Out of breath at the top of the stairs, Michaelson paused before making his way to the ready room. The hallway towered twenty feet high, wide enough for several cars to pass through. Recalling T Program’s cramped, modular cubicles, he resented the irrelevant opulence. All of the decadence could have been spent on more scientific research.
Two secret service men stood outside the ready room door, their dress indistinguishable from the White House staffers, except for the radio wire running from collar to ear and the slight bulge from automatic weapons under their jackets. A stream of reporters entered the auditorium from down the massive hall, carrying cameras, lights, and video equipment, trailing long strands of cables behind them.
“Mr. Michaelson?” The secret service man’s voice echoed in the hallway.
He breathed deeply, still catching his breath from climbing the stairs. “Dr. Michaelson. That’s correct.”
“Have a seat inside, sir.”
Checking Michaelson’s name off a roster, the secret service agent nodded him into the ready room. He stepped inside, but saw no one else in the high-ceilinged room. He relaxed to see he was early. He needed some time to settle down.
A pitcher of ice water and several plastic cups, each silkscreened with the Presidential seal, sat on a table next to a mirror. He poured himself a cup and gulped it down. The water tasted fresh and clean, with a slice of lemon.
Michaelson turned to a full-length mirror. Although this room was air conditioned, the humidity and the walk up the four flights of stairs caused beads of perspiration on his brow. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and started to comb his hair.
The door swung open, and a secret service woman glanced over the room. She stood against the wall like a robot. Michaelson set down the water glass, waiting. Seconds later, the President himself entered.
“Hal, glad you could make it!” He flashed a smile and extended his hand.
“Mr. President.” Michaelson shook the man’s hand as the Secretary of Energy, the President’s chief of staff, and the press secretary squeezed into the ready room.
“You know Renee, of course.”
Hal nodded and shook the Energy Secretary’s hand. “Of course. How do you do, Ma’am?”
“I have a lot riding on your technology, Hal,” the President said. “The Pentagon brass can’t stop talking about your flight simulation demo. You must have pulled out all the stops.”
He recalled the vision of himself standing like a god miles above the surface of the earth, watching an aircraft dogfight. “It’s easy to impress people with impressive technology, Mr. President.”
“Well, no matter what you say, the DOE hasn’t had this much support from the military since you guys designed the neutron bomb.” He cocked an eye at Michaelson, who sat down on the ready room’s sofa. “You all right?”
“Just a little winded. Instead of the elevator, I took the stairs. A bit too quickly, I think.”
“They’re set, Mr. President.” The press secretary appeared at the door to the auditorium. “Any time you’re ready. The heads-up teleprompter will be on either side of the podium.”
The President placed a hand on Michaelson’s back. Not a small man himself, the President still looked tiny beside Michaelson’s six-and-a-half-foot frame. “I might ask you to make some comments after the initial announcement.”
“No problem, sir.” Michaelson nodded to the Secretary of Energy. “I’ve coordinated my remarks through Madam Secretary.”
“Good.” The President straightened and turned to the press secretary. “I’m ready.”
The young woman stepped through the door. Michaelson heard her voice ring out over the buzz of background noise in the auditorium. “Ladies and gentlemen — the President of the United States.”
Michaelson followed in the wake of the Energy Secretary and took his place standing behind the President. He squinted in the bright media lights and tried to recognize the reporters as the applause died down. The President got right to the point, reading from the heads-up teleprompter.
“Today, I am pleased to announce the formation of an exciting new initiative. The end of the Cold War has allowed the United States to turn away from producing nuclear weapons. Now we can peacefully embrace the future. This is a time to ensure that no country will be in a position to inflict the nightmare of a nuclear holocaust. There are few occasions in our country’s history that denote a decisive turning point in human events. Today is such a day.
“In 1945, under the secrecy of the Manhattan Project, our nation developed an unprecedented technological marvel. In three short years, in a crash project that brought together the free world’s greatest minds, our ingenuity brought about the terrible weapon that brought an end to World War II.”
Michaelson’s thoughts wandered. Why do they always say nuclear weapons were terrible — didn't they prevent another world war from starting? Why doesn't anybody remember that? But Michaelson wasn’t a political type. He didn’t have time for all that baloney.
“In 1960,” the President continued, “our scientific elite was once again called upon, launching an ambitious project to take man to the Moon and back. And today is another such day.”
Michaelson figured the reporters would consider most of the words to be mere hyperbole, but they wouldn’t understand the subtle consequences of the new project. But then, that was they’re problem.
“Today, I officially announce the formation of the International Verification Initiative — the IVI — an ambitious program to use our national labs once again to radically advance science — this time by using virtual reality technologies. The IVI will enable a representative from every country to be ‘present’ at any location that uses sensing devices: during an underground atomic test, at nuclear weapons storage sites, on-board a missile launching into space — anywhere an electronic sensor is used. These Virtual Inspectors will be the watchdogs of the world during these tense times of gradual disarmament.”
He turned and motioned Michaelson to the microphone. “I’ve appointed Dr. Hal Michaelson, whom some of you know from his work heading up our disarmament teams in the former Soviet Union, as the first director of the IVI. Hal, would you like to make some comments?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Michaelson coughed to the side, then looked down at the reporters, trying to gauge their interest. For the moment, he had their attention, and now he had the limelight. Right where he belonged.
As he prepared to tell the world, he just hoped that boob José Aragon was watching.
CHAPTER 5
Leaving his job at the Plutonium Facility at precisely 4:30 in the afternoon, as he did day after day, Duane Hopkins got in his old blue station wagon and drove home. He picked up his son Stevie from the day nurse on the way.
The routine had been unbroken for as long as he could remember. Duane had no one else to take care of Stevie, and his entire life was an endless sequence of eight hours a day plodding through his job and the rest of the time tending to the boy.
In his small two-bedroom house, Duane situated Stevie comfortably in his chair while the boy cooed and made happy nonsense sounds as his scarecrow arms waved in uncontrollable directions. His head lolled from side to side.
Stevie had spoken no intelligible words in his life, and Duane had stopped expecting to hear them long ago. But even with the severe cerebral palsy, Stevie could communicate a great deal with his emotions and expressions. Duane could tell when his son was happy, and right now the boy was glad to be home in the familiar, comfortable surroundings with his father.