He continued, "LAPD tracked the terrorist to a house in Culver City. Shots were exchanged. He managed to escape in his vehicle and was pursued southbound on the 405 until he reached the San Onofre nuclear plant. He wrapped a note asking for you around a rock and threw it toward the barricade."
The taste of blood stayed sharp at the back of my mouth. "Tell me how to help."
The copilot shouted something back to Wydell, and he pulled his headset up, pausing to catch my eye and then nod at Sever. "This is Special Agent Reid Sever. Squad leader for Protective Intelligence here in L.A. He'll fill you in."
Wydell then grimaced and let the earphones close over his head. He gripped the bud of the microphone, angling it to his chin and speaking to whoever was on the other end: "I'm aware of that, sir, but no one was expecting the pursuit to veer off into the nuclear plant. It's just a hundred yards from the freeway. LAPD managed to give a few minutes' warning to the guards, and they immediately set up a perimeter around the containment domes."
Meanwhile Sever unfurled a large scroll across his lap, tilting it so I could see. His thumb pinched a tiny LED light against the paper, illuminating a throw of blueprint. His voice was gruffer than Wydell's, lacking the polished edges that came with promotion.
"This is the blueprint of the power plant," Sever said. "The containment domes that hold the reactors are here." A sturdy finger tapped paper. "To the right. The reactors are housed inside these steel-and-concrete domes that could withstand a tank assault. Only problem is…" His lips twitched, a pinched smile that said nothing was funny. "Only problem is, our boy veered left."
"What's over there?" I asked.
Beside Sever, Wydell leaned back in his seat, still gripping the floating mike. He maintained the respectful tone for addressing a superior, but his face looked strained, the skin tight across his cheeks. I could see a pulse fluttering at his temple. "The spent-fuel pool." He paused, then said, "A different building, that's correct, sir. Concrete blocks and regular sheet-metal siding. It's got negative pressure maintained by fans, but it's not even airtight, let alone rated for containment."
He shoved the headset back down around his neck and sat for a moment, thoughtful. A band of sweat sparkled on his prominent forehead. He did not strike me as a man who sweated easily. The Black Hawk banked sharply, but he just turned calmly and stared out the window, his canted nose catching shadows. The 405 was flying past outside, a white-and red-spotted ribbon. Traffic was moving normally. That no one had bothered to order an evacuation only highlighted the range of the potential blast. All those headlights down below, even at three in the morning. All those people, oblivious to the fact that their lives were in the balance.
The Black Hawk straightened up again, the ground righting itself beneath us where it belonged. Wydell folded his hands, leaned forward. His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth. "Let me lay out the facts," he said. "The pool is rectangular, about forty feet deep, built with five-foot concrete walls and lined with stainless steel. Under the high-density water are spent-fuel rods making up one of the greatest concentrations of radioactivity on the planet." His voice remained steady, but he armed moisture off his brow. "The pool houses ten times more long-lived high-penetrating radioactivity than the reactor core. It holds more cesium-137 than has been deposited by every atmospheric nuclear test ever conducted in this hemisphere. There under the water, it's relatively stable and harmless. If that water goes away, bringing the spent fuel to within a few feet of the surface-"
"Like from an explosion." Despite the night air, my T-shirt was damp where it pressed against the nylon seat.
"Like from an explosion. Then the scenario changes dramatically. That pool would catch fire at north of a thousand degrees Celsius. A fire like that"-he shook his head-"a fire like that cannot be extinguished until the burning's done and the radioactivity released. It would render Southern California uninhabitable for half a million years."
Sever lifted a cell phone from inside one of the Pelican cases and extended it to me.
"So," I said, "you need me to call and talk to him."
Wydell said, "We need you to go in there and deliver this cell phone to him."
At first I thought I'd misheard. "I'll talk to him over the phone, bullhorn, whatever, but I'm not a trained agent. Someone who knows what they're doing should go in. What if I make a mistake? Five hundred thousand years is a long time."
"He made it clear he'll see only you, and it has to be face-to-face. We're out of options here."
When I swallowed, my throat clicked dryly. Why would some terrorist want to see me in person? Would he recognize my face but not my voice? Sever held the phone out to me again and shook it impatiently, but I kept my hands where they were. Wydell took it instead, put it in his lap.
I said, "I thought we don't negotiate with terrorists."
Sever said quietly, "We negotiate with terrorists every day."
Wydell didn't seem to hear him. "Facing this level of destruction? What would you do?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not the one with the policy."
"Listen," Wydell said, "this guy's holding the cards. You claim you're not with him. That means you're with us. And your part of the mission is to get this phone in his hand. Just give it to him when we call. We've got the top crisis negotiator in the state on scene already. Once we have comms, we'll take it from there."
"What if I can't convince him to take it? What if he blows us all up first?"
Wydell nodded solemnly, pulling at the loose skin below his chin. "I knew your old man. I bet we have a fighting chance, as long as you got a few of his genes."
"He was my stepdad," I said, "so it's a safe bet I didn't."
Wydell's dark brown eyes fixed on me. "Frank Durant was a great man. Stepson or not, that gives you something to live up to."
Instead of taking the phone, I released a shaky sigh and leaned back in my seat. A decision was inevitable. In the relative quiet, reality finally began to sink in, and with it a bone-deep chill. What had I woken into? The dark flew by as we whipped along toward a nuclear plant with a terrorist inside.
I thought about what my stepfather would do. Frank Durant. Seventeen years dead. My hero, if such a word can be used anymore with a straight face.
Chapter 3
Seven years to the day after my father died, I met Frank. He was sitting in our yellow kitchen and had his hand on my mom's knee, and I thought, Fuck him.
My real dad ran his truck into a canyon when I was four, barely old enough to store some hazy recollections. I never had to experience his shortcomings, which were considerable, right down to his. 2 blood alcohol level when they pried the steering wheel out of his rib cage. I could just idealize him, plain and simple. I kept a photo of him framed on my bookshelf. In the picture he's wearing a white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes cuffed in, his hair's short, and he's smiling. Down at the bottom, almost lost behind the frame, a Camel sticks out from the fork of his fingers.
When I came into the kitchen that morning, Frank took his hand off my mom's knee and stood, a weirdly formal gesture. I tapped the tail of my skateboard, jumping it up so I could grab the top truck. He was tall, maybe six-two, with a tapered waist and a tattoo in what looked like Chinese down his forearm.
My mom hopped up, clearing their cups of coffee, her jangly bracelets making a nervous clatter. "Nicky, this is my new friend Frank. He works in the Secret Service, protecting our vice president. Isn't that neat?"
I thought, My new friend? Neat? Where did adults get this shit?
"Doesn't sound so neat to me," I said.
My mom's mouth got thin, but Frank just looked at me evenly and said, "It's not."