Charon was even more impressed by Garner’s conclusions.
“It slipped out the back door.” He looked at the chart once more and the distance between the expected source and the actual source. “I’ll be goddamned. Who would have thought to look there?” He was visibly pissed off.
Krail smiled in spite of his fatigue and cocked his head at Garner.
“He did. Just now. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“So we’ve really got two problems,” Charon continued. “First, we have to collapse the canyon wherever it’s leaking and hope the demolition does its job.”
“I can get us anything we need,” Krail said. “Enough explosives to backfill the Grand Canyon, if need be.”
“Then, with the source of the radiation cut off, we have to pick up the slick and try to contain it,” Charon continued.
“That’s where the Ulva sponge comes in,” Garner said. “We can draw the radioactive bacteria into the algae attached to the ice, then corral the ice in a safe location until we figure out what to do with it.”
“Assuming that works, then all we have to do is collect the contaminated algae,” Krail concluded.
“Yeah,” Garner muttered. “Somehow.” As long as the menace was still in the water, it had the potential to kill. Removing it from the water would be the most challenging step of all.
The discussion lasted until midnight. Charon focused on every word like a bird of prey watching a prospective meal. Satisfied with his own evaluation of the proposed plan, he retired to his cabin. There he stripped to his underwear and T-shirt, dropped his hands to the deck, lifted his feet onto the edge of his desk, and began doing inclined push-ups. He continued in this way, his arms steadily pistoning up and down at exactly twenty reps per minute until sweat beaded his forehead and his face turned an angry red.
His every thought was focused on the plan proposed by Krail and revised by Garner. It was more than audacious, it was dangerous. Even if the charges were placed meticulously, with full knowledge of the geological foundation, there were a million chances for things to go wrong. In burying this supposed “back door,” a dozen more openings might be created. If a single charge was placed wrong or haphazardly, nothing might happen, or the entire wall of the canyon could be brought down, taking B-82 with it.
That B-82 could be damaged must be a constant consideration in their plan.
That the destruction must be complete was Charon’s consideration alone.
Charon finished his push-ups and stood up. Toweling himself dry, his eyes nicked to the angry scar that curled up the inside of his thigh, terminating at the base of his penis where his testicles had once been.
His only war wound. Charon well remembered his own cautious optimism when his troops had returned from their unquestionable victory (just ask CNN) in the Persian Gulf. Though they had bombed the enemy into oblivion and ferreted out every bunker and weapons nest, Charon still had nightmares about what the victory might really have cost his men.
Nightmares about exactly what invisible biological or chemical horrors they might have brought back to the States on the soles of their dusty boots.
Even before the term “Gulf War syndrome” was bandied about, something had begun slowly killing Charon and his men, and whatever it was had likely been administered by their own military. Independent medical consultants first suspected the anthrax vaccines and insect repellents that had been dispensed by the truckload. Then they suspected the depleted uranium used to harden ordnance and armor. The culprit turned out to be the most benevolent source of alclass="underline" squalene, an extract of shark liver oil, with which U.S. Special Forces troops were inoculated to help promote blood clotting of large wounds.
By the time Charon felt the first discomfort in his loins, his wife was already pregnant with twins, their first and only children, though the horribly twisted and malformed beasts she had birthed could hardly be called children. The biological monsters lived less than a month, casting a dark pall over his marriage. Succumbing to overwhelming depression, his wife took her own life with a single shot from Charon’s service revolver. Had he known what was yet to come, Charon would have hardly believed that his personal horrors were just beginning.
The ravenous cancer that devoured his testicles came the following summer. Then came the late-night phone calls from his men, or their widows, and the unanswerable question: why had their own military done this to them?
Charon was hardly a sentimental man, but the nightmares still came.
Certainly his unblemished service career in covert operations had moved him to the top of the selection list of commanders for B-82, even if he wanted nothing more to do with the military. He had expertise in demolition, petroleum geology, and even deep-sea salvage that brought him to the top of a very short list. Besides that, the military had learned to work extra hard to buy the support or the forgiveness of its most afflicted veterans. To take the post on B-82, Charon retired from “active” duty and took on the guise of a Global crew chief — one who knew how to keep a secret, particularly where orders were concerned. Orders he liked were followed to the letter; orders he didn’t like were subject to interpretation. When the latter category began to outweigh the former, Charon found himself increasingly in the position of a mercenary, using his wits and experience to benefit whoever could pay him. Who was right or wrong never seemed to enter into his consideration anymore.
Charon had dedicated his life to the performance of duty with no fixed address.
He liked to keep it that way. He had signed onto B-82 because he had been asked and remained because it gave him leverage. He still had a mission and he had a country to protect, and it was no one’s goddamn business which country that was.
After many long seasons in charge of the floating marvel of exploration that was B-82, Charon had discovered only that he was incapable of forgiveness.
17
The warmth of the sun made the snow increasingly disagreeable beneath Victor’s boots. His komatik jerked on the end of its rope harness across the large soft spots between the patches of wind polished snow.
The slush only added to his fatigue and lessened his sporadic progress.
His stubborn support of the traditional way had never seemed more foolish. His back ached. His hands were worn raw. The thick calluses on his feet burned. And he had lost yet another tooth. It was all he could do to keep his sled, half filled with a disappointing catch, moving generally northwest toward his village. It was hardly unusual for a day or two of warmer springtime weather to make the snow melt, but these prolonged, elevated temperatures were another thing altogether. Growing up, Victor had experienced maybe two spring seasons this warm, but now they were becoming commonplace.
The sea ice usually provided the shortest distance to anywhere, but now Victor found he had to double back dozens of times and stay closer to land. Ice he had crossed only days before was now faulted and weak with great chunks calved from the shore and drifting freely on the black ocean. Even the strongest snow bridges — the perennial migratory paths of the Inuit hunters — had grown dangerously fragile. Thoughts of drowning were never far from Victor’s mind. One ill placed step and he could plunge into the icy sea — komatik, dog, and all. Janey was an adroit swimmer, when she had to be, but the sled and its paltry load of fish would sink straight to the bottom. Victor would be not far behind it as his heavy garments filled with bitter cold water and the salvation of the surrounding ice pack merely broke away under his weight. They said the sensation of drowning was a surprisingly pleasant one, but surely not as pleasant as surviving.