Critical Reaction (14 page)

It was good that things were looking up once more. Still, deep fatigue lingered in the eyes that looked back at him. So many things had been necessary to fight for the project. Especially since the explosions. Adam asked himself again if he would have taken it on knowing all of the cost and risks involved.

Of course he would have, he answered the image. Because he’d
always
known the risks of the Project, known them before he was fully read into it. He’d known them that moment in Cameron Foote’s recruitment interview when the VP had hinted to Adam of the bonus attached to the Project’s success. After all, risk and reward were precisely correlated at Covington—and the bonus attached to Project Wolffia was staggering.

At that moment of truth in his interview, Adam had known better than to respond to Cameron Foote’s words by reacting to the money. The potential number rang in his head like pealing church bells—but Adam was astute enough to know his audience. Foote wasn’t looking for a man driven by avarice; he was searching for a common soul who shared his belief about what the Project could mean—for America and “the West.” So Adam had silenced the bells and pressed Foote with questions about the political and social impact of Project Wolffia, never mentioning the money again. It had been an important test and he had passed.

But the risks for Adam in this project were very real—and Foote’s refusal to delay its restart during the pendency of the lawsuit only made them greater still. That made this a “soul check time,” another phrase his father would use, describing any pivotal moment where the choice was to back away from risk or to go all in.

Soul check time. The last time he’d heard the phrase, his father was imparting wisdom to Adam at his stock brokerage office on Manchester Street in Christchurch, giving a final speech to his youngest boy before packing him into a cab for the ride to the airport and America. Though surrounded by the warm, rich hues of teak furniture and framed prints of fox hunts and mallards taking flight, Adam had felt only the chill of the air-conditioned room and a readiness to be gone.

College in America. Under other circumstances, he might have been excited. But Adam knew he was headed into exile,
not reward. His parents were shipping Adam off with a palpable sense of relief—relief that his father’s smile and insider voice that last day couldn’t conceal. The message was obvious: there would be no career for Adam in his father’s brokerage office, alongside his two older brothers. He’d be denied that career because he didn’t “fit in”—words he’d overheard his father say in the face of his mother’s protests only the week before. He was a “strange boy,” his father had said—to Adam’s discerning ear, with perhaps the slightest hint of fear. America would “do him good,” he had then declared with finality.

Soul check time. Standing in the shadows of the masculine office that final day, his father had grasped Adam’s shoulder in a last imitation of fatherly affection. “In life, as in investing,” he’d said, “there are times when you must decide whether to retreat or charge ahead. In those moments, be confident, be strong; but most of all, trust your soul.” Then he’d smiled. “You’ll do fine, son. Because when all else fails, you’ve got the unfailing compass of the Worth family heart.”

Except, of course, he hadn’t. Like his father’s other pat phrases, Adam had heard the “Worth family heart” phrase used often at the dining room table. It seemed that Adam was expected to understand its meaning instinctively, because he never recalled a discussion defining its characteristics. And though he’d often tried, Adam had never conjured a definition that made sense to him.

Still, his observations of his family had rendered one conclusion with certainty—whatever the Worth family heart was, he didn’t have it. And now he wasn’t even sure he ever wanted it.

Adam slid on his suit jacket, affirming his appearance once more in the locker mirror. Except for a few uncomfortable holidays, he’d never been back for an extended period to New Zealand, nor had family members visited, and all communication had been listless and scarce. He wondered what his father thought of him now, this family outcast who lacked
their commonly admired attributes. Were they surprised at the responsibilities Adam had assumed at Covington Nuclear? The position he’d attained?

Adam shook off the memories. Back to present measures. The best outcome—the safest outcome for the Project—was still a settlement of the Mullaney case. Based on King’s assessment, they needed to raise the pressure on Mullaney and his attorneys for that to happen. Very well: he’d have to call his chief of security for the Project for help on that front.

In the meantime, until a settlement was assured, he had two other tasks to complete for the safety of the Project. He’d delayed them too long. Both tasks were distasteful, both carried risks. But both were best done this evening.

Which meant that he still had a long day ahead.

CHAPTER 13

Seated at the desk in the roof shack of PCL 237, Poppy was three hours into the shift, his head now splitting from ear to ear. He looked up from his paper work at young Jake Waters, checking the weapons rack across the room. The image of it reminded Poppy of Lew’s obsession with his weapon, Beverly. Except Jake was no Lewis Vandervork. Lew’d been sharp enough to get most of his jokes.

The wall phone jangled. Jake lunged for it before Poppy could move.

“It’s for you,” the young man said after a moment, holding out the receiver.

Of course it’s for me
, Poppy thought, taking the phone.
You’ve
been here for all of a month. You think the
company president’s checking up on how it’s going
so far?

They were rotating new kids through here every couple of months since the explosion. Poppy missed Lewis; he was young too, but he’d already broken him in. Lewis was a talker, but he did his job. A fine marksman. And most important, he knew how to play gin. Poppy’d given up trying to teach any of these new ones. They burned out their eyes on screens all day. Anything that didn’t glow, like a deck of cards, was something out of a museum. At least Lewis had made the effort to learn the game.

“Security checkpoint three, Poppy speaking,” he said into the phone.

“Pops, it’s Dave. I need you to come down to my office.”

“Dave, we were just going to do our rounds. How about forty-five minutes?”

The voice that responded was uncharacteristically rough. “Now, Pops. Uh, I’ve got someone from Covington HR here also.”

Human Resources? Maybe it was a response to his emails at last. “Okay—on my way.”

It had to be about his emails. Maybe it was the interview. But why would Covington HR make a special trip to do this on Poppy’s night shift; why wouldn’t they just call him in?

He turned to the kid. “You’re gonna have to do the rounds yourself.”

Jake returned a look that was unsettlingly like Poppy’s son the first time he was told he could take out the car alone. “Do it right, Jake,” Poppy said sternly. “I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

An internal staircase dropped from the roof to the first floor, emptying onto the front side corridor. Poppy took it now to the hallway where all the paper pushers and managers worked. He strode the length of the corridor, noticing again its sterile smell, fueled by the powerful HVAC motors and filters that held the building under negative pressure. He’d go nuts stuck in this place for a whole shift, Poppy thought. Like working in an oversized casket.

He reached the manager’s office at the end of the hall, cleared his lungs of the new congestion gathering there, and stuck his head around the corner.

Dave Prior’s eyes were furrowed tensely beneath brushy eyebrows set in a pale face. Seated next to him in the cramped office was a man younger than Prior and Poppy by a good thirty years. With a full head of red hair, he wore a green bow tie over a crisp white shirt. Yep, he had the look of Human Resources. Probably a grandkid of one of the folks who actually used to operate these plants.

The manager noticed him and gestured to enter. Poppy took a seat in the narrow space in front of Prior’s desk. The HR rep stood and extended a hand, introducing himself as Adam Worth. Before sitting down again, the HR guy rounded Poppy’s chair and shut the door behind them. Poppy’s discomfort did an immediate uptick.

“Pops,” the building manager launched in, “we’ve got something we’ve got to clear up. As you know, Covington’s the general contractor at Hanford and has final authority over your company, Darter Security, on personnel matters. Well, something’s come up. I’ll let Adam here explain.”

Adam smiled and held up a piece of paper. “Mr. Martin, this is your report from the incident at LB5 last fall.”

This was a good start—they were finally going to talk about his statement, Poppy thought with satisfaction. Though he wondered who this kid was, talking with a slight accent. Australian maybe?

He nodded in response. “What about it?”

“It’s about that gunshot you claim you heard.”

“Heard and saw,” Poppy said, caught off guard by the word
claim
. “At least I saw the weapon in Lewis’s hand after he fired.”

Adam’s smile didn’t waver as he went on like Poppy hadn’t spoken. “Covington Nuclear would like you to withdraw your statement. Resubmit it and take out that reference.”

Poppy was stunned. “I don’t get it.” He glanced at Dave, who was looking down at the desk.

Worth slid the signed statement across the desk. “As you know, we’ve completed the LB5 incident investigation. We just want to clean up this anomaly, keep the record straight.”

Poppy shook his head; this couldn’t be what they came here for. “You want to keep the record straight. That’s fine. So why do you want me to change my report?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Martin, you didn’t hear Lewis fire his weapon.”

Poppy struggled to keep the heat out of his voice. “What are you talking about?”
Calm yourself, hon
, he could hear his wife saying.
Remember your blood pressure
.

Adam’s face was as placid as a lake at sunset. “It didn’t happen. We’d like you to remove the reference to avoid any embarrassment for you in the matter.”

Poppy looked around the building manager’s cramped office, trying to ignore the thunder in his chest. Maybe this kid just needed some clarification. He took a breath and started in again.

“Look, I heard what I heard,” he said as calmly as he could muster. “It was right after I lost the manager at LB5 on the walkie-talkie. Before I fired my own weapon, I heard the shot as plain as on the range, then I looked across the roof and saw Lewis pointing his rifle toward the ground. It was obvious he’d discharged it.”

The young man’s face didn’t produce a ripple. “You were mistaken. Your partner never touched his trigger. We’ve confirmed that in three separate interviews.”

“You mean with Lewis?” Poppy asked.

Adam nodded.

So at least
they
had talked to Lewis. Poppy wanted to ask about his partner, but kept his mind on track. This had to be a mistake. He hesitated, visualizing Lewis in the roof shack in the dark of that evening, his eyes round with fear. But this left him no choice: he’d have to mention it.

“You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but Lewis was pretty scared that night—we all were,” Poppy said. “Maybe he’s just confused. His weapon will tell you I’m right.”

Adam shook his head. “We’ve checked that, of course. It confirms what I’m telling you.”

Poppy looked over at Dave, still studying the desk surface.

“Mr. Martin, we’re not saying you’re lying,” Adam went on solicitously, adjusting his bow tie automatically with one
hand, like he was scratching an itch. “We’re just saying you’re mistaken, that’s all. After all, you’d inhaled some of that smoke; you were coughing hard. You’d just been through the incident yourself. Your ears were probably ringing.”

Smoke? To describe that hellish-looking plume? Like the word
incident
the kid had used twice now to describe the explosion. Poppy saw bureaucratic paint all over this.

He stared over the valley of Dave’s desk at the bow-tied figure, feeling his pulse pound in his temples.

“Are you telling me to lie about what I saw?”

Dave shifted uncomfortably in his chair, though the HR rep didn’t waiver. “I’m telling you the point is settled,” Adam said.

As strong as Poppy’d felt his heart pounding, now it felt like it ought to stop. He stared in disbelief at the stolid HR rep, searching for the slightest hint the man knew this was wrong. Poppy felt like he was shouting into a canyon and waiting for an echo that wouldn’t come.

“I won’t do it,” he said tightly.

Adam scrutinized Poppy for several seconds, no disappointment or anger appearing in his eyes. At last, he set the statement on the desk surface, along with a blank form.

“We’ll give you a few days to revise the statement. You can return the amended one here to Mr. Prior.”

Poppy’s anger and confusion mounted. The gun wasn’t the only thing he’d heard and seen that night. There were things he hadn’t bothered to put in the statement, not wanting to get someone in trouble for what he’d assumed were screw-ups outside his responsibility.

“If you know everything that happened that night,” Poppy muttered, “tell me why’d they shut off the lights.”

For the first time, Adam’s eyes widened a notch. “What do you mean?”

“I mean when the LB5 lights went out while I was on the roof.”

The HR rep shrugged. “Oh that. I believe they’ve concluded
that they had a short. Things got shaken up during the incident. Took everything off line for a bit.”

“Then if everything went off line, how’d they finally blow the take-cover sirens?”

Adam paused. “Separate breakers,” he responded at last. “As you know, everything’s redundant.”

“Yeah, I know,” Poppy replied. “Every building in Hanford has backups for every single circuit. So tell me again: why’d the lights go down?”

The HR rep didn’t respond.

Poppy’s voice grew hard. “You know what alpha radiation from plutonium can do when it’s inside you?”