Busted Flush

Double Helix

AN ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

Melinda M. Snodgrass

“I THOUGHT WE WERE going to Texas,” Bugsy says, seconds after we arrive in the bar on the twenty-eighth floor of the Beekman Tower Hotel. We’re still in our party clothes. The blogger surprised me by actually knowing how to dress. Unfortunately the piping on his tuxedo shirt draws attention to his burgeoning paunch.

Through the wide window I can see tendrils of fog swirling around the Brooklyn Bridge. The long gray streamers are like fingers plucking at the guy wires, and for an instant I consider what that music would sound like.

“We are. And while John might prefer for us to gallop off like white knights, I prefer that we go smart. We need information about this explosion.”

“It was big, and we sure as shit know it wasn’t a grain elevator.” He rubs at his scalp, and gives me his signature sneer.

“Yes. And I don’t think you’d look good bald, toothless, and bleeding from your eyes, ass, and nose.”

He blanches and takes his hand out of his brown hair. “Nuclear?”

“I’m going to find out.”

“How? If the government is trying to cover it up—”

“They’re idiots to try. There are seismic monitors all over the world. We work for the UN. One of our affiliated organizations is the International Atomic Energy Agency.”

“Will they tell us?”

I lie. “I have a boyfriend who works for them.”

There’s a central area in the room delineated by art deco–style metal columns. It holds the bar, some comfortable sofas, and a baby grand piano. I take Bugsy’s hand, lead him over, and push him down onto a couch. “And while I talk to him you’re going to have a drink and relax. Try the green apple martini. It’s really good.”

I retreat into the observation area on the left, and sink down at one of the small tables. I use the Silver Helix phone. The signal is heavily scrambled and it will put me directly through to Flint. I also keep a close watch, and sure enough a small green wasp lands on a small serving table.

“Yes.”

“Gruss Gott, Liebling.” I give it a throaty purr.

“Ja,” comes Flint’s reply. I love that I work for someone smart. It helps me continue to suffer the Committee.

“I need to know about the explosion in Pyote, Texas,” I continue in German. If a bug could look disappointed this one would. The wasp gives a sharp buzz and flies back into the main bar.

Over the phone I can hear papers rustling, and I reflect on generational differences. I only carry a pen because they can make quite a decent weapon. My notes are on my Palm, my BlackBerry, my phone, and most often in my head.

“They’re still crunching the data from the monitoring stations. I can’t give you the exact magnitude yet.”

“Just tell me if it could have been conventional explosives.”

“No.” Flint anticipates my need. “Do you need a suit?”

“I’ll need two.”

“How will you explain that?”

“You’re my boyfriend in the IAEA.”

“Right. One more thing. Could it be Siraj?”

“If we . . . they have a nuke and Bahir doesn’t know about it, then Bahir’s usefulness is definitely at an end. Ciao.”

The natural flora of Texas burns well. Our boots are soon streaked with black soot. In the distance a single tree stands naked and twisted, ghostly in the light of a nearly full moon. In places there are black hummocks of varying sizes. Closer examination reveals dead jackrabbits, coyotes, cattle, and a few horses. Lilith’s long hair is plastered to my sweat-damp cheeks. Because of the helmet I can’t pull it loose. I purse my lips and try to direct a puff of air, but I can’t get the right angle.

It’s not just the heat of a Texas night or the bulky lead-lined suit that creates my discomfort. I feel like my skin is crawling, prickling, burning. Even though I know the various radioactive particles aren’t actually penetrating my suit, I decide we’re not going to stay long.

We can’t get close to the former town of Pyote. We know it’s crawling with federal agents and scientists from the NRC because at my suggestion Bugsy had unlimbered a few hundred wasps before donning the suit. They have been scouting for us. What they’ve seen is a large crater, a handful of blackened buildings, and dozens of burning oil wells. Ironically, the grain elevator is still standing. Occasionally a National Guard helicopter goes thrumming by overhead, the wash from the rotors stirring the ash, searchlights sweeping across the devastation. So far none of them have spotted us, but it’s only a matter of time.

I become aware of a new sound over my helmet’s radio. It’s Bugsy’s teeth chattering. “Shit, this is what it looked like. In Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” A handful of his wasps crawl across the back of his gloved hand. They don’t look well.

“Exactly like it.” I pause for an instant, then add, “Only there were a lot more people and buildings in Japan.”

He turns so he’s facing me and we can see each other through the faceplates. He looks hurt and angry and very young. “You know what I mean. This is awful. People need to know about this. They need to see what one of these bombs can do. It’s been sixty years. Everybody’s forgotten.”

“You go, tiger.” But it’s all bravado. There’s a quivering in my gut like I’ve never experienced before. Such is the power of The Bomb.

Bugsy turns away. Shame is like a taste on the back of my tongue. This is his country, and someone has attacked it in a particularly horrible way. I lay a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m scared, too.”

In this direction we can see a plume of fire. The hot wind racing across the West Texas plains bends and dips the flames, revealing the black shadow of a pump jack. I wonder how long the steel can withstand the heat from the burning oil.

Bugsy points at the burning oil well. “Do you suppose that’s why they did it?”

“These fields are almost played out.” I shake my head. “There wasn’t enough oil here to make any appreciable difference.”

“Then why do it?”

“As a warning? Next time it will be Alaska or the refineries in the Gulf.” I put an arm around his shoulders. “We need to get out of here.”

I-20 runs right by Pyote. A portion of the interstate is now inside the federal cordon, so the vast emptiness of West Texas seems even emptier given the dearth of traffic. It’s also 1:20 A.M. as Bugsy and I stand in the coin car wash in Pecos hosing off each other’s suits. We’re on the outskirts of the town, which seems to consist entirely of fast-food joints, auto body shops, and junkyards conveniently located for the cars that can’t be fixed. Every small American town seems to possess this leprosy as if it were a protective asteroid belt shielding the core planet. Not that the center represents any kind of nirvana.

Once the suits have been sluiced off we climb out. The pungent reek of male sweat fills the still air. I’m hoping Bugsy’s stink is so strong that he won’t notice my particular musk. I can change the form, but my body chemistry remains the same, and men’s and women’s sweat smells different. I know from my training that we need to rinse off any errant particles that might have penetrated the suit so we turn the hoses on each other.

The water pours out of the hose at high pressure. I actually find the pounding soothing on the sore muscles in my back. My T-shirt and jeans cling to my skin. Behind my lids it feels like I’ve used eye drops made from sand. It doesn’t occur to me until I turn around that getting a soaking as Lilith will provoke quite such a reaction from my companion. Bugsy’s eyes are unfocused, and he’s sporting a gigantic hard-on that presses against the fabric of his wet trousers. I can understand why—when you’re faced with this much death the urge to life is strong. It’s also Bugsy. He doesn’t see much action. A man who changes into bugs at stressful or exciting moments would not be the ideal lover.

“You want to . . . ?” His voice is husky. “It would only take a few minutes,” he says.

“An excellent reason for me to say—no.”

A car glides past and I realize a fraction of a second too late that it’s a police cruiser. My gut clenches and I reach for Bugsy, but the cop has spotted us and we’re pinned in the glare of his spotlight. The lights start flashing, and he noses up into the car wash bay.

The cop is a large, shadowy form standing prudently behind his open car door. “What are you two up to?” The drawl is hard and suspicious.

I’m acutely aware of the Hazmat suits, and I can’t seem to think. Bugsy steps in. He is quick. I’ll give him that. “Uh . . . wet T-shirt competition. We’re practicing.” There’s a faint interrogatory rise to the words. I hope the cop misses it.

I also hope he’s a redneck and not a Baptist. He shines his flashlight on my chest. The leer dispels any doubt as to which camp he belongs. “Well, you two better get on out of here. There’s a bunch of Feds just down the road, and they’re detaining everybody who ain’t local—and some who are.”

“Thanks, sir,” Bugsy says. The cop steps back into his car and drives away.

“Good save,” I offer the compliment because I want to get Hive out of Texas, and I’m afraid it won’t be easy.

“You didn’t say anything,” Bugsy says.

“I was the prop.” I’m looking for the right approach when Bugsy makes it unnecessary.

“Can you get me home? I gotta write my blog.”

“And tell the world what?”

“That a nuke went off here.”

“Is that wise?”

“It’s the truth.”

I study him. He really doesn’t get it that sometimes—often—the truth is overrated. But I take him home to Washington, D.C.

I can’t believe I’m actually checking into the Best Western Swiss Clock Inn in Pecos, Texas. The walls are painted white with a green roof and an absurd clock tower rising from the center of the building. The nearest town to Pyote is Wick, but it lacks any kind of accommodation, and it is now behind the law enforcement cordon.

At first the woman at the reception desk tells me there are no rooms available, but I milk the British accent for all it is worth, with a hapless Bertie Wooster sort of demeanor. She loves it, and soon she loves me. I get a room. As I’m walking to the elevators I pass the ubiquitous wooden stand filled with flyers detailing all the wonderful things to do in Pecos. The Pecos Cantaloupe Festival seems to be most prominently displayed. Pity I’m here too late for that excitement. Another flyer shows a Schwarzenegger looka-like dressed as Conan the Barbarian. BARBARIAN DAYS! it announces, JUST 259 MILES AWAY IN SCENIC CROSS PLAINS, TEXAS. Yes, 259 miles, just a Sunday drive for a Texan. If there was gasoline.

I dump the garment bag in the room, and crank the air-conditioning to high. It’s one of those low, under-the-window affairs, and it sets up a frightful clattering. It does pour cold air into the stuffy room. I’m tired, but I’ve got to hit the town. My guess is that evacuees from Wick and any survivors from Pyote will be in Pecos. I need to find them, buy rounds, and loosen their tongues. But God I’m tired.

I’d dropped Bugsy in D.C., and had to wait for dawn so I could make the daylight-to-daylight jump as Bahir. Once the Hazmat suits were back in London I stopped at my flat and packed a bag so I wouldn’t arrive back in Texas without luggage. I checked on Dad, and prepared him a cup of tea and a slice of toast smeared with Nutella. He ate three bites. I finished it, and now it lies in the pit of my stomach like a piece of lead shot. It’s early afternoon in Pecos. Someone will be at the local watering holes.

While I walk I use my phone to link to the Internet. Bugsy has been a busy boy. His post is already up.

It was a Nuke, boys and girls! The coyotes are glowing at night—at least the ones that aren’t dead. I know, I know, it’s so twentieth century to be talking about The Bomb, but it’s clear that MAD has stopped working, and now it’s time for everybody to get Mad.

I pass one of those white metal boxes that pass for a newsstand in the U.S. The local Pecos paper is still yammering about grain elevators.

I regret not wearing a hat, and my usual black attire amplifies the heat. The sky is painfully bright, and the sun doesn’t so much shine as glare. My skin prickles. I’m acutely aware of radiation right now. I pause and survey the dining choices—a Pizza Hut, a Dairy Queen, a Subway. I spot a Mexican restaurant. What I don’t see is a bar. Equally unfortunate is that the most cars are in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut. Well, they might have a beer and wine license. And then I spot the fire truck parked near the back. Yes, this might be the right place.

Inside, the harsh smell of undercooked tomato sauce is an assault on the sinuses. Conversation fills the room with a droning sound, as if a hive of bees were moving in. People don’t even fall silent when I enter. They really are upset.

The waitress is cute and small and round and Hispanic. She has an expression that is both alarmed and delighted. People on the edges of a catastrophe always have that particular look.

“I’ll take a small meat pizza and your salad bar. And what kinds of wines do you have?”

“Red and white.”

I mentally sigh. Of course. “I’ll take red.” I give her my best stage smile. She smiles back. “I say, dear, I’m a producer with—” I time it so her exclamation of excitement makes it unnecessary to say with whom.

“Movie?”

“Well . . .” I look about conspiratorially. “I don’t want to say too much. So often these things come to nothing, but I think you all have quite a story here, and if that’s true, well . . . things might happen,” I hastily add, “And of course anyone with information would be compensated and probably be in the film.”

She scuttles away. Satisfied, I drift over to the salad bar. In a surprisingly short time a number of people have joined me around the giant bowl of iceberg lettuce. I can smell the MSG as I drop it onto my plate.

“You’re a movie guy?” says one man whose cheap suit suggests insurance salesman or local banker. I move my head in a particularly noncommittal way. “But you’re not a journalist?” He has that dried leather skin so common in Americans who live in the West, and the wrinkles deepen with suspicion.

“I can assure you I am not a journalist.”

“You’re English,” says a large woman in spandex pants. The worried frowns ease. That seems to make me somehow more trustworthy.

“Well, I can tell you right now it wasn’t no grain elevator. We don’t grow wheat in these parts,” says an elderly geezer whose bald scalp is not so much tan as covered with age spots.

“There’s an elevator in Pyote,” another local objects.

“Yeah, but it’s a little teeny thing, just for the local feedlot,” says the geezer.

“There was no warning. The sky just lit up,” says another man with skin like jerky, and a big sweat-stained cowboy hat pushed far back on his head. “I was shifting cattle to new grazing, and the dark caught up with us. I was just going to wait out the night—then boom. Damnedest noise you ever heard.”

“Has anyone from Pyote spoken about it?” I ask.

“We haven’t seen anybody from Pyote. Wick, yes, but not Pyote.” The cheap suit drops his voice. “I think they’re all dead.”

“Not all,” says a burly man whose head seems attached to his shoulders without benefit of a neck. I watch the muscles in his upper arms flex and move. I think I’ve found one person who belongs with the fire truck. “I saw a medevac helicopter going in. Somebody survived.”

“Whoever it was, I don’t think they were hurt,” says the fat woman whose plate is so full that lettuce is starting to cascade off the sides. “I heard they’re under guard. Locked up.” The door of the Pizza Hut opens and my old nemesis from the car wash enters. “I bet it’s the guy who caused the explosion. My niece is married to a policeman over in Wick.” I wish she would keep her voice down because the cop has stopped walking and is staring at us—hard. I’m a stranger in town, which is a red flag to a cop.

“Nobody could have lived through that. I was real close by and I’m damn lucky to be alive.”

“They could if they was an alien,” argues the old man.

“Or a joker.”

I can’t really tell who said that, and I find it interesting that the mind would go to joker rather than ace. It’s far more likely one of the meta-powered would survive, but there is still an enduring discomfort and disgust with jokers.

“It’s probably them damn rag heads,” says the man in the cheap suit. “Going after our oil. Making sure we have to pay through the nose. We should nuke them.”

It’s a typically jingoistic American reaction, and I reflect that if Siraj could hear that he might reconsider his stand. The door closes and I realize the cop has left. I try to tell myself that he decided he wanted a burger rather than a pie—

—but it was a vain hope. They are waiting in my hotel room. One is your typical FBI agent, white, big, broad, with an ill-fitting brown suit and a crew cut. The other is a SCARE agent and an ace. The Midnight Angel is clad in black leather. Every curve of her lush body is revealed by the skintight jumpsuit.

“Please come with us, sir,” says the Fucking Big Idiot.

It’s a very quick helicopter ride to scenic Wick, Texas. SCARE has set up headquarters in city hall, and the fact that SCARE rather than the FBI is in charge tells me that the Americans suspect some kind of wild card involvement. The mayor’s office has that small-town-politician-trying-too-hard-to-seem-important feel. The walls are lined with pictures of the potbellied little mayor posing with various national politicians and movie stars, with commendations from the Elks and the Moose and various other odd American organizations including, in fact, the Odd Fellows.

A woman sits behind the desk, and if the mayor were still here she would dwarf him. Joann Jefferson, aka Lady Black, is the Special Agent in Charge. As she stands she pulls her reflective cloak more tightly about her statuesque body. A tendril of silver hair has slipped from beneath the hood of her black bodysuit, and it seems to shine on her ebony cheekbone. She sketches a greeting with a black gloved hand, and then waves me into the chair across the desk from her. I don’t offer my hand. I know the suit and cloak are supposed to protect me from her energy-sucking power, but I’d rather not test the limits of the technology.

“Noel, what the fuck are you doing here?”

I lean back in the chair and pull out my cigarette case. “Ah, I see we’re dispensing with the pleasantries.” I take my time lighting up, and judge when she’s just about to lose it, then I say, “Someone set off a nuclear device. Normally I’d argue that in this godforsaken part of the world no one would notice and it would make little difference to the general ambience, but I gather some people died.”

She rubs a hand across her face. Despite great cheekbones her features look like they’re sagging. I sympathize. I’d really wanted to catch a nap back at the Swiss Clock. “I know we can’t hide this from other governments, but we don’t want a panic. If people knew a nuke went off . . .” Her voice trails away as if she’s just too weary to keep talking.

“Look, let us help. You might recall that we are allies. That special relationship and all that rot that our prime minister and your president mutter lovingly to one another.”

She’s considering. I decide to help her along. “Sorry about the directorship. We frankly couldn’t believe the news when we heard who replaced Nephi.” Her brows draw together in a sharp frown, but I can sense it’s not meant for me, and she’s a good little soldier and doesn’t take the opportunity to complain. “Well, just know that Flint is on your side, as am I,” I add.

For a brief moment the hard-charging law enforcement agent is replaced by a woman who looks pathetically grateful and vulnerable. It’s gone in the flick of an eyelash, and Jefferson says in a terse, clipped tone, “It’s got to be the Arabs. I guess they’re not content with destroying our economy, now they have to smuggle in a suitcase nuke and bomb us, too.”

“But Pyote, Texas? I mean, really. Not much of a splash with that. No, they would pick a far more visible target.”

“There are oil fields here,” she counters.

“And the Midland/Odessa fields are just about played out, and believe me, the oil ministers in Riyadh and Baghdad and Amman know that.”

She fingers that errant strand of hair and stares at me for a long time. “You people do know the Middle East better than we do.”

“You’re quite right. We’ve been oppressing them and manipulating them for far longer.” I stand. “I’ll see what I can find out. I have a few contacts over there.”

Even through the thick walls of one of Saddam’s former palaces I hear Baghdad humming. Everyone in the Caliphate—and any Muslim nation whether they are part of the Caliphate or not—gets subsidized petrol. It used to be said that every crane in Europe was in Berlin. Now every crane in Europe and a few more to boot are in the Middle East. Siraj is trying to jump fifty years in one. He may just succeed, unless those of us in the Western nations kill him first.

Siraj is neither a religious ascetic like the Nur nor a hedonist like Abdul. Instead, he’s a Cambridge-educated economist, so we are meeting in his state-of-the-art office in the midst of marble splendor. Every few seconds the computer dings, indicating a new e-mail. In the outer office a highly competent secretary answers the constantly ringing phone, and the fax machine whines and buzzes and shakes as it extrudes pages.

I’m in my Bahir form: red-gold hair and beard, traditional garb, shimmering golden cloak, and that damn scimitar. The teleporting ace who beheaded the enemies of the Caliphate had appealed to the Nur, but no assassin likes to get within arm’s length of a target. Give me a McMillan TAC-50 any day, and a location a mile from the objective.

Siraj is chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes. He’s the one who taught me to like the strong tobacco back when we were housemates at Cambridge. I would love a fag, but can’t—Bahir is a very good Muslim, even down to having a wife. For a moment I think about the girl I married seven months ago under pressure by the Caliph. The old man felt that the Caliphate’s remaining ace needed to set an example. But I need to put her aside. It’s dangerous for someone in my line of work to allow anyone too close to them for any length of time. Fortunately I have the perfect excuse—she’s barren. That accusation will probably keep her from marrying again. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. The truth is that it’s my fault, I’m the one who’s sterile.

I realize I’ve missed whole sentences of Siraj’s diatribe, and it shocks me. I’ve got to stop woolgathering. I’m going to get myself killed.

“. . . Texas? Texas! Why in the bloody hell would I bomb Texas? As if I have a nuclear bomb. Would that I did. Then they wouldn’t threaten me.” He snatches up a sheaf of papers off the desk as he roars past, and shakes them in my face. The rattling is like hail on a tin roof, and the gold ribbon that marks this as an official diplomatic communication waves before my eyes, causing me to flinch and pull back.

“The secretary of state is holding me personally responsible for this explosion. They are the ones with nuclear bombs buried everywhere. They should take a count.”

“I am sorry, Most High—”

“I told you not to call me that.” His tone is snappish and peevish. “I’m not Abdul, and I don’t want us acting like it’s 1584.”

“Yes, sir, I am sorry. I just thought you should know what they are saying.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have a contact who works in Whitehall. The Americans are enlisting the aid of the Silver Helix to investigate whether we’re involved.”

Siraj pauses, and a humorless smile puts grooves in his gaunt cheeks. A year ago he was a portly man with a smooth, unlined face. Now he’s thin, and worry and responsibility have gouged grooves into his forehead and etched lines around the soft brown eyes. “Maybe they’ll send Noel. He is their reputed Middle Eastern expert. I’d like to know how he evaded my hospitality last time, and extend it again.”

I incline my head. “Would you like me to kill him, sir?” It’s totally surreal. Usually I’m amused by these situations, but this time it gives me an odd crawling sensation.

“No, I’m tired of the world viewing us as ignorant barbarians. I’m teaching them to respect us.”

“But hate us all the more.” I pause, then add, “And they have the armies.”

“I’ll moderate prices before we reach that point.”

“And how will you know you’ve reached that point without crossing it?”

He looks at me oddly. I’ve taken a misstep, but to say anything more will only make it worse. I bow and teleport away.