The radio on his escort’s hip announced that the crew was ready. Joe acknowledged the Air Force major’s repeat of the transmission and gave the final go-ahead.
He let the binoculars hang from his neck as he watched the process begin. It had actually begun long before, when the Clipper Atlantic Maiden made her circuitous final flight from the Cape to the isolated Air Force runway at Nellis. From there she had been slowly wheeled across fifteen miles of desert, over a movable steel mesh whose designed use was as a temporary airstrip liner. By the time the 747 had reached the spot of her burial two weeks before, the tomb had almost been finished, and there she sat. At night she was bathed in the glow of bright floodlights, and at all times there were no fewer than two hundred security troops guarding her. The material aboard the jet was unstable, and priceless to some nutcakes.
Word came that the Maiden was rolling. It was obvious when she reached the long, sloping ramp that had been graded to afford access to the hundred-foot-deep pit. The nose of the blue-and-white bird slowly dipped as she began her last descent. When the tail pitched forward Joe pushed the glasses back atop his head and raised the binoculars. All looked good. The Maiden was now almost completely within the tomb, and for the first time the huge mounds of the reddish clay-boron mixture that would fill the pit were visible close beyond the hole. If the unthinkable happened, and the U235 aboard the aircraft combined and melted down, the compound would help slow the reaction, but not stop it.
Something else was said on the radio. “The aircraft is in position, Captain Anderson,” the major announced.
Captain. They must’ve briefed everybody, Joe thought. It shouldn’t bother him. After all, they were just showing respect. His rank was long gone, though. He was just Joe Anderson. Mr. Anderson to some. And not even that for long.
“Good.” Joe let the binoculars drop. The strap tugged at the back of his neck, reminding him that he was already sunburned. Some half-funny thought about skin cancer ran through his mind. “Tell the foam trucks to get in there, but have them wait for the dozers to move into position.”
The officer relayed the instructions. As soon as the bulldozers were ready to start burial they would begin pumping liquid foam into the interior of the Maiden, both cargo hold and cabin. This would harden within the hour, giving added crush resistance to the big jet so that the weight of the earth soon to cover her would not deform the outer skin or structure. When that was complete the clay-boron mixture would be pushed in, filling from the bottom up. The entire process would take two days, but Joe would be done there in a few minutes.
He watched for a long minute before realizing that he couldn’t see anything of interest or importance. Even the desert around the site, which would be eternally off-limits, was naked and unappealing. It was too dry here, Joe thought.
The sun was too damn much, he decided. “Shall we, Major?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Joe wanted to laugh at that, a major calling a captain ‘sir.’ Would wonders never cease?
They walked toward the blue Air Force Humvee parked a few yards away. Blue, Joe thought, letting his mind picture a place where he would spend the time he had left.
“So tell me, sir,” Joe began, “do you do much fishing around here?”
“Two bags only, huh?” Art commented awkwardly. He didn’t know what to say. Things were changing too fast in his world.
But hell, Eddie looked good, and things were going to go good for him.
“Hey, boss, you know the routine.” The smiling agent pulled both of the small bags from the trunk and set them curbside in front of the terminal. “Check it, and you lose it. Carry-on’s the only way to fly.”
Art forced a smile. He closed the trunk lid, leaving his hand on its warm surface. The two men stood still among the diesel exhaust and noise that pervaded the upper level at Los Angeles International Airport. Buses and vans, along with private autos, darted along the white cement roadway searching for the choicest spots for unloading.
“So, it’s the academy for you?”
Eddie nodded, tight-lipped. “Can you imagine that?”
Art could. Eduardo Giuliano Toronassi was a damn good agent, a true Bureau man. Maybe not the exact type old J. Edgar would have imagined, but so what. The FBI Academy was getting a fine addition. It was just a shame that his street career had to be at an end, thanks to that one bullet. The only visible remnant was a simple Band-Aid just below and to the left of his Adam’s apple, but less obvious results were very real. The effects were slight, but enough to disqualify him from street duty. Now he would teach other young agents, using his unique insight and talents.
“You’ll do good, Ed,” Art said sincerely.
Eddie’s mouth dropped slightly. “C’mon, boss. You want me to cry or something?”
Art didn’t, and let a laugh out. At least it wasn’t forced.
Eddie saw his old boss look slightly away. “And what about you? What’s next?”
Good question. “Hmm. If only I knew.” His eyes went back to his friend. “There’s no place in the academy for an old dog like me, you can bet on that.”
Eddie smiled, knowing that Art was right, but for the wrong reasons. He wasn’t too old, but in many people’s eyes, many of the people in power, that was, Art Jefferson was too close to the edge. His personal life was a mess, and the Bureau doctors said his health wasn’t far behind. A ticker could only take so much in the form of physical and emotional abuse, as the heart attack had proven.
“I don’t know,” Art said, his words coming from distant thoughts. “It’s all so damn much right now. Lois and all the other crap. Man, I’ve been doing every damn thing that shrink says, even the weird stuff. Lying down and visualizing all sorts of things. It’s supposed to relax you, you know, but all it seems to do is clear my mind so all the bullshit can fit. All sorts of negative shit, Ed.”
“Art, listen. You gotta go easy. Take a load off. Get rid of some of the stuff that’s bothering you.”
Easier done than accepted, Art knew. “That was done for me.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked, perplexed.
“Jerry talked to me a couple days ago.” Art paused. “They want me to resign from command. Go back to field stuff. Be a street agent again.”
Eddie didn’t have to think long about it. “It sounds good. Do it.”
The smile was almost automatic. “I thought the same thing after the initial shock of it.”
“Why not? You’ll be out of the bureaucratic end of it and back where the action is…where you know the score.”
“Where the action is?” Art commented. “Like where you were when that slug found you? Unh-unh.”
“So I duck worth shit, what about it?”
Art slapped the shorter agent’s face gently. “It’s good they’re sticking you behind a desk. Even I can nail you.”