Fallout

CHAPTER 25

Another day of touring, but without Craig this time. Paige had to complete her protocol obligations with the Russian team, salvage the success of their mission, and hope the spirit of disarmament and international cooperation survived the debacle of Nevsky’s death.

Even after all the other places Paige had shown the Russians, nothing could have prepared them for the sheer size of the Sedan Crater. She watched the look of amazement on their faces as they stepped to the edge and looked down, down into the enormous parabolic bowl scooped out of the sand.

“This was intentional, yes?” Anatoli Voronin said, puffing his large lips.

“It’s our largest nuclear excavation, three hundred kilotons,” Paige said. “Some of the original test engineers thought the crater would be a good site to hold the Super Bowl.”

The wind picked up, whispering around them. The inspectors crept close — but not too close — to the edge. Down at the crater bottom, discarded tires bespoke of carefree amusements, NTS workers rolling tires down the long slope. Now, though, warning signs had been posted: Danger — Radioactive Area. No Digging. A yellow-painted wooden fence blocked off the observation stand; its peeling and weathered appearance implied that Sedan Crater was no longer much of a tourist attraction.

General Ursov locked his hands behind his back and stood simmering with undirected anger, the frustration and unease he had exhibited since the morning of Nevsky’s death. Paige couldn’t blame him — this was now his inspection team, his responsibility. No doubt his own superiors had roundly chewed him out for the disaster, and Ursov had no way to defend himself against the charges.

Paige had been stonewalling the general about the autopsy results, and she knew it could not go on much longer. The coroner’s report declaring that Nevsky’s death had been murder, not a simple accident, would be issued tomorrow — just in time to throw the entire disarmament process into chaos.

Unless Craig could wrap up the investigation before then.

Though Paige tried to maintain her helpful, professional appearance around the inspection team, the State Department had been pestering her, anxious to keep the situation under control; DOE Undersecretary Madeleine Jenkins had been personally calling Paige for updates.

Now, Paige reeled with the news of Jorgenson’s death. Although the forklift driver had admitted to dropping the crate on Nevsky, she wondered if he had killed the Russian in the first place, for whatever reason, then tried to cover up the murder as an industrial accident. Though that would have wrapped up the case, she knew Craig didn’t believe it was so simple. Jorgenson’s heart attack seemed too convenient — and Paige was chilled just thinking about it. Somebody else might have murdered Jorgenson.…

After his late night, Craig planned to drive out to the Test Site himself to spend the morning ransacking Nevsky’s records at the DAF. While Uncle Mike was at his DOE meeting at the Las Vegas Operations office, Craig would work with Sally Montry to check part numbers, track down transportation forms and receipts. If anyone could make sense of the morass of forms, Sally could. Meanwhile, Paige was on her own with the Russians.

The group peered down into the Sedan Crater. “You planned to use nuclear weapons for civil engineering purposes, did you not?” said Victor Golitsyn, the geologist. “This was a test for that program?”

“Project Plowshare,” Paige said, concentrating on her job. As if drawn, she stared into the huge crater herself. “From 1957 until 1974, we considered using nuclear explosives for excavating canals and roadbeds, creating freshwater reservoirs, even making parabolic craters for radio telescopes.”

“We too had such plans years ago. Beating swords into plowshares,” Ursov muttered. Paige was surprised the Russian general would catch the Biblical reference.

“Radiation releases?” asked the redhead, Vitali Yakolev. “How much did it contaminate surrounding area?” He looked meaningfully at the warning signs still posted decades after the blast.

“More than would be acceptable today,” she admitted. Paige placed her hands on the new jeans snug against her hips. “At the time, we weren’t so careful about containment — nobody was. But public opinion changes. Our Plowshare work faded away in the 1970s. Our citizens are now too sensitive to environmental contamination to allow nuclear blasting.”

“Yes, we know Chernobyl too well,” Ursov said. “And that was merely a fire. Even out here in desert, a surface blast would spread deadly fallout far and wide.”

“That’s why we do them underground, General, where they are contained,” Paige said, not glancing at the gaping crater’s evidence to the contrary.

Bisovka puffed on another one of his Marlboros, then tossed the butt over the crater rim. Everyone watched it tumble, carried on the wind, bouncing along the steep sand. “And how do you ensure there are no leakages from your underground tests?” he said icily. “Accidents happen.”

Paige knew about this, not just from her briefings for this protocol assignment, but also because her father had worked on Baneberry — the 1970 test that had been the last significant radioactive release.

“We can’t afford accidents,” she said. “We make worst-case calculations to guarantee that nobody anywhere would receive anything above negligible radiation levels. The calculations assume a hypothetical person stands naked in a field twenty-four hours a day for a full year — extremely conservative assumptions, I might point out.”

“Yes, very conservative,” Ursov growled. “Just as it’s conservative that you take four days for a simple autopsy. What have you learned about Ambassador Nevsky’s death?”

Paige swallowed, taken aback at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m sorry, General. We have been promised the full report by tomorrow.”

The general’s face turned blotchy. “My team leader is dead, and I need to know what you have learned — or perhaps I should ask your President myself. You are hiding something, I can tell.”

Bisovka turned away from the group and lit another Marlboro, seemingly uninterested in the exchange.

“General,” she said, drawing upon all her experience and skill to keep her emotions in check, as she tried to turn the tables on him, “if I might ask, is there something you expect us to find in this autopsy? Your request was rather unusual, since the apparent cause of death was so… obvious. Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”

The other Russians looked at her uneasily, but she kept her gaze locked on Ursov. He was the one who mattered at the moment. Her heart pounded. Was he involved somehow?

“I know why you are stalling us, what you don’t want anyone to know.” Paige felt her blood freeze, dreading what he might say. Ursov’s face seemed ready to slump. “Just tell me if Nevsky was drunk at the time!” His fists clenched and unclenched. “I must know — because if I allowed him to smuggle vodka into the DAF and drink himself into a stupor, then get himself killed — my career is finished.”

“It was probably bourbon, not vodka,” Bisovka said scornfully, standing away from the others as he smoked.

Paige looked at him, startled, giddy with relief. She had to work hard to keep herself from laughing.

Ursov continued, “I filed repeated formal complaints, but he always loved his drink. I never took it seriously enough. Now Nevsky is dead.” Ursov gripped her arm, leaning closer. “Tell me — was he drunk? Is that why you are so embarrassed to give me your coroner’s report?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, General. He wasn’t drunk. I can tell you that much for certain.”

Ursov seemed relieved for a moment, then glanced up, wearing a suspicious look. “Then what else are you hiding from us?”