The Incredible Exploding Man
From a distance, the first thing you saw was the cloud.
It rose five thousand feet or more, a perfect vertical helix turning slowly in the sky above Point Zero. Winds high in the atmosphere smeared its very top into ribbons, but no matter how hard the winds blew at lower levels the main body kept its shape. A year ago, a tornado had tracked northwest across this part of Iowa and not disturbed the cloud at all. It looked eerie and frightening, but it was just an edge effect, harmless water vapour in the atmosphere gathered by what was going on below. The really scary stuff at Point Zero was invisible.
The young lieutenant sitting across from me looked tired and ill. They burned out quickly here on the Perimeter — the constant stress of keeping things from getting through the fence, the constant terror of what they would have to do if something did. A typical tour out here lasted less than six months, then they were rotated back to their units and replacements were brought in. I sometimes wondered why we were bothering to keep it secret; if we waited long enough the entire US Marine Corps would have spent time here.
I leaned forward and raised my voice over the sound of the engines and said to the lieutenant, “How old are you, son?”
The lieutenant just looked blankly at me. Beside him, I saw Former Corporal Fenwick roll his eyes.
“Just trying to make conversation,” I said, sitting back. The lieutenant didn’t respond. He didn’t know who I was — or rather, he had been told I was a specialist, come to perform routine maintenance on the sensors installed all over the Site. There was no way to tell whether he believed that or not, or if he even cared. He was trying to maintain a veneer of professionalism, but when he thought nobody was looking he kept glancing at the windows. He wanted to look out, to check on his responsibilities on the ground. Was the Site still there? Was there a panic? Had a coyote got through?
It had been a coyote last time. At least, that was the general consensus of opinion — it was hard to be certain from the remains. The Board of Inquiry had found that the breach was due to gross negligence on the part of the officer in command. The officer in command, a colonel I had met a couple of times and rather liked, had saved Uncle Sam the cost of a court martial by dying, along with seventeen of his men, bringing down the thing the coyote had become. You could tell, just by looking at the Lieutenant, that he had terrible nightmares.
The Black Hawk made another wide looping turn over Sioux Crossing, waiting for permission to land. Looking out, I thought I could see my old house. The city had been evacuated shortly after the Accident. It had taken weeks to clear the place out; even after dire stories of death and disaster, even with the cloud hanging over the Site, there were people who refused to leave. The fact that the skies by then were full of military helicopters, some of them black, hadn’t helped. The Government had handled the whole thing poorly, and there had been a couple of armed standoffs between householders and the military. Then a bunch of asshole militiamen had turned up from the wilds of Montana, vowing to oppose the Zionist World Government or the Bilderberg Group or whoever the hell they believed was running the world. I was glad I’d missed the whole thing.
Further out, I could see the buildings of the Collider in the distance. From here, all looked peaceful. Apart from the cloud, towering over everything, it was as if nothing had ever happened here.
The pilot eventually got permission to make final approach and we landed in a park on the edge of Sioux Crossing. The park was ringed by prefabricated buildings stacked four high, offices and barracks and mess halls and control rooms and armouries and garages surrounding a big white ‘H’ sprayed on the ground. The lieutenant jumped down as soon as the door was opened, and the last I saw of him was his back as he strode away from us towards the control centre.
“Talkative fucker,” Former Corporal Fenwick commented, hopping down from the helicopter beside me.
I sighed. A figure in fatigues was coming towards us from the control centre. The figure passed the lieutenant, and they snapped salutes at each other without breaking step.
“Welcoming committee,” said Fenwick. “Nice. I approve.”
“Shut up, Fenwick,” I muttered.
The figure was the base commander, Colonel Newton J Kettering. He marched up to us and saluted. Fenwick returned the salute sloppily, as usual. I didn’t bother.
“Sir,” Kettering said smartly. “Welcome to Camp Batavia.”
“Well thank you kindly, Colonel,” Fenwick said. “Looks like you’re running a tight ship here.”
“Sir. Thank you, sir.” Unlike the lieutenant, Kettering didn’t look tired and ill. He looked alert and bright-eyed. He looked alert and bright-eyed to the point of madness. He was a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan and he’d done three tours here, and I didn’t want to spend a minute longer in his company than I had to.
I said to Fenwick, “I’d better supervise the unloading.”
Fenwick gave me his big shit-eating grin. “I think that sounds like a fine idea, Mr Dolan.” I wanted to punch him. “Perhaps Colonel Kettering could give me the guided tour while you’re doing that thing.”
“Sir, I was hoping you could join me in the Officers’ Club,” Kettering said. “We have a luncheon prepared.”
Fenwick’s grin widened. “Colonel, I would love to.”
“We need to get onto the Site as soon as possible,” I said to them both, but mainly to Fenwick. Kettering regarded me with a keen look of hostility. Fenwick pouted; he hated to miss a free meal. I said, “Colonel, it shouldn’t take more than half an hour to unload my gear — ”
“Hell,” Fenwick put in amiably. “That’s plenty of time for luncheon. Right, Colonel?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.” Kettering gave me that hostile look again. I had already ruined his carefully-groomed routine; he wasn’t about to let me ruin lunch too. Neither was Fenwick.
I looked at them both. “Half an hour,” I said. “No longer.”
Fenwick and Kettering exchanged a knowing glance. Civilians. Then Fenwick clapped Kettering on the back and said, “Lead the way, Colonel,” and they walked off. A few yards away, Fenwick looked over his shoulder and called, “Would you like us to send a plate out for you, Mr Dolan?”
I shook my head. “No thank you, General, I’ll be fine,” I called back. Fenwick flipped me the bird surreptitiously and turned back to Kettering. The two of them, deep in conversation, walked towards the wall of prefabs.
I watched them go for a few moments, then went back to the helicopter, where, in the style of bored baggage handlers and cargo men the world over, half a dozen Marines were throwing my metal transport cases out onto the grass.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Careful with those things! They’re delicate scientific instruments!”
Actually, the cases were full of old telephone directories, for weight, but I had to keep up the charade.
I had been in a foul mood when I arrived for work that morning. I drove the short distance from home to the facility, stopped briefly at the gate to show my ID, then drove to the building housing the small control room Professor Delahaye and his team were using.
Most of them were already there ahead of me. Delahaye was over to one side of the room, conferring with half a dozen of his colleagues and grad students. Others were busily typing at consoles and peering at monitors. Nowhere, though, could I see the shock of white hair that I was looking for.