"I'll be sure to call the Guinness people in the morning,” Connell said.
"Now, you'll see the normal spikes for a very bland mineral content in this overall chart, but notice these three spikes here.” Angus pointed to the three highest peaks, one that towered above the rest of the small points and dips, and another that reared almost as high. Connell noted a slew of peaks, under which he read compound names like KFe3(SO4)2(OH)6 and CUs(AsO4)(OH). The only compound he recognized, CaCO3—limestone — sat under the biggest peak. The second-highest peak read only Pt, and the third read Pt60Ir12(?).
"The whole mountain is basically Cretaceous-period limestone and limestone compounds. The second spike is a control sample of pure platinum, highly refined. This third spike—” Angus paused, smiled, and looked directly at Connell “—this third spike is a flake of what we found at 16,340 feet, the absolute bottom range of the drill sample."
Connell leaned in toward the screen, comparing the numbers on the second and third spikes. They looked nearly identical. “Mr. Kool,” Connell said, managing to keep his voice and face neutral despite his smoldering excitement. “Are you telling me that your core sample came back with almost solid platinum?"
"Platinum-iridium."
"And where does this match up with your data on the Dense Mass inside the mountain?"
Angus turned to the keyboard and brought up the now-familiar schematic of the green solid mass and surrounding yellow tunnels. A dozen vertical red lines appeared surrounding the green mass. “We ran drilling and bulk sampling where you see all of the red lines. Eleven of the samples turned up nothing but worthless rock. Not a trace of platinum. Only one drill sample gave us the results I just showed you."
He tapped the mouse and another red line appeared, glowing bright orange where it intersected with the green mass. “Our baby is everything we thought it would be and then some,” he said quietly, staring at the screen. “It's solid platinum. Solid as a fucking rock. I'm convinced the entire Dense Mass is of the same composition as our drill sample. It's a four-mile long, half-mile wide chunk of solid platinum."
Angus leaned back in his chair, his happy smile gone, the more familiar arrogant grin again at home on his face. “Sometimes,” he said through the smile, “I amaze even myself."
"What's with the question mark?” Connell asked, pointing to the Pt60Ir12(?) symbol on the screen.
"Nothing to worry about,” Angus said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The platinum/iridium compound appears to be something uncalibrated on the SIMS."
"English, please,” Connell said.
"Secondary Ion Mass Spectrometry. We bombard the target material with positively charged ions. The bombardment transfers that positive charge to the target material, which in this case is the material brought up by the core sample. That positive charge causes an atom to break free, causing fragmentation. Because fragmentation patterns are distinct and reproducible, we can precisely identify the trace elements of any solid material."
"If it's so precise, then why the question mark?"
"Because the platinum/iridium alloy is something nobody has ever seen before. In effect, the computer is taking an educated guess. The ion bombardment produces platinum and iridium atoms, and it's guessing at how those elements combine to form the compound. It's just an unusual compound, that's all."
"You're sure it's platinum, though, correct?” Connell was glad he'd made the trip out, elated that he was here as everything unfolded. “You're sure it's platinum?"
"As sure as I'm a flat-out genius,” Angus said.
Connell's eyes remained fixed on the screen. Platinum never occurred naturally in a large solid mass, and yet there it was. A find so big, so massive, that EarthCore could dictate supply for at least the next thirty years, if not the entire twenty-first century. Billions of dollars. Trillions of dollars.
"Mr. Kool, I want two more drill samples at areas that will intersect your Dense Mass projections."
"No can do,” Angus said. “Our drill bit was destroyed when we tried to core deeper into the Dense Mass."
"I thought that diamond bit could slice through anything."
"It can, but this platinum-iridium alloy is really hard, perhaps almost as hard as the diamond itself. We got a decent-sized sample, but the compound just ground the diamond bit down to nothing. There may be some serious commercial applications for this compound. It's very unusual. I wouldn't worry about it; we've gotten plenty of data and the shaft is already under way."
A multimillion-dollar piece of equipment destroyed, and Angus didn't bat an eye. It didn't surprise Connell in the least. But if Angus was satisfied that the Dense Mass was platinum, Connell also found it hard to care about the destroyed core sampler.
Connell walked into the administration shed and wearily shut the door behind him. Even his short time in the heat had drained his body. He needed a drink and a nap. He went to the desk that would be his home for at least the next two weeks. He pulled a framed picture from his briefcase.
He held the picture of his wife in his hands, staring down at her smiling face, feeling the familiar hurt worm its way through his insides. He set the picture on his desk so Cori's image could see everything he did.
From his duffel bag, he pulled out the blocky cellular phone provided by Kayla Meyers. It was black and heavy, with deep scratches on the side from a filed-down serial number. Kayla “acquired” this little toy as surplus from the American Embassy in Saudi Arabia, or so she said. Connell didn't really care, as long as it was secure.
The receiver was a twin of the one that Barbara Yakely had back in Detroit. Hers was the only phone that could decipher the scrambled signal sent out by Connell's, and vice-versa. He punched the connect button; Barbara answered almost immediately. Connell talked quietly and calmly, but had no way of knowing that his boss wasn't the only person to hear the conversation.
Kayla Meyers gently tweaked the controls of the Harris JM-251 receiver, specially modified for the NSA's SIGINT needs. She'd watched Connell ever since his arrival at camp, following his every move through high-powered binoculars as she lay practically invisible in the sand. Once he'd headed for the administration shed, she knew he'd call Barbara Yakely.
The air conditioners peeking from every building in the camp made her want to laugh with contempt. She'd grown up in southern Texas; the scorching sun was an old, dear friend, and growing up dirt poor and isolated she'd had few friends.
Her father saw to that. Kayla and her two older sisters all suffered his abuse, his beatings, his touch. Mary and Shelly suffered the most, succumbing to his will, stepping and fetching whenever he walked in the room. They did anything to avoid a beating — or worse, the loving. When Kayla turned eight, or maybe nine, she couldn't remember, Cyrus Meyers came for her, too. Their tiny ranch perched in a solitary strand of barely arable farmland. No one ever heard the cries.
She could still hear his slurred words, his binge-drunk voice screaming at the top of his lungs as he lurched out of the rust-eaten Dodge longbed truck, bar smoke clinging to him like stink on road kill.
"Wake up, girls!” Cyrus would scream as his daughters cowered in terror. “Get your fingers out of the tuna bowl and come give yer daddy some biscuits ‘n gravy!” He'd stumble into the house, barely able to walk, but somehow managing to find their beds. Cyrus didn't like to hear any noise when he visited them at night. The girls would choke back cries as tears trickled down their faces onto threadbare pillowcases bought by a mother Kayla had never known.
Mary and Shelly wordlessly suffered his touch, succumbing to his perverse will. But Kayla was different. She'd always been different, preferring the boys’ roughhouse schoolyard games over dolls and tea parties. Girls were weak. The boys were tougher.