A failure was exactly what O'Doyle felt like. Connell was a good boss, a demanding boss who gave specific orders and who expected those orders to be followed to the letter.
Only a year earlier O'Doyle had been jobless, let go after twenty years of service to his country. He'd spent the last fifteen years of that career as a hit man for the government, traveling the world to snuff out the enemies of democracy. O'Doyle excelled in jungle work and urban penetration. Often his superiors didn't expect him to return, but he always made it back. And at the end of his twenty years they retired him.
He had found himself suddenly without direction for the first time since he'd turned seventeen. Skills such as avoiding local police, jungle survival, and weapons expertise didn't translate into the civilian world. Out on his own there were no missions, no commanding officers, no orders. For the first time in twenty years, he had no one to tell him what to do, and he felt lost.
It was only three months after his “retirement” that he received a call from Connell. O'Doyle flew to Detroit, the ticket paid for courtesy of EarthCore, and interviewed for the job of chief of security.
O'Doyle had jumped on the offer, and in the subsequent months proven himself to be a tireless and reliable employee. Until now.
"You're telling me, Mr. O'Doyle, that we're missing two KoolSuits?” Connell's voice slowly rose in volume and temper, as different from his normal cold tone as summer from winter.
"Yes sir,” O'Doyle said, eyes fixed on the back wall. “We discovered it this morning as Mr. Hendricks prepared to take the first crew into the tunnels."
"Do you have any idea how much each of those suits is worth?” Connell asked, his voice creeping toward a shout.
"Yes sir, Mr. Kirkland,” O'Doyle said, snapping off the word sir with the authority of a salute. “Each suit is worth $35,230."
Connell's vocal volume continued to climb. “As if the price wasn't enough to piss me off, there's the small fact that we're on the side of a mountain in the middle of a fucking desert! I know you well enough to assume that you accounted for all the suits both when we left and when we arrived, now isn't that so?"
"Yes sir."
"As a security chief, you seem to be very good at misplacing things in the middle of a fucking desert, don't you?"
"Yes sir."
Connell's eyes blazed wide with anger. “As long as I've got you here,” he said, “why don't you tell me what you found out about the accident."
O'Doyle swallowed hard, feeling a trickle of sweat roll down his temple. He felt his boss's stare grow harsher, more intense.
"Certain restraining bolts in the separator machine's cylinder mechanism appear to have been loosened,” O'Doyle said. “With the pressure of the device and the massive RPMs it was only a matter of time before the bolts worked loose and the spinning cylinder hit the sides of the machine. When that happened it tore itself apart."
The air conditioner's hum and the slow thump of Connell's fingers drumming on the desktop—ba-da-ba-bump, ba-da-ba-bump—were the only sounds in the trailer. O'Doyle thought Connell looked like a grenade with the pin pulled, ready to explode at any second.
"Find out what the hell is going on around here,” Connell growled. “Now get out of my sight."
O'Doyle was out the door in less than two seconds. His body vibrating with fury. Failing Connell hurt.
O'Doyle fought to keep his own anger down. Someone was making him look like a fool. He knew he wasn't the smartest man that ever walked the Earth, but he was one of the most tireless and dedicated. Sooner or later he'd find the truth, he'd find the bastard responsible. When that happened, O'Doyle planned on carving Semper Fidelis into the fuckwad's chest.
Two missing KoolSuits. Two injured scientists. Sabotage. No, not just sabotage, expert sabotage, as if someone knew the equipment inside and out.
"They wouldn't…” Connell whispered. His fingers drummed the desktop once, then he picked up the phone and dialed.
"Milford Valley Memorial Hospital,” a woman answered.
"Angus Kool's room, please."
There was a pause as the woman transferred the call. The phone rang five times before someone answered.
"Hello?"
"Angus?"
"No, this is Randy."
"Randy, Connell here. Let me talk to Angus."
"He's sleeping,” Randy said.
"So wake him up."
"The doctor doesn't want him disturbed,” Randy said. “He's still feeling a lot of head pain."
"I don't care if his brains are dripping out of his ears. You wake him up right fucking now, Randy."
"Fine, hold on a second."
After a brief pause, the phone rustled as it switched hands. “Mr. Kirkland, what's up?” said a sleepy Angus.
Connell's fingers drummed the desktop, ba-da-ba-bump, ba-da-ba-bump. “How are you doing?"
"I was sleeping, that's how I was doing,” Angus said. “What do you need?"
Ba-da-ba-bump, ba-da-ba-bump.
"Just wanted to check up on you guys."
"Well, we're not going anywhere,” Angus said.
"Fine,” Connell said. “Sorry to wake you."
Angus hung up without another word. Angus and Randy were right where they were supposed to be.
So who was responsible for all the trouble?
Chapter Eighteen
"Slow down, Jansson,” Fritz Sherwood called through the narrow tunnel. “You're descending too fast."
Brian Jansson looked up from his slightly swinging line, his light playing up the chasm and onto Sherwood's face. He dangled in a sea of black, like a yellow worm on a hook.
Jansson answered in a condescending tone. “Ya, ya, ya. I'll be sure to be careful, Mommy."
"Asshole,” Fritz murmured under his breath. He didn't want to be in this sliver of a tunnel. Rough limestone walls pressed against his body on every side. There was no turning around here; to get out you either crawled backward for thirty feet or descended into the chasm. Fritz panned his headlamp on a plastic-coated map. At Mack's orders they'd followed a tiny offshoot of the main tunnels, an offshoot that led to this chasm. According to the map, several thin tunnels branched off the chasm floor which lay 150 feet below. While too small for hauling ore, the tunnels might allow a shortcut to the Dense Mass, provided they were big enough to crawl through. If any of the tunnels showed promise, Mack would send more men for a full exploration.
"Almost to the bottom,” Jansson called up. Fritz looked down into the chasm, only his head peeking over the edge. He hoped he wouldn't have to make that descent.
"It looks okay,” Jansson called. “Very jagged, poor footing, but it looks okay."
All at once a jangle of equipment, a cry of pain, and a muffled, brittle snap echoed through the narrow, high-walled chasm. Fritz's light weakly illuminated Jansson's prone body far below.
"Jansson! You okay?"
A pause.
Jansson's voice echoed up from below. “Yeah, I'm fine if you don't count my broken leg."
"Quit fucking around, Jansson."
"I wish I was. My foot slipped on this boulder. Leg's broken. I think my arm might be dislocated, too. Can't move the fucking thing. Mack's going to kill me."
"Hold on, I'm coming down."
"Don't be an idiot! You know procedure. If you have rope problems we're both stuck here. You can't pull me up by yourself — go back and get Mack and some help."
"You're crazy,” Fritz called. “I can't leave you here."
Jansson let out a short laugh. “Oh ya, what's going to happen to me?” The laugh ended with a grunt of pain.