “I wonder how far Roswell is from here?” he said. “It
might be worth a side trip.”
“Absolutely not,” Scully said. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”
He looked at her with a Gotcha! expression to show that he hadn’t
been serious. “Just thought I’d ask.”
115
FIFTEEN
Kamida Imports, Honolulu, Hawaii
Friday, 2:04 P.M.
Sitting at his impeccably neat and carefully arranged desk in the high-
rise office building, four floors of which were devoted to his own
imports company, Ryan Kamida carefully addressed a padded
envelope.
His calligraphic pen moved in precise strokes, and the letters came out
perfectly, the wet black ink like scorched blood.
Expansive windows covered two walls of his corner office, offering a
panoramic view of Oahu. But Kamida kept the mini-blinds half-closed
most of the time. He dearly loved feeling the gentle warmth of the
sun, letting its heat bathe his scarred skin, soothing, caressing his
body, as it had in the barely remembered idyllic days on an isolated
Pacific island. But too much bright sunshine felt like fire to him. It
reminded him of that other blaze from the 116
GROUND ZERO
sky, the searing flash so intense that it had set the air molecules
themselves on fire. Kamida’s snow-white hair lay neatly on his head,
thick and perfectly maintained. Because of the almost supernatural
good fortune he had experienced during his adult life, Kamida had
plenty of money for things like that: clothes, grooming, possessions.
But his money couldn’t buy everything. He didn’t want everything.
His lumpy, wax-textured hands gripped the polished pen as if it were
a weapon—and in a sense, it was. The words resounded in his head.
He filled out the address in a careful, perfect script, feeling for the
right spot on the padded envelope. He could sense the accuracy of his
letters. Satisfied, Kamida rested the pen in the familiar groove on his
desk next to the ink reservoir. Then he reached out to hold the special
envelope, feeling its edges, the sharp corners. He took it on faith that
he had filled out the address correctly. He would never ask anyone
else to double-check it, though he could not see it himself.
Ryan Kamida was completely blind.
The list in his mind grew shorter and shorter with each package sent,
each target identified. Kamida had the names of those responsible
etched clearly in his well-honed memory. As he sat at his desk with
the warm Hawaiian sun suffusing around him through the mini-blinds,
letting him feel its kind touch, he felt very alone—though he knew he
had asked for this. He had sent all the workers on this floor home for
the afternoon. They had objected, pointing out the work they had to
do, shipping records, finders’ fees, sales commissions. Kamida simply
offered them time-and-a-half pay, and they went home satisfied. They
were well accustomed to his eccentricities. 117
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He now had the offices to himself to do his important work.
No doubt to assuage its unacknowledged pangs of guilt, the
government had assisted Ryan Kamida through the years, sometimes
offering veiled handouts, at other times blatantly approving his bids
and choosing him over his competitors. He was a handicapped
businessman, an ethnic minority—though here in Hawaii being a
Pacific Islander was hardly remarkable. Between the Japanese tourists
and the Pacific Islanders who made their homes here, middle-class
Caucasian families were the true minorities. Kamida had used every
resource at his disposal to help his company succeed. His business
specialized in exoti imports from little-known Pacific islands—
Elugelab, Truk, Johnston Atoll, the entire Marshall chain—impressing
tourists with trinkets that came from faraway places with interesting
names.
He needed the money to accomplish his true mission. Kamida fingered
the envelope, stuffed the handwritten note and a small glass vial
inside, then sealed it. That simple act of closure brought a shudder of
relief to him, but it lasted only a moment.
No matter how many such packages he sent, no matter how many of
the guilty he identified, he could never make up for the loss of his
people. It had been a completely successful genocide, more thorough
than anything Adolf Hitler had accomplished. In a single stroke Ryan
Kamida’s family, his relatives, his tribe...his island had vanished in a
surge of light and flames. A small boy was the sole survivor. But
Kamida did not consider his survival to be either a miracle or a
blessing. He had been given an entire lifetime to endure the memory
of those few
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seconds, while for all the others it had been over in an instant. Or so
he had thought.
The voices in his head had not stopped screaming since that day when
he was ten years old.
Setting the envelope aside, Kamida sniffed the stuffy air in his office.
He tilted his burned face and blank white eyes toward the ceiling. He
couldn’t see, but he could feel, could sense the gathering storm.
A seething sea of white-hot luminescence boiled in a suspended pool
against the acoustic tiles, like froth in a pot, swirling with spectral
screaming faces. Though blind, he knew they were there. They
wouldn’t leave him alone. The ghosts of his incinerated people grew
more and more restless. They would strike out at their own targets if
he refused to offer them a victim of his own choosing. The ghosts had
waited so long, and Ryan Kamida could no longer keep them under
control.
Walking with the grace and confidence of a sighted man through the
familiar offices, he picked up the hand-addressed envelope and left his
room, taking it to the mail drop, from which the package would be
rushed to an airplane and shipped to the United States. He deemed the
expense of overnight mail delivery across the Pacific insignificant. The
envelope would be delivered to a particular low-profile but very
important official at the Department of Energy headquarters near
Washington, D.C.
It was probably already too late to stop Bright Anvil, Kamida
supposed, but perhaps this would be enough to prevent the nightmare
from occurring again. 119
SIXTEEN
Teller Nuclear Research Facility
Monday, 10:16 A.M.
After an uneventful weekend—for once—Mulder drove back to the
Teller Nuclear Research Facility, whistling “California Dreaming.”
Scully pretended to heave a long-suffering sigh, as if to say that since
he was her partner, she would put up with his odd sense of humor.
Mulder smiled at her in appreciation of her tolerance. The condition
of the old rancher’s body at the Trinity Site had been so unmistakably
similar to that of Dr. Emil Gregory that Scully couldn’t discount some
sort of connection. But they had come back to the San Francisco-area
nuclear weapons laboratory with more questions than before. They
stopped at the guard gate, flashing visitor’s badges and FBI
credentials. They needed to talk to the rest of Dr. Gregory’s Bright
Anvil team—deputy project head Bear Dooley and the other
researchers and engineers. Scully still insisted there
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must be some technical explanation for the deaths, a test of a small
yet powerful nuclear device, something that had backfired on Dr.
Gregory, something that had been tested out in New Mexico.
That didn’t ring true, though, to Mulder. He thought there must be
some reason they hadn’t considered yet, though Scully would hold
onto her explanations until she found a better, more logical one.
After they passed through the guard gate, Mulder reached over to
unfold the map of the Teller Facility. He traced the access roads with
his finger to find the main lab building where Dr. Gregory had died
and the temporary barracks offices to which Bear Dooley and the
other team members had been relocated.
“Now that you’ve found out some details about Bright Anvil through,
uh...” Mulder raised his eyebrows, “shall we say, ‘unofficial means,’
let’s see what Mr. Dooley has to say for himself. Solid information is
our best weapon.”
“I just wish we had the information to solve this case,”
Scully said.
“If wishes were horses...” Mulder began.
Scully shuddered, thinking of the equine corpse at the White Sands
Missile Range. “I withdraw the comment.”
They arrived at the converted barracks building and left their car in a
Government Vehicle Only parking space. This time, Mulder knew to
take a paper respirator mask to protect himself from wild asbestos
fibers floating in the air. Handing another mask to Scully, he helped
her fasten it over her hair. He carefully scrutinized his partner’s new
appearance.
“It’s a fashion statement,” he said. “I like it.”
“First dosimeters and now breathing masks,” Scully said.
“This place is a health nut’s paradise.”
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Down the corridor the construction workers had moved the
translucent plastic barrier curtains after demolishing another entire
section of the wall. A loud generator roared, maintaining negative air
pressure in the enclosed work area, supposedly to prevent the
lightweight asbestos fibers from drifting past the barricade.
“Down here,” Mulder said, turning right and motioning for Scully to
follow. “Bear Dooley’s new office makes my basement at Bureau
Headquarters look like Club Med.”
When they reached Dooley’s temporary office, the door stood wide
open, despite the racket of crowbars and the generator and shouts
from the workmen.
“Excuse me—Mr. Dooley?” Mulder called. “I don’t know how you can
work in this environment.”
But when Mulder popped his head inside, the office appeared
abandoned. The desk had been cleared, the file drawers taped shut.
Framed photos were still stacked in cardboard boxes and various
office paraphernalia lay scattered in disarray, as if someone had
packed up frantically, leaving unnecessary items behind. Mulder
pursed his lips and glanced around.
“Looks like nobody’s home,” Scully said. Suddenly a young redheaded
man entered the office. With his glasses, plaid shirt, and pocket stuffed
full of pens, he looked like a poster boy for the “nerd’s dress code.”
His badge identified him as Victor Ogilvy. Mulder couldn’t tell if the
young man was smiling or frowning behind his white breathing mask.
“Are you the Department of Defense people?” Ogilvy asked quickly.
“We’ve got the preliminary reports ready, but nothing else I can
deliver to you just yet.”
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“We’re looking for Mr. Bear Dooley,” Mulder said. “Can you tell us
where he is?”
Behind his round eyeglasses, Victor Ogilvy blinked rapidly.
“Well, that was in the initial briefing. I’m sure of it. He left for San
Diego last Thursday morning. The Dallas should arrive at the atoll in
another day or two. The rest of us are getting all packed up to be
flown out.”
“Flown out to where?” Mulder asked.
The question took Ogilvy entirely by surprise. “What do you mean?
Are you sure you’re from the Department of Defense?”
Scully stepped forward. “We never said we were, Mister Ogilvy.” She
flipped out her badge and ID. “Federal agents. I’m Special Agent Dana
Scully, and this is my partner Agent Mulder. We need to ask you a few
questions about Bright Anvil and the death of Dr. Gregory...and this
test that’s taking place out on an atoll in the Pacific,” she said. Mulder
was amazed at how quickly and easily she had put together the details
into a rapid, professional-sounding string of inquiries.
Ogilvy’s eyes bulged out so far that they practically bumped the lenses
of his glasses. He stumbled over his words. “I...1 don’t think I should
say any more,” he said.
“It’s classified.”
Mulder noted how intimidated the young man was and decided to
press his advantage. “Didn’t you hear what Agent Scully said? We’re
with the FBI.” He said the words with dire import. “You have to
answer our questions.”
“But I could lose my clearance,” Ogilvy said. Mulder shrugged. “One
way or the other. Would you like me to start quoting you FBI statutes?
How about this one: if you refuse to cooperate with our ongoing
investigation, I just might cite you under Statute 43H of the FBI
Code.”
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Scully quickly squeezed his arm. “Mulder!”
He shook his head. “Let me handle this, Scully. Victor here doesn’t
know what kind of trouble he could get himself into.”
“I...” Victor Ogilvy said, “I think you should talk to our Department of
Energy representative. She’s authorized to answer those types of
questions. If she gives me the go-ahead, then I can respond. You'll
have no cause to cite me. Honest!”
Mulder sighed. He had just lost this round. “Well, get her on the
phone so we can talk to her.”
Ogilvy rummaged around Bear Dooley’s abandoned desk until he
found a Teller Nuclear Research Facility phone listing. He nervously
paged through it, then punched in the number for Rosabeth Carrera.
Scully leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Statute 43H?”
“Unauthorized Use of the Smoky the Bear Symbol,” Mulder mumbled,
smiling sheepishly. “But he doesn’t know that.”
Within moments Rosabeth Carrera was on the phone. Her voice
started out rich and sweet, its Hispanic undertones mostly hidden. She
sounded polite, helpful. “Good morning, Agent Mulder. I didn’t know
you had returned from New Mexico.”
“Seems like a lot has happened over the weekend,” he said.
“Most of Dr. Gregory’s team has disappeared, and we can’t get any
answers on what’s happened to them. Since they are quite clearly
involved in this case, we’ll need to interview them further—especially
now that we’ve uncovered a clear connection between Dr. Emil
Gregory and the other victim at White Sands.”
Scully’s eyebrows shot up. Mulder was overstating his case, but
Carrera had no way of knowing it.
“Agent Mulder,” Carrera said, her voice a bit 124
GROUND ZERO
crisper now, “Dr. Gregory was working on a very important project for
this laboratory and for the United States government. Such projects
have milestones and schedules and a great deal of momentum behind
them. People in very high political circles have a lot at stake in seeing
that the research continues as planned. I’m afraid we can’t call our
scientists back on a whim.”
“This is no whim, Ms. Carrera,” Mulder said, growing more formal.
“Your main researcher is dead under highly suspicious circumstances,
and now another victim has turned up at the White Sands Missile
Range, killed by the same means. I think that’s ample reason for
proceeding with caution and asking a few more questions before
moving on to the next stage. I’d like you to postpone this Bright Anvil
test.”
“Bright Anvil? No such test has been announced,” Carrera answered.
“Let’s not play games,” he said. “It wastes valuable telephone time.”
“Tm afraid that’s impossible,” Carrera said dismissively.
“Dr. Gregory’s work will go on, as planned.”
Mulder took the challenge. “I can make some calls to Bureau
Headquarters, and I’ve got a few connections in the Department of
Defense.”
Carrera’s tone was brisk, almost abrupt. “Make whatever phone calls
you feel you have to, Agent Mulder. But Dr. Gregory’s test will take
place as scheduled. No question about it. The government has many
priorities, and I have no doubt that you will find that your murder
investigation is rather far down the list compared to the national
interests that are at stake.”
After he hung up, Scully said, “From the look on your face, I take it
Rosabeth Carrera didn’t bend over backward to offer you her
assistance.”
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Mulder sighed. “I’ve had more helpful conversations.”
Victor Ogilvy hovered nervously by the door. “Does that mean I don’t
have to answer your questions?”
Mulder shot him a quick glare. “Depends on how badly you want to
be on my Christmas card list.”
The young redhead quickly ducked out of sight. Scully put her hands
on her hips and turned to face Mulder. “Well then, I guess it’s my turn
to ferret out some details,” she said. “Time to check my other source
of information.”
126
SEVENTEEN
Stop Nuclear Madness! Headquarters
Monday, 3:31 P.M.
Scully returned to the headquarters of the Berkeley antinuclear protest
group, but when she trudged down the halfflight of stairs to the bomb-
shelter basement, she found the temporary offices in the sort of chaos
that might be expected at a fly-by-night business suddenly afraid of a
bust. A group of student volunteers busied themselves removing the
posters of Nagasaki victims from the walls, the poignant photographs
of homeless Bikini Islanders, the long listing of aboveground atomic
bomb tests, and the colorful graphs showing cancer statistics.
Scully stepped through the door and stared at all the movement, the
confusion, the shouting. Behind the fabric room dividers, the
exhausted photocopier still whirred, working overtime.
Standing on a stepstool, the receptionist, Becka 127
THE X-FILES
Thorne, yanked push pins from the wall to release the draped, dot-
matrix banner that warned against a second nuclear war. The black
woman turned, her dress an even more dizzying riot of colors than her
previous voluminous wrap had been, her hair still clumped together in
its lumpy, tentacular dreadlocks.
“Pm looking for Miriel Bremen again,” Scully shouted into the chaos.
“Ts she here?”
Becka undid a last push pin, and half of the paper banner drooped to
the floor like a falling streamer of fireworks. She climbed down off the
stepstool and wiped her hands on her colorful dress. “You’re that FBI
lady, right? Well, Miriel’s not here. As you can see we’re shutting
down the office. No more Stop Nuclear Madness!”
“You’re shutting down the office?” Scully asked. “Are you moving to a
new location?”
“No. Miriel just up and pulled our lease. We only had a month left in
it anyway, but she handed it over to the next group coming in. These
office spaces on campus are in great demand, you know.”
Scully tried to understand. “Did your organization lose its funding
unexpectedly?”
Becka laughed. “Not in the least. We were probably the healthiest
group Berkeley has seen in five years, lots of money dumped in from
some corporation in Hawaii. But Miriel just pulled the plug and told
us to call the next group on the waiting list. Said she had a change of
heart, or something. Guess she became ‘born again’ again, but in
another direction this time.”
“What’s moving in here now?” Scully asked, still taken aback by the
protester’s sudden disappearance. What could have driven Miriel
Bremen to give up the work that had so ignited her passions that she
would jettison her career and her security clearance,
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leaving a blot on her employment record that would haunt her for the
rest of her working days.
Becka Thorne gestured to the other volunteer workers.
“It’s an environmental activist group,” she said. “I can show you some
of their posters—very disturbing. They’re calling attention to
increasing levels of environmental pollutants in our groundwater, how
toxic chemicals are seeping into every part of our daily lives and
causing an avalanche of health problems.”
The receptionist flipped through several large foam-core posters, some
with tables that listed organic and toxic chemicals discovered in a
sample of everyday tap water. Scully recognized many of the organic
substances, but others seemed like the ingredients from a chemistry
set. Some of the listed concentrations gave Scully cause for concern,
and she wondered if their “random” analysis was reproducible. She
flipped to another chart that showed cancer statistics rising year after
year—only this time they were blamed on toxic pollutants in the
groundwater. The graph looked identical to the one used by Stop
Nuclear Madness! that had connected the same increase in cancer to
background radiation from nuclear tests in the 1950s. One of the
student workers slid the stepstool to the other side of the wall with a
loud rattling sound, then climbed up to pluck the remaining push pins.
The entire paper banner fell rustling to the floor.
“So what will you do with yourself now, Ms. Thorne?”
Scully asked. “Does your group give you a reference to find a job
someplace else?”
Becka Thorne blinked at Scully with her huge brown eyes.
“No, Pll just work for the new group. I follow the protesters. Whatever
cause they’ve got is fine with me. They’re all interesting. And
everybody’s 129
THE X-FILES
got a point, as far as I can see. Can’t trust anybody these days, you
know—especially not the government. Uh, no offense to you.”
Scully smiled. “I think my partner might agree with you.”
Becka Thorne gave a quick smile, then wiped the perspiration off her
forehead. “Well, send your partner down here then. We always need
new recruits for our work.”
Scully had to keep herself from laughing. “I think he’s too preoccupied
for that—on this case, for instance.” She finally succeeded in getting
back to the point. “We really need to talk to Miriel Bremen. Do you
know how we can get in touch with her?”
The receptionist looked at Scully carefully. “She didn’t leave a phone
number, if that’s what you’re after—but mostly likely she’s gone to the
islands, or something. When her conscience gets too bad, she
sometimes goes off on these pilgrimages. She even went to Nagasaki
once, another time to Pearl Harbor. Who knows where else? She’s a
pretty private person, our Miriel.”
Scully furrowed her brow. “So she’s somewhere in ‘the islands,’ but
you have no idea where she might have gone?
Jamaica? Tahiti? New Zealand?”
Becka shrugged. “Look, Miss FBI—Miriel was in one hell of a hurry to
get out of here. Came in last Friday afternoon and told us we were
done—done. Just like that. She was turning over the lease, and the
rest of us were on our own.
“Oh, she thanked us for our efforts and told us to use her as a
reference if we ever needed it—as if a big company would pay the
slightest bit of attention to a reference from someone like Miriel
Bremen! She’s just lucky most of us have our own connections with
the protest groups around here. We’re not going to starve.”
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Scully handed Becka a business card. “If you learn where she is, Ms.
Thorne, or if you get in touch with her, have her call me at this
number. I think she’ll be willing to talk to me.”
“If you say so,” the receptionist said. “We need to get back to work
now. The environmental group wants to hold a rally this Saturday,
and they’ve got flyers to go up on all the kiosks and light posts. We’ve
got about a thousand phone calls to make. No rest around here. I sure
wish I could go to the islands for a vacation.”
Scully thanked her again and then left, climbing the concrete stairs to
street level. She was deeply troubled. First Dr. Gregory had been killed
in his office, and then Bear Dooley and his team had suddenly pulled
up stakes and fled to the Pacific to set up their secret test, and now
Miriel Bremen, former member of the Bright Anvil Project and
outspoken radical protester against the test itself, had also left
abruptly, heading out for “the islands.”
Could it be a coincidence? Scully didn’t like coincidences. And how
did old Oscar McCarron fit in?
The pieces of the puzzle seemed too widely separated, yet connected
by invisible threads. Scully just had to feel around until she found the
connections that bound the mystery together. She and Mulder would
just have to keep looking. The truth was out there. Somewhere.
131
EIGHTEEN
Scheck Residence, Gaithersburg, Maryland Monday, 6:30 P.M.
Late afternoon in the Washington, D.C., area, hot and humid. The air
hung as thick as a damp rag. Brooding thunderheads in the sky
promised only an oppressive increase to the mugginess, rather than a
refreshing and cooling rain shower. On days like this, Nancy Scheck
felt that the hassle of maintaining an in-ground swimming pool in her
fenced backyard paid off.
She let the front screen door close by itself as she entered her brick-
front house with the black shutters. Flowering dogwoods and a thick,
well-trimmed hedge surrounded its white colonial pillars. It was just
the kind of imposing mansion an important Department of Energy
executive was supposed to own, and she relished it.
Since she had been divorced for ten years and her three children were
all grown and away at college, 132
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the place gave her plenty of room to breathe, space to move about.
She enjoyed the freedom, the luxury. Such a mansion was far more
than she needed, but Nancy Scheck didn’t like the implications of
settling for a more modest dwelling, not now. All her career she had
been concerned with moving up in the world, clawing her way to the
top. Exchanging an impressive big house for a smaller one did not fit
in with the plan.
She dumped her briefcase on the small Ethan Allen telephone table in
the front hall, then shucked out of her stifling business jacket. Her
entire career had been inside the Beltway, and she was used to
dressing in conservative formal outfits and uncomfortable pantyhose.
At her level, such items were just as much of a required uniform as the
quaint outfit a teenager wore behind the counter of a fast-food
restaurant. At the moment, though, Nancy couldn’t wait to peel off her
clothes, get into her sleek black one-piece swimsuit, and take a long,
luxurious dip in the pool. She snagged the usual pile of mail and
dropped it unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. She punched the
answering machine to listen to the two recorded messages. The first
was an offer from a company eager to come and give her a free,
noobligation quote for aluminum siding. She snorted. “Aluminum
siding on my house? I think not.”
The second message was in a rich, familiar voice. The words sounded
formal and innocuous, but she could detect the hidden passion behind
them that went orders of magnitude beyond a mere business
relationship...or even good friendship.
In her persona at work and at DOE social functions, she called him
“Brigadier General Matthew
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Bradoukis.” During his frequent visits here in her backyard or on the
patio, she allowed herself to call him “Matthew”’—and while they
were in bed, she moaned endearing and never-to-be-repeated names
into his ear. He didn’t identify himself on the answering machine, not
that he needed to. “It’s me. I’m a little late at the office so I won’t be
over until seven-thirty or so. Im going to stop by my house and pick
up the two Porterhouse steaks lve been marinating in the fridge all
day. We’ll throw them on the barbecue grill, then we can take a swim
and...whatever. With so many parts of the project coming to a head,
reaching their climax—”
Nancy giggled, knowing he had picked the turn of phrase
intentionally. She found it very erotic.
“—we both need a little release from our tension.” The tone beeped,
and the tape rewound.
In her bedroom, she shed her clothes and, smiling to herself, she
yanked down the satin sheets on her bed before changing into her
bathing suit, black and smooth and slick. She admired herself in the
mirror. At forty-five she knew she wasn’t as gorgeous or sexy as she
might have been at twenty-five, but she had a body that stood out
above most other women her age. She kept in shape. She dressed well.
She exercised, and she had retained her appetite in sexual pleasures.
Her hair was short and neatly trimmed. Luckily, blondes didn’t
become gray—instead they turned “ash.”
Nancy grabbed one of the plush beach towels from the closet and
went through the kitchen, pausing to pour herself a gin and tonic. She
swished the alcohol and mixer around with the ice, making it good
and cold. No sense not getting the buzz started before Matthew got
here. He would fix his own drink when he arrived.
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With the towel slung over her shoulder, Nancy took the mail and her
drink out the back patio door to sit by the pool. She pulled a chaise
lounge up to her small patio table, then went to turn on the bug lights.
The mosquitoes and gnats never relented, especially not near sunset.
Finally, she picked up the pool skimmer and swept the net around the
surface of the water, removing the drowned bugs and the leaves that
had fallen from the neighbors’ trees. When the blue water sparkled
clean and inviting, she returned to her shaded chair. Nancy settled
back to relax, sipping the strong drink, tasting the tonic and the
Tanqueray that burned along the back of her throat and into her
sinuses. She imagined the taste of the rich steaks Matthew would soon
be cooking. She could imagine the salty sweet flavor of his kisses as
their breath mingled.
She squirmed in anticipation on the lounge chair, then ran her hands
over the swimsuit.
It was so good to have a man whose security clearance was as high as
her own, someone who worked on the same classified project, who
knew about the money skimmed off the operating budgets of other
programs, leaving no paper trail of funding. No accounting could ever
be made for highly sensitive projects such as Bright Anvil. She didn’t
have to worry about pillow talk when she needed conversation, since
Brigadier General Matthew Bradoukis handled the Department of
Defense’s operations of the new warhead concept, while she took care
of the DOE
side. No worries there. He was her perfect match...for now. Nancy
slicked baby oil on her bare legs and arms and shoulders, massaging it
into her neck...imagining Matthew’s strong fingers working it there.
She had to stop herself from thinking like that,
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or she wouldn’t be able to stand waiting until he arrived. She tried to
distract herself by opening the mail, sifting through the form letters,
advertising circulars, and junk mail without interest—until she came
upon an express-delivery package with a postmark from Honolulu but
no return address.
“Maybe I won a free trip for two,” she said, and tore open the
envelope. To her disappointment, she discovered only a small glass
vial of fine black ash and a scrap of paper. The message was written in
neatly printed, razor-edged letters, carefully formed capitals, in a hand
that showed elaborate patience.
“FOR YOUR PART IN THE FUTURE.”
She frowned at the note. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Out of curiosity, she shook the vial of black ash, holding it up to catch
the light. “Am I supposed to convince people to stop smoking
cigarettes?”
Nancy stood up, disgusted at somebody’s lame idea of a joke. Whoever
was trying to threaten her, or pull her leg, couldn’t succeed unless she
understood what the point was.
“Next time try adding a few more details,” she said, tossing the note
on the patio table.
Nancy decided not to worry about it. The sun was dropping lower,
though the humidity would hold the heat in the air for a long time to
come. She was wasting good swimming time.
By the edge of the pool, the bug light crackled and snapped. She
watched it give off blue sparks as it fed upon whatever gnats or
mosquitoes had been lured to their doom in its voltage differential.
“Take that,” she said with a grin. “Hah!”
Then the other bug lamps began to spark, frying loudly, buzzing,
popping. The lights flickered violently. The sparks returned like
miniature lightning storms. 136
GROUND ZERO
“What is this, a June bug invasion?” Nancy said, looking around. Only
the large beetles would cause the lights to sizzle so much. She wished
Matthew would hurry up and get here—she wanted him to see this
craziness. Finally, one by one, each bug light erupted like a small
bomb, with a geyser of blue electrical sparks like a Roman candle into
the air. Nancy groaned in disgust. Now they would have to waste
valuable weekend time replacing the fixtures.
“What’s going on here, dammit?” Stilling holding the weird vial,
Nancy slammed her drink down, somehow managing not to shatter
the glass and dump ice cubes across the concrete patio. She felt
unprotected and defenseless out here wearing nothing but her black
bathing suit. Maybe if she could get to a phone...
Voices came at her from all sides, speaking in some strange and
primal tongue, swirling invisibly around her ears—but she could see
nothing.
The air itself sparkled and discharged, as if every object on her patio
had become a lightning rod. Blue-white arcs shot from her lounge
chair to the patio table. “Help!” she cried.
Nancy turned to run, but slipped and reached out instinctively for
support. When she touched the chair, skittering electricity shot up her
arms in a burning discharge. She opened her mouth to scream, and
sparks danced from the fillings in her teeth. Her ash-blond hair rose
up into the air like serpents, waving from side to side, spreading into a
nimbus around her head.
Nancy staggered toward the edge of the pool, desperately seeking
sanctuary there. Her skin crawled and burned, alive with static
electricity. She dropped the vial of ashes into the water.
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A gathering storm of harsh light surrounded her. The screaming voices
grew louder.
Critical mass.
A sudden rush of thunder engulfed her.
The intense firestorm crisped her eyes. The force of the blast of heat
and radiation slammed her backward into the pool with a surge of
light. A cloud of vaporized water swept upward like a fog bank into
the sky.
The final afterimage on Nancy Scheck’s optic nerve was of an
impossible, spectral mushroom cloud. 138
NINETEEN
Scheck Residence
Tuesday, 1:06 P.M.
The body looked the same as the others, Mulder thought—severely
charred, crackling with residual radiation, twisted in a flash-burned,
insectlike pose that reminded him of that famous lithograph by
Edvard Munch, “The Scream.”
Somehow, though, finding a radiation-blasted corpse in the backyard
of an expensive suburban home seemed far more eerie. The mundane
surroundings—swimming pool, lounge chairs, and patio furniture—
gave the death scene a more frightening aspect than even the blasted
bowl of glassy sand out in the New Mexico desert.
A local policeman blocked them from entering the pool area, but
Mulder flashed his badge and ID. “Federal agents,”
he said. “Pm Special Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully. We’ve been
flown in to look at the site and examine the body.”
A homicide detective was studying clues and 139
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taking notes around the pool and patio. He looked baffled. He
overheard Mulder’s introduction, and looked up. “FBI?
Now that’s calling in the big guns. Why were you brought here?”
“We might have a certain background on this case,” Scully answered.
“This death may be related to another investigation we’re working on.
There have been two similar deaths in the past week.”
The detective raised his eyebrows, then gave a weary shrug.
“Anything you guys can do to help. Takes work off my shoulders. This
is a weird one, all right. Never seen anything like it.”
“No question: this one goes in your special file cabinet,”
Scully said quietly to Mulder.
Scully began a perimeter inspection of the crime scene, working
around the bustling evidence technicians and detectives. She took out
a small knife to probe a large charred patch on the redwood fence that
bounded the Scheck property.
“The burn doesn’t go very deep,” she said, flaking away an external
film of charcoal. “As if the heat was intense, but very brief.”
Mulder inspected the mark she had made with her knife. Then he
noticed the shattered bug lights around the pool.
“Look, they’re all destroyed,” he said. “Like some sort of power surge
blew them up, every one. Doesn’t happen every day.”
“We can check electrical company records to see if there were local
power fluctuations at the estimated time of death,”
Scully suggested.
Mulder nodded. He placed his hands on his hips and turned slowly
around, hoping that an answer would jump out at him. But nothing
did. “Okay, Scully,” he said. “This time we’re not at a nuclear research
lab or a missile testing site—just somebody’s patio in Maryland. How
are you going to explain this one scientifically?”
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Scully sighed. “Mulder, right now I’m not even sure how you're going
to try to explain it.”
“Not necessarily by the book,” he said. “First off, I’m going to see if
there was any connection between Nancy Scheck and Emil Gregory
and Oscar McCarron. Or nuclear weapons testing. Or even the
Manhattan Project. It could be anything.”
“She wasn’t old enough to be involved with the Manhattan Project in
World War II,” Scully pointed out. “But she did work for the
Department of Energy, an important person, according to the dossier.
But that’s a tenuous link at best. Tens of thousands of people work for
the DOE.”
“We'll see,” Mulder said.
The coroner had already wrapped up the charred body in a black
plastic bag. Mulder went cautiously over to the coroner and motioned
him to unzip the body bag so he could study again what remained of
Nancy Scheck.
“Weirdest thing I ever saw,” the coroner said. He sneezed, then
sniffled loudly, and muttered something about his allergies. “Never
seen a death like it. Isn’t just a burn victim. Can’t imagine offhand
what could blaze that hot. I’m going to have to dig in my reference
books.”
“An atomic bomb could have done it,” Mulder said. The coroner gave
a nervous chuckle, then sneezed again.
“Yeah, good one. Everybody has an A-bomb go off in their backyard.
Must have been some argument with the neighbors!
Unfortunately, no witnesses reported seeing any mushroom cloud.”
“Td agree that it sounds preposterous—” Mulder said, “if this weren’t
the third identical death we’ve seen in the last week or so. One in
California, one in New Mexico, now here.”
“You’ve encountered this before?” the coroner 141
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perked up, then rubbed his reddened eyes. “What on earth caused it?”
Mulder shook his head and allowed the stocky man to zip the bag shut
again. “Right now, sir, I’m as stumped as you are.”
A man in a general’s uniform stood just outside the glass patio doors
speaking with two policemen, who took copious notes in their small
notebooks. The general was short, broad shouldered, with close-
cropped black hair and a swarthy complexion. He appeared deeply
distraught. The scene instantly captured Mulder’s curiosity.
“I wonder who that is,” Mulder said.
“T heard one of the policemen talking,” Scully said. “I think he’s the
one who discovered the body last night.”
Mulder hurried over, eager to pick up on what the general was saying
and ask a few questions of his own.
“The concrete was still hot when I got here,” the general said, “so it
couldn’t have been long. The back fence was smoldering. The paint
was bubbling, and the smell...” He shook his head. “The smell!” The
general turned to look at Mulder, standing beside them, but didn’t
seem to register his presence. “Listen to me—I’ve seen combat before,
and I’ve witnessed some accidents, awful ones...even helped recover
the bodies from a plane crash once, so I’ve gotten a glimpse of death
and how hideous it can be. But...in her own backyard....”
Mulder finally managed to read the general’s engraved plastic name
tag. “Excuse me, General Bradoukis—did you work with Ms. Scheck?”
The general seemed too much in shock to challenge Mulder’s right to
ask questions here. “Yes...yes, I did.”
“And why were you here last night?”
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The general stiffened, his eyebrows drawing together. “We were going
to have dinner. Steaks on the grill.” His wide face flushed somewhat.
“Our relationship was not a complete secret, though we were
discreet.”
Mulder nodded, understanding the general’s extra measure of distress.
“One thing, General—I understand that Ms. Scheck was a fairly
important person in the Department of Energy, but I’m not sure I
know which program she ran. Can you tell me?”
Bradoukis averted his black eyes. The two policemen fidgeted, as if
uncertain whether they should chase away this new investigator, or
let the FBI agent ask their questions for them.
“Our...uh, Nancy’s work wasn’t much talked about.”
Mulder felt a quick thrill of excitement, a new trail to follow. “You
mean it was one of those black programs, an unofficially funded
project?”
The general cut him off. “The media call them ‘black programs.’
There’s no official designation for them. Sometimes it’s necessary to
get certain things done by nontraditional means.”
Mulder leaned forward like a hawk swooping in for the kill.
Everything depended on the next question. “And was Ms. Scheck’s
work connected with a project called Bright Anvil?”
The general reared back like a startled cobra. “I’m not at liberty to
discuss that project, especially not here in an unsecured area.”
Mulder gave him an understanding smile. “That won’t be necessary,
General.” Bradoukis’s reaction had been answer enough. The sound
Mulder heard in his mind was the clicking of puzzle pieces falling
together. Things were still not entirely in place, but at least they were
arranged into some semblance of
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order. He decided his best tactic would be to leave the distraught man
alone for now.
“That’s all for me, General. Sorry to have bothered you during this
time of great distress. I take it you have an office in the Pentagon? I
may visit you in person if I have further questions.”
Bradoukis nodded without enthusiasm, and Mulder stepped over to
the pool, looking down at the blistered, blackened paint that had once
been sky blue around the concrete rim. Half of the water had boiled
away in the flash of intense heat, leaving the pool warm and murky
with brownish scum collecting in the corners. The fireball must have
been utterly intense—yet it had not set Nancy Scheck’s home on fire,
nor had it spread to the neighbors’ yards. Almost as if it had been
directed, intentionally focused in a specific area. Several people on the
block claimed to have seen a brief, bright flash, but had not bothered
to investigate. Neighbors kept to themselves in these upscale areas.
Mulder’s usually sharp eye glimpsed an object floating near the
bottom of the pool, a small glass bottle that drifted about as if only
partially waterlogged. He searched until he found a skimmer net and
yanked it off its hooks near the patio doors. The flash of heat had
twisted the handle, but the net remained surprisingly serviceable.
Mulder took it to the edge of the pool and dipped the skimmer deep,
swirling it around until he succeeded in netting the dark object and
fishing it out. Water trickled off the edges of the skimmer.
“I found something here,” he called. He lifted free a small vial that
contained a black substance. Some pool water had leaked into the
vial, but just a few drops. The detective and Scully came over to look.
Mulder held the vial between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it to the
light. The object seemed 144
GROUND ZERO
very odd to him, and by its sheer oddness he decided it must be
important to this case.
He offered it to Scully, and she took it, shaking it to disturb the
contents. “I can’t say what it is,” she said. “Some sort of black powder
or ash, but how did it get to the bottom of the pool? Do you think it
has something to do with her death?”
“Only one way to find out, Scully,” Mulder said. He turned to the
homicide detective in charge. “We have exceptional analytical
facilities at the FBI crime lab. Pd like to take this back with us to run a
full analysis. We’ll copy you on all reports, of course.”
“Sure,” the detective said. “One less thing for my people to do.” He
shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this case, and I think it
might be beyond me. Do me a favor and figure this one out.” With one
hand, the detective brushed his hair back. “Sheesh, give me a stabbing
or a drive-by shooting any old day.”
145
TWENTY
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 3:10 P.M.
After so much time on the road, Scully found it comforting to be
working in her own lab for a change, even on as gruesome a subject as
this. She basked in the solitude and familiar surroundings. She knew
where all her equipment was located. She knew whom to call for help
or a technical consultation. She knew specialists whose skills she
respected in case she needed an unbiased person to verify what she
found.
The FBI crime lab was the most sophisticated facility of its type in the
world. It was filled with an oddball assortment of experts in the
forensic sciences whose unusual interests or skills had proven time
and again to be the keys to solving bizarre and subtle cases: a woman
genetically predisposed to detect the bitter-almond odor of cyanide
that many people could not smell, a man whose interest in 146
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tropical fish had led him to identify a mysterious poison as a common
aquarium algicide after all other methods of analysis had failed,
another man who specialized in identifying the type of photo-copying
machine that had made a particular copy.
In their numerous X-Files cases, Scully and Mulder had stretched the
capabilities and imagination of the FBI crime lab more often than
most other field agents. The labyrinth of labs lay on an
interconnecting grid supposedly designed to facilitate cooperation
between separate units, each with its own jurisdiction and expertise:
Chemistry/Toxicology, DNA Analysis, Firearms and Toolmarks, Hairs
and Fibers, Explosives, Special Photography, Video Enhancement,
Polygraph, Latent Fingerprints, Materials Analysis, and other more
esoteric specialties. After her years with the Bureau, Scully still didn’t
understand the actual organization of the units. But she did know
where to find what she needed.
Scully entered the main lab of Berlina Lu Kwok, in the receiving area
for the Biological Analysis Unit, where specimens were given their
first cursory inspection before being subjected to other, more specific
analysis routines. When she stepped through the door, the stench that
assailed Scully’s nostrils was far worse than usual, and the heavyset
Asian lab director was in a foul mood.
“Agent Scully!” Lu Kwok said, her sharp voice slicing through the air,
as if Scully were somehow to blame for the smell. “Is it too much to
ask? Don’t we have clear-cut and regularly posted procedures for
submittal of samples? Isn’t it as easy to do it the right way as to do it
the wrong way?”
Scully clutched a packaged sample of the black residue Mulder had
retrieved from Nancy Scheck’s backyard pool; she shifted it to her side
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in embarrassment. “I thought Id fill out the forms in person—”
But the lab director was determined to finish her lecture, sniffing the
sour air with disgust. “The FBI has every right to expect that local law-
enforcement officials will make some sort of attempt to follow simple
procedures, isn’t that correct?
It helps us all out, doesn’t it?”
She waved an old memo in her hand, squeezing the edge with fingers
powerful enough to snap wooden boards. Without pausing for a
response, she began to read from it.
“All submissions should be addressed to the FBI’s Evidence Control
Center. Bullets should be sent by the United Parcel Service, registered
mail, or private courier. Human organs should be packed in dry ice and
sent in plastic or glass containers via UPS, private express mail, or
special delivery.”
Berlina fluttered the memo in the air to fan away the stink.
“Now some podunk town in South Dakota has sent me a victim’s liver
for toxicology analysis. They stuffed it in a zipper-lock plastic bag
labeled with handwriting on masking tape—and they didn’t even pay
for overnight express.” She snorted. “Economy two-day!” The memo
floated to the floor as Berlina tossed it away. “It'll take us weeks to get
rid of the smell around here, and we probably won’t be able to find
out much from the tissue, either.”
Scully swallowed, hoping to deflate the other woman’s tirade. “If I
submit a sample using proper procedures, may I request a favor?”
Berlina Lu Kwok fixed her with a glare from narrowed almond eyes.
Finally she laughed with a sound like a storm breaking. “Sorry, Agent
Scully. Of course. Is this for your DOE exec murder? We’ve been told
to give you high priority.”
Scully nodded and handed over the sample, 148
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along with a note Mulder had written expressing his suspicions as to
the identity of the substance. Lu Kwok scanned the words.
“Interesting,” she said. “We can check out Agent Mulder’s speculations
fairly quickly—but if it doesn’t match, we could be weeks identifying
the substance.”
“Do what you can,” Scully said. “And thanks. Meanwhile, I’ve got two
autopsies to perform.”
“Lucky you,” the Asian woman said, scrutinizing the powdery sample.
Still muttering to herself about the stench in her lab, she turned and
walked back toward her equipment. It was a messy and exhausting
afternoon. Scully completed the autopsy on Nancy Scheck, as well as
the old rancher, Oscar McCarron, who had been packaged and shipped
to her lab—following proper procedures, she hoped—thanks to the
helpful people at the White Sands Missile Range. Scully suspected they
simply wanted to wash their hands of the matter and let her deal with
the questions. But now that she had studied three victims who had
apparently died by the same impossible method, she still had no guess
as to what the lethal weapon could have been. It was easy enough to
list the cause of death as “sudden and violent exposure to extreme
levels of heat and radiation,”
but that still didn’t explain the source of the exposure. Was it a new
kind of death beam, or a pint-sized nuclear warhead?
From her own undergrad classes, Scully knew the physics of nuclear
explosions well enough to understand that a warhead could not fit
inside, say, a small package bomb or a hand grenade. Critical mass
and initiators and shielding required a certain
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amount of bulk—and such things left debris, none of which had been
found at any of the three death scenes. The only piece of trace
evidence she had in her possession was the vial of strange black ash
Mulder had fished out of Nancy Scheck’s swimming pool.
Letting other FBI staffers clean up the autopsy arena and take care of
the two burned bodies, Scully moved to her smaller lab, analyzing
another portion of the ash. In a sterile metal tray she carefully used a
long, narrow-bladed scalpel to spread the greasy, powdery residue flat
so she could inspect it. Using a magnifying glass, Scully studied the
substance, probing delicately to inspect its material properties. She
took out her tape recorder, inserted a new microcassette, and pushed
the RECORD button, letting the voice-activated microphone deal with
the long pauses in her narration. She stated the case number, the
evidence sample number, and then began her off-the-cuff report.
“The black substance found in the Scheck swimming pool appears to
be fine and flaky, partially granular, composed of two distinct
components. The bulk of the material is soft, ashen, and appears to be
composed of some sort of organic residue. The powder is mostly dry
now, although I believe it may have been contaminated by chlorine
and other chemicals from the pool. We may have to compensate for
those impurities in our final analysis.
“The second component in the mixture is grainy and...”
She isolated a couple of the grains with the point of her scalpel and
pressed down on one, hearing it pop and skitter to the side of the
metal pan. “And it’s hard and crystalline, like some sort of rock or...
sand. Yes, it reminds me of dark sand.”
Scully scooped a small amount of the black substance onto her scalpel
blade, spread it on a clean 150
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microscope slide, and then slid it under her stereomicroscope. She
hunched over the eyepieces and adjusted the focusing knob, studying
the substance under low and then higher powers of magnification,
using a polarizing filter, prodding with the tip of her scalpel to
distribute the tiny pieces more evenly.
“Yes, it does seem to be sand,” she said out of the corner of her
mouth, hoping the microcassette recorder would pick up her words.
She frowned. “One possibility could be that the ash was scraped up
from a beach somewhere, and the sand was inadvertently combined
with the primary material. This is strictly conjecture, however.” She
would have to await the results of Berlina Lu Kwok’s chemical tests on
both components.
On a hunch, but already dreading the answer, Scully went to an
equipment cabinet and retrieved a rarely used device she had
requested for the autopsies that afternoon—a small alpha counter, a
delicate radiation meter that could pick up residual radioactivity
beyond the usual background counts. Scully pointed the sensitive end
of the alpha counter, playing the silvery rectangular foil cells over the
smear of black ash and sand she had placed in the metal tray. With
the detector’s output linked to her own computer and running obscure
alpha-counting software, she was able to trace a nuclear spectrum.
Considering the circumstances of the overall case, she was not
surprised to find residual radioactivity in the sample. Fortunately, the
specimen was small enough that the dose could not harm her. Its
spectrum was slanted to the high end, enough that it was obviously
something of unusual origin, something resulting from a high-energy
burst. The software did most of the work for her, 151
THE X-FILES
comparing the nuclear spectrum with thousands of others it kept in its
database, searching for a match it could offset. Scully heard a knock
on the door, and Berlina Lu Kwok came in, holding a folder full of
papers. “Here are your results—special delivery for you, Agent
Scully.”
“Already?” Scully said, surprised.
“What, you wanted me to pack it in dry ice and send it UPS?” Lu
Kwok laughed. “I just wanted to get a breath of fresh air from my
lab.” Scully gratefully took the folder, but before she could say
anything else, the Asian woman spun about and marched back down
the hall.
Scully looked at the folder, then sat down next to her computer to
wait for results from the radiation scan. To her surprise she discovered
that during the brief interruption, the computer had already found a
match. Before she opened up Berlina Lu Kwok’s Biological Analysis
report, Scully studied the nuclear spectrum results.
The error bars were large, but due to the unique half-life properties
and the unusual nuclear cross section of the sample, its best guess was
that this black residue had been exposed to high levels of ionizing
radiation between forty and fifty years earlier.
Scully swallowed, deeply troubled. Reluctantly, she flipped open the
Biological Analysis folder, already suspecting the answer. The only
way Lu Kwok could have identified the substance so quickly was if
Mulder’s lead had indeed proven accurate.
She scanned through the analysis summary, paging to the end,
interested only in the final result for now. Her stomach sank.
The black powdery sample was indeed human ash, almost completely
incinerated—exposed to high
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radiation something like forty years ago, mixed with a black grainy
sand.
Radioactive human ash four decades old, found at the death site of a
victim who had been obliterated by a similar atomic flash.
Sand.
Ash.
Radiation.
Scully sat back in her seat and tapped her fingernails on the folder.
Then she picked up the phone. She couldn’t put it off any longer.
Mulder was going to love this.
153
TWENTY-ONE
Kamida Imports
Tuesday, 12:03 P.M.
When Miriel Bremen went into the upper floors of the Honolulu high-
rise business complex, she felt intimidated. Outside, traffic streamed
by in the sunshine, flowing along the seaside, while Diamond Head
reared its blocky spire like a sentinel over the waves and the
sunbathers. Inside the Kamida Imports office building, Miriel felt as if
she had stepped into another world.
She had no interest in the balmy climate, the lovely ocean, the
beaches crowded with fishbelly-white American vacationers or
swarms of Japanese tourists who stayed up shopping all hours of the
night. Her message to Kamida was far too grim to worry about
vacation trivialities. Miriel waited for the receptionist to announce her
arrival. She paced in the waiting room, too distracted to read any of
the colorful but banal magazines spread out on the low tables.
154
GROUND ZERO
Miriel had known Ryan Kamida for a year now. She had met him
immediately after the personal epiphany that had turned her against
nuclear weapons work and transformed her into a vehement protester.
The extravagant funding Kamida donated anonymously from the
coffers of his successful imports business had kept Stop Nuclear
Madness! free of financial worries during its one-year existence. From
their first meeting, Miriel realized that she and the scarred blind man
had so many things in common that it was almost eerie. Even so, his
very presence sent a thrill of fear through her. She found it hard to
understand Kamida’s offhanded acceptance of his tragic fate, but he
swept such thoughts away with his strange charisma. As a respected
researcher at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility, Miriel Bremen used
to feel comfortable meeting many important people, holding her own
in any conversation. After she had learned of Ryan Kamida’s power
and his generosity—and his personal drive—Miriel had promised
herself that she would not return to ask more of her benefactor except
in the direst emergency. Circumstances now warranted such a visit.
For months, Kamida claimed to have been making preparations,
forming contingency plans, and speaking of desperate measures, as if
he could see the future. She did not relish the thought of taking him at
his word again. Now she had no choice.
Ryan Kamida emerged from his back offices, led by the receptionist.
He maintained only the slightest touch on her shoulder, simply an
acknowledgment that he required her to guide him. His eyes were
milky, the color of a half-cooked egg; his face was scarred, like the
bust of a very proud man done by a poorly trained sculptor.
Kamida cocked his head to one side, as if he 155
THE X-FILES
could detect Miriel’s presence from the faint perfume in the deodorant
soap she had used, or perhaps the sound of her breathing. Miriel
wondered if he had more abilities than he let on.
“Mr. Kamida,” she said, standing up. “Ryan, it’s good of you to see me
on such short notice.”
He came forward, homing in on the sound of her voice and releasing
his grip on the receptionist, who took his dismissal as a matter of
course. She returned to her station just as the phone began ringing.
“Miriel Bremen, what a pleasant surprise. It’s kind of you to come all
the way to the Islands just to see me. I was about to go to my
greenhouse for lunch. Would you join me?”
“Yes, I would,” she said. “We have certain things to discuss.”
“Tm sorry to hear that,” he said. “Or am I pleased?”
“No, you're sorry,” she said. “Definitely sorry.”
Kamida turned to the receptionist. “Shiela, please have a nice lunch
for two brought into the greenhouse. Ms. Bremen and I would like to
relax for some private conversation.”
An enormous room on the top floor had been converted into a lush
tropical forest. Skylights funneled sunshine through the ceiling, while
an entire wall of plate glass allowed daylight to stream in from the
side. Mist generators kept the air humid and warm, smelling of damp
organic greenery and compost and plant food. Ferns and flowers grew
in a wild profusion—not potted or ordered in any way, simply a riot
like the dense rainforest one might find on an isolated Pacific island.
Several captive birds flitted about in the treetops. Ryan Kamida
walked in without guidance, weaving through plant-bordered aisles.
He held both hands out in front of him like a preacher giving
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a benediction, going out of his way to brush against the vegetation. He
bent over to smell flowers in bloom, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes.
A mist generator spat a rain of spray near him, and he adjusted his
hand to touch it, letting the cool droplets form in a glittering sheen on
his rough, blistered skin.
“This is my place, Miriel,” he said, “a special place where I can enjoy
the sound of growing leaves and inhale the smell of fresh earth and
blooming flowers. The experience is quite remarkable, from my
humble point of view. Pm almost saddened to think of the profusion
of windows that your other senses open for you, so that this full and
focused experience is denied you.”
Though blind, Kamida led the way to a small table nestled in the
midst of the dense foliage. He pulled out an ornate metal chair and
waited for her to sit down, then pushed her closer to the round glass
table. Its size was perfect for two people to dine in the seclusion of a
jungle paradise.
“Pm afraid the news is bad, Ryan,” she blurted, before he even took
his seat.
He felt his way to the opposite chair and sat in it, pulling it snugly up
to the table. Before she could continue, though, an employee of
Kamida Imports hurried in, bearing two large salads and a plate of
fresh pineapple, papaya, and mango slices. She fell silent, looking at
him while waiting for the employee to leave.
Ryan Kamida had used his handicap to great advantage, Miriel
thought, as if he were watched over by angels. Blessed in business, he
had developed his exotic imports company into a wealthy corporation.
Though she had met him accidentally that first time in Nagasaki,
Miriel held the uncertain
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THE X-FILES
suspicion that he had set up the entire encounter himself, and that
events were even now playing out exactly the way he wished.
Now she shuddered and hunched her shoulders as she bent over her
salad.
When she had turned away from her mentor, Emil Gregory, Miriel had
looked to Kamida as a new supporter, someone who shared her
vehement beliefs. Ryan Kamida knew an enormous amount about
nuclear weapons testing, about the entire military industry. He was
someone to whom she could divulge the dire designs concocted by
unenlightened weapons scientists, the blueprints passed along to her
through a few sympathetic workers who remained at the Teller
Nuclear Research Facility.
Miriel had told Kamida everything, without qualms about spilling
classified information. She had vowed to devote her life to the cause;
she now responded to a higher calling, not one decreed by the military
industrial complex (who had, after all, caused so many of the
problems in the first place). She knew what she was doing was right.
Now the time had come for their work to reach its climax. If they
could not stop Bright Anvil soon, then all their efforts were simply
smoke blown in the eyes of people who wanted to believe.
Kamida ate his salad, waiting for her to continue. His stiff, grave
demeanor, however, led her to suspect that he had already guessed
what she was about to say.
“Everything I’ve tried has failed,” Miriel said, picking at the greens on
her plate and then spearing a chunk of pineapple with her fork. “The
government has a momentum behind what it decides to do—and no
one, not me, not you, can stop it once it’s started.”
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“T take it that means that no one has heard our complaints.”
“Oh, they’ve heard them all right,” Miriel said. “They just don’t pay
attention to them, any more than they would bother with a gnat
buzzing in their ears.”
The blind man sighed, and his scarred face fell. Miriel continued,
speaking louder, leaning across the table toward him—though he
could hear her perfectly well. “The Bright Anvil test is going ahead,
even without Dr. Gregory. Somewhere out in the Marshall Islands, on
an abandoned atoll.”
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. 159
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
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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,
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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, neverforgotten
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. 162
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
self163
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confidence—a quality few generals lacked. He squeezed his generous
lips together as if to squash his nervousness.
“lve 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. “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
164
GROUND ZERO
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-familiar 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.”
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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
166
GROUND ZERO
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?”
“T 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 167
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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,
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GROUND ZERO
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 ’'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. “Pll make a few phone calls. Pll even call
Assistant Director Skinner, if need be. Just be ready to get on a plane.
We don’t have any time to lose.”
169
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 rd
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. 170
GROUND ZERO
He stashed 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.”
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He gestured her inside. “I’ve arranged for two tickets to paradise. You
and I are going off to the South Seas.”
“Your message told me that much,” she said. “But what for?”
“We've got a pair of front row seats at the Bright Anvil test. I asked for
season tickets to the New York Knicks, but this was the best they
could do.”
She blinked her blue eyes in astonishment. “The test? How did you
manage that? I thought—”
“Connections in certain high places,” he said. “One very frightened
brigadier general who was willing to go out on a limb for us. I picked
up some Chinese carry-out for a quick dinner before we head to the
airport.” He indicated the extra paper plate. “I got an order of kung-
pao chicken—your favorite.”
Scully set her duffel bag on an empty chair and looked at him
curiously. “Mulder, I don’t recall that we’ve ever gone out for Chinese
food together. How would you know what my favorite meal is?”
He favored her with a reproachful look. “Now what kind of FBI agent
would I be if I couldn’t find out a simple thing like that?”
She pulled up a chair at the small dining room table and scooped out
some of the chicken chunks laden with red Szechuan peppers. Taking
an appreciative whiff of the aromatic spices, she snagged the extra
pair of disposable chopsticks next to the napkins. Mulder came out of
the bedroom, lugging his packed suitcase. He secured the locks, then
placed his briefcase on top of it. “I think I told you once, Scully, that if
you stuck with me I’d show you exciting lands and exotic places.”
Scully shot him a wry look. “You mean like an island about to be
flattened by a secret nuclear weapons test?”
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GROUND ZERO
Mulder placed his hands in front of him. “I was thinking more of coral
reefs, blue lagoons, the warm Pacific sun.”
“T thought it was hurricane season out there,” she said.
“That’s what Bear Dooley and the Bright Anvil scientists kept studying
on their weather maps.”
Mulder sat across from her to eat his food, lukewarm by now. “I’m
trying to be optimistic,” he said. “Besides General Bradoukis said
something about us going on a ‘three-hour tour.”
Scully finished her meal and checked her watch. She reached inside
her jacket to pull out the two airplane tickets.
“T picked these up from the Bureau travel office on my way over, as
you requested,” she said. “Our plane leaves Dulles in about ninety
minutes.”
Mulder tossed their plates in the wastepaper basket, looked at the
remains of the Chinese food in the white boxes, and without a thought
dumped the remnants of all three dishes together into a single
container. Scully watched him in astonishment. “It’s good for
breakfast that way,” he said. “Add a few scrambled eggs—delicious.”
He placed the container in the refrigerator.
Scully picked up her duffel. “Sometimes you really are spooky,
Mulder.”
After switching off the television—the giant ants had been superseded
by a gargantuan tarantula out in the Mojave Desert—he followed her
out.
He noticed that the metal “2” of the “42” on his apartment number
had fallen off again onto the floor. “Just a second, Scully,” he said,
picking up the number. He ran back in to the junk drawer in his
kitchen, where he pulled out a screwdriver. “This number keeps
coming off. Very suspicious, don’t you think?” He checked it for
listening devices on the inside,
173
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rubbing his finger along the curve of the thin metal. At one time he’d
been certain someone was spying on him, so he had removed every
detachable thing in his apartment including the numbers on his door.
Now the “2” refused to stay where it belonged.
“Mulder, you’re paranoid,” Scully said with wry amusement.
“Only because everybody’s out to get me,” he said. After reassuring
himself that the metal number was clean, he used a spare set of screws
to attach it tightly to the door.
“Okay. Now we can go. I hope you brought your suntan lotion.”
She shouldered her duffel. “Yeah, and my lead umbrella for the
radioactive fallout.”
174
TWENTY-FIVE
Enika Atoll, Marshall Islands,
Western Pacific,
Wednesday (across the International Date Line), 11:01 A.M.
The atoll had recovered remarkably well in forty years. The low, flat
island, little more than a massive coral reef with a shallow dusting of
topsoil, was once again burgeoning with lush tropical vegetation,
breadfruit and coconut palms, vines, ferns, tall grasses, and low taro
plants and yams. The reefs and lagoons swarmed with fish; birds and
butterflies thronged in the foliage above.
When Captain Robert Ives had left here four decades earlier, he had
been a young seaman recruit who had barely learned to shut up and
do as he was told. The spectacular Sawtooth nuclear test had been the
most awe-inspiring sight his slate-gray eyes had ever witnessed. It had
reduced Enika Atoll to a hot, blasted scab, its entire surface sterilized,
its coral outcroppings sheared off in the boiling froth of the sea,
vegetation crisped, wildlife exterminated. The intricate network of
reefs extended far past 175
THE X-FILES
the portion of the atoll that actually rose above the surface, in many
places lurking only a few feet beneath the water. With amazing
recuperative powers, Nature had reclaimed the territory that humans
had so swiftly and violently snatched away. Once again, Enika Atoll
looked like an isolated island paradise, pristine and uninhabited. At
least Captain Ives hoped it was uninhabited this time. On the shore of
the atoll, sheltered behind the rugged coral rocks that formed the
highest point of the island, Bear Dooley and his team of researchers
used sailors and Navy engineers to help make preparations for their
secret test. A small landing strip had been cleared along a straight
stretch of beach. Bulldozers, off-loaded from the Dallas, plowed
through the jungle, scratching narrow access roads from the sheltered
control bunker to the lagoon on the far side of the atoll, where the
Bright Anvil device would be set up and detonated.
Trapped aboard drab gray ships for so much of their tours of duty, the
Navy engineers enjoyed the work, riding heavy machinery and
knocking down palms and breadfruit trees, leaving naked paths of
churned-up coral dirt like raw wounds on the island.
They needed to construct a bunker to house the controls that would
run the small warhead detonation. Because the control bunker would
be so close to the detonation, it had to be incredibly sturdy. Captain
Ives instructed his engineers in an old trick.
After laying down electrical troughs and pathways to a backup
generator in a shielded substation next to the blockhouse, the
engineers stacked bags of concrete mix and sand around and around a
bowed wooden frame in a shrinking circle, creating
176
GROUND ZERO
a structure that looked like an igloo or beehive. Then, with pumps
hooked up to clunky ship firehoses thrust into the ocean, the engineers
sprayed the outside of the structure, soaking the sand and concrete
mixture. After a day or two of hardening in the warm Pacific sunshine,
the bunker would be virtually indestructible.
NASA engineers had used the same technique at Cape Canaveral to
erect protective bunkers for control systems and observers close to the
early rocket launchpads. Such bunkers had withstood the explosive
stresses inflicted upon them—and in fact had survived so well that the
Corps of Engineers had abandoned the old structures in place out in
the Florida swamps because they could think of no way to demolish
them!
As the sandbags dried against the reinforced parabolic frames that
held them in place, Bear Dooley supervised the installation of his test
equipment inside. The broadshouldered deputy project leader helped
install the control racks that had been carefully crated and stored
down in the Navy destroyer’s hold. He was willing to roll up his
sleeves and get his hands dirty to speed up the work. The bearlike
man sweated in the tropical heat, but he refused to wear cooler
clothes, treating his flannel shirt and denim pants as required dress.
Dooley listened in on the shortwave radio to regular weather updates
for the Marshall Islands. Every time the announcement tracked the
approaching tropical depression, now nearly a full-fledged hurricane,
he grew ecstatic.
“It’s coming,” Dooley had said to Ives the last time he received such
news. “And we’ve got a lot of work to do. Timing is crucial.”
Ives let the man have his way. He had his orders, after all. 177
THE X-FILES
He didn’t think Bear Dooley was even aware of the previous H-bomb
test that had taken place in this same area. Dooley didn’t seem the
type of man who wasted time studying history or worrying where
things came from. For the rest of his life, though, Robert Ives would
be haunted by the knowledge that they had made a horrendous, tragic
mistake here at Enika Atoll.
By now Ives had seen the Bikini Islanders repatriated, after the
government had stripped the topsoil from their blasted island and
replaced it with fresh dirt, replanted the jungles, restocked the
lagoons.
The mysterious islanders on Enika, though, had not enjoyed such
solicitous treatment. Sawtooth had been one of the first H-bomb tests,
kept quiet at the time, just in case the device failed. During those Cold
War years the U.S. couldn’t afford to let anyone see that its
thermonuclear devices didn’t function well enough to keep the
Commies awake at night.
But Sawtooth had worked—spectacularly well. It was in the days
before spy satellites, and the perimeter of the atoll had been ringed
with gunboats, calmly confident that they wouldn’t be seen. These
waters were infrequently traveled, and the captains of the cutters had
instructions to chase off any fishing boats or sightseers. Even so, the
anticipated flash of the Sawtooth device was visible for hundreds of
miles across the open water, rising like the brief glow of sunrise in the
wrong part of the sky at the wrong time of day.
Everyone had been so naive then. They had assumed that the small,
barely charted atoll was uninhabited, and so the scientists and sailors
had not looked too hard to find any indigenous islanders.
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GROUND ZERO
The Navy expected to find no one on Enika, and so no one had ever
really searched.
During preparations for the Sawtooth explosion, the engineers and
sailors had not bothered to report signs of encampments, tools, nets
found washed up on the rough reefs. They dismissed the junk as old
artifacts and looked no farther, because they didn’t particularly want
to find anything else. Such information might cause problems. The
perimeter boats had all pulled back and the main destroyer, the USS
Yorktown, had moved out to a safe distance beyond the reef line.
Those lucky few observers who had been assigned welding glasses
stood on deck to see, while the others promised not to open their eyes
at the critical point. Still, when the Sawtooth detonation went off,
several dozen crewmen suffered from brief flash blindness. Ives
remembered. Some things were impossible to forget. The roar sounded
like the world cracking open, and the mushroom cloud rose like Old
Faithful geyser in Yellowstone—only about a million times as big—
sucking up vaporized coral and sand along with an immense volume
of seawater. The incandescent plume towered like an awesome
thunderhead heralding Armageddon. The shockwaves slamming
through the water caused the Yorktown to rock like a toy boat in a
bathtub....
Several hours later, after it was all over and the sea had grown calm
again, initial inspection teams from the Yorktown suited up and took
their small cutters back to the atoll to plant radiation counters and to
map out the effects of the fallout. A seaplane drifted overhead, taking
photographs for before-and-after images to determine how the atoll’s
topography had changed. Being one of the most junior seamen, Ives
had been “volunteered” to be part of a small group on a 179
THE X-FILES
perimeter cruise around Enika to study any anomalies in the
aftermath. What they found proved even more astonishing than the
detonation itself.
Standing out in open water more than two miles from shore was a boy
about ten years old. All alone. Just waiting. At first young Robert Ives
had quailed in terror, thinking that some vengeful angel had come to
punish them for what they had done to the pristine island. The boy
appeared to be standing right on the surface of the water like a
marker buoy, aimless and lost. Only later did the rescuers remember
that the low reefs stretched in a labyrinth just beneath the surface far
from the actual island. The boy had somehow walked on them,
following the submerged reefs away from what had once been his
island.
They hauled him aboard. He was speechless and shaking, horribly
burned, his face puckered, his eyes sunken and sightless from the glare
of the blast. Most of his hair had been scalded away, and his skin was
an angry red, as if he had been boiled alive. The agony of the boy’s
burns must have been even greater due to the constant lapping of
saltwater that drenched him. No one expected him to live when they
brought him back to the Yorktown. In fact, the ship’s doctor seemed
ambivalent, as if he didn’t want the boy to survive, because he would
be blind and hideously scarred for his entire life...and because the
very existence of a survivor was an accusing finger, proof that natives
had lived on Enika Atoll. An entire tribe had been wiped out in the
Sawtooth blast, save for this sole survivor. But to everyone’s surprise
the boy had recovered, despite his festering injuries. He remained
utterly silent for days, and then finally croaked out words in a strange
language that none of the crew could understand.
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GROUND ZERO
The data obtained from the Sawtooth test were filed away with the
Defense Department, and the Navy placed the entire event under the
strictest order of silence. When the Yorktown finally docked again at
Pearl Harbor, the horribly burned boy was taken quietly to an
orphanage in Honolulu. Official records showed that he was the only
survivor of a terrible house fire that had killed the rest of his family.
Having no other living relatives, the boy was raised as a ward of the
state, although he received a generous (and mysterious) allowance
from the Navy.
Ives had never seen or heard of the boy again, and he wondered how
the poor victim had managed to fare in life. He had not thought of the
boy in some time, but now all those memories had come flooding back
with nightmare intensity—ever since Ives received his orders to take
the Dallas out to the Marshall Islands.
Captain Robert Ives had hoped never to see Enika Atoll again. But
now he had returned...for yet another secret nuclear test.
181
TWENTY-SIX
Alameda Naval Air Station,
Alameda, California
Thursday, 2:22 P.M.
Mulder and Scully arrived in the San Francisco Bay Area, red-eyed and
exhausted from the non-stop travel, knowing they had a much longer
trip still in front of them. Mulder rented a car, and they drove toward
the Alameda Naval Air Station, then spent the better part of an hour at
the gates showing their paperwork, answering questions, and finally
arguing with a stoic military policeman who made repeated phone
calls to his superiors inside.
“Pm sorry, sir,” the MP came back for the third time, “but your story
doesn’t check out. We have no C-5 transport plane leaving for Hawaii
this afternoon. We have no record of you coming, or of your place on
board such a plane, if one existed.”
Mulder wearily pulled out the paperwork again. “This was signed by
Brigadier General Bradoukis, directly from the Pentagon. It’s regarding
a classified
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project out in the Marshall Islands. I know you don’t have the
authorization sitting on the top of your desk, because they wouldn’t
make it so blatant—but my partner and I are authorized to go on this
flight.”
“Tm sorry, sir, but there is no flight,” the MP insisted. Mulder heaved
an angry sigh, and Scully squeezed his arm to calm him. Before he
could speak again, Scully broke in,
“Why don’t you talk to your superior again, Sergeant,” she said, “and
this time mention two words to him: Bright Anvil. We’ll wait here until
you come back.”
The MP retreated to his guard shack wearing a skeptical expression
and shaking his head. Mulder turned to Scully in surprise. She smiled
at him. “You rarely accomplish anything by getting angry.”
Mulder sighed, then forced a chuckle. “Sometimes I wonder if I ever
accomplish anything—period.”
Within minutes, the MP came back and opened the gate for them. He
offered no apologies or any explanations whatsoever. He simply
handed them a map of the base and directed them where to go.
“Wasn’t your father stationed here at one time?” Mulder asked. He
knew how deeply the death of her father had affected her.
“Briefly,” Scully said, “around the time I started college at Berkeley.”
Mulder looked over at her. “I didn’t know you went to Berkeley. As an
undergrad?”
“Just for my first year.”
“Ah,” he said and waited for her to continue. But Scully seemed
uncomfortable about the subject, so he didn’t press her for details.
Exactly where the guard had directed them, they found the whale-
sized C-5 transport. Small hydraulic vehicles hauled cargo, stuffing
crates into the swollen, olive-colored belly of the plane.
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Forklifts raised pallets filled with the final loads of equipment, while
civilian passengers and military personnel climbed aboard, using a set
of steps that had been hastily rolled up against the plane.
“See, Scully,” he said, “they have no C-5 transport plane here on the
base, and nothing whatsoever is scheduled to depart.” He opened his
hands in a helpless gesture. “But then, a tiny aircraft like this must get
misplaced all the time.”
Scully, who had long ago accepted the secrecy and the denials
surrounding classified projects, made no rejoinder. Carrying his
suitcase and briefcase, Mulder bounded up the metal steps that led up
to the aircraft passenger compartment.
“I hope we can get ourselves a window seat,” he said.
“Nonsmoking.”
“I think Pll try to take a nap on the way,” Scully answered. Inside the
no-frills transport plane, Mulder looked around the sharply shadowed
interior, which was lit from behind and below by the open cargo
doors. Other passengers—naval officers and enlisted men, as well as
half a dozen nonmilitary types—milled about, finding places to sit.
Mulder saw no baggage compartment, only webbing stretched across
the metal wall panels, where others had already secured their personal
baggage. He went back to tuck his suitcase into an empty spot, then
returned to take Scully’s bag, securing it next to his own. He kept his
briefcase with him so that the two of them could look over notes and
discuss the case during the long flight to Pearl Harbor; after a brief
stopover, they would change to a much smaller plane and head out to
the Western Pacific.
When he returned to Scully, she reached inside her purse and handed
him a few sticks of chewing gum. “What, is my breath bad?” he asked.
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“No, but you'll need it for the flight. ’ve flown on these Navy planes
before with my father. They’re not pressurized. Chewing the gum
helps equalize the pressure in your ears—trust me, it’s my professional
medical advice.”
Mulder took the sticks skeptically and slipped them into his shirt
pocket. “I knew we were getting a bargain ticket, but I at least
expected some oxygen.”
“Blame it on military budget cuts,” Scully said. Mulder and Scully
searched for a comfortable seat, but all the chairs were hard and stiff-
backed. They both buckled in. Finally, the cargo doors closed, and
muffled shouts from inside announced the plane’s readiness for
departure. One of the sailors pulled the thick passenger compartment
doors shut as the engines began to power up with a loud vibrating
hum.
“T guess they don’t have a first-class section,” Mulder said. He turned
around in his seat and recognized some of the civilians already
buckled into their seats, scientists and technicians he had seen at the
Teller Nuclear Research Facility. Mulder smiled and waved as a
bespectacled redhead blushed and tried to look small. “Hello, Victor!
Victor Ogilvy—fancy meeting you here.”
Victor stammered, “Uh, hello Mr. Agent...I didn’t know the FBI was
scheduled to watch the test preparations.”
“Well, Victor, I told you I was going to make some phone calls,” he
said feeling like a bully, and somewhat embarrassed at it.
Scully leaned closer to Mulder. “We’ve got a long flight ahead of us, so
let’s be friends. We’re all here with our country’s best interests at
heart, right Victor?”
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The young redheaded technician nodded vigorously.
“Right, Mulder?” She elbowed him in the ribs.
“Of course, Scully.”
The hulking transport plane began to lurch along, lumbering into
motion like a behemoth, as aerodynamic as a bumblebee, but orders
of magnitude louder. The C-5 accelerated down the runway and
gracefully lifted off, hauling its enormous bulk into the air with a roar
of jet engines. Before long, the aircraft had gained altitude, circled
over the hills east of Oakland, and then headed straight out to sea.
Mulder turned back to look at Victor Ogilvy. “So, Victor, why don’t we
make this into a regular tropical vacation with sun and surf and
sparkling beaches?”
Victor looked surprised. “No such luck, Agent Mulder. Did you both
bring along your rain slickers?”
“What for?” Scully asked.
Victor blinked again behind his round eyeglasses. “And I thought you
two had done your homework. Maybe you didn’t get as many details
as you thought.
“The Bright Anvil test—we’re heading directly into a hurricane.”
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TWENTY-SEVEN
Airborne over the Western Pacific
Friday, 8:07 A.M.
Leaving Pearl Harbor behind on a perfect picture-postcard morning,
Scully, Mulder, and the entire crew took off in a smaller plane headed
out over the monotonously blue, sundappled Pacific. While dawn
chased them over the horizon, Scully looked out the window, her
mind drifting far away.
“So,” Mulder said, slouched next to her in a cramped seat, getting
comfortable, “did you enjoy our all-expense-paid government trip to
Hawaii? A fine day of boredom and waiting, but you can’t beat the
hospitality.”
Scully squirmed in her seat, then pulled down the window shade; she
couldn’t find a comfortable position as easily as Mulder seemed to. “It
was everything I’ve come to expect from a government-paid vacation.”
The plane rattled and hummed as it roared over the ocean. Clouds
began to gather in the western
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skies, and Scully had no doubt that as they proceeded the weather
would get worse. Mulder didn’t seem the least bit concerned for the
safety or integrity of the plane—but then traveling never seemed to
bother her partner. Curious to see how the rest of the passengers were
holding up, Scully turned around to look at the small cliques scattered
throughout the plane. Victor Ogilvy and some of the other Teller
Nuclear Research Facility technicians had gathered in the back and
were poring over their notebooks and technical papers.
The Navy troops all sat by themselves, talking loudly, completely
relaxed as the plane rattled along. Scully knew from her own
background that sailors traveled often on a moment’s notice. Thrust
together with new groups of seamen, either with plenty in common or
few shared interests, they found ways to amuse themselves without
difficulty. Mulder had fixed his attention on two young black men
diligently playing a game of Stratego with a travel-sized board that
used small magnetic pieces. He watched them for a few moments,
then looked away with a troubled expression on his face.
Another group of sailors surrounded a broad-shouldered seaman with
close-cropped dark hair and a Hispanic cast to his features; he sat
intently reading the latest enormous technothriller by Tom Clancy.
The three spectators loudly discussed the merits of Clancy’s work and
the excitement of being a CIA agent like Jack Ryan. Scully wondered
if they had the same view of the exciting life FBI field agents led. Then
the three began discussing the classified information woven through
Clancy’s work. “Man, if you or I wrote something like that, we’d be
thrown
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in the brig so fast we wouldn’t have time to cash our royalty checks!”
said one.
“Yeah, but you and I have security clearances—key point. We’ve
signed papers that hold us accountable. Clancy doesn’t have any
access to that sort of stuff, so who’s gonna believe him?”
“Are you telling me he’s making it up? He’s got a damn fine
imagination, if that’s the case. Look at all those details.”
The critic shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s just an insurance agent,
man. He has no ‘implied credibility’ like we do, because we work
directly with the material.”
“T still think somebody should break Clancy’s knuckles for letting out
classified secrets like that.”
“No way,” said the third. “He wouldn’t be able to write no more books
if he had broken knuckles.”
“Well, break his kneecaps then.”
Paying absolutely no attention to the three spectators hovering over
his shoulders and speaking around his ears, the reader casually flipped
a page and continued with the chapter.
The aircraft struck heavy turbulence, jouncing the passengers from
side to side in their seats. Scully gripped the arms of her chair. Mulder
nonchalantly chose that moment to lean forward against the bucking
carnival ride and pull out his briefcase. He snapped it open on his lap,
ransacking it for papers.
“Let’s go over a few things while we have time,” he said. The jostling
became so rough that the two sailors playing Stratego finally gave up,
brushed their magnetic pieces into the carrying case, and clicked their
board shut. With her teeth rattling together, Scully couldn’t imagine
how her partner could think clearly—but then she thought Mulder
might be doing this to
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keep her mind off the turbulence. She silently thanked him for it.
“Just what do you expect is going to happen out there on the island,
Mulder?” she asked.
“General Bradoukis seems to think that whoever or whatever has been
killing people around the country is going to try once more to stop the
Bright Anvil test. This is its last chance.”
“You keep saying ‘it,’ Mulder,” she pointed out. He shrugged. “Fill in
your own pronoun of choice.” He hauled out a map of the Pacific
Ocean with the island chains highlighted. He unfolded it on top of the
other papers in his briefcase. “If you’re still worried about that
hurricane, I’ve got some good news for you.”
Scully, still holding tightly to the arms of her seat, looked
questioningly at him. The plane continued to rattle. “Right now I’m
worried about this plane staying aloft—but if the best you’ve got is
good news about the hurricane, I’d be happy to hear it.”
With a mischievous gleam in his eye, Mulder said, “The good part is
that we aren’t flying into a hurricane after all.”
The brief wash of relief surprised Scully, but she knew him better than
that. “What do you mean? Have the weather conditions changed? Has
it been downgraded to a tropical storm?”
“Not at all,” he said, pointing to the map. “Look here, we’re heading
out to the Western Pacific. Meteorologically speaking, storm systems
in this region aren’t called hurricanes. They are technically designated
typhoons. No other real difference, though. Same damage potential.”
“What a relief,” Scully said. “Aren’t semantics wonderful?”
Mulder studied the tiny flyspeck dots out in the 190
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vast blue areas of the map. He circled the specks with his finger. “I
wonder why they’re going way out here. The Marshall Islands are a
U.S. protectorate, so I’m sure that has something to do with it. Could
it be just to intercept the storm?”
Scully perked up, glad to have a subject on which she could discourse.
She forced herself to ignore the rocking turbulence as she added her
knowledge to the discussion. “It probably has more to do with the
track record of nuclear testing out here. The Marshall Islands chain is
where most of the U.S. bomb blasts took place between 1946 and
1963—hydrogen bombs and cobalt bombs, thermonuclear devices,
everything too big to be detonated in Nevada. In fact, between 1947
and 1959, forty-two nuclear devices were set off on these islands
alone.
Scully was amazed at how these facts came back to her, as if she were
reading from a textbook, or a political diatribe, in her mind. “The
entire atoll of Eniwetok was like a hopscotch ground. Test detonations
stepped from one clump of islets to another, vaporizing one lump of
coral, then the next. The inhabitants were evacuated, promised
adequate compensation, but Uncle Sam never really came through for
them. In all fairness, nobody knew exactly what they were doing at
the time, not even the weapons scientists. They made mistakes—some
bombs fizzled, others produced a much higher yield than expected. It
still amazes me how they just... played with all that destructive
potential.”
Mulder raised his eyebrows. “You’re sounding pretty passionate there.
Is this a particular interest of yours?”
She looked at him, feeling her walls go up. “Used to be.”
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“So what happened?” he asked. “With the testing, I mean.”
“All atmospheric testing of atomic explosives ceased in 1963 with the
Nuclear Test Ban Treaty. But by that time over five hundred nuclear
weapons had already been detonated by the United States and various
other countries.”
“Five hundred!” Mulder said. “Above ground? You’re kidding, right?”
“Have you ever known me to exaggerate, Mulder?”
“Not you, Scully,” he said. “Not you.”
The plane suddenly lost altitude for a terrifying two seconds, then
caught itself. The sailors in back whooped and cheered, applauding
the pilot. Scully hoped the pilot wasn’t about to leave the controls to
come back and take a bow. She sucked in a deep breath. Mulder
waited for her to continue. “There’s even been an off-and-on
moratorium of underground testing.” she said. “The French and
Chinese and others have continued their work, although they deny it.
The French recently resumed testing out on some other islands near
Tahiti—and sparked a firestorm of public opinion against them. With
seismic surveillance and high-resolution spy satellites, however, it’s
awfully difficult to mask the signature of a nuclear explosion.”
“Ten to one this approaching storm isn’t just a coincidence then.’
“I think that’s a safe bet, Mulder.”
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TWENTY-EIGHT
Enika Atoll, Marshall Islands
Friday, 2:11 P.M.
The weather grew even rougher, tossing and batting the small plane
about as they neared the isolated atoll. Scully found herself wishing
for the stability of the immense C-5 transport plane they had flown
from Alameda to Pearl Harbor. The plane circled around to attempt a
second approach to the small island’s crude landing strip. “They
haven’t told us to assume crash positions yet. That’s a good sign,”
Mulder said.
Wind shear knocked the aircraft sideways, and even the seasoned
sailors embarrassed themselves with nervous gasps.
“Mulder, I didn’t realize you were such an optimist,” Scully said, but
he had distracted her just long enough for the plane to make its final
run. Through the rain-splattered window, Scully could make out a
distressingly short landing strip that had been bulldozed along a flat
stretch of beach. 193
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She squeezed her eyes shut. When the plane finally bounced and
rattled to a rough halt, the passengers burst into a round of
spontaneous applause.
Sailors already on the island rushed forward, heads bent, to put chock
blocks behind the plane’s wheels. The side door swung downward on
reinforced cables, converting into creaking stairs. The cargo section
was pried open from below, and a group of Navy men swarmed out of
storm shelters, where they had hidden from the freshening wind and
the approaching typhoon. In a well-choreographed routine, they
began unloading the remaining crates.
Scully walked on rubbery legs to the airplane stairs, but declined
Mulder’s help getting down. She stepped onto the hard-packed coral
gravel of the “runway,” holding the side of the staircase for support,
and stared around at the flat, foliage-covered island, the reef
outcroppings of coral, and the clean sand.
The bowl of sky surrounding them was a muddy gray-green from the
approaching hurricane. The air itself held an ominous crackle of ozone
mixed with the salty iodine smell of the sea. The wind gusted in short
sharp breezes from random directions.
Scully’s light auburn hair blew around her face. Mulder stood beside
her, his maroon striped tie flapping up and off to the side of his suit
jacket. “See, what did I tell you? Two tickets to paradise.”
Scully glanced sidelong at him. “You must have gotten the bargain
tickets.”
In a sheltered bay farther down the rough shoreline, Scully spotted a
small enclosed boat, the captain’s gig, used to shuttle crew and
materials from the Navy destroyer anchored in view farther out
beyond the treacherous reef line. Scully recognized
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the type of ship, a Spruance-class destroyer, a powerful vessel
primarily designed for rapid response and antisubmarine warfare.
“The Navy must be taking this test seriously,” she said.
“That kind of destroyer isn’t something to mess with.”
A trim young officer came directly toward them. He had short-cropped
sandy hair and eyeglasses with Photogray lenses that had managed to
turn dark even in the gloomy light of the rising storm. “You must be
the FBI agents,” he said and stood rigidly in front of them. “I’m
Commander Lee Klantze, the Dallas’s XO. I’ll take you to meet Captain
Ives. He’s here to supervise the last-minute preparations, though I
believe he intends to observe the test from the Dallas.”
Klantze turned about and then set out along the beach, taking long
strides. “We received word from Brigadier General Bradoukis in
Washington that you’d be VIP guests, though we’re all a bit mystified
as to your purpose here. This isn’t an FBI matter, as far as I can see.”
“Tt dovetails with a pending investigation,” Scully said.
“Oh,” Klantze answered.
You could always tell a career military officer, Scully thought with a
smile. They knew when to stop asking questions.
“We'll take you to the Bright Anvil control blockhouse and let you get
on with whatever you need to do. Just try to stay out of the way of
the test preparations. Plenty of delicate instruments. Careless hands
can cause more damage than the hurricane will...and Mr. Dooley
tends to over-react in his protectiveness.”
“Thank you,” Scully said. She and Mulder followed the executive
officer as he struck out toward 195
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where coral outcroppings formed the edge of a sheltered lagoon. A
high-rising bluff shielded a small cluster of buildings from the
opposite side of the island, the direction from which the storm
approached.
Mulder turned back and pointed to the cargo being unloaded from the
plane. “Our suitcases and bags are over there,” he said.
Klantze didn’t seem worried. “They’ll be taken back to the Dallas.
We’ve got staterooms for you to sleep in, although everybody is pretty
much going to be working round the clock until the blast goes off. The
test is set for oh five-fifteen tomorrow.”
“That soon?” Mulder said.
“No choice,” Klantze answered as he continued briskly along the
beach. Sand whipped around them, stinging their faces. “That’s when
the storm is due to make landfall.”
Scully wanted to ask why they were so concerned about making their
test coincide with the hurricane, but she decided to save those
questions for Bear Dooley or someone else in charge.
The executive officer led them to an unusual, igloo-shaped control
bunker, to which all sorts of generators, air-conditioning units, and
satellite dishes had been linked.
“Look, it’s the Enika Holiday Inn,” Mulder said. Scully could see many
figures moving in and out of the blockhouse, checking generators and
electrical connections. A man in a white captain’s uniform saw them
and waved Klantze over.
Upon approaching the captain, Scully automatically took out her ID,
and Mulder did the same. The captain dutifully accepted the FBI
badges and studied them, genuinely paying attention before handing
them back. “Thank you, Agents Scully and Mulder. I’m Captain Robert
Ives,” he said, “of the USS Dallas.”
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Scully reached out to shake his hand, surprising herself with a sudden
rush of memory. “Yes, Captain. I believe I met you once, when I was
much younger, at a Naval reception in Norfolk, Virginia. My father
was Captain Bill Scully.”
“Bill Scully!” Ives looked astonished. “Why, yes, I knew him. He was a
good man. How is he these days?”
Scully swallowed. “He passed away recently,” she said.
“Tm sorry.” Ives stiffened. “When you’re at sea so much of the year, a
lot of personal news vanishes before you get a chance to pay attention
to it. Pm really sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Ives cleared his throat as if to banish his discomfort. “Now then, I
understand that you’re here in regards to something unusual about the
Bright Anvil test? General Bradoukis was reluctant to give details. Is
there something we should know about?”
Scully looked to Mulder, giving him a chance to recount the odd
connections and the strange theory he had proposed. But he just
looked back at her, apparently not wanting to bring up the
possibilities.
“We're here to observe and gather a few details,” she said.
“As you may already be aware, there have been several unusual
deaths of individuals involved with Bright Anvil.”
Just then Bear Dooley came blustering out of the low door in the
beehive blockhouse, blinking his eyes into the wind that tossed his
long hair and white-shot beard into wild disarray around his face. His
eyes fixed on the two FBI agents, and his expression gathered a fury
equal to the storm brewing around them. He had obviously been
stewing about their arrival for some time.
“T don’t know how you two got the authorization 197
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to come to this restricted testing site, Agents Mulder and Scully. I can’t
question it, and I can’t send you home right now—unfortunately.” He
planted his hands on his hips. “But get this straight from the start: stay
out of the way. We’re busy. We have a test to run and a device to set
off early tomorrow morning. I do not have time to babysit a couple of
feds in suits.”
“T haven’t needed a babysitter in at least four years,”
Mulder said dryly.
“Mr. Dooley,” Scully said, “we apologize for coming out here in the
middle of your preparations. Trust me, I would’ve preferred to have
all our questions answered back in California. But since you and your
entire team disappeared without notifying us, we had no other
choice.”
Mulder said, “And you didn’t exactly overwhelm me with information
when I did talk to you.”
“Whatever,” Dooley said in complete dismissal. He turned away from
them and extended a flapping sheaf of papers toward Captain Ives.
“New weather projection from overhead satellite feeds,” he said.
“Exactly as expected. The hurricane center is only two hundred miles
out, and it’s big enough that there’s no chance it’ll miss us. No chance
at all. We’re in luck—Enika is going to be whomped tomorrow
morning.”
“We're in luck?” Mulder repeated.
Ives scanned the satellite projection and nodded. “I concur.”
“Wait a minute,” Mulder said. “First things first. Where is this nuclear
device? Is it in one of the crates we flew out with, or is it already set
up here in the control bunker—what?”
Dooley gave a scornful laugh. “Agent Mulder, you’re not impressing
me with your expertise. The blockhouse is supposed to be sheltered
from a 198
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nuclear blast. Therefore, the device isn’t going to be set up anywhere
nearby. Logical?”
The chance to explain things seemed to calm the big engineer. “The
Bright Anvil device is on the other side of the island in a lagoon. It
came out on the Dallas from San Diego. Everything is all set up and
ready to go, waiting for the storm.”
Scully spoke up. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make all your
preparations in secret—and you’ve taken great pains to select a
deserted island that just happens to be directly in the path of a major
storm system. Most people with any sense would head away from a
typhoon. Do you have any idea how much damage a storm like that
can cause?”
Dooley narrowed his eyes as if about to scold her for her stupidity,
then he let out a gruff laugh. “Of course I do, Agent Scully. Think
about it. With all the damage the hurricane is going to cause when it
strikes this island...who’s going to notice a little more destruction?”
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TWENTY-NINE
Enika Atoll
Friday, 5:18 P.M.
The pressure of the approaching storm felt like a psychological vise
tightening down on Scully. Standing on the rough beach, she looked
up at the blackening clouds at sunset, the eerie color of the storm-
sickened sky.
Outside the control blockhouse, Bear Dooley, Mulder, and Captain
Ives stood together in a moment of relative quiet. In the shallow
lagoon in front of the blockhouse, the captain’s gig bobbed, waiting
for passengers. Shielded by the hummock of reefs, the water was
glassy smooth in contrast to the roiling choppiness farther out to sea.
A line of breakers foamed around coral outcroppings submerged just
beneath the angry waters.
One of the Bright Anvil technicians came running out of the
blockhouse as Scully walked up to them. The technician looked
flustered. “Captain Ives, sir, there’s an emergency message for you
over the secure telephone line!” Ives looked down at the
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GROUND ZERO
walkie-talkie on his hip, disconcerted that the message hadn’t come to
him directly. “It’s from the Dallas, sir,” the technician continued. “The
communications officer on the bridge wants to speak with you.”
Mulder looked directly at Bear Dooley as he spoke. “Oh boy, maybe
they’re canceling the test.”
“Fat chance,” Dooley said.
“Tm sure they’d issue you a raincheck.”
Dooley just shook his head, as if wondering where Mulder got his
sense of humor.
All five of them ducked inside the claustrophobic blockhouse. Scully
was glad to get out of the damp wind that made her skin crawl.
Captain Ives went to a phone box that had been bolted to a plywood
wall inside the armored bunker.
“Ives here,” he said, then listened intently. The expression on his face
quickly became grim. “What are they doing out in this weather?” He
waited for an answer. “Okay, how far away?” He waited again. “And
we're the only ones within range?” He scowled. “Hold on.”
He put his hand to the headset and looked at Dooley.
“We’ve just received a distress call—a fishing boat out of Hawaii,
Japanese registry. They’re in trouble from the typhoon, and the Dallas
is the only ship in the vicinity. It’s a general mayday, but they’re
requesting an urgent rescue. We can’t ignore it.”
Dooley turned red with annoyance. “I thought you said this area was
cleared. Everything around Enika was supposed to be free of shipping
traffic!” He fumed. “And what are those idiots doing out in this
weather anyway? It’s crazy to go out in a hurricane.”
“Sure is,” Mulder said, under his breath. Ives seemed to be fighting to
keep his cool in 201
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front of Dooley. “Because your people needed to keep this test so
secret, Mr. Dooley, we weren’t allowed to send a fleet of patrol boats
out to keep the waters clear. You didn’t want anyone to notice the
activity. We did our best, but something could easily have slipped
through—as this fishing boat apparently has. It’s a big ocean, after
all.”
Dooley heaved a huge sigh and stuffed his big-knuckled hands in his
jeans pockets. “I think we should just leave them out there. Those
bozos will only get what they deserve for setting out without checking
the weather reports.”
Ives had had enough of the discussion. “Mr. Dooley, it’s the law of the
sea to attempt a rescue whenever another vessel signals a distress. It’s
a law by which I live, and I have spent my entire career on ships. That
doesn’t change just because of your pet project.”
“What are we going to do with the survivors once you take them
aboard?” Dooley said. “You can’t let them witness the test.”
“We'll keep them belowdecks— if we succeed in rescuing anybody.”
“But what if it’s a spy ship?” Dooley said. “We might not be the only
people with an idea like Bright Anvil, you know. Another country
could have developed the same concept.”
Scully tried not to laugh, but the bearlike physicist seemed completely
serious in his suspicion.
“Yeah,” Mulder said, “if those Japanese fishermen spies see too much
of Bright Anvil, they’ll start making inexpensive imitations, and you’ll
be able to buy your own warhead the local electronics store.”
Dooley glared at him, but didn’t seem to know what to do with his
own anger. “Well, Captain, at least find out who they are and what
the hell they’re doing out here. These aren’t good fishing waters.”
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With a sigh, Captain Ives put the telephone to his mouth again.
“What’s the name of the ship?” he said. “Find out their registry.” As
he waited for an answer, suddenly Ives’s face turned white. “Fukuryu
Maru,” he said. “The Lucky Dragon?”
Scully put a finger on her chin, thinking. “Lucky Dragon,”
she said. “That sounds familiar....”
Ives spoke into the phone. “Acknowledge their transmission—tell
them we’re coming to help. Prepare the Dallas for immediate
departure.” Ives hung up, then he looked at Scully, since she had been
the only one to react to the name.
“You’re thinking of another Japanese fishing boat with the same
identification—the vessel that wandered too close to the Castle Bravo
H-bomb detonation on Bikini in 1954. The crew received a huge dose
of radiation—the incident caused quite an international scandal.”
Mulder perked up. “And now a ship with the same name is straying
close to this nuclear test? That can’t be a coincidence.”
Scully quickly interrupted his train of thought. “Oh no you don’t,
Mulder. Don’t even suggest that this is some...ghost ship of irradiated
Japanese fishermen coming back to stop the Bright Anvil test.”
Mulder held up his hands helplessly. “I didn’t suggest any such thing,
Scully. Pd say you’ve got an overactive imagination.” He frowned in
feigned contemplation. “Interesting idea, though.”
She turned to Ives. “Captain, I’d like to go with you out to that fishing
boat.” She looked at Mulder, asking with her eyes if he wanted to go
along.
“No thanks,” he said. “PI stay on solid ground. I want to keep poking
around here.” Mulder turned to admonish her as she and Ives headed
back out into the freshening wind.
“Be sure to wear your life jacket.”
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Scully tried to stay out of the way on the bridge deck of the Navy
destroyer.
Captain Ives directed the helmsman to begin accelerating away from
Enika Atoll and into the storm-ragged water. The low coral island
dropped away as the battleship left the labyrinth of whitecaps that
marked treacherous underwater rocks. The Dallas headed out to sea,
following their charts to where the hapless fishing boat had gotten
itself into trouble.
Scully attempted to start a conversation several times, but couldn’t
find the words. Ives appeared deeply troubled and preoccupied, his
salt-and-pepper eyebrows crinkled together, his lips pursed and
pushing up his mustache. Finally, she blurted out, “Captain Ives, you
looked shocked when you heard the name of the fishing boat. How
much do you know about the Lucky Dragon? The original one, I
mean.”
He glanced over at her, setting his lips in a thin, pale line, then
continued staring out the rain-streaked bridge windows of the Dallas,
watching the rough seas. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down once.
“T was an observer at the Castle Bravo test, Agent Scully. I witnessed a
lot of the island detonations during my tour of duty as a young sailor.
I was a Navy man through and through, and a lot of us ambitious
young recruits sort of
‘collected’ bomb blasts in those days. We tried to get ourselves
assigned to ships that were going out to observe the nukes. We
thought it was fun.
“Its an awe-inspiring sight, I can tell you that—but Castle Bravo was
something else entirely, a new design, the biggest yield ever measured
for a nuclear detonation. The Los Alamos scientists had
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calculated their cross sections wrong, or so I understand. The yield
was supposed to be five megatons...instead, it turned out to be nearly
fifteen. An explosion equivalent to fifteen million tons of TNT.
“That number doesn’t really mean anything to the human
imagination, until you try to compare it. The Little Boy bomb dropped
on Hiroshima was about the same as twelve point five kilotons of TNT.
That means the blast from Castle Bravo was twelve hundred times as
powerful as Hiroshima. Twelve hundred Hiroshima bombs all going
off at once!” He shook his head. “You should have seen it. The fireball
itself was four miles in diameter.”
Scully swallowed. “I’m not sure I would have wanted to. Wasn’t it
dangerous to be so close?”
Ives gave a far-off smile. “A lot of us got a significant dose. This
horrendous whitish substance rained down from the sky—we found
out later it was calcium precipitated from the vaporized coral thrown
up into the air. Obviously, the danger zone from the blast turned out
to be much larger than the safe area we had calculated.”
Scully continued for him, “And this Japanese fishing boat happened to
be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The Lucky Dragon wasn’t so lucky after all,” he said.
“With a crew of twenty-three, they were trolling more than eighty
nautical miles east of Bikini—a good distance, but unfortunately it
was directly downwind from the fallout.
“Two weeks later the fishing boat came into home port with a sick
crew. The U.S. offered radiation specialists to help treat the men, but
refused to give any specifics about the content in the fallout.
Somebody was afraid the Soviets could derive a bomb recipe from it.
One of the fishermen died of a secondary infection.
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“Lewis Strauss, the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission,
brushed aside all responsibility and said that those fishermen had
been well inside the danger zone—which I doubt very much—and that
the Lucky Dragon was probably a Red spy ship anyway.”
“A Red spy ship?” Scully’s throat clenched in a combination of
disbelief and anger. She could find nothing else to say.
“His exact words.” Captain Ives gave her a hard look with his
narrowed eyes. “And so I don’t intend to let this other unlucky ship
wallow out there at the mercy of deadly fallout, even if they manage
to survive the typhoon.”
“But as I understand it,” Scully said, “there isn’t supposed to be any
fallout from this weapon. Bright Anvil is only a small-yield device,
nothing that should extend far out into the ocean.”
Ives looked at her skeptically. “Of course. And Castle Bravo was only
supposed to be a third as strong as it turned out to be. I’ve learned my
lesson, even if Mr. Dooley hasn’t. This Bright Anvil device is brand
new technology—and no matter how many computer simulations the
scientists run, sometimes they plain forget about secondary effects. I
don’t want to take any chances.”
Scully swallowed and finally asked, “You don’t...you don’t think
there’s anything supernatural about the appearance of this other Lucky
Dragon, do you? At this specific time?”
Ives smiled faintly. “Supernatural? No, it’s just a coincidence. For all I
know, it could be a common name for Japanese fishing boats. But I’m
still not going to let it happen again.”
The skies darkened, and the clouds drew in around them like a noose.
Before long, the Dallas’s forward sensors detected the fishing boat and
headed 206
GROUND ZERO
directly toward it. Scully could make out the dim shape bobbing on
the rough seas. She didn’t know what she expected to see. Perhaps
something like the Flying Dutchman, a battered old hulk barely
remaining afloat, a few ragged survivors clinging to the deck rails. But
the Lucky Dragon looked perfectly intact, not even struggling much
against the waves. Nevertheless Captain Ives hove the Navy destroyer
close to the fishing boat. Below, two Asian fishermen stood on deck,
drenched with rain and spray, waving their arms for help, while
another remained in the control house.
“The boat looks sturdy enough,” Ives said. “We should be able to tow
the vessel back to the atoll with us.”
Scully quickly nodded, not knowing if he was asking her opinion or
just stating a fact. Ives tossed her a rain slicker and summoned a team
of his crewmen. “Come on, let’s get those people on board to safety.
Give them warm clothes and some soup.”
On the fishing boat two other silhouettes appeared, shadowy figures
behind the rain-streaked windows of the bridge deck. As the Navy
rescuers crossed over to help the stranded fishermen aboard the
Dallas, the other figures emerged. The first was a scarred, Hawaiian-
looking man who moved carefully. Judging by his milky white eyes,
Scully was sure he was blind. When the second shadowy figure
reached for the wet ladder that hung down from the destroyer, Scully
gasped with instant recognition.
Miriel Bremen climbed up into the rain. 207
THIRTY
Enika Atoll
Friday, 6:05 P.M.
Mulder looked up at the angry skies. Wistfully, he thought of how
beautiful the Pacific sunset should have been. Instead, oily-gray clouds
that bore an unnatural yellowish-green tint had spread like gangrene
through the atmosphere. He hummed the first few bars of “Stormy
Weather,” but didn’t try to sing, since he wasn’t sure of the words.
“So Pm stuck with you, Agent Mulder,” Bear Dooley said, coming to
stand next to him. “Did you stay behind because you have a technical
interest in Bright Anvil, or because you’re afraid of the storm?”
“Yes,” Mulder answered cryptically. “That’s absolutely right.”
Dooley found the answer funny and let out a guffaw that could be
heard even through the rising wind. “You’re a pain in the butt, and
your investigation is getting in the way of this test—but here you are,
and I can’t keep you from seeing with your own
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two eyes.” He sighed. “And I guess that partial information is more
damaging than no information at all. So I may as well fill you in.”
Dooley shouted back at the other technicians just inside the bunker.
“Pm going to hop on a Jeep and head off to the other side of the
island to check on the device one last time.”
He turned to Mulder. “Come along, and you'll see what this is all
about.”
Victor Ogilvy came out of the control blockhouse, wiping a few
spatters of light rain from his eyeglasses. “According to the reports,
they checked it already, Bear,” he said. “The team and I went out
there first thing after the plane landed. It’s all set.”
“Fine,” Dooley said, his hair and beard whipping around his face. “But
I didn’t ask if you checked it. I said I want to see for myself. Pd like a
hands-on inspection, all right?”
“We need you here, Bear,” Victor said, as if the storm and the
impending test had brought him to the verge of panic.
“No you don’t, dammit!” Dooley said. “I’ve got enough trouble
babysitting this FBI agent. Can’t I trust my own people to do their
jobs?”
Victor looked stung, and Bear softened his voice. “Don’t worry, Victor.
I won’t mess with the diagnostics, and you can handle the control
blockhouse just fine by yourself. Pll be back in an hour or so. Agent
Mulder and I have to get over there and back before full dark—and
that’ll be any time now, thanks to the typhoon.”
Mulder followed Dooley over to a tarp-covered Jeep sitting in the
open, but sheltered from the wind by the tan igloo of the blockhouse.
Dooley yanked off the thick tarp and tossed it inside a storage shed.
He swung into the driver’s seat in a manner that reminded Mulder of a
burly cowboy climbing onto a faithful horse.
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THE X-FILES
The bearded engineer looked Mulder over as he settled into the
passenger seat. Dooley looked warm and comfortable in his denim
jacket and flannel shirt. Mulder would have thought the outfit
completely inappropriate for a junglecovered Pacific atoll, but the
angry storm had sent a twisted chill through the air. “That fancy suit
jacket of yours is going to get wet when the rain starts coming in
hard,” Dooley said. Mulder brushed his hands down the fabric of his
jacket and loosened his tie. “I’ve got some nice Hawaiian shirts in my
suitcase on the ship, but I never got a chance to change.”
Dooley pushed the starter button on the Jeep and roared off. The
vehicle jounced along the rough dirt road through the jungle, rocking
and twisting like a carnival ride with every rut and root it struck.
Mulder held on, unable to talk because his teeth clicked together
every time he opened his mouth. Dooley gripped the steering wheel
and kept driving. Watching the road ahead, Mulder finally shouted
over the roar of the Jeep and the loud sigh of the wind.
Before long the jungle opened up, and Mulder could see the sprawling
ocean again. Large swells rose and fell, creating a dizzying optical
illusion, as if the landscape were on some sort of drunken turntable. In
a shallow, semicircular lagoon eaten into the storm side of the atoll,
rugged reefs sheltered the water from incoming waves. On a raft in
the middle of the shallow pool Mulder saw a strange high-tech
construction, like a Rube Goldberg machine, or something out of a Dr.
Seuss book.
“There’s the Bright Anvil device,” Bear Dooley said.
“Never been anything like it. Isn’t it beautiful?”
It looked to Mulder as if an alien ship had 210
GROUND ZERO
crash-landed there. He decided that the most tactful thing would be to
grunt noncommittally.
“See those supports, where it’s suspended on the raft? We could have
done the detonation underwater, but this way it’s easier to hook up
the diagnostics.”
Long metal pipes and tubes stretched out like spiderwebs into the
jungle alongside the rutted road. Substations sat at intersections of the
conduits. Dooley pointed to them. “Those are light pipes, carrying
optical fibers for our diagnostics. They’ll be vaporized in the first
second of the blast, but the data pulse will be about a millisecond
ahead of the shockwave, so our information will manage to outrun the
destruction. We’ll get some good signals before the whole thing
disintegrates, then some sexy analysis codes on the computers back in
the blockhouse will crunch the numbers until they’re meaningful.
We’ve also got cameras mounted all around the jungle. No telling how
many of them will survive both the blast and the typhoon, but the
photos should be spectacular.”
“A real Kodak moment,” Mulder said.
“You bet.”
Mulder stared at the contraption. “So you think nobody’s going to
notice your atomic blast because any destruction will be attributed to
the storm? As I understand it, some of the H-bomb explosions literally
erased small islands.”
Dooley gestured with his hand, as if brushing aside Mulder’s
comment. “Yeah, but those were big mothers. Bright Anvil isn’t nearly
so large. In fact, its yield is only about the same as the Nagasaki bomb
—really dinky, as far as warheads go.”
Mulder thought about the two Japanese cities obliterated by the
atomic bombs in World War II and silently questioned Bear Dooley’s
use of the word “dinky.”
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“Shoot,” Dooley said, “today’s ICBMs in their silos contain fifty or a
hundred Nagasaki bombs in every single missile—multiple warheads
that target independently. Sure, Fat Man and Little Boy were hefty for
their time, back in the Jurassic Age, but that’s nothing compared to
what we can do now.”
A splatter of warm rain rushed across the windshield. Mulder shielded
his eyes to stare out at the rickety-looking structure on the raft. “Is
there really a demand for small-yield nuclear weapons. For shoppers
on a tight budget?”
Bear Dooley shook his head. “You’re missing the point. Bright Anvil is
fallout free, man! Some weird technology that Dr. Gregory thought of,
burns up all the dangerous daughter products in prompt secondary
reactions. I have no idea where he came up with the scheme, but it
removes the big political stigma of using a nuclear weapon. Bright
Anvil finally makes nuclear weapons usable, not just bluff cards.”
Mulder looked over at him. “And that’s a good thing?”
“Look, you don’t want to drop a bomb on a city if it’s going to take
half a century before the radiation dies away. You'll get cancer deaths
for decades and decades after the peace treaty is signed, and then
what have you got?” He grinned and held up a finger. “With Bright
Anvil, though, you can flatten an enemy city, then move in afterward,
set up your headquarters, and reclaim territory. You can begin
reparations immediately. It’s sort of the opposite of the neutron bomb
—remember that one? All lethal radiation and little blast damage.”
“T thought the neutron bomb got canceled because of the bad PR, that
it was strictly designed to slaughter civilians.”
Dooley shrugged. “Hey, I try to stay away from 212
GROUND ZERO
the politics of it all. I just do the physics. That’s my part in it.”
Mulder pressed him. “So...you created Bright Anvil, a nuclear weapon
that our government can use during a conflict, without worrying
about the consequences—and yow’re not concerned with the politics?”
Dooley didn’t answer. He got out of the Jeep, leaving the engine
running as he checked the connections on the light pipes, pushed
testing buttons at the substations to make sure all LEDs on the
instrument panels winked green. He was clearly not interested in the
moral implications, but he seemed to sense Mulder staring quietly at
him. After he had finished tinkering with the diagnostic sensors, he
stood up, slowly facing into the wind as he looked back.
“Okay, Agent Mulder, I admit I think about it. I think about it a lot—
but the fact is I’m not responsible. Don’t go lecturing me.”
“A convenient excuse, don’t you think?” Mulder said. He was
provoking the researcher intentionally, curious to see what Bear
Dooley might let slip if he got riled enough. Dooley seemed oddly
calm, intense but not furious. “I read the newspapers. I watch CNN.
I’m a reasonably intelligent man—but I don’t pretend to know how
other governments are going to react, how foreign policy might be
made in some other country that’s as alien to me as Mars. I’m a
physicist and an engineer—and I’m damn good at it. I understand how
to make these devices work. That’s what I do. If somebody decides
that’s a good thing, they fund me, and then I do my job. I leave it to
foreign policy experts to make the best use of what I make.”
“Okay, okay,” Mulder said. “So if you’ve created this new type of
warhead, and somebody uses
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THE X-FILES
it to, say, wipe out a city in Bosnia, you wouldn’t feel the least bit
guilty about all those civilian deaths?”
Dooley scratched the white streak in his beard. “Agent Mulder, is
Henry Ford responsible for the deaths caused by automobile
accidents? Is a gun manufacturer responsible for the people killed in
convenience-store robberies? My team has created a tool for our
government to use, a resource for our foreign policy experts to do their
jobs.
“If some nutcase like Saddam Hussein or Moammar Khadaffi wants to
lob their own home-made uranium bomb at New Jersey, I want to
make sure that our country has the means either to defend itself or to
strike back. They are the policymakers. It’s their job to see that the
tools get used wisely. I have no more business dictating this country’s
foreign policy than—than a politician has coming into my laboratory
and telling me how to run my experiments. That’s ridiculous, don’t
you think?”
“It’s one way to look at it,” Mulder said.
“The plain fact is none of us researchers knows enough about it,”
Dooley continued. “If we went messing with things we don’t
understand, following our consciences based on sketchy information,
we could end up like...like Miriel Bremen, a rabid protester who
doesn’t understand who’s pulling the strings and why people make the
decisions that they do. And I guarantee you, man, Miriel Bremen isn’t
any more qualified to run U.S. foreign policy than I am.”
Bear Dooley was on a roll, and Mulder listened with fascination, not
even needing to prompt him. Dooley looked down at his big hands.
“T used to like her, you know. Miriel’s a good researcher. Always came
up with innovative solutions when Emil Gregory ran into a problem.
But
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then she thought too much about things that weren’t in her job
description—and now look at where she is. Bright Anvil has suffered
quite a few setbacks, with Miriel leaving the project and Dr. Gregory
being killed. I am not about to let Bright Anvil fail now after all this
work, all those careers.”
Dooley pointed a large finger at the device out on its raft.
“That is my responsibility, out there. ’ve got to see that it works.”
Dooley finished checking the equipment, rubbed his hands hard
against his jeans to remove the worst of the dust and grime, and
climbed back into the Jeep. “Now, this has been a fine debate, Agent
Mulder—but the countdown is ticking even as we speak, and I’ve got a
lot of work to do.
“Bright Anvil is set to go off at 5:15 A.M. tomorrow. Kind of like the
Trinity Test, you know? That one was delayed by a storm that
whipped up in the middle of the night out in New Mexico. But here
we're counting on the storm.”
He tromped his booted foot down on the accelerator, and the Jeep
sprayed a rooster tail of sand as they spun around and accelerated
back toward the control blockhouse. Mulder glanced at his watch.
Only ten hours remained. 215
THIRTY-ONE
USS Dallas
Friday, 8:09 P.M.
In the full darkness of early night, the roiling ocean had a greasy cast.
No moonlight penetrated the barrier of clouds high above. The wind
whistled with a cold metallic tang. Scully shivered as she held the
deck rail of the Dallas, graypainted ropes cross-woven to look like a
chain-link fence. She watched the recovery operations on the Lucky
Dragon as seamen swarmed aboard the rescued fishing boat. A team of
strong young sailors, wet with spray and perspiration, assisted the
three fishermen, the scarred blind man, and Miriel Bremen as they
reached the relative safety aboard the destroyer.
Captain Ives stared in stunned amazement at the blind passenger,
unable to tear his gaze from the blistered scars on the man’s face, the
blank look in the refugee’s dead eye sockets as he worked his way up
the rattling ladder. The blind man reached the
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deck, seemingly impervious to the gathering hurricane-force winds.
He slowly turned and faced Ives, exactly as if he knew the captain was
staring at him. A faint smile rippled across his scarred face.
Scully watched the silent encounter curiously, but then turned her
attention to Miriel Bremen as the protester came aboard the Dallas.
For some odd reason Scully felt betrayed, that Miriel had led her
along. Scully’s stomach tightened with a sinking feeling, and she
wondered just what the other woman might have been up to.
Miriel hadn’t noticed her yet, and Scully spoke sharply into the sound
of the wind and waves, “You don’t expect us to believe this is a
complete coincidence, do you, Ms. Bremen?”
Surprised, Miriel Bremen turned toward the voice. Then her long-
chinned face compressed with sour anger. “So, Agent Scully—it looks
like you knew more about Bright Anvil all along. What a sucker I am.
You were playing me for a patsy, seeing how much I would tell you.”
Scully was taken aback. “That’s not true at all. I—”
Miriel just scowled and pushed her glasses more firmly onto her face
as the wind whipped her mousy brown hair.
“T should have known better than to believe an FBI agent.”
Captain Ives stood next to Scully, looking at Miriel’s bedraggled form.
“You know this person?”
“Yes, Captain. She’s a radical antinuclear protester from Berkeley. She
was near the scene of the murder of Dr. Emil Gregory, who was
originally in charge of the Bright Anvil project.”
Captain Ives narrowed his gaze, his eyebrows clenched together as his
forehead furrowed. “You chose a convenient place for a pleasure
cruise.”
Scully frowned again. “And you can bet they 217
THE X-FILES
selected the name of their vessel quite specifically. The Lucky Dragon
—that was no accident. Even if they couldn’t be sure somebody would
recognize it, they must have thought it an amusing joke.”
Ives gestured for several of the crewmen to come over.
“Take them all below to one of the empty staterooms each. Get their
names and make sure they’re comfortable, but don’t let them cause
any trouble. Things might not be exactly what they seem.”
He turned sideways to glance at the blind stranger again. The other
man stood rigid, with that faint, contented smile on his scarred face.
“We'll contact Mr. Dooley and ask his opinion on the subject.”
“T think he might be surprised to hear he has more visitors,”
Scully said. “Especially these.”
“Probably,” Ives said.
The three fishermen seemed delighted and relieved to be aboard the
large and stable Navy destroyer, while Miriel and the blind man
seemed to consider themselves prisoners of war. Miriel walked
proudly between the sailors as they escorted her to shelter
belowdecks. One of the sailors called up from the deck of the Lucky
Dragon. “Captain Ives? Sir, I think you should come down here. We
found some interesting items on board that you may wish to inspect.”
“Very well,” Ives answered. “Coming down.”
“Td like to go with you, Captain,” Scully said.
“By all means,” Ives answered. “You seem to know as many scattered
details of these circumstances as I do. It just gets weirder and
weirder.”
“Unfortunately, none of us has the whole picture,” Scully said.
They lowered themselves over the side and climbed down the slick
metal ladder to the deck of the fishing boat lashed to the Dallas. Scully
gripped
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the rungs against unpredictable gusts of wind from the storm. Below,
the Lucky Dragon pitched and rocked, though the large destroyer
blocked the worst of the waves. From what Scully could tell, the
fishing boat did not appear damaged: its equipment seemed intact, its
deck and its hull unscarred—but then she didn’t know enough about
small marine craft to be a good judge of its seaworthiness. One
crewman came forward to meet Captain Ives and Scully; he rapidly
began pointing out some of the anomalies they had found on the
Lucky Dragon. “All systems appear operational, sir,” the young sailor
said, raising his voice over the roar of the ocean. “No damage that I
can see, nothing that should have caused them to send out such an
urgent distress call. This ship wasn’t in any trouble.”
“Maybe they were just spooked by the storm,” Ives said. Scully shook
her head quickly. “I don’t believe they were in distress at all,” she
said. “They wanted us to go out and pick them up. It was the only way
they could be certain of getting to the Bright Anvil test site.”
Captain Ives worked his jaw and ran his hand over his mustache, but
said nothing.
Another sailor popped his head out from belowdecks.
“Very unusual hull construction, sir,” he said. “I’ve never seen a small
craft designed like this. She’s practically armored. TIl bet there’s never
been a stronger ship this size built.”
“Specially constructed,” Scully muttered. “I wonder if they were
planning to take it into a hurricane?”
“Typhoon,” Captain Ives corrected.
“A big storm,” Scully said. “You’d need a special design if that was the
purpose of your boat.”
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THE X-FILES
“But it’s a fishing boat,” the seaman standing next to them said.
“Its supposed to look like a fishing boat,” Scully said. Ives shook his
head. “Look at this equipment, the nets—all brand new. Those nets
have never even been dropped into water. They’re all props...just for
show. I think you’re right, Agent Scully—something goes deeper
here.”
Another sailor emerged from the rear cargo compartment.
“No fish down here, sir. No cargo at all, just a few supplies and one
storage barrel.”
“Storage barrel,” Ives said. “What’s in it?”
“I thought you might want to take the top off yourself, sir. Just in case
it turns out to be something important.”
He and Scully descended into the shelter under the deck, to where a
single drum had been chained to the hull wall. Seeing it, Scully’s mind
raced, thinking of Miriel Bremen and her radical protest activities, the
suspicion of her involvement in Dr. Gregory’s death—and her arrival
out here, which was almost certainly to sabotage the Bright Anvil test.
Miriel would take whatever measures she deemed necessary.... Ives
took a screwdriver from the sailor and began prying up the top of the
barrel. Scully looked again at the drum and suddenly cried out. “Wait!
It might be a bomb!”
But Ives had already popped the lid off. He froze, as if expecting to be
blasted. When nothing happened, he raised the metal lid higher.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just powdery dirt. Black ash of some kind.”
Scully’s heart was pounding as she approached the barrel. One of the
crewmen gave her a flashlight, which she shone down into the barrel,
illuminating
220
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the glittering, powdery black residue. The barrel was nearly two-thirds
full of it.
“Why would they bring a drum full of cinders all this way?
Is it an incinerator can?” the sailor asked. Scully carefully reached in
and touched the ash, bringing out a pinch between her fingertips. She
smeared it around, feeling the greasy and grainy texture. It seemed
identical to the residue in the small vial found in Nancy Scheck’s pool.
“No, it’s not from an incinerator,” she said. “But I think this provides
direct, clear-cut evidence that Miriel Bremen is involved in the
murders of Bright Anvil personnel.”
Ives replaced the top on the barrel and turned to the sailors. “Make
sure this boat is secure. Agent Scully, let’s get back on board the
Dallas. I need to find out from Mr. Dooley if he knows anything about
this.”
Scully followed him out, but she knew her first priority would be to
speak directly with Miriel Bremen, to try and get some answers.
221
THIRTY-TWO
USS Dallas
Saturday, 1:02 A.M.
As Scully looked on, the security officer used a jingling ring of keys to
unlock the stateroom in which Miriel Bremen had been isolated. He
didn’t bother to knock; no doubt Miriel had heard them approach.
Footsteps rang out on the metal deckplates, even over the muffled
echoes of the hurricane. Scully waited in the corridor, her eyes
burning and itchy from too little sleep and too much thinking in the
past few hours. The security officer swung the heavy metal door open
and gestured for her to enter. Scully swallowed, raised her head, and
stepped inside the small room. Miriel Bremen sat on a narrow bunk,
elbows on her knees, long chin in her hands. She glanced up at Scully.
Her redrimmed eyes flashed with recognition, but not hope. “Did you
at least bring me some bread and water here in solitary confinement?”
she said.
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Startled, Scully looked at the security officer, then back at Miriel.
“Would you like something to eat? I think we can get a meal fixed for
you.”
Miriel shook her head with a sigh, running shaky hands through her
mousy brown hair. “No, I’m not hungry anyway. It was just a joke.”
A thought flashed through Scully’s mind, a realization. Miriel
Bremen’s entire demeanor had changed since their meeting in
Berkeley—and now Scully suddenly thought she had pinpointed the
subtle difference. The protester remained as determined as before, but
now she appeared frightened. Oddly, though, Miriel’s fear did not seem
to stem from being held prisoner on board a Navy destroyer. After all,
she had not done anything illegal, as far as anyone knew, though her
intent to impede the Bright Anvil test seemed obvious. No, Miriel
Bremen now looked like someone far from home. From the haggard
look on her face, Miriel seemed to be in over her head, pushed too far
by her own convictions. With the spectre of the upcoming test
detonation, her activism had somehow transformed into outright
fanaticism, making her willing to abandon all her work in Berkeley
and charge headlong into a typhoon in a small fishing boat. Scully
stood just inside the stateroom and tried to cover an uneasiness that
ran through her. Ever since meeting Miriel Bremen and setting foot
inside the Stop Nuclear Madness!
Headquarters, she had been reliving flashbacks from her first
undergrad year, during which she had come very close to joining an
activist cause herself. Even allowing for the impetuousness of youth,
such activities had been very much against her parents’ wishes. Then
again, joining the FBI a few years later had also been against their
wishes. Scully didn’t abandon her convictions that easily...but now,
looking at what had
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happened to Miriel Bremen, she saw the fine line that she too could
have walked. If things had turned out differently, she might have
fallen off a precipice just as sharp. Scully turned to the guard. “Would
you give us a few minutes of privacy, please?”
The security officer seemed uneasy. “Should I wait just outside in the
corridor, ma’am?” he asked. Scully crossed her arms over her chest.
“This woman hasn’t been charged with any crime,” she said. “I don’t
think she’s a threat to my safety.” Then Scully glanced back at Miriel.
“Besides, I’ve had combat and self-defense training at the FBI
Academy at Quantico. I think I can handle her, if I need to.”
The guard looked at Scully with a small measure of dubious respect,
then nodded briskly as if barely restraining himself from saluting. He
closed the door behind him and marched off down the hall.
“You said it yourself, Agent Scully,” Miriel began. “I haven’t been
charged with any crime. I haven’t done anything to you, or to this
ship, or to the Bright Anvil test preparations. The only thing I’ve done
is call for assistance out in a storm.”
As if hearing her words, the winds outside gusted so loudly that they
resonated through the destroyer. Scully could feel the enormous craft
rocking in the rough water as they churned back toward Enika Atoll.
“Why am I being held here?” Miriel said, continuing her offensive.
“Why was I locked in this stateroom?”
“Because people are nervous,” Scully said. “You know about the
impending test—don’t try to tell me your showing up at this precise
location and time was a simple accident. We just haven’t figured yet
what sort of mischief you might have planned.”
“Mischief?” Miriel sat back on her bunk with an 224
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astonished expression on her long face. “A fallout-free nuclear
weapons test is about to be detonated, in violation of all international
laws and treaties—and you're sitting by, a federal representative,
condoning it—yet you call whatever I might be up to ‘mischief’? What
did you think Ryan Kamida and I might do? We have one fishing boat,
no weapons on board, no explosives. This isn’t a Greenpeace sabotage
raid.”
Scully said, “You brought a barrel of black ash.”
Miriel looked surprised. “So? And what’s that supposed to do?”
“Similar black ash was found at the site of Nancy Scheck’s murder in
Gaithersburg, Maryland.”
Miriel stood up from her bunk, brushing down her stilldamp blouse.
“Commandant Scheck? I didn’t even know the witch was dead.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Scully said.
2)
“It doesn’t really matter to me what you believe,” Miriel said,
“because you probably couldn’t believe what’s really going to happen,
what’s really going on around here right under your nose.”
“Just prove it to me,” Scully said. “Give me some objective evidence,
and Ill be happy to believe. But don’t expect me to take preposterous
explanations at face value. You’re a scientist yourself, Miriel. You
know what I’m talking about. What do you think is going to happen
during the Bright Anvil test? It’s less than five hours away.”
“Tve got a better idea,” Miriel said, pulling up a chair from the small
half desk, as if she preferred the uncomfortable hard chair to the
narrow bunk. “Let me tell you about something that’s already
happened, and you can draw your own conclusions. Did you ever hear
of the Indianapolis, a U.S. destroyer from World War II?”
Scully pursed her lips. “The name sounds famil225
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iar.” She hedged for a moment. “That was the battleship that
delivered one of the first atomic bomb cores out to the island of
Tinian, wasn’t it? In preparation for the raid on Hiroshima.”
Miriel seemed surprised but pleased that Scully knew the answer.
“Yes, the Indianapolis delivered the uranium core of the Little Boy
atomic bomb out to Tinian. The Little Boy bomb was dropped on
Hiroshima, the first strike in our world’s first nuclear war.”
“Spare me the propaganda speeches,” Scully said, still annoyed. A fire
grew behind Miriel’s eyes as she pulled the chair closer and looked
intently at Scully. “Did you know that during the outbound voyage of
the Indianapolis, the bomb core was actually welded to the floor of the
captain’s stateroom? No one knew what the thing was, just that it was
some ultrasecret, extremely powerful weapon.
“But word got around. Rumors fly on ships, especially during wartime.
The whole crew on board the Indianapolis believed they were carrying
a vital component for victory against Japan. After an uneventful
voyage, the Indianapolis safely delivered its cargo to Tinian, where it
was assembled into the bbmb—”
Scully cut her off impatiently. “Yes, and the Enola Gay took off and
dropped it on Hiroshima, where seventy thousand people were killed.
I know all this. Why is it relevant now?”
Miriel held up a long finger. “What’s relevant is what happened after
the Indianapolis completed its mission. Nobody thinks about the
aftermath. They just sweep it under the rug. But with such destruction
there must be some sort of atonement—don’t you understand?”
Scully could only shake her head. Miriel sighed. 226
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“T believe that there is a balance of justice in the world. Such mass
murder could not be ignored.
“Three days after the Indianapolis unloaded its bomb core, the
battleship was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. A casualty of war,
you might call it. But 850 of the 1,196 men aboard survived the
sinking of the ship. They got life rafts into the water in time...but they
weren’t rescued by the Japanese sub. The Japanese did not take
prisoners out of the water. The survivors were stranded.
“The men floated in shark-infested waters all alone for five days before
a Navy plane spotted the survivors. Five days isolated in the ocean,
watching their comrades being eaten alive one by one as the sharks
came from all around, smelling the blood in the water, growing
hungrier....” Miriel seemed dazed by her own story. “Do you know
why it took so long for the search plane?” she asked rhetorically.
Scully didn’t even attempt to answer.
“Through a bureaucratic error, the Indianapolis had not even been
marked as missing. No one had bothered to search for it. They were
found by accident! In the end, despite frantic rescue efforts, only three
hundred and eighteen people were pulled from the water. Three-
quarters of the original crew—two-thirds of those who had survived
the actual sinking of the ship—were lost. It was devastating.”
“That’s horrifying,” Scully said, sickened by the thought.
“But it still doesn’t imply anything unnatural.”
“If you think that’s horrible,” Miriel said evenly, “you should talk to
Ryan Kamida and hear his story.”
“Wait,” Scully said, counting the days in her head. “According to what
you said, the Indianapolis was torpedoed nine days before the
Hiroshima bomb
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was dropped. How could any sort of supernatural revenge be involved
for an event that hadn’t even taken place yet?
Lots of ships were sunk in the Pacific during the war. My father used
to tell me the stories. You’re picking one that serves to illustrate your
own ends—but you’re not making your point.”
“Tm not sure you’re ready to hear my point,” Miriel said.
“What?” Scully asked, recalling Mulder’s suggestion. “That some sort
of atomic bomb ghosts are wreaking havoc among nuclear weapons
researchers? That they’re using paranormal means to stop this Bright
Anvil test? How can you expect me to believe that?”
“Tm not telling you what to believe,” Miriel said. She seemed calmer
now after having told her story. Her long face wore a hardened,
resigned look. “Just go talk to Ryan.”
228
THIRTY-THREE
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 2:19 A.M.
Scully had just returned to her own cabin for a brief rest when Captain
Ives appeared at the door.
“Wonders never cease,” he said, bracing himself against the doorframe
as the ship rocked. “I’ve finally gotten through to Bear Dooley on the
atoll. I couldn’t tell whether he was outraged or hopping excited to
learn that Miriel Bremen and her friends had come out here.”
“So what did he suggest we do?”
Ives shook his head in disbelief. “He wants us to escort the whole
group to the blockhouse so they can be present during the test.”
“Why would he do that?” Scully asked, then answered her own
question. “Ah—I suppose he wants to watch the expression on Miriel’s
face when the Bright Anvil device goes off.”
Captain Ives frowned and gave a slight shrug. “I don’t believe it’s as
simple as that,” he said. “I’m 229
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sure gloating might be part of it, but I get the impression that Mr.
Dooley honestly respects Ms. Bremen and the work she did in the past.
Maybe he thinks the excitement of the countdown will bring her
around again, show her what she’s been missing. He’d love to snatch
her back from what he considers to be antinuke brainwashing.”
“Okay, I can understand that,” Scully said, unzipping her duffel to
yank out her extra rain slicker. She had changed into comfortable, dry
clothes upon reaching her room on the Dallas. “But what about the
blind man, Ryan Kamida. Why should Dooley want him there?”
Captain Ives gave a slight smile. “Because that’s the only way Ms.
Bremen would agree to come along.”
Scully shook her head. “They do enjoy playing their games, don’t
they? All right, how are we going to get over there?”
“Tm staying here on the Dallas,” the captain answered.
“The wind wall of the storm is approaching, and the gale is due to hit
maximum force within the next three or four hours. I can’t leave my
ship. Pm not comfortable having my captain’s gig there at the atoll,
but my exec, Commander Klantze, is going to ferry it back here.”
“So we'll have to wait for the return trip?” Scully asked. By now
Mulder would be wondering what had happened to her, probably
having uncovered many details on his own that he needed to share...
most likely preposterous explanations of supernatural manipulation or
alien interference in nuclear weapons development. She could never
tell what he might come up with.
“Actually it’s more unorthodox than that,” Captain Ives said. He stood
tall and straight, his feet oddly close together as if he were a statue.
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“Ms. Bremen suggested we take the Lucky Dragon. Two of my seamen
will pilot her, although the fishermen want to go along as well. It
seems everybody is determined to go joyriding through this typhoon.”
He shook his head.
“T have to concede that the Lucky Dragon is seaworthy, and I’m not
entirely comfortable having her lashed up against my ship if we get to
rocking and rolling even worse, as I expect we will. Banging hulls
together could cause significant damage, either to the fishing boat or
to us.”
Captain Ives brooded, an uncertain expression on his face. He had
been strangely reticent ever since taking the Lucky Dragon passengers
aboard. Scully finally asked him about it. She slung her duffel over her
shoulder and followed him out into the narrow corridor. “Something
is really bothering you about this test, isn’t it?”
He paused in midstride, but did not turn to look at her.
“Just a lot of shadows from my past,” he said. “Things I’m being
forced to remember that I’d prefer to forget. I had thought them all
safely tucked away, but unfortunately such memories have a habit of
coming back to haunt you.”
“Would you care to elaborate on that?” Scully asked. Ives finally
turned to look at her and shook his head. His slate-gray eyes seemed
expressionless, as he brushed his mustache with one finger. “No—no, I
don’t think I would.”
Scully recognized the look, but it seemed quite alien on the face of a
hardbitten old captain who had spent many years on the sea.
She saw the fluttering dark wings of genuine fear. 231
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The Lucky Dragon easily rode the swells, pulling away from the Dallas
and heading directly toward Enika Atoll. The boat handled well,
according to the seamen Captain Ives had assigned to shuttle it over.
During the brief ride to the island, Miriel Bremen remained with Ryan
Kamida, avoiding Scully. The blind man appeared disoriented and
agitated, as if afraid of something or overwhelmed by circumstances.
Scully wondered what had caused his blindness, the terrible burn
scars. She didn’t think he could possibly be a Nagasaki survivor. He
looked too young, too exotic...too strange.
As the fishing boat rode up to shore and anchored in the sheltered
lagoon, Scully spotted Mulder waiting for her under the bright light
hung over the door of the control blockhouse. He waved his arms, and
his wet suit jacket flapped about in the wild wind. She noticed that he
had removed his tie and unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt.
Mulder came to meet her, helping Scully climb off the boat onto the
damp sand. She handed him her duffel. “It seems as if I’m spending
more time here on the island than aboard the ship, so I thought I
might need a few things.”
Mulder looked up into the looming storm that looked like a giant fist
ready to pound down. “Doesn’t appear we’ll need the suntan lotion at
the moment.”
Bear Dooley shuffled out of the blockhouse, haggard and preoccupied
with his nonstop preparations. The test was due to go off in less than
three hours. He stood with his hands on his waist, staring at Miriel
Bremen as she stepped off the boat onto Enika Atoll.
Miriel helped Ryan Kamida step onto the 232
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beach—but the scarred man dropped to his hands and knees, not in
collapse, but more like an embrace of the crushed coral and sand. He
looked up, and Scully saw tears leaking out of his blind eyes.
Miriel stood next to Kamida, a hand supportively squeezing his
shoulder. Finally, she directed her gaze toward Bear Dooley.
“Ah Miriel, glad you could join us,” Dooley boomed. “You didn’t have
to go through so much trouble, though. You could have just asked,
and we would have included you among the crew.”
“I wasn’t sure I want to be part of the crew, Bear—not under the
circumstances,” Miriel said. Her voice remained quiet, but somehow
the words cut sharply through the wind.
“T trust you didn’t have any trouble setting up the test?”
Miriel’s voice was uninflected, without barbs; Scully thought she
sounded defeated, resigned. The Bright Anvil test would indeed go off,
despite the protester’s efforts to stop it. Scully wondered just how far
she had intended to go. From belowdecks on the Lucky Dragon, the
three fishermen scrambled up, hauling the half-full barrel of black ash
uneasily between them. They nervously carried the sealed drum onto
the deck of the boat.
“What are you doing with that?” Dooley shouted. Two seamen
prevented the fishermen from taking the barrel over the side of the
Lucky Dragon and onto the beach.
“We don’t want it on our ship,” the fishermen said.
“Well, you’ve had it on your boat all along,” one of the Navy men
said.
“Now we can take it ashore,” the fishermen insisted. Dooley took two
steps closer to Miriel. “What’s in that?”
he said, “Anything dangerous?”
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“It’s just some old ash,” Miriel said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Dooley shook his shaggy head. “Miriel, I used to be able to understand
you—but you’ve been turned into a pod person or something.”
The Japanese fishermen managed to bypass the sailors and took the
metal barrel ashore. Dooley gestured toward them.
“You're not taking that inside my blockhouse,” he said.
“But if we leave it here, it'll wash away in the storm,” one said.
“Not my problem,” Dooley answered.
Ryan Kamida lifted his head and turned a tear-streaked, burned face
toward Miriel and then Bear Dooley. “Let them leave it where it is.”
Relieved, the fishermen hurried into the shelter of the blockhouse,
ducking out of the slicing rain.
“Miriel, why don’t you come inside, and I’ll show you around our posh
quarters,” Dooley said. “Pm sure you'll remember some of the
equipment.”
“Trying to rub my face in it, Bear?” she said. He blinked his small
eyes. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.
“These engineers don’t know what I’m talking about half the time, and
you at least understand. For old times’ sake, for Emil Gregory, come
and look at Bright Anvil.”
Reluctantly, she tapped Kamida’s shoulder, trying to get him to
accompany her, but the blind man shook his head.
“Let me stay out here for a while longer,” Ryan Kamida said.
“T will be fine.”
Miriel looked uneasy about leaving him there alone, until Scully
stepped forward. “We’ll stay with him for a few minutes, Miriel. You
wanted me to talk to him, remember?”
Understanding came to Miriel’s eyes, and she nodded before following
Bear Dooley and the seamen into the control blockhouse.
On the beach Kamida dug his scarred fingers 234
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into the sand, smelling the coral and the water and the spray. He
tilted his head up to the greenish-black hurricane clouds. He breathed
through his mouth and closed his blind eyes as he sat back, clenching
his fists and gritting his teeth.
“Mr. Kamida,” Scully said, “Miriel said you might have something to
tell us...a terrible story about yourself? She thought we ought to
know.”
The blind man turned a scarred face toward her, fixing his unseeing
gaze to a point directly between Mulder and Scully.
“You hope to find answers,” he said.
“Do you have any?” Mulder said. “At the moment, we’re not even sure
which questions we should be asking.”
“You shouldn’t be asking questions,” Kamida said. “You shouldn’t be
here at all. You are innocent bystanders who could become casualties
of war.”
Scully said, “Miriel told me that something happened to you,
something terrible. Please tell us the story. Is it about how you were
blinded and burned?”
His chin twitched downward just a fraction, as if in an unconscious
nod. Sitting on the beach with the waves crashing against the reef line
out beyond the lagoon, Ryan Kamida spoke with the voice of a ghost
in the wind.
“T was born here on Enika—as were all of my people, a small tribe.
We lived here...although legends tell us we came from other islands
on a long pilgrimage. We found this island and we stayed. It was our
place. It was peaceful.”
“But Enika Atoll is uninhabited,” Scully said.
“Yes,” Kamida answered. “Yes, now it is uninhabited—but forty years
ago it was our home, when the United States was walking tall, striding
across
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the world, proud in its new status as a superpower. You had atomic
weapons in your pocket, and you were still flushed with pride over
your victory in World War II.
“But your first atomic bombs weren’t big enough, so you had to build
fusion bombs, hydrogen bombs, thermonuclear warheads. And in
building such bombs you had to test them in places where no one
would notice...places such as Enika Atoll, the home of my childhood.”
Scully said, “I know the islanders on Bikini and Eniwetok were
displaced to other homelands when the atolls were evacuated for
nuclear tests. Is that what happened to your people?”
Kamida shook his head. “The government did not bother with that. I
was only a young boy, probably about ten. I have since learned that
the name of the test was Sawtooth.
“I had grown up here ‘primitive and uneducated,’ some might say,
while others would call it ‘idyllic,’ an existence in paradise with fine
weather and a warm climate, with breadfruit, coconuts, taro, and
yams growing in abundance, with all the fish and shellfish we could
possibly want given to us by the sea.
“T was young—small and wiry and strong. In the reef rocks around my
island there were many caves, small outcroppings and hollows that,
had they been underwater, would have been the homes of moray eels
and octopuses. But aboveground they provided openings for me to
worm my body through, to go down into tidepools and mysterious
mazes...half-submerged treasure houses where I could find mussels
and conch shells and abalone.
“My parents would wait above with my older sisters and my uncles as
I wriggled down into the
236
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reef caves to search for delicacies.” Kamida’s rough face wore a half-
smile. “I remember it so clearly—memories are all I’ve been able to
see for most of my life.”
A blast of wind curled around the coral uplift that sheltered the
blockhouse, and slapped down at them. Scully rocked back to keep
her balance; Mulder grasped her shoulder. Ryan Kamida didn’t seem
to notice the gust at all.
“We knew the strange Navy ships had been cruising around our island,
long metal monstrosities, bristling with spines. The sailors had landed
in their white uniforms, but we hid in the jungles, thinking they were
invaders from some other island. If they were trying to locate and
evacuate the inhabitants of Enika, they did not search very hard. We
were afraid of them, but also curious. We didn’t know why they had
placed strange machines on our island, unusual structures with
amazing blinking substations and other devices. It was magic to us.
Evil magic.”
He picked up a fistful of the wet sand, letting it trickle through his
scarred fingers.
“I remember that day. Many of my cousins had gone to inspect the
device the soldiers had left behind...others watched the destroyers
pull away. But I had my day’s work to do. My father insisted that the
water level was perfect for me to find special treasures in the caves,
and so I crawled deep down into the winding passages, carrying only
my small knife and a net in which to store the shells that I found.
“I had secured a large abalone, enough for an entire meal, I thought,
and a few other shells. When I crawled back out of the cave, my father
waited for me, standing out in the sunlight. I could see him towering
above the opening of the cave. I held up
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the net that contained the shells. He bent down to take it from me so
that I could climb out of the cave. I looked into his eyes. They were
cast into shadow as he leaned toward me....”
Kamida paused. His voice caught.
“And then the sky turned white, a burning white, a blaze of heat, so
hot and so fast that it wiped everything clean, blasted every molecule
of color from the world. The last thing my eyes ever saw was my
father’s silhouette, fuzzy around the edges where I could see right
through his skin. For the barest fraction of a second, I could clearly
make out the skeleton inside his body as the radiation poured through
him—until the rest of the shockwave blew him to ashes. And then the
light engulfed me as well.”
Scully stared at him, wide-eyed, her hand to her mouth.
“Somehow, I survived,” Kamida continued. “The shockwave was
immense, but I tumbled back down into the caves even as the nuclear
detonation flattened my island. The water inside the caves boiled and
blasted upward like a geyser. My skin was cooked as if I were a
roasting pig.
“A long time later I found myself alive and outside of the caves. Much
of the reef overhead had been vaporized. I had been spared, though it
was no blessing. No blessing at all.
“T felt my way along the hot steaming rock. I found the lagoon, but it
was still boiling hot, scalding my legs...which were already too
burned to feel any more pain. I walked and waded out to sea, unable
to see anything. Still I continued, sloshing farther and farther from the
island....
“They say I made it two miles before I was picked up.”
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“Picked up?” Mulder asked. “Who picked you up?”
2)
“Navy ship,” Kamida said. “Sailors, men assigned to observe the
Sawtooth test. They didn’t know what to do with me. After their
immense technological victory, my survival must have been quite an
embarrassment to them.”
Kamida stared deeply into his memories for a moment, his eyes too
blind to see the present.
“After I recovered, they placed me in the care of an orphanage in
Honolulu. They changed all the records, and I survived. Oh yes, I
survived—and in later years I made a name for myself. I became
lucky. I was talented in business. I have become a wealthy man over
the past forty years.
“You'll find no record of the Sawtooth nuclear test, or of my people
now annihilated, or even of me, the lone survivor of a test the
government would prefer to forget.”
“But if there’s no record and you were such a young boy,”
Scully said, “how did you get all this information? How can you
remember and be sure of the details?”
Kamida directed his blind gaze at her in a way that so unnerved her,
she looked away in embarrassment. His hollow voice sent a shudder
down her spine. “Because I have been reminded time and again.”
Mulder leaned closer. “How were you reminded?”
“They told me,” he said. “The spirits of my people. They come and
speak to me. They tell me not to forget them or my own past.”
Scully sighed and looked at Mulder, but he ignored her.
“In other words, your people were annihilated in this secret atomic
bomb test, and because you’re the only survivor, you can speak to
their spirits?”
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Scully stood up, ready to leave the man to his delusions.
“Come on. We should get inside the shelter.”
“Agent Mulder,” Kamida said, though Scully couldn’t remember ever
having introduced him. “The atomic flash blinded me in an instant,
but it also boosted me somehow. My eyes no longer function, but I can
see and hear other things. I am linked to the brooding ghosts that
remain with me, like afterimages from that blast.”
Mulder’s eyebrows shot up, and Scully looked at him, amazed to see
her partner believing this tale.
“Think of it, my friend,” Kamida said to Mulder—the blind man
seemed to know intuitively who was most likely to swallow his story.
“For four decades, they have been gathering energy. Their screams
have finally reached a peak—to deafen those who brought this upon
them, and those who would willingly do it again.”
“Wait a minute,” Mulder said, intrigued, “are you suggesting that the
sheer suddenness and high energy of an atomic blast somehow added
power to the souls of those people destroyed in it? Made them
different from your ordinary, run-of-the-mill ghosts?”
“I am no scientist,” Kamida said. “Perhaps the spirits of an entire
annihilated people have greater powers than those killed in a more
common fashion. Absolute atomic genocide. They do seem to have a
greater awareness. They can sense connections, they know who is
involved in the development of such weapons—and they also
understand that this Bright Anvil test is a very frightening step down a
treacherous path for the entire world.” He smiled to himself. “Perhaps
the spirits of my people are protectors of the human race.”
Scully caught the meaning of his words. “Do 240
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you mean to say that these ghosts have been killing nuclear weapons
researchers and other people who had a connection to the atomic
bomb?”
2)
“Agent Scully,” Kamida said, “I will confess that I bear some
responsibility for the death of Dr. Emil Gregory. I had hoped that
removing him would bring this test to a halt. But I was wrong. It was
too simplistic. Out of spite I also directed the annihilation of an old
man in New Mexico who was in some way linked to the first Trinity
Test that unleashed nuclear weapons upon the world. So many of the
others are already dead from time and illness. His was the first name I
could find.
“I was also responsible for the death of a Department of Energy
executive, a woman behind the funding for the Bright Anvil project.
Without her support, this test could not have taken place.
“But I waited too long. I have held the ghosts in check for too many
months, too many years...and now they’re growing restless, striking
even at those I have not designated—those they believe are in some
way a threat to our island.”
Scully thought of the radiation-burned missileers in their underground
control bunker, the photos Mulder had showed her.
“Their attention expands. They grow very restless. But in a few hours
they will fulfill their destiny and protect this island again.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” Mulder asked. “Confessing to
murder isn’t something people do lightly.”
The storm’s growl grew to a persistent roar. Scully touched Kamida’s
elbow, raising him to his feet. “It’s not safe to be out here. We need to
get inside—all of us.”
“Safe!” Kamida laughed. “Safety is a luxury none of us can afford now.
I’m telling you this,
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Agent Mulder, just so you have the answers because you are a curious
man—but none of us will get out of this alive.” He cocked his head to
stare up into the storm, as if calling to something.
He spoke in a mystical whisper. “At last the wave of fire will reach the
shore of death.”
242
THIRTY-FOUR
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 4:11 A.M.
As howling darkness engulfed the island, Scully and the others
huddled inside the shelter of the supposedly indestructible concrete-
sandbag walls of the blockhouse. Bear Dooley paced the control
chamber that smelled of dust, new solder and lubricants, chalky
concrete, and freshsawed wood. Jury-rigged lightbulbs hung from the
support beams overhead, shedding uneven light. Dooley triplechecked
every diagnostic system on the equipment racks, then went through
the entire routine again. He flashed repeated suspicious glances at
Ryan Kamida and the three Japanese fishermen, who sat at an analysis
table that had been cleared of all papers and reports. Dooley pointed
his thick finger at the fidgeting fishermen. “Don’t touch anything,” he
said. “Just stay there and keep your hands to yourselves.”
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He looked sourly at Miriel Bremen, as if accusing her of poor
judgment for insisting that a blind man and three fishermen
accompany her to the blockhouse rather than just staying aboard the
Dallas. Miriel ignored him. She stood rigid, scanning the instrument
racks and diagnostic panels, as if reluctant to move forward for a
closer inspection. Dooley studied the big round dial of the watch
strapped to his wrist. “It’s 4:15,” he announced. “Only one hour to
go.
Victor Ogilvy nervously hung up the portable phone set at his station.
“Hey, Bear—I just got a communication from Captain Ives. He says
the storm surges are already at their maximum projected levels. Wind-
wall velocity just topped a hundred miles an hour, and the storm isn’t
due to peak for another fifty minutes.”
“Good,” Dooley said. Outside, the typhoon boomed like a series of
muffled explosions.
“Good?” Miriel said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t it bother you, Bear,
that regardless of all the moral and ethical considerations you dismiss
so easily, this test goes blatantly against international law?
Aboveground nuclear explosions have been banned for more than
thirty years.”
Dooley looked at her, and his broad shoulders sagged.
“Miriel, we had a phrase in my high school class. I think it even
showed up in the yearbook as our class motto.
‘Everything’s legal until you get caught.’ And we’re not going to get
caught. This hurricane will mask the test signature. It’ll cover all the
destruction on the atoll in case anyone’s watching with satellites. No
problem.
“And because there isn’t any fallout from Bright Anvil, weather
stations aren’t going to report a sudden increase in radioactive
daughter
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products. We’ve got it all covered.” He clasped his big hands in front
of him in an unconscious pleading gesture. “Come on, Miriel—you
worked on this baby for years. You and Emil solved most of the
problems—”
Miriel interrupted him. “I didn’t solve any of the problems, and neither
did Emil. None of us understands the technology behind Bright Anvil,
or even where it came from. Doesn’t that bother you?”
He shook his head, stonewalling. “I don’t understand how my car
engine works, either, but I know it starts every time I turn the key...
well, usually. I don’t know how my microwave oven works, but it
reheats my coffee just fine.” His wide, bearded face held a boyish
sense of wonder, a hope behind it.
“Miriel, Pd really like you to be a part of the team again,”
he said. “Without Emil, this whole project nearly fizzled. When we
lost you, we lost our greatest contender. I’ve been doing my damndest
to keep everything working and running on schedule—but that’s not
what I’m good at. I’m no match for you, but I’m not going to walk
away from my responsibilities. I’m going to see that Bright Anvil goes
off as planned, because that’s my job.”
Scully stood next to Mulder, watching the debate between the two
scientists. Mulder seemed intrigued, but Scully felt her abdomen
tightening in knots to hear Bear Dooley’s unbridled enthusiasm.
“Pm disappointed in you, Bear,” Miriel said. His face fell, as if that
were the worst thing she could have told him. She remained standing,
formal and rigid, one step away from the instrument racks.
“I know you want to test this new weapons system in a
‘real use’ situation, but I wish you’d let it bother you a bit to think of
just what that ‘real use’ may be once Bright Anvil is weaponized. The
only advantage to the hydrogen bombs and the enormous
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thermonuclear warheads we’ve been stockpiling is that they’re too
destructive for any sane government to consider using.”
Miriel became more animated, waving her hands in front of her like
captive birds. “But Bright Anvil gives us precise annihilation, clean
destruction. It terrifies me to think that the United States may have a
brand new warhead it won’t be afraid to use.”
“Miriel,” Dooley said sharply, cutting off her lecture, “I wouldn’t want
anyone but a professional mechanic to try to fix my car. I wouldn’t
want anyone but a surgeon to do brain surgery on me—and I wouldn’t
want anyone but a wellversed diplomat to make decisions on nuclear
policy. I know I’m not a professional diplomat... but neither are you.”
She frowned at his outburst, but Dooley continued. “It’s the
government’s job to use these weapons responsibly,” he said, blinking
his eyes rapidly as if grains of sand had gotten in them. “You have to
trust the government,” he repeated.
“They know what’s best for us.”
Mulder looked at Scully with his eyebrows raised, an expression of
amazement on his face. 246
THIRTY-FIVE
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 4:25 A.M.
Mulder watched Bear Dooley stride over to the countdown clock
bolted to the uneven wall. The bearded engineer squinted, peering at
it as if he could barely make out the regularly descending numbers.
“Fifty minutes,” he said. “Everything still check out? I want a
verification on each subsystem.” He looked around, scanning the faces
of his team. The technicians all agreed, studying their own stations,
checking instrument racks.
“Good. Countdown’s proceeding without a hitch,” Dooley said to no
one in particular, rubbing his hands together as he stated the obvious.
Just then the heavy door to the blockhouse ripped open with a siren
blast of wind. Howling rain pelted in at a nearly horizontal angle, like
bullets of water in a shotgun spray. Two bedraggled and shellshocked
sailors staggered in, gasping; they worked together to swing the door
shut, bolting it
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into its jamb. They were sopping wet, their uniforms yanked and
disarrayed by the violence of the typhoon. In the incandescent light
inside the sheltered bunker, their skin had a pasty, grayish
appearance, reflecting their deep fear. Even seasoned seamen rarely
saw a storm of such incredible magnitude.
“Okay, everybody’s inside,” one of them shouted, as if he thought the
storm would still drown out his words...or perhaps the throbbing gale
had partially deafened him.
“Generator’s functioning properly,” said the other sailor.
“It’s sheltered from the rain and wind, and it should hold up even if
the typhoon gets worse. The center of the wind wall will be here
soon.”
Dooley nodded, speaking gruffly. “Generator damn well better keep
functioning—that power source is running all our diagnostics. If that
fails, this whole test will be a bust even if Bright Anvil does go off as
planned.”
“Don’t forget, we’ve got the secondary generator, Bear,”
Victor Ogilvy pointed out.
“Tm sure you'll get your data,” Miriel Bremen said sourly.
“What could possibly go wrong?”
As if to taunt them, the lightbulbs overhead flickered briefly, then
came back on with full strength.
“What was that?” Dooley said, looking up at the ceiling.
“Check it!”
“Power fluctuation,” Victor answered. “The backup UPS
modulated it, though. We’re fine.”
Dooley strutted around like a tiger in a cage. He glanced at the wall
clock. “Forty-three more minutes,” he said. While the technicians
focused intently on their stations, Mulder watched the scarred blind
man who had told them such an unbelievable story only hours earlier.
248
GROUND ZERO
After adding Ryan Kamida’s tale to the details of the mystery as he
saw it, Mulder began formulating a hypothesis that fit all the
information. It began to make complete, if fantastic, sense to him. He
pondered how best to broach the subject with Scully. She would no
doubt find the explanation preposterous...but then she often did.
Scully considered it her purpose in life to be Mulder’s devil’s advocate,
to convince him of the logical explanations behind the incredible
events they had witnessed in their many cases together...just as
Mulder himself accepted it as his goal to make Scully believe.
He leaned closer to his partner, speaking in a low voice near her ear,
though the roar of the typhoon whipping around the concrete beehive
was enough to drown out the words for any eavesdropper.
“Tve been thinking, Scully—and I’ve got an idea. If what Mr. Kamida
says is true, then we could be dealing with some sort of...psychic
shockwave, a burst of energy that was transformed into something
half-sentient during the original H-bomb blast that took place on this
island.”
Scully looked at him, blinking her blue eyes. “What are you talking
about, Mulder?”
“Let’s take a look at this, Scully. Imagine the entire population of
islanders here, all together, unsuspecting, living out their normal lives
—and then suddenly and unexpectedly catapulted across the brink of
death by one of the most powerful instantaneous blasts ever recorded
on this planet. Isn’t it possible that such a blast could have acted as
some sort of boost to a...a higher level of existence, crossing some sort
of energetic barrier.”
“That’s not how I see it, Mulder,” Scully said.
“Just think about it,” he insisted. “Every single one of Kamida’s
people, all screaming at once, all of 249
THE X-FILES
them not just killed, but utterly annihilated, practically disintegrated
down to their last cells.”
“Mulder, if the energy of an atomic blast can somehow turn its victims
into—” she searched for words, then shrugged— “into a vengeful
collection of radioactive ghosts with superpowers, then how come
there aren’t a hundred thousand phantom juggernauts running around
after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki blasts?”
“I thought of that,” Mulder said, “but those were the first atomic
weapons. Even though those bombs were powerful, the Fat Man and
Little Boy warheads produced just a fraction of the power that was
unleashed in the hydrogen bombs that were detonated out here on the
Pacific Islands. The test assemblies in the fifties reached ten or fifteen
mega tons, whereas the Hiroshima blast was only twelve point five kilo
tons. That’s a big difference—a factor of a thousand.
“Maybe the Hiroshima and Nagasaki blasts weren’t quite enough to
cross that threshold. And, as far as I know, nobody else was killed
directly in any of the other H-bomb blasts.”
Scully looked at him seriously. “And you think that this collection of
ghosts is hunting down people originally involved in the development
of nuclear weapons, as well as individuals in charge of the Bright
Anvil test, and...assassinating them out of revenge?”
“Maybe revenge,” Mulder said, “or maybe they’re just trying to
prevent the tests from continuing. Everything points toward stopping
the Bright Anvil test, which could well be the start of a whole new
series of aboveground blasts, not to mention fallout-free warheads that
might be readily used in combat. What if these ghosts are trying to
prevent what happened to them from ever happening again?”
250
GROUND ZERO
Scully shuddered. Mulder supposed that if he had made the same
proposal in the light of day in the cool shelter of their offices at FBI
Headquarters—or anyplace else that seemed safe—she might have
scoffed at his reasoning. But here, in the darkest hour before dawn,
surrounded by brooding hurricane-force winds out on a deserted
Pacific island, any sort of creepy story had a greater ring of truth.
Mulder suddenly had another thought. “The ashes!” He spun around
to see that Ryan Kamida sat placidly at the analysis table, his scarred
hands folded atop the smooth Formica surface. His ravaged face was
directed toward them. His lips were quirked in a mysterious smile, as
if amused at Mulder’s explanation; he looked as if he had heard every
word.
Mulder hurried over to him. “The ashes—what were the ashes all
about, Mr. Kamida?”
The blind man nodded in deference. “I think you know the answer,
Agent Mulder.”
“Those were the ashes of the victims from your island, weren’t they?
You’re using them as...as signal flags, or magnets to draw the
attention of the ghosts.”
Kamida turned his face down toward his folded hands.
“When I grew older and accustomed to my blindness, after I had
developed connections and earned plenty of money, I came back here
to Enika Atoll. The spirits of my people had told me their story, told
me my life, told me over and over again what had happened here
until I was mad with the repetition. I had to come home, for my own
sanity.”
He quieted and raised his blind gaze to both Mulder and Scully. “Some
entrepreneurs will do strange things for eccentric people without
asking questions, so long as the money is sufficient.
“I spent many days here on the reefs, crawling 251
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over this abandoned atoll that had grown its jungle back again. I was
blind, but I knew where to go, I knew where to look, because the
voices guided me. With a knife and a trowel and a barrel, I spent days
in the hot Pacific sun, working, scraping a few bits at a time. I found
the scant ashes of my people who had been incinerated in a flash and
burned into mere shadows on the rock.
“Much time had passed, and one might have expected the stains to
have been weathered away, returned to the coral and the sand, to be
eaten away by rainstorms and the surf. But they were still there
waiting for me, like shadows in human form outlined against the
sheltered reefs. I collected them one at a time as the spirits guided me.
“I gathered as much of the ash as I could. It seemed a pitifully small
amount, all that remained of an entire island population. But it was
enough for my purposes...and theirs. When I was ready, I sent samples
of the ash, like calling cards, to those people who needed to receive
them.”
“You sent a vial to Nancy Scheck?” Scully asked. Ryan Kamida
nodded. “And a packet to Emil Gregory. And to Oscar McCarron in
New Mexico. The spirits didn’t really need the ash. Left to themselves,
they could find their own targets. But it helped...and it helped me to
direct them.”
Mulder felt sick with horror. “Nancy Scheck and the others each
received only a tiny sample of that ash—but you brought an entire
barrel with you here to this island.”
He suddenly recalled the three fishermen, terrified, unloading their
ominous cargo and setting it on the beach, where it now sat
unprotected, because Bear Dooley wouldn’t allow it inside the
blockhouse.
“It is everything I have left,” Kamida said. “It will bring them here. All
of them. Finally.”
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GROUND ZERO
Just then the phone rang. Victor Ogilvy grabbed it. His eyes widened
as he pressed the phone headset tight against his head, as if he had
difficulty making out distinct words from the transmission.
“Bear!” Victor said, clinging to the telephone, staring at it with his
mouth partially open. “Bear, that was a communication from Captain
Ives. He said their radar systems aboard the Dallas just picked up
something big and powerful approaching the atoll. Not a storm. He
doesn’t know what it is—like nothing he’s ever seen before!”
Victor swallowed, waving the phone headset. “And then his
transmission cut off entirely. I can’t raise him.”
“What the hells going on here?” Dooley bellowed. “We’ve only got
thirty-five minutes until detonation. We can’t afford screwups now!”
Then all of the power went out in the blockhouse, plunging them
entirely into blackness.
253
THIRTY-SIX
USS Dallas
Saturday, 4:30 A.M.
Captain Robert Ives didn’t know how he could possibly remain
standing in the turmoil—but a captain wasn’t supposed to fall on his
butt on the bridge of his own ship, not even at the height of a
typhoon. With his muscular legs planted widely apart and feet braced
firmly on the deck, he rode the churning roller-coaster of waves. Loose
objects on the bridge deck, from pencils to notepads to crates, slid
back and forth. Fists of rain pummeled the bridge windows, and the
sickly sky was filled with an unnatural greenish light. Ives checked his
wristwatch, knowing it couldn’t possibly be dawn—not yet. The eerie
glow made his skin crawl. He had seen hurricanes before, and they
always seemed otherworldly, but none more so than this one.
“Wind wall levels reaching one hundred fifteen miles per hour, sir,”
Lee Klantze shouted from
254
GROUND ZERO
his exec officer station. A three-ring binder that listed international
signals and codes popped off its shelf and crashed to the deck, making
Klantze jump. “That’s well beyond the maximum expected levels for
this storm. Something’s pumping it.”
“How far away is the eye?” Ives asked.
“We don’t expect it to come through for another half hour, and then
we'll get a little coffee break. For the time being, we just have to hold
on.”
Ives gripped the rail at the captain’s station with white knuckles. The
tendons in his neck stood out like steel cords.
“Brace yourselves. I expect it’ll get much worse.”
Klantze looked at him, amazed. “Worse than these levels?”
He glanced down at his weather readouts again, then grabbed for
balance as the deck lurched. “On what do you base that, sir?”
“On the sense of unrelenting dread building in my gut, Mr. Klantze.
Run a check,” Ives said crisply. “Make sure every station is secure. Get
all nonessential crew belowdecks.”
“Already done, sir,” Klantze said.
“Do it again!” Ives snapped, and the young executive officer staggered
on rubbery legs across the bucking deck to carry out his captain’s
orders.
“How much longer until Bright Anvil goes off?” Ives said without
taking his gaze from the writhing whitecaps in front of the Dallas.
Though he could look at the chronometer himself, he knew he needed
to keep his crew busy doing routine tasks they could understand;
otherwise they would spend too much time fearing the damage the
typhoon might inflict upon them.
“About half an hour sir,” answered one of the tactical crewmen.
“Thirty-eight minutes,” said another simultaneously. 255
THE X-FILES
“Thank you,” he answered. Ives left unspoken his thoughts of how
insane these weapons designers must be even to consider conducting a
delicate test shot under such circumstances. A foamy wall of water
slammed into the side of the Dallas, making the entire hull ring like a
struck gong. The destroyer listed to starboard, then slowly righted
herself, like a killer whale regaining its balance. Captain Ives held on,
riding the motion. He was glad the Lucky Dragon was no longer tied to
their hull.
Executive Officer Klantze staggered back up to the front of the bridge,
leaving behind the intercom station from which he had spoken to
various parts of the destroyer. “All stations have checked in secure,
Captain,” he said. “We’re lashed down and ready to withstand
anything.”
Ives looked at him, forehead furrowed above his salt-andpepper
eyebrows. “Anything, Mr. Klantze? You’re an optimist.”
“Pm in the Navy, sir.” Klantze must have thought his ridiculous
answer would impress Ives.
“Captain!” the tactical officer shouted. “I’m picking up something on
forward radar. There’s—my God, I can’t believe it! It’s so big.”
“What is it?” Ives said swiveling around and nearly losing his balance
as another large wave slammed into the side of the destroyer. “Give
me details.”
The tactical officer remained at his station, peering down at the
flickering screen. His eyes were wide and disbelieving.
“The thing is huge—and it has extremely high energy. It’s heading this
way. Other sensors are picking it up as well—even sonar shows a
great turmoil in the surface layers of the water, far exceeding the
storm disturbance. I don’t understand these readings, sir. An electrical
storm? A power surge?”
256
GROUND ZERO
“Contact the Bright Anvil team on shore,” Ives said, with a deep
foreboding. “Let them know.” He lowered his voice so that no one else
heard his words. “Maybe it’ll give them time to prepare.”
“Could it be a glitch in the instruments?” Klantze asked, making his
way over to the tactical officer’s station.
“Not likely,” the officer said. “It’s consistent...and the speed—the
thing is getting closer and closer, just like we’re in a targeting cross.”
Ives whirled to look through the rain-splattered bridge windshield. He
saw a sickening, washed-out glow across the waves, like a fire far out
on the water. It reminded him of a high-intensity miniature sunrise
coming out of nowhere.
“There it is,” Klantze said, pointing—as if Ives couldn’t see it. “What is
that thing? It’s like an inferno.”
As the bridge crew watched, the wall of light grew into an
incandescent sphere that rushed toward them, brighter and brighter,
even through the murky air of the hurricane. Ives had seen something
very much like this several times at nuclear tests back in the 1950s.
The light and the shape of an H-bomb explosion was something he
would never forget—and now it came toward him again. Ives grabbed
the ship’s intercom at his station and switched it to all decks. “All
hands! Brace for impact.”
The blaze of radioactive light hurtled toward them, riding the crest of
a sharp, boiling wave, a line of angry seawater that churned up and
vaporized with the hot blast of a holocaust. Ives stood at the captain’s
station staring helplessly out the window. He had no eye protection,
but he knew from the depths of his clenched stom257
THE X-FILES
ach that nothing would make any difference at the moment. So he
stared and kept staring as the force slammed into them. The last thing
his eyes registered before his optic nerves surrendered to the
onslaught was the sharp bow of his heavily armored Navy destroyer
slumping, melting, as the steel plate vaporized.
Then the wall of light and fire swallowed the Dallas whole. 258
THIRTY-SEVEN
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 4:40 A.M.
In the sudden black chaos following the power outage in the
blockhouse, Mulder grabbed one of the emergency flashlights
mounted on the wall. He switched on the beam, shining it around the
control bunker like a bright spear, hoping that its illumination would
restore calm and order to the seamen and technicians there.
Instead, he witnessed Bear Dooley and the other Bright Anvil
engineers scrambling around, blindly trying to rescue their
subsystems.
“Somebody get that generator restarted!” Dooley roared.
“We'll lose all our data if it’s not up in half an hour.”
Mulder shone the flashlight in a slow circle over the rest of the
panicked bustle. He saw no apparent damage to the blockhouse itself.
Scully stood beside him, holding on to his arm to keep them from
being forced apart in the confusion. 259
THE X-FILES
“But we just checked the generator,” one of the bedraggled sailors
said. “It was working fine.”
“Well it’s not working fine now, and we don’t have much time to fix it
before Bright Anvil goes off. Get outside and check it out.”
“Excuse me, Bear,” Victor Ogilvy said, his thin voice quavering with
anxiety. “I don’t think it’s just the generator.”
Mulder shone the flashlight over toward him, and the bespectacled
engineer held up the phone. “This phone is on the backup source, and
it had a full charge—but I can’t raise the Dallas. I can’t even get a
whisper of static. It’s dead. Everything’s dead. All the control panels,
all power, even our secondary systems.”
Mulder pulled his satellite-uplink cellular phone from his pocket,
wondering if he could possibly get anything on that system. But the
phone was a silent lump of plastic against his ear; he should have at
least heard a hiss or the beep of an improper connection.
Dooley stood with his fists balled at his hips, suddenly overwhelmed.
Mulder knew the big man had been just barely holding onto his
composure.
“But what could drown everything out like that?” Dooley asked.
“What sort of accident did this typhoon cause?”
“No accident,” Miriel Bremen said in a calm, strong voice.
“Bear, you know what can cause those effects.”
“The Dallas reported something huge on its radar,” Victor said. “With
a high-energy signature.”
Dooley swung his face toward Miriel, his expression open and lips
trembling as uncertainty set in. “I don’t know what you're talking
about.”
She looked squarely at him. The light from Mulder’s flashlight
reflected in the sheen of perspiration on her face.
“Electromagnetic pulse,” Miriel said.
260
GROUND ZERO
“An EMP? But how? That would require a—” He suddenly looked at
the protester in horror. “An air burst—a nuclear air burst! What if
somebody else is using this hurricane as cover for another test? My
God, I can’t believe it. Somebody else detonated a device—that’s what
Captain Ives picked up on his radar. Somebody else is stealing our
show!”
He spun around frantically, looking for something to grab, someone to
tell. Victor Ogilvy cringed, as if afraid that Dooley would grasp him by
the collar. “But who would do such a thing? The Russians? The
Japanese? Who would have set off an air burst here? Here of all
places. I can’t believe it!”
“There may not be such a facile explanation,” Miriel Bremen said
coldly. The heartless conviction in her voice sent a shudder down
Mulder’s spine. Outside, the wind hissed past the cement-bag walls
like water in a boiling cauldron.
“Tt may not be something you can understand at all, Bear,”
she whispered.
“Don’t try to spook me,” Dooley shouted back at her. “I don’t have
time for it right now.”
With Scully still grasping his arm, Mulder thought again of the story
Ryan Kamida had told. Mulder himself had cobbled together an
unlikely explanation from the unfolding tale and the bits of evidence
he and Scully had collected.
“Hand me that flashlight, Agent Mulder,” Dooley demanded. “I’ve got
work to do. This is no time for a kaf- feeklatsch,” Mulder quickly
handed over the light. Behind him, Mulder heard the clank of a dead-
bolt being thrown, the click of the latch raising. Then the heavy
armored door to the blockhouse blasted inward and the storm
exploded into the confined chamber. Papers spiraled into the air on a
whirlwind.
261
THE X-FILES
In the eerie light of the storm outside, Mulder saw a silhouetted form
in the doorway, braced against the gale, pushing himself outside into
the jaws of the typhoon. Ryan Kamida had let himself out.
“Tt is time,” he shouted back at them. “They’re coming!”
Then, as if drawn by an invisible chain, the blind man plunged away
from the blockhouse into the ravening storm.
“Ryan, no!” Miriel Bremen screamed.
Kamida turned back toward her for just a moment before the winds
and the darkness swallowed him up. 262
THIRTY-EIGHT
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 4:55 A.M.
“Don’t just stand there,” Bear Dooley squawked. “Get that damn door
shut.”
“Shouldn’t we try to get that guy back in here?” one of the sailors
yelled.
“You can’t just leave Kamida out in the hurricane!” Scully cried,
looking helplessly around her. “He’ll be killed for certain.”
The other team members appeared nervous, but Dooley only scowled.
“He shouldn’t have run out there in the first place,” the big man
answered petulantly. “We can’t send out search teams now to save an
idiot from his own stupidity. Our power is out. The Bright Anvil
countdown is still going—and we don’t get a second chance! Where
are your priorities?”
Mulder watched as two Navy engineers wrestled with the heavy door,
pressing their shoulders to it and shoving against the battering ram of
wind. Silence fell like a stone in the darkened control blockhouse.
263
THE X-FILES
Miriel Bremen stared stricken at the doorway through which Kamida
had just vanished. Mulder was surprised to see her standing rigid,
holding on to one of the control racks for support. He thought she’d
have argued to rescue her friend—but the protester said nothing,
apparently resigned to his fate and terrified of her own. “It’s what he
wanted,”
she muttered.
The light from a new flashlight made a weird bobbing glow inside the
blockhouse. Technicians scrambled to restore their equipment, to get
the backup generator jump-started.
“How do we know the equipment out at the device is functioning?”
Victor Ogilvy asked, blinking owlishly in the shadows and harsh light.
“What if the countdown is frozen because of another dead battery?
The EMP could have wiped out everything over there, too.”
“We have no proof of any electromagnetic pulse,” Scully said.
Dooley tugged at his hair in a comical gesture. “The device itself has a
completely different power source, hardened against all accidents,
rough weather—and even handling by Navy personnel,” he said.
“Bright Anvil is one robust sucker.”
He frowned at Victor. “If you don’t believe me, how would you like to
take a hike over there and check it out?”
“Uh, no thanks, Bear.” The young redhead quickly found something
else to do. But from the queasy expression on Dooley’s face, Mulder
knew that Victor had raised a question the bearded engineer would
rather not have considered. Distraught, Bear Dooley rounded on
Miriel, seeking a target for his frustration. He put his face close to hers
and yelled so vociferously that in the flickering light from the bobbing
flashlight beams
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GROUND ZERO
Mulder could see spittle flying from his lips. She flinched, but did not
back away from him.
“This is your fault, Miriel,” he said. “You came to Enika of your own
free will, and I welcomed you—but you performed some kind of
sabotage, didn’t you? What did you do to the generators? How did
you shut down all the power? You’ve been trying to stop this test since
the very beginning.
“T thought you were at least honorable enough to be here and witness
it with me for old time’s sake—but now you’ve destroyed Bright Anvil,
ruined everything. What did you do?
Did you do something to Emil Gregory, too?”
“I did nothing,” Miriel said. “Or maybe I didn’t do enough. But we'll
see. The Bright Anvil test will not take place—not this morning, not
ever. It’s out of my hands.”
“See? You admit it,” Dooley said, stabbing his finger at her. “What did
you do? We have to get these diagnostics switched back on.”
“Talk to Agent Mulder,” Miriel said, her mouth a grim line above her
long chin. “He’s figured it out.”
Mulder was surprised to hear her—a former weapons physicist—
actually agreeing with his bizarre explanation for the events.
“So you're saying he’s in it, too? He’s not smart enough.”
Dooley’s face crumpled into an expression of disgust, and he stormed
away from her. “I want nothing more to do with you, Miriel. That’s it.
Emil would have been ashamed of you.”
Miriel looked stung by the last comment, and her posture sagged, but
still she held the edge of the control rack. “We’re all going to be
obliterated,” she muttered. “The wave is coming, a flashfire, a wall of
cleansing rage from the Enika ghosts. It’s already hit the Dallas, and
it'll be here next.”
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Mulder went to her side. “You knew about this? You knew it was
going to happen?”
She nodded. “Ryan told me it would...but I have to admit—” She gave
a short bitter laugh. “A good part of me never actually accepted it.
Ryan can be very charismatic, though, and so I went along just to see
what I could do to fight with more practical means. But now it’s...it’s
just the way he said it would be.”
She drew a heaving breath. “At least Bright Anvil’s going to be
stopped, one way or another. All the test material will be wiped out
here, along with the project people. In the wake of this disaster, I
doubt such a weapon will ever be developed again.”
Miriel closed her eyes, and a strong tremor ran through her body like
a seizure that quickly passed. “I suppose I always knew there would
come a time when I’d have to test my convictions,” she said. “It’s easy
to decide to volunteer and hand out leaflets or carry signs. It’s harder
to say that you’re willing to get arrested during a protest: that’s a line
some people aren’t willing to cross.” She glanced sharply at Scully,
who looked away. “But there are other lines farther down the path,
more difficult still—and I think I just crossed another one.”
Her eyes wide, Scully looked at Mulder and then at Miriel.
“I can’t believe what you’re saying. You honestly think a cloud of
atomic ghosts is going to come and stomp on the Bright Anvil test
because they won’t condone another nuclear explosion here?”
Miriel just looked at her without answering, and Scully let out a long
sigh of disbelief. She turned to Mulder in exasperation.
“I think that’s exactly what’s going to happen, Scully,” he said,
surprising her. “I believe it. We’re sitting ducks if we don’t get away
from here.”
The three fishermen from the Lucky Dragon 266
GROUND ZERO
stood up, looking extremely agitated. “We don’t want to stay here any
longer,” their leader said, waving his hands in front of him as if trying
to recapture a spare portion of courage that flitted just out of reach.
“This place is a deathtrap. It is a target. We’re fools to stay here.”
A second fisherman pleaded with Mulder, as if the FBI agent were in
charge. “We want to take our chances, get back to our boat.”
Scully said, “You can’t go out in a boat in the middle of a hurricane.
It’s safer to stay here.”
All three of the fishermen shook their heads vehemently.
“No, it is not safer. This place is death.”
Mulder said, “You told me yourself, Scully, that their boat’s been
heavily reinforced, designed to withstand travel through a heavy
storm.”
Miriel Bremen nodded. “Yes, Ryan wanted to make sure we could
make it out here. But I don’t know if he had any intention of going
back. I don’t think he did.”
Bear Dooley stormed around, still looking for something to break. “Go
on out in the storm—all of you—see if I care. Get away from me.
We’ve got work to do. There’s still a chance we can bring this test off.
The device is on the other side of the island, and the countdown is
going to proceed, whether or not we get these diagnostics up.”
Mulder looked at Scully, and in his heart he felt an absolute certainty
of what was going to happen—he realized it must be the same
confidence that Miriel Bremen and some of the other protesters felt
about their personal convictions. The fishermen went to the
blockhouse door and worked the bolt to open it.
Dooley stood ranting at them. “You’re all insane.” Mulder knew that
Scully probably agreed with him. 267
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“Come on, Scully,” Mulder gestured as he ran to the door.
“You’ve got to go with us.”
“Mulder, no!” she shouted, looking torn.
“Then at least help us rescue Mr. Kamida,” he said. Her expression
changed to one of sudden uncertainty. The door finally blew open and
the storm roared in—though the winds had already blown loose
everything that it possibly could. Now, though, the voice of the
whirlwind had a different quality, almost like human speech: wailing
screams, whispering accusatory voices that lurked behind the gale,
growing louder, coming closer. Mulder’s skin began to crawl, and he
could see that Scully also felt the violent strangeness, though she
probably wouldn’t admit it.
With the fishermen beside him, Mulder stood at the threshold, nearly
blown back by the storm’s force. He looked out at the awesome clouds
that hung like sledgehammers ready to pound the island. He could see
that, far beyond the brooding presence of the typhoon, something
terrible...truly terrible, was coming their way.
“By the pricking of my thumbs...” Mulder murmured. Scully still
resisted, but Mulder finally dragged her close enough to the door so
that she could look out. She protested again until she stared into the
night and looked up at the sky.
Then all her objections evaporated on her lips. 268
THIRTY-NINE
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 4:54 A.M.
The storm spoke to him in its power—dreadful voices against those
others, welcoming whispers for him. At last. Ryan Kamida was part of
them, a member of their spectral group, yet he was the misfit. Not
because he was blind or scarred, but because he was alive. He
staggered away from the control bunker, bumping into winds that
punched him with the force of a catapult, driving him back—but still
he ran. His feet slipped on the rough rock and sand that the gale flung
up around him like shrapnel.
Kamida stumbled, fell to his hands and knees, felt his numb fingers
digging into the cold, wet beach. He wanted to let it suck him down,
to draw him into the sand to become one with the ashes of his people,
a part of the scarred atoll.
“Pm here!” he shouted.
The typhoon howled, and the voices of the ghosts grew louder, urging
him on. He got up and
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ran again. A blast of rain-sodden wind with battering-ram strength
snatched up his body, yanking his feet off the ground. He flailed his
arms and legs in the air, floating like a ghost himself—but it was too
soon. It was not completely finished yet.
Kamida fought the chains of the hurricane until his lungs were about
to burst. His heart wanted to stop beating from sheer exhaustion, but
he plunged ahead, seeking release to join his family, his people—those
unseen companions who had appeared to him for decades.
Kamida called out to them wordlessly, trying to make his mouth form
words in the tongue he had known as a child but had not spoken
aloud in forty years. It didn’t matter how well he formed the language,
because the spirits would understand him. They knew. They were
coming.
High up on the beach, Kamida tripped over the barrel left there by the
fishermen. Instinctively, unerringly, he had found his way to the metal
drum filled with the ashes of his tribe, those bits of charred flesh he
had painstakingly separated from the coral and the sand of the atoll.
He embraced the barrel, holding it tightly, pressing his cheek against
the curved, rain-slick metal that felt cool even against his insensitive
scarred skin. He held onto it as if it were an anchor, sobbing, as the
hurricane roared around him.
The eerie whispers and screams behind the wind grew louder and
louder, drowning out even the storm in the congealing mass of clouds
overhead. Ryan Kamida could feel the power growing in the accusing
eye of the hurricane—a static electricity, a surge of energy.
Kamida raised his face up to feel the rain evaporating, the bright heat
caressing his skin.
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GROUND ZERO
Though he was blind, he somehow knew that in the clouds around the
island a searing light was building to a white-hot intensity—growing
brighter as the countdown for Bright Anvil continued to zero.
271
FORTY
Enika Atoll
Saturday, 5:10 A.M.
Facing into the storm, it was Mulder’s turn to keep hold of Scully’s
arm, to be sure they wouldn’t lose each other. They staggered through
the blinding rain and clawing winds that threatened to tear their small
group apart. The three fishermen led the way, pushing forward one
step at a time, heads down, making their way toward the sheltered
lagoon. The high coral outcropping behind the beehive bunker
absorbed the brunt of the violence from across the island. Still, the
wind was so heavy that it pelted them mercilessly with stinging sand
and rocks. Mulder could not see Ryan Kamida anywhere.
“Mulder, this is crazy!” Scully shouted.
“T know!” he said, but kept going.
As they worked their way along, his own doubts asserted themselves:
it was absurd and illogical to go out into such a storm. “Suicidal” was
more likely the term Scully would have used—but given the
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situation, logical alternatives were in short supply, and she must have
trusted Mulder enough to follow him. She could see with her own eyes
the incomprehensible disaster about to strike. He hoped he wouldn’t
let her down. Miriel Bremen plodded beside them, stunned, yet willing
to escape—not so ready after all to die for her cause that she would
give up this last chance to get away.
“No matter what else you believe, Mulder,” Scully had to yell in his
ear just to be heard, “the Bright Anvil device is going to go off in a
few minutes! If we don’t get far enough away, we'll be caught in that
shockwave.”
“I know, Scully—I know!” But his words were whisked away by the
storm, and he didn’t think she heard him. He turned to look at the
craggy outline of the black uplift behind the blockhouse. The Bright
Anvil device was out of sight in its shallow cove on the far side of the
island. The fishermen began shouting, their calls barely discernible in
the ripping gale. Beyond the winds, the eerie voicelike chorus echoed,
rising to a bone-jarring crescendo within the fabric of the air itself.
The rain and the gloom and the stinging sand made it difficult to see
anything. Mulder couldn’t locate the reinforced fishing boat where
they had left it anchored. For a moment he was terrified that their
only chance at escape had been swept away from the lagoon, that they
were all stranded and doomed on Enika Atoll without even the
uncertain protection of Bear Dooley’s control blockhouse.
But a moment later he realized why the fishermen were shouting. Two
of them waded out into the churning lagoon to where the winds had
dragged the Lucky Dragon into deeper water.
The lead fisherman swung himself aboard, 273
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grabbing handholds and climbing the wet rocking hull to reach the
deck. He helped his companions get aboard, and they gestured for the
others to wade out to them. Scully hesitated at the shore. “Mulder—”
“Come on in, the water’s fine,” he yelled and pulled her forward into
the lagoon without a thought to their waterlogged shoes. “Don’t be
afraid to get wet! Remember, this is our vacation!”
The rain had already drenched them to the skin, and there was no
sense in delaying now. Whether or not Scully believed in the
supernatural danger of ghosts from the Sawtooth blast, the Bright
Anvil warhead was due to detonate on the far side of the atoll. They
certainly didn’t have much time. Miriel, still silent, waded beside them
until they all reached the fishing boat. She scrambled onto the deck of
the Lucky Dragon ahead of them, like a cat climbing a tree. One
fisherman ran to the deckhouse and started the engines; Mulder felt
the vibrations through the boat’s hull, more than he actually heard the
sound. While the second fisherman ran to disengage the anchor and
free the Lucky Dragon from its perilous mooring, the third man helped
haul Mulder and Scully to safety aboard.
Before Mulder could make sure that his partner had gotten her
balance, the fishing boat’s powerful engines spun it about, churning
up a waterspout of spray as the Lucky Dragon headed directly into the
heart of the hurricane. Mulder grabbed the deck rail next to Scully
and Miriel and held on for dear life.
Turning back to look toward the island, Mulder shouted,
“Up there, Scully!” He gestured toward the crackling sky.
“That’s no ordinary storm!”
The clouds glowed and hissed and boiled with weird energy that made
all the hairs on his arms and 274
GROUND ZERO
neck stand up. He glanced at his watch. Any moment now for Bright
Anvil. Any moment now—and it would all be over, one way or
another.
The boat crashed away from the atoll, threading through the rabid
whitecaps that foamed around the treacherous reefs near the surface.
The fisherman at the controls guided the vessel, swerving from side to
side, searching for a safe passage. Finally, the waters opened up,
deeper and bluer even in the storm’s gloom. The engine roared with
renewed power, and the Lucky Dragon lurched ahead. Mulder looked
out to sea, but could find no trace of the huge Navy destroyer, the
Dallas. He saw only a roiling froth that could have been a secondary
maelstrom caused by the hurricane itself...or it might have been the
sinking remnants of a massive shipwreck.
Then, with a searing flash, a small sun came up on the far side of the
island. It rose hot and yellow, blasting back the hurricane for just a
moment....
“Tt’s Bright Anvil,” Scully said. “Cover your eyes!”
“So, the thing worked,” Miriel Bremen said in a stunned voice, just
loud enough to be heard. She didn’t bother to avert her gaze.
Strangely, the Bright Anvil blast seemed to act as a catalyst for that
other force lurking within the hurricane clouds. With the test
detonation, the eerie brightness increased a thousandfold, dropping
out of the mass of thunderheads. A brilliant ball of supernova fire
plunged like a spectral blast, knotting itself into the chillingly familiar
yet horrifying shape of a mushroom cloud. But the image was
distorted and surreal, a seething soup of skulls and faces, screaming
mouths, burned eye sockets—an unstoppable molten battering ram
that 275
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swooped down on the rising blaze from Bright Anvil. A smothering
blanket of caustic fire engulfed the far-smaller test blast, crushed it,
subsuming the new light in its blinding supernatural fire...and drew on
the power. It became stronger, more animated.
“Look,” Scully said, pointing toward the rapidly receding Enika shore.
Terrified, the fishermen increased the power of their engines, roaring
through the high whitecaps, away from the vengeful atomic ghosts...
and into the typhoon. Even from that distance, Mulder could make out
the small form of a lone figure high up on the beach.
“That’s Ryan,” Miriel said in dismay.
The blind man was standing on top of a metal drum—the barrel of
ashes that had been removed from the Lucky Dragon—waving his
hands toward the skies in a summoning gesture. Mulder had seen
similar movements before—they reminded him of a traffic controller.
Ryan Kamida was guiding the blinding apparition. Like a living thing
with a purpose, the crackling, blazing swarm of atomic victims swept
over the surface of Enika Atoll. The radioactive backwash incinerated
the jungle that had regrown in forty years and vaulted the high coral
mound that had shielded the control blockhouse.
“Do you see it, Scully?” Mulder said in absolute awe and
astonishment. “Do you see it?”
Growing brighter in the blaze of a chain reaction of unleashed nuclear
fire, the echo mushroom cloud rushed across the island, plunging
down on the sheltered side with enough force to make Mulder shield
his eyes and back away. The fury increased, vaporizing coral, turning
rock into lava.... As the Lucky Dragon continued its race into the 276
GROUND ZERO
hurricane, the vengeful blaze on the atoll reached a fever pitch—and
the bone-chilling screams became more distinct in the wind. The
skeletal, phantom faces blurred, swirled together, a mixture of light
and shadow. Then another voice joined theirs.
Mulder thought he could recognize the voice of Ryan Kamida, his own
triumphant shout joining with those of his family and his people,
bound together in one primal, coalescent force—a force whose mission
had now been accomplished. The glow died away on Enika Atoll,
leaving it sterile and barren, simmering with residual heat and
scoured clean of all life. The Lucky Dragon shot onward into the fury
of the storm.
277
FORTY-ONE
Western Pacific Ocean, Exact Location Unknown Saturday, Late
Morning
Mulder’s watch had stopped, but he suspected it had more to do with
the harsh treatment and drenching it had received than with any sort
of paranormal phenomena. He couldn’t tell what time of the day it
was, other than late morning. Already the tropical heat in the
typhoon’s aftermath felt oppressive, pounding down on the Lucky
Dragon. The fishing boat looked as if it had been vandalized by a
street gang. Every visible surface was scored or scraped, two front
windows were smashed, a few deck rails bent, the hull scarred from
scraping debris—but somehow the vessel had survived the
pummeling. They had fought against the wall of the typhoon for
several hellish hours, struggling farther and farther from the aftermath
of Bright Anvil, until they had somehow skirted the edge of the wind
wall and escaped into the blessedly clear seas beyond.
278
GROUND ZERO
The Lucky Dragon had taken on a good deal of water, and the three
fishermen took turns bailing out the cargo hold, though Mulder
thought they worked more out of a need for something to do than
because the sturdy boat was actually in danger.
At the rear of the vessel, Miriel Bremen kept to herself, brooding, like
a broken doll. She had lost her eyeglasses sometime in the frantic push
toward the boat, or during the whipping storm, and she blinked into
the sun, unable to focus. She didn’t talk much. Scully tried to comfort
her, attempting to strike up a conversation, but the protester was
obviously in shock, overwhelmed by what she had seen. Sitting out on
the deck in the sun, Mulder wore his rumpled suit jacket as protection
against the baking rays, though the heat was nearly intolerable. He
wished he had unpacked at least one of his Hawaiian shirts, his
swimsuit, or—at the very least—his suntan lotion. Now they were all
lost. Water still trickled off the deck and stood in briny pools
reflecting the sunshine.
In a morbid moment, he considered the grim possibility that the six of
them might never be rescued, that someone would eventually find a
ghost ship bearing their skeletons drifting alone in the Pacific, rather
like the Mary Celeste. The scenario had a certain creepy irony to it. It
would be a fitting end to this bizarre adventure.
He pulled out his notebook and a waterlogged pen that managed to
produce a trail of spotty ink after he shook it several times and
scribbled on a sheet of paper. Concisely, Mulder summarized the
things he had seen and outlined his hypothesis. At least would-be
rescuers would find that much information, if nothing else.
If they ever managed to get back to Washington, D.C., he would type
up his full report, create a 279
THE X-FILES
detailed X-File—and in all likelihood, no one would believe him. He
had gotten used to that. In this instance, however, he had numerous
eyewitness accounts, pieces of evidence, radioactive bodies, not to
mention a secret nuclear test. Once Brigadier General Bradoukis knew
that the vengeful Enika ghosts were no longer a threat, he might be
willing to stand up for Mulder’s work.
Scully came up beside him in the bow and bent down to see what he
was doing. She had tied her hair back, and her skin already showed
the pinkish flush of sunburn. “You should keep to the shade, Scully,”
he said. “That’s no way to get a good tan.”
She squatted down next to him. “What are you writing?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, “I neglected to buy a postcard on Enika for
Assistant Director Skinner, and I thought this would be the next-best
thing. I wouldn’t want him to think we forgot about him on our
tropical vacation.”
She frowned. “You’re still convinced this all was caused by a cluster of
spectral phantoms seeking revenge for nuclear tests conducted forty
years ago, aren’t you?”
He looked at her curiously. “Scully, you saw what I saw.”
“Mulder, I saw a bright flash in the sky. You heard Bear Dooley when
all the power went out—he said that some other government must be
attempting the same thing he was trying to do, only they did an air
burst, using the same hurricane for cover.”
“Sounds like quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” Mulder asked.
“PILI believe in coincidences before I go looking for supernatural
answers to every unexplained occurrence.”
280
GROUND ZERO
Mulder just shook his head, wondering why, after all the adventures
they’d had together and all the evidence she had seen, Scully couldn’t
just accept it. But then, she didn’t want to believe, as he did.
“Any luck with the radio yet?” he said, changing the subject.
“No, it was damaged in the storm. We haven’t been able to raise
anyone. The batteries are wet.”
Mulder pulled out his cellular phone. “I think Pll try nine one one
again. The storm must be dissipating by now, wherever it is.”
Scully looked at him, shaking her head at his optimism. She extended
a sunburned hand to indicate the endless horizon of blue waters
stretched out in all directions. “Who do you expect to reach way out
here?”
“Oh I don’t know,” he said, “maybe another atomic ghost, a Russian
spy ship...maybe even the Love Boat. You never can tell.” He punched
buttons over and over, sending signal after signal. Using all the access
codes he carried in his excellent memory, adding a few Scully knew,
he tried every general emergency number, federal operator, and
military extension they could come up with. Finally, to his utter
surprise, someone answered.
“You have reached the United States Missile Tracking and Testing
Station on Kwajalein Island.” The voice was gruff and robotic. “This is
a restricted number. Please get off the line.”
Mulder sat up quickly, almost dropping the phone overboard in his
surprise. “Hello, hello?”
“T repeat, this is a restricted number—”
“This is United States Federal Agent Fox Mulder with an emergency
distress call out in...out in the Western Pacific somewhere. I don’t
know my exact position. I think we’re near the Marshall Islands—well,
we were, anyway.”
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THE X-FILES
“Are you requesting assistance?” the deep voice came back.
“You should not be on this channel. Please try the appropriate contact
numbers.”
In exasperation Mulder said, “Then send someone out here to arrest us
for using your number! I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
and yes, we are definitely in need of rescue. Six of us barely survived
the typhoon—there may be many people injured or missing at Enika
Atoll. A group of scientists as well as a Navy destroyer, the USS Dallas,
may have sustained severe damage. There’s a strong possibility of
many deaths. We urgently need assistance. Please respond.” He
glanced up at Scully. Her eyes were bright. “Can you home in on my
signal, Kwajalein?”
“Were a tracking station, Agent Mulder. Of course we can find you,”
came the answer. “We’ll send a cutter out as soon as possible.”
Mulder grinned broadly as Scully reached out to shake his hand in
congratulation. He was already scanning the sunbathed field of ocean,
as if a rescue ship would appear any second.
He looked down at the phone in his hands. “Think I should have made
that a collect call?”
282
FORTY-TWO
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 2:06 P.M.
The FBI Headquarters building in Washington, D.C., was a concrete-
and-glass monstrosity that someone had considered “modern
architecture” in decades past. Because it housed the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, the unattractive building had been dubbed “the Puzzle
Palace.”
Scratching at patches of dry skin from her peeling sunburn, Agent
Dana Scully sat at her computer terminal in her small cubicle. She was
relieved to be back in Washington, D.C.—for a few days, at least. She
couldn’t count on staying home for any length of time, and so she
spent whatever free hours she could scrape together assembling her
notes for submittal to the assistant director.
Going through the familiar motions, tidying up the details, usually
helped her to resolve the case in her mind, to sift through the
questions and line up explanations, putting any remaining
uncertainties to rest.
283
THE X-FILES
Scully sipped another cup of coffee—cream, no sugar—enjoying the
taste of fresh-brewed, the first decent cup she’d had in a good many
days. She rummaged through her notes, scanned another sheet of
paper, double-checked a press release, and went back to her typing.
The U.S. Navy has released information that the Spruance-class
destroyer, the USS Dallas, sank due to the unexpectedly severe force of
the typhoon that struck the Marshall Islands early Saturday morning.
All hands on board were lost. According to the National Weather
Service, this hurricane was one of the most unusual such storms on
record, both for its odd and unpredictable motion, and for its
unexpected intensity, particularly within the vicinity of Enika Atoll.
Meteorologists who have analyzed satellite imagery of the storm
system at the time it struck the atoll are still unable to explain its
behavior. Rescue teams arriving at Enika in response to Agent
Mulder’s distress call found no survivors among the members of the
Bright Anvil team. The reinforced control blockhouse had been
sheared from its foundations, as the attached photographs show. No
bodies were recovered, which the Navy notes is not surprising,
considering the incredible force of the storm.
She paused to stare at the glowing screen, shaking her head.
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GROUND ZERO
Morale at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility in Pleasanton,
California, reportedly has been shaken by this disaster. The loss of so
many employees is completely unprecedented. The only comparable
incident in the facility’s history occurred when a small aircraft crashed
en route to the Nevada Test Site in 1978.
Curiously, DOE representative Rosabeth Carrera at the Teller Facility
released an official report that the team of scientists on Enika was
conducting a “hydrologic survey of ocean currents around the reef.”
From my personal knowledge of these events, however, it is clear that
the statement is blatantly false. I recommend that little credence be
given to such explanations. I suspect more accurate details are
available in certain classified files. After another long sip of coffee,
Scully reread what she had written and was surprised at her open
skepticism over the official story. That wasn’t what the oversight
committee wanted to hear. But Scully knew about Bright Anvil and
the test, no matter who wanted to cover it up. She could not report
otherwise in her writeup. Scully paged through her notes again and
continued with her report.
Assistant Director Skinner held open the door of his office.
“Come in, Agent Mulder,” he said. The lights in the office had been
switched off, killing the garish fluorescent glare and letting the bright
afternoon sunshine provide all the illumination he needed. 285
THE X-FILES
“Thank you, sir,” Mulder said and entered the room, setting his
briefcase down on the wooden desk. Framed portraits of the president
and the attorney general hung on the wall, staring down at him.
This place held unpleasant memories for him. Mulder had been called
on the carpet many times before for insisting on explanations the
Bureau didn’t want to consider, for prying the lid off details that other
people wished to keep hidden. Skinner had often found himself in an
uncomfortable position in the middle, between a persistent Mulder
and the shadowy string-pullers who refused to be identified. Skinner
closed the door behind him. He took off his glasses and polished the
lenses on a handkerchief. Beads of sweat speckled his bald head.
Mulder noticed that the office was quite warm.
“Air-conditioning’s not working again,” Skinner said, by way of a
cordial opening to the conversation. “You didn’t get much of a tan in
your travels, Agent Mulder—first to California, then New Mexico, then
out to the South Seas.”
“T was on duty, sir,” Mulder said. “No time for sunbathing. Not during
the typhoon, at least.”
Skinner looked down at the handwritten notes torn from Mulder’s
damp notebook. Mulder had promised to type them up later, when he
got the chance, but the assistant director held the crumpled sheets of
paper with a weary look on his face.
“Don’t bother with a more formal report, Agent Mulder,”
he said. “I can’t submit this to my superiors.”
“Then Pll write it up for my own use,” Mulder answered.
“And place it in an X-File.”
“That’s your choice, of course,” Skinner said, “but it’s a waste of
time.”
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GROUND ZERO
“How can that be, sir? These are events I witnessed with my own
eyes.”
Skinner looked hard at him. “You realize you have no corroborating
evidence for any of these explanations? Neither the Navy nor the
Teller Nuclear Research Facility accepts your scenario. As usual,
you’ve handed me a report filled with wild speculation that is proof of
nothing except your superior ability to concoct supernatural
explanations for events that have rational causes.”
“Maybe there aren’t always rational causes,” Mulder said.
“Agent Scully usually manages to come up with them.”
“Agent Scully has her own opinions,” Mulder said, “and while I
respect her entirely as my partner and as an FBI field agent, I don’t
always agree one hundred percent with her conclusions.”
Skinner sat down, frustrated and not sure what to do with his
recalcitrant agent. “And she doesn’t always agree with yours either.
But somehow you two manage to work together.”
Mulder pushed forward in the hard wooden chair. “You must have
contacted General Bradoukis at the Pentagon, sir. He can corroborate
many of the events that I’ve described in these notes. He knows about
Bright Anvil. He knows about the ghosts. He sent us out there because
he feared for his own life.”
Skinner fixed Mulder with a sharp gaze. The sunlit windows reflected
off the lenses of his glasses. “General Bradoukis has been reassigned,”
he said. “He can no longer be reached for comment through the
Pentagon, and his current whereabouts are classified. I believe he’s
participating in a new experimental test program.”
“How convenient,” Mulder said. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd,
the one person officially 287
THE X-FILES
involved in this entire business? Didn’t General Bradoukis provide
details when he contacted you about our assignment to the Marshall
Islands?”
Skinner frowned. “I received a phone call from the Pentagon, Agent
Mulder—but the man refused to give his name. He did, however,
submit the proper authorization code. When the Pentagon requested
that I approve your travel, I did so. I don’t know any General
Bradoukis.”
“That’s funny—he claimed he knew you,” Mulder said.
“T don’t know any General Bradoukis,” Skinner repeated.
“Of course not, sir,” Mulder said.
“And about this entire secret nuclear test, this ‘Bright Anvil’
you keep mentioning—I don’t want to see anything about it in your
official report. Aboveground nuclear weapons tests have been banned
by treaty since 1963.”
“T know that, and you know that,” Mulder agreed. “But nobody seems
to have mentioned it to the Bright Anvil team.”
“I did some digging before I contacted you about our meeting this
morning. I spoke directly with Ms. Rosabeth Carrera, enough to learn
that there are no records of any project named Bright Anvil. Everyone
I’ve talked to denies even the possibility of a ‘fallout-free nuclear
weapon’ or that one was ever under development. They say it’s
scientifically impossible.” Skinner nodded as if satisfied with this
development.
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. And I suppose you believe that Dr. Emil Gregory,
one of this country’s preeminent nuclear weapons scientists, was in
charge of a project to map ocean currents and temperatures around
the reefs in the Marshall Islands? That’s what the official story says.”
288
GROUND ZERO
“That’s not my business, Agent Mulder.”
Mulder stood up from his chair. “What I would like to know, sir, is
exactly what happened to Miriel Bremen? We haven’t seen her since
she was rescued along with us. We were separated on the transport
plane that brought us back to the States. Her home phone has been
disconnected, and a nurse at the hospital where we were treated
claims that she departed under guard with two men in military
uniforms. Miriel can corroborate our story.”
“Agent Mulder,” Skinner said, “Dr. Miriel Bremen has agreed to assist
in re-creating some of the work of Dr. Emil Gregory. Since she is the
only surviving link to his project, she has decided to cooperate with
the Department of Defense so that his developments aren’t lost.”
Mulder was astonished. “She would never agree to that.”
“She already has,” Skinner replied.
“Can I speak to her?” Mulder said. “Id like to hear that from her lips.”
“Pm afraid that’s impossible, Agent Mulder. She’s been taken to a
secluded think tank. They’re quite anxious to get some of the work
back on track, and they don’t want her distracted by any unpleasant
interruptions.”
“In other words, she’s being held against her will and coerced to work
on something she vowed never to touch again.”
“Like studying ocean currents? Agent Mulder, you’re being paranoid
again.”
“Am I?” he said. “I know Miriel was facing numerous felony counts of
sabotage, trespass, even suspicion of murder. I’m sure the offer of
dropping all those criminal charges could be very persuasive in getting
her to cooperate.”
289
THE X-FILES
“That’s not my department, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said.
“Don’t you even care?” he asked Skinner. He stood up and placed his
hands on the edge of the assistant director’s desk. He didn’t know
what he expected for an answer. Skinner shrugged. “You’re the only
one who doesn’t accept the official explanation, Agent Mulder.”
Mulder reached over to retrieve his handwritten notes, knowing they
would do no good if he left them there in Skinner’s office.
“T guess that’s always been my problem,” he said, and then left.
After pacing the room and pulling her thoughts together, Scully
continued her report. She sat down, stretched her fingers, and began
typing again.
The events I witnessed as we departed from Enika Atoll on the fishing
boat, the Lucky Dragon, can best be explained as the air-burst testing
of another nuclear device, undertaken by a government or
governments unknown. It must also be remembered that through the
darkness of the hurricane, the heavy downpour, and high winds,
precise details were difficult to ascertain visually. From my personal
observations, I can attest to the fact that the Bright Anvil test device
did detonate at approximately the time scheduled, though I have no
way of determining the magnitude of this blast or the efficacy of its
supposedly fallout-free design.
290
GROUND ZERO
However, according to reports from the rescue team, measurements of
residual radioactivity on the island were listed as well within normal
levels. This information has not been confirmed.
She skipped a few lines. On to the next part, the hardest part.
As to the bizarre deaths of the two other victims clearly involved in
the Bright Anvil project—Dr. Emil Gregory and Department of Energy
administrator Nancy Scheck—the explanation remains vague. The
deaths of Scheck and Gregory might be attributable to a brief but
intense nuclear accident involving unspecified equipment developed
for the test program.
Spread out on her desk lay the gruesome black-and-white photographs
of the victims, burned corpses contorted into black scarecrows. Neatly
typed autopsy reports were tucked away in manila folders beside the
photos. It remains unclear whether any connection exists to three
similar deaths caused by extreme heat and exposure to high levels of
radiation—Oscar McCarron, a rancher from Alamogordo, New Mexico,
and Captains Mesta and Louis inside the Minuteman III missile bunker
at Vandenberg Air Force Base. The similarity of circumstances implies
a relationship between these events, but the
291
THE X-FILES
specific cause of such a powerful and deadly nuclear accident, the
origin and types of any equipment involved, and how it might have
been transported to such diverse places remains unexplained.
Unsatisfied, Scully looked at the words on her screen. She read them
over and over again, but could think of nothing more to say. She was
still not comfortable with her path of logic and her hand-waving
explanations, but she decided that enough was enough.
Scully stored the document, then printed out a copy for delivery to her
superiors. It was sufficient to close the file, for now.
She switched off her computer and walked out of the office. 292
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks go to the team of dedicated people at Fox
Television—Mary Astadourian, Jennifer Sebree, Frank Spotnitz,
Alexandra Mack, Cindy Irwin, and (most of all) Chris Carter—thanks
for the vote of confidence! Chris Fusco provided a great deal of
background information on the episodes and characters, which proved
invaluable in writing this book. The exhaustive videotape library of
Skip and Cheryl Shayotovich helped me to fill in the gaps of episodes I
had missed.
A round of applause for Christopher Schelling, Caitlin Deinard
Blasdell, and John Silbersack at HarperPrism, and my agent Richard
Curtis, without whom this project would never have come into being;
Lisa Clancy, Betsy Mitchell, Greg Bear, and Erwin Bush, who provided
excellent background information and inspiration; Lil Mitchell for
many hours of transcribing my tapes; Mark Budz and Marina Fitch for
their helpful suggestions; and Rebecca Moesta for her regular dose of
love and support.
About the Author
One of today’s most popular SF writers, Kevin J. Anderson is the
author of the internationally bestselling and award-winning Dune
prequels (co-authored with Brian Herbert) and numerous Star Wars
novels, and has carved an indisputable niche for himself with science
fiction epics featuring his own highly successful Saga of Seven Suns
series. His critically acclaimed work has won or been nominated for
numerous major awards. His most recent book is The Last Days of
Krypton, and he lives in Colorado. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for
exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
THE X)-FILES
PRAISE FOR
“The X-Files is a true masterpiece. There’s no more challenging series
on television and, as a bonus, it’s also brainy fun.”
Howard Rosenberg, Los Angeles Times
“The X-Files is undeniably x-tra smart.”
Matt Roush, USA Today
“The most provocative series on TV.”
Dana Kennedy, Entertainment Weekly
“The series remains one of the most slickly produced hours on
television, notable for its cryptic endings and sharp, intelligent
writing.”
Brian Lowry, Daily Variety
“The X-Files is a rip-roaring hour of TV: suspenseful, scary, fun,
imaginative, entertaining, and weird, wonderfully weird.”
Jeff Jarvis, TV Guide
“The X-Files leaves you in no doubt that you are watching television’s
rarest phenomenon—an original gem, mined with passion and
polished with care.”
Andrew Denton, Rolling Stone
The X-Files
From HarperEntertainment
THE X-FILES: GOBLINS
THE X-FILES: WHIRLWIND
THE X-FILES: GROUND ZERO
THE X-FILES: ANTIBODIES
THE X-FILES: RUINS
THE X-FILES: SKIN
Coming Soon
From HarperEntertainment
THE X-FILES: I WANT TO BELIEVE
Credits
Cover photograph copyright © 1995 by Twentieth Century Fox Film
Corporation
Cover photograph by Michael Grecco
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue
are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed
as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
THE X-FILES
: GROUND ZERO. Copyright © 1995,
2008 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-
exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this
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Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader September 2008
ISBN 978-0-06-177168-2
10987654321
© HarperCollins e-books
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Document Outline
e Title Page
+ Dedication Page
e Contents
VOODOO OOO OOOO OO OO VOODOO OOO ODO OOOO OOOO)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
OOOO OOO OD
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
The X-Files From HarperEntertainment
Credits
Copyright Notice
About the Publisher