The LIFF had been left in the untried hands of José Aragon, a bright-eyed “yes man.” Michaelson suspected Aragon had climbed up the ladder simply because of his minority status… and had continued to rise as people promoted him to get him out of their hair.
It had taken Aragon only a few months to trash the LIFF. Because he was not a scientist, because he did not understand the real issues behind the project, Aragon had unknowingly misled Congress, made impossible concessions and unrealistic promises, and mixed up details… all of which led to missed deadlines — and the bad luck began to spiral. Any non-scientist might have screwed up just as much, but Aragon had been in the hot seat.
While in Kiev, Michaelson had gotten a tip-off from one of his former workers about how badly Aragon was screwing things up. Enraged, Michaelson had flown back directly to Washington, leaving Diana Unteling in charge of the disarmament team. He rushed like a hero to the rescue, barging into Congressional hearings, pulling strings, making phone calls, shouting at the right people, pleading with others, trying to save the LIFF funding from being canceled. All to no avail.
The ripples of scandal had caused a great shakeup at Lawrence Livermore. The Director himself was “promoted” to DOE Headquarters in Washington. Michaelson was removed from the disarmament team because of his “notorious lack of responsibility and blatantly abandonment of the inspection team.” And the huge and expensive LIFF, nearly completed, was mothballed without ever being switched on.
Aragon, the incompetent boob who had caused it all, found himself promoted to Deputy Associate Director, then Associate Director. Would miracles never cease? Michaelson thought.
He himself had been demoted to group leader, but Hal Michaelson had enough pull and enough connections that — starting from a scratch — he created a new project based on his on-site inspection experience halfway around the world. With a mere scrap of discretionary funding from the Lawrence Livermore overhead budget, Michaelson had launched the groundbreaking work for his virtual reality on-site inspectors. Now T Program had the enormous prestige of full presidential backing with an upcoming landmark demonstration.
And he was stuck waiting outside the Plutonium Facility, looking at his watch, and cursing José Aragon’s name.
As Michaelson watched, a beat-up gray government pickup drove up to the double gate outside the portal building. A uniformed security guard came out and opened the outer chain-link gate. Metal bollards automatically sank down into the ground like giant steel teeth, allowing the truck to drive into the compound.
The guard closed the fence behind him as the driver ran around to pass his badge through the reader. The guard took out a long angled mirror on a pole and began inspecting underneath the chassis of the old truck. He opened the doors, looked under the seats, popped open the glove compartment, and rummaged around in the bed of the truck. The driver came back through the portal building, and waited for the guard to finish his search.
Michaelson tapped his feet as he watched the tedious process. What a pain in the ass, he thought.
When the guard signaled by slapping the hood, the driver hopped back into the truck. The second set of metal bollards lowered to allow the truck access to the Superblock.
“Okay!” said Aragon, coming out the side door and rubbing his hands together. “Just had to reset the software. We’re ready to go in. Follow me and we’ll get you suited up and checked through.”
Aragon continued to chatter during the entry process. They passed through another metal detector, then into the locker rooms where Michaelson had to squirm into a tight-fitting orange lab coat, clip on a nuclear accident dosimeter, and finally enter the Radioactive Materials Area.
The building was as ugly inside as on the outside, Michaelson thought: 1960s prison-barracks style… or worse yet, public schools from the ‘50s, with linoleum-tiled floors, white painted cinderblock walls. More metal junk and pipes than could possibly be accounted for ran along the suspended ceiling and along the walls.
The workers seemed busy, like a bunch of good-old-boys who catcalled to each other, with a lot of back-slapping, punching in the biceps, friendly joshing. It annoyed Michaelson. They seemed like a bunch of high-school football studs playing grab ass. Even though the workers seemed on good terms with each other, no one appeared to recognize Aragon; however that didn’t stop him from smiling and greeting each person he passed.
Michaelson felt bone tired, thanks to Amber, thanks to the long flight. Traveling did little more than upset his stomach and make his eyes burn. He’d been running on adrenaline for days before the presidential press conference, and now that it was over he felt exhausted, letdown. He had little patience for a boob like Aragon.
“Just what exactly did you want to show me?” Michaelson asked as they walked down the hall, passing the third identical-looking glove-box lab.
“Well… ” Aragon shrugged. “We need to discuss the best place to set up those VR sensors of yours. That’s a fabulous chamber you have by the way. I witnessed a demonstration of it when Mr. Lesserec gave a wonderful tour to those kids from the Coalition for Family Values. We want to bring them in here for a tour next, show them some nuts-and-bolts work.”
“Glad you were impressed,” Michaelson said in a flat voice. “It means a lot to me. A hell of a lot.”
Aragon beamed, then faltered, not knowing how to take Michaelson’s comment. The Associate Director took great pride, and a great deal of time, to show him the new array setups in the radioactive materials vaults, the forced separation of samples of fissile material, the careful accounting and security methods.
They passed the fabrication facility, then the welding and recovery lab. Waving his hands, Aragon seemed euphoric as he showed off the new barrel counters, large neutron and alpha detectors that assayed barrels of mixed radioactive waste and suspected contaminated materials. Aragon led him to the door of another lab area filled with more glove-boxes — grungy like a bad high school metal-shop project and just as uninteresting as the first three similar rooms.
Michaelson felt his brain turning into mush. His eyes itched from lack of sleep, and he just plain did not want to be in the company of José Aragon, or inside the Plutonium Facility. He either wanted to be home in bed or back at his T Program office.
Before they could enter the glove-box room, Michaelson held up his hand. “Hold on a second.” He walked across the hall to the bathroom. “I’m calling a halt to this crap.”
Shocked, Aragon followed Michaelson like a puppy into the restroom. Michaelson stood at the urinal, staring at the wall and ignoring Aragon. Finally, he turned to the smaller man and said, “So what did you really bring me here for? All this tour-guide baloney is a bunch of bullshit.”
Aragon didn’t seem to know how to answer. “I, uh, just wanted to show you some of the things we do here in the Tech-Transfer/Defense Conversion Directorate. You are part of it, Hal, even though you don’t participate in any administrative activities.”
“Thank God for that.” Michaelson finished, zipped up, and glared at him. “Look, I’ve got the President and a bunch of foreign dignitaries coming here in a few weeks. I’ve also got a ton of catch-up work to do — and you’re playing show and tell with me. I don’t have time for it. No way, José.”
He looked at himself in the mirror, sighed at the red-rimmed eyes and the haggard face. He turned the water on in the sink, hit the soap dispenser, and lathered up before stooping over to splash the cold running water on his cheeks, in his eyes. It felt good, refreshing. He splashed again.