Scott sighed deeply and met, in turn, the gazes of each of the four men before him. To his left was William Wyler Stamp, a career intelligence officer who had revitalized a CIA that had come under fire during the last administration. Stamp was urbane and dapper, with a quiet demeanor more befitting a professor than a spymaster.
Sitting opposite each other, and just as ideologically divergent, were Secretary of Defense George Kappel and Secretary of State Edmund Mercheson. Kappel was a lifelong friend of the President, which kept him in the administration despite his perpetual hawkishness and seemingly congenital distrust of the Soviets. On the other hand, Lyman Scott had known Mercheson for only one year longer than he’d been president. A former senator from Michigan, Mercheson’s pointed nose and slight German accent doomed him to be forever likened to the legendary Henry Kissinger. The press often labeled him “Merchinger” or “Kisseson.” He was Scott’s chief supporter when it came to Soviet relations and the architect of a controversial disarmament treaty the President had been on the verge of signing before the rug had been pulled out from under his administration. Past sixty now and generally thought to be past his prime, Mercheson nonetheless enjoyed a comfortable grasp of the issues and the unusual ability to pass on his opinions in clear, concise terms.
The last occupant of the Tomb was Ryan Sundowner, director of the Bureau of Scientific Intelligence; BSI for short, but better known as the Toy Factory. By far the youngest of the group, Sundowner wore his brown wavy hair long and opted for a tattered tweed sports jacket rather than the traditional Washington suit. He looked as uncomfortable in the jacket as he did in the Tomb itself. This was his first visit ever.
“Mr. Sundowner,” the President said, “tell us about Hope Valley.”
Sundowner cleared his throat. He rose from his chair, holding tight to a black remote control device in his hand.
“I believe, sir,” he started, “that the pictures we’re about to see speak for themselves. If they don’t, there’s an accompanying narration that says it better than I can.”
Sundowner pressed one button on the remote and the Tomb’s recessed lights darkened. He pressed another one and the map in the center of the side wall parted to reveal a forty-five-inch video monitor. The device was familiar to him but had been custom-altered for the Tomb, and Sundowner had a vision of pushing the wrong button and sending missiles hurtling from their silos. He pushed a third button and the screen filled with a videotaped flyover shot of what had been Hope Valley.
Nothing but a black cloud. Everywhere, everything, from one side of the screen to the other.
“My God,” the President muttered, rising as if to gain a better view in the darkness of the Tomb, a dimness diffused only by the glow of the video screen and the light over the door.
Sundowner froze the frame. “The military alerted the BSI after being alerted themselves by a highway patrolman who saw the cloud. Thought it was smoke at first.”
“You mean he entered the town?” raised Secretary of Defense Kappel, aware of the possible implications.
“He came close enough. We’ve got him in seclusion now, more to keep him quiet than as an anticontamination precaution. There’s no danger of infection here,” Sundowner explained, pointing at the screen. “I only wish it were that simple.”
The scientist started the tape again. Different angles and views of the cloud were displayed, showing no trace of the town.
“What about the perimeter?” CIA chief Stamp wanted to know.
“Hope Valley’s as isolated as they come,” Sundowner told him. “Just a single main access road which we cordoned off and set the appropriate buffer in place. The military and BSI personnel are working together under Firewatch conditions. That much has been contained.”
“That much,” echoed Mercheson, mimicking the obvious understatement.
There was a brief glitch in the tape after which the screen filled with a moving shot down the road approaching Hope Valley.
“The thickness of the cloud made it impossible for any of our flyovers to tell us anything. Our next phase called for an observer to be sent in. The picture you’re seeing now comes courtesy of a camera built into his helmet. He had to look through the windshield of the van he was driving, so excuse the graininess.”
“Who made the decision to enter?” the President demanded as the murky mass loomed larger on the screen.
“I did, sir,” admitted Sundowner without hesitation.
“Rather large responsibility to take on yourself, considering the potential risks.”
“There was more risk involved, sir, by not investigating the scene itself. We had no idea what evidence might be lost on the wind and I was satisfied by on-scene reports that the biological reactions were of negligible consequence.”
“Meaning?”
“No dizziness, nausea, or wooziness from the soldiers enforcing the five-mile sealing and buffer zone. No symptoms of anything at all. Except fear.”
On the screen, the van had reached the outer borders of the cloud, headlights barely making a dent in the blackness as it crawled on.
“Nevertheless, the driver is wearing a POTMC suit,” Sundowner elaborated. “Stands for Protective Outfit, Toxicological and Microclimate Controlled.”
Sundowner paused long enough to touch a button that brought up the volume on the screen’s hidden speakers. “The driver’s narration begins here, so I’ll let him take over.”
The softly whirling sounds of an engine came on before the voice, words slightly garbled by the Tomb’s echo, forcing the occupants to strain their ears.
“Base, this is Watch One. I’m almost to the edge of town. Whatever’s in this cloud, it’s playing hell with the windshield. As you can see I’ve got the wipers on steady now but they’re not doing much good. A gritty residue full of flakes and dust is building up in layers, so whatever this cloud is it’s got plenty of solid makeup to it. It’s still hard to tell if — wait a minute. Jesus Christ…”
The picture on the screen buckled as the driver jammed on the brakes, seeing something his helmet-contained camera could not yet pick up. Remembering this, he accelerated the vehicle again.
“I’m going to try to rotate my head regularly to make sure everything I’m looking at comes through. I’m entering the town now … or what used to be the town.”
Narration continued and the men in the Tomb sat listening, looking, mesmerized. The tape was shot in color but it might as well not have been; black powder dominated what had been the center of Hope Valley. It lay in piles everywhere, all different sizes, no pattern whatsoever, and it seemed to shift in the wind even as they watched. It was so powdery that the van rolled easily over it. The narrator drew his vehicle to a halt to allow for the clearest possible picture.
“Checking instruments now,” he said and for a time only engine sounds filled the speakers with the camera’s view of the town lost as the driver lowered his helmet. “Instruments show only a slight flux in heat levels. I read no evidence of explosion. Repeat, no evidence of explosion. Whatever caused this wasn’t nuclear or even remotely fulminatory.” Another pause. “Instruments indicate the area of direct effect is cylindrical and, my God, symmetrical.”