While listening to music on the stereo, he would incorporate new results and bundled routines that he had used the supercomputers to crunch during working hours at the Lab. At home, Lesserec stayed up late, drank plenty of cappuccino from his own machine, and took pride in the fact that he needed no more than four hours sleep a night.
Some of that time Lesserec had to spend keeping his girlfriend happy — but what kept Sandra happiest was the influx of extra money that allowed her to buy the clothes and jewelry and limited-edition art prints she liked to hang on the walls. Satin sheets, fancy stereo systems, unusual kitchen appliances with European brand names: all the trappings of the American dream, Yuppie style.
It kept getting better all the time.
Lesserec lounged back in his chair and reached forward to grab another handful of Doritos. A few of the techs made catcalls as the President approached the podium in the White House press room. Looming beside him, next to the heads-up teleprompter, stood Hal Michaelson himself, a half foot taller than the President. Michaelson’s steel gray hair was neatly brushed back, his Cary Grant mustache like a line of mascara above his self-satisfied, barely contained smile.
The President launched into an explanation of the International Verification Initiative, or IVI. Hearing it, Lesserec suddenly remembered hearing Michaelson talk about “ivy,” and now he knew what the big man meant. Damn him for keeping something this big a secret!
Lesserec reached for his can of Diet Coke and brought it to his lips, but found that it was empty. He couldn’t get up now to get himself another one. Everyone else watched the TV intently.
Michaelson spoke with a self-assured superior confidence. He seemed to be staring right through the television out at the vast American public — and stabbing his words right through his T-Program underlings.
“The President has authorized me to grant full disclosure of all of our virtual surveillance technology to a select group of foreign nationals, including representatives from the former Soviet Union, China, Japan, Israel, Great Britain, France, and Germany. With a suite of highly sophisticated sensors, we can conduct on-site inspections anywhere at any time at no notice. The President is prepared to place sanctions on any country that does not allow us equal access.
“To prove our good will, representatives from the administration have spent the day discussing with officials of the foreign governments. Each nation has agreed to send a special envoy out for a special open-doors meeting at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, where we will demonstrate the virtual technology and provide them with all the answers to their questions.”
Lesserec leaped to his feet spinning the chair around. “What the hell!”
Other technicians began chattering in disbelief while some sat in silence with puzzled frowns.
“What demonstration?” Walter Shing asked.
“Looks like we’re going to be working late nights,” Danielle commented. “So what else is new?”
“How dare he do something like this,” Lesserec said, standing up and flushing, as if he could argue with the television. Michaelson kept talking smoothly, and Lesserec angrily motioned for the others to be quiet.
“My team at Livermore is already hard at work preparing a spectacular demonstration of the nuts-and-bolts workings of our plutonium handling facility, and I’m pleased to announce the President’s decision just this afternoon to implement the most appropriate use of this virtual reality technology.” Michaelson turned and nodded to the Secretary of Energy, waiting to his left.
The Secretary approached the podium and spoke. “For the first time in many years, we will conduct an underground nuclear detonation using one of the devices that has been kept mothballed as part of our stockpile stewardship program. The Department of Energy’s Nevada Test Site has been placed on alert this afternoon.”
Standing next to the Energy Secretary, Michaelson leaned into the microphone. “The entire team of international delegates will remotely observe this underground detonation from Livermore, California, using our virtual reality sensors. They will be down hole, on the spot, seeing what no human eyes have ever seen before.” Michaelson seemed to glow as he said his words.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Lesserec said, looking at the other amazed techs as if they might have an answer. “He won’t even let us talk about this technology to American manufacturers, and now he’s going to hand it on a silver plate to… to the competition! He’s nuts!”
“Gary,” Walter Shing said blinking behind his thick eyeglasses, “we always knew Michaelson was nuts. What’s the surprise?”
This deflated Lesserec, and he found no other response but to smile. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Michaelson enjoyed pulling the rug out from under T Program’s feet, seeing how his team scrambled to change the proposals, to modify their work to meet suddenly changed goals.
On the news conference the President opened up to questions from the reporters in the audience, who didn’t seem to grasp the significance or even understand the implications of the International Verification Initiative. They spent more time grilling the President about the scandal du jour.
Lesserec didn’t wait around to hear the CNN rehash and commentary about the speech. He understood the subject more than the reporters would anyway. He stood up, feeling his knees shaking. His mouth was dry and too salty from the Doritos.
“All right everybody,” he said, “Call home or call your baby-sitters, whatever you need. Michaelson’s upstaged us. Again. You all know how to deal with it.”
He switched off the television and went to find himself another can of Diet Coke.
CHAPTER 7
Hal Michaelson slipped out of the White House the same way he entered, through the Old Executive Office Building and onto 17th Street. Men and women clicked past him on the sidewalk, intent on their own versions of urgent business, no one making eye contact, everyone trying to outdo everyone else in their hurry to get where they were going.
Rush hour in the capital city had started four hours before, and the traffic was finally dying away into evening. A truck hauling a trailer with a hand-painted sign proclaiming IMPEACH THE SOCIALISTIC BUMS blared its horn and turned in its slow circle of the White House.
Two young men dressed in crisp blue suits handed out pamphlets by the stoplight. A middle aged woman without any hair played a rambling French horn solo next to the White House fence. Smells of steamed Polish sausage washed over him from a corner food stand. Flares of late twilight colors settled over the historic monumental buildings that glittered white under drenching spotlights. A city bus rushed past with blue curls of greasy exhaust, drowning out honking cars and yelling people.
Michaelson decided to walk back to his room. Cab rates were obscene, and there would be no telling how long he would wait in the traffic for the mile ride to his hotel. Damn the humidity, he thought and set off, wishing he could strip down to a polo shirt and slacks instead of this damned Washington-mandated suit and tie.
For the first time in years, he didn’t have to catch the next flight back to Livermore. He could get a good night’s sleep — or at least a good night’s bedroom exercises with Amber. The perfect way to unwind.
As he walked around the fence surrounding the White House, a news crew from a local station filmed a group of twenty people carrying signs for yet another demonstration. Ho hum. Every person in America had the right to protest at the nation’s capital, but the fact that so many of them did only trivialized their tedious complaints voiced hour after hour, day after day.