The door opened again. This time it was a petite blonde.
"Dr. Havelichek?"
"Yes, Ginny."
"Dr. Waverly wants to see you in his office at once. He emphasized the 'at once.' " Waverly was Livermore's executive director.
Havelichek looked at Gilda, and both shrugged. He said, "Okay. Tell him I'm on my way."
He told Gilda they'd get together after lunch, then walked out of the simulation building toward the headquarters complex. Havelichek possessed a slender, somewhat frail-looking torso, but his trousers concealed a pair of legs that were strong as pistons. That was because his passion was cycling, and he routinely racked up 150 miles on his Peugeot ten-speed every week. Those legs now carried him swiftly across the campus.
The Livermore Laboratory was a sprawling hodgepodge of office and warehouse-type buildings that probably held the largest concentration of hard-science Ph.D.s in the world. Established in 1952 and operated joindy by the University of California and the Department of Energy, Livermore was established with one express purpose — research in and development of nuclear weapons.
Since its founding, however, the laboratory had grown and expanded to embrace a mind-numbing range of scientific and defense projects, from laser fusion to biomedical research to artificial intelligence. The computer center alone linked up four thousand personal computers and nine Cray supercomputers throughout the complex in a network called LABNET. If you went to lunch in any of the laboratory's cafeterias you'd hear conversations about plasma physics, laser isotope separation, tandem mirror fusion, kilospud spectroscopy, aerojel, and multi-megajoules rather than talk about the Rams and the Giants.
The centerpiece of Livermore, however, had became Star Wars. And Havelichek was one of its two key players. The other key player was waiting in Waverly's office when he arrived.
"Oh, hi, Garrett," said Havelichek as he entered the executive director's office. Sitting there was Garrett ("Don't call me Gary") Sharp — the inventor of the Graser. At thirty-two, Havelichek was the old man of the pair. Sharp was twenty-nine years old. The younger scientist also had a beard and was of medium build, but unlike the eagle-eyed Havelichek, Sharp wore an incredibly thick pair of trifocal glasses.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Havelichek asked Waverly.
"Yes, both of you," said the portly Waverly from behind his desk. "I know this is unexpected, but you boys are going to Washington today."
The two scientists looked a little surprised. "What for?" asked Sharp.
"Beats me," said Waverly while tossing down a candy from the bowl on his desk. "All I know is that I just got off the phone with the DOE Secretary, and he said to get the two of you to D.C. fast. Very fast."
Havelichek's curiosity was aroused. "Okay. I've got a grip packed in my office. I'll have Gilda call TWA—"
He was interrupted by the whop-whop-whop-whop of rotor blades cutting through the air. Out the window they could see a giant Sikorsky Sea King helicopter descending on the helipad near the headquarters building. On the side of the aircraft was painted u.s. navy.
"You can forget the grip!" shouted Waverly over the noise. "I was just told to put you two on that helicopter — now!"
The ringing pierced his unconscious like a cold ice pick, triggering waves of stupefying pain that were vicious in their intensity. He pulled the pillow tight around his head, but the ringing was like a persistent jackhammer, refusing to stop its pounding salvos. From the depths of an Olympian alcoholic haze, his hand reached out and pushed the phone off the bedside table, causing a crash and jingle that were too loud to bear. Enraged by the noise, he groped for the receiver, and with all the consciousness he could muster, a demand poured from his lips:' 'Who the fuck is this?"
The response was not long in coming.
"This is fucking Major General Chester McCormack! Is that you, Monaghan?"
Throughout his naval career, Cmdr. Leroy Monaghan had employed a vast array of instant hangover cures — black coffee, hot and cold showers, a shot glass of clam juice, and the like. One Filipino madam told him a drop of lighter fluid on the back of the tongue worked wonders. He tried them all with varying degrees of success, but he never remembered anything quite so efficacious as a pissed-off major general on the line. He sat up at attention and stammered, "Uh, yes, sir… sorry, sir. Didn't know it was you, sir. It's just that, well, I was off today, sir, and wasn't expecting—"
"Save it, Monaghan. You're back on duty. Get your butt cranked up and get over to the hangar, then call me back on a secure line. I'm at my office at the Cape. Get hold of Barnes and have him meet you there."
"Uh, yes, sir. But, uh, what is this all about?"
"Didn't they teach you anything about COMSEC in the Navy? Just move it, Monaghan. My secure phone had better ring within thirty minutes."
The connection was terminated.
Into the dead line Monaghan said, "Yes, fucking General, sir," and saluted. Then he collapsed back on the bed as the hangover rolled over him like a leaden ocean wave. "Uhhhhhhhh, Jeeeesuuuusss.'' The elixir of the instant cure had abruptly failed him.
The previous night a retirement party had been held for an outgoing warrant officer at the Edwards officers club — which, of course, degenerated into an interservice drinking bout between the Air Force retiree and Monaghan. After consuming beer, martinis, Singapore Slings, Boilermakers, Southern Comfort, Black Russians, Cutty Sark, White Russians, Amaretto, Irish whiskey, Courvoisier, Moet & Chandon champagne, and Wild Turkey, Monaghan had no recollection of who won the contest. Or when or how he got back to his room in the bachelor officers' quarters. The alcohol consumption the previous night had been staggering. Even for him.
But the yoke of duty called. He slipped down to the floor and pulled his address book off the bedside table. When his bloodshot brown eyes were finally able to focus, he found the number he was looking for and groggily punched it in. After two rings there was an answer.
"Hello?"
A pause.
"Davey… this is… Mad Dog."
"Oh, hi, Dog. What's happening? I thought we were off today."
To Monaghan the voice on the other end sounded youthful and full of pep. Disgusting. The hungover pilot struggled to form the words. "We were off. Just got a call. We're supposed to go to the hangar right away… Meet you there."
"Darn," said Barnes. "I was gonna work on my cycle today. But okay. I'm on my way. I'll see you there… Say, you don't sound too good. Are you okay?"
"No," mumbled Mad Dog, "I'm not," and he hung up the phone. The trip to the bathroom was painful beyond anything he could recall in recent memory. He filled the washbasin with cold water and submerged his head for some minutes before coming up for air to greet his own image in the mirror. Strands of red hair were plastered against his rough features. He might have been a hockey goalie who'd stopped too many pucks with his lace. "Leroy Monaghan, Commander, United States Navy," he muttered to himself. "Just how the fuck did you wind up in the middle of the fucking California desert with a bunch of fucking air craps?" Not waiting for an answer, he resubmerged himself before stepping into the shower.