The Age Atomic

PART THREE

FEARFUL ENGINES


“I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

– Quote misattributed to J. Robert Oppenheimer, on witnessing the successful Trinity nuclear test, July 16th, 1945

“It worked.”



THIRTY-NINE

The room was large and hot, that much Nimrod could tell with the black bag still on his head. He was bound hand and foot in a wheelchair. Underneath the cloth the sweat poured off him.

They’d drugged him again, just before the last transport, just enough to keep him quiet and still. It had been a plane this time; they’d put him in a wheelchair and he’d banged the base of his skull against the back as they rolled him up a ramp and into the heart of the beast.

Military, of course. It all was. Standard procedure for moving important and dangerous prisoners. He hadn’t expected such rough treatment, but clearly the influence of Atoms for Peace stretched very far indeed. And now they had made their move, taking over the Department, making the inconvenient Captain Nimrod disappear. A new regime was required to control New York, to control the Fissure, and what lay beyond.

There were people in the room; Nimrod could hear their breathing, then a couple of coughs, and some paper shuffling. There were footsteps too, which stopped and started and then stopped again with precision. Military police. Through the bag Nimrod could smell wood and paper and the familiar musty tang of hot venetian blinds and dust. They were in a government building, in a big room. Throw in the plane trip and Nimrod suspected he’d been shipped to Washington, DC. Which meant…

The black bag was pulled off sharply, and Nimrod blinked in the light. He squinted and turned his head, his eyes adjusting enough to see the white helmets of the military police around him, and beyond, shuttered windows leaking in pale daylight. Nimrod’s face was damp with sweat but he suspected the men seated in front of him were not at their most comfortable either.

His wheelchair was in the center of the room, in front of a large raised semicircle of dark wood. There were twelve men seated behind the curved expanse; they sat high, their faces in shadow, as they looked down at their prisoner.

The shadows did not hide them completely. Of the round dozen, half were military, their buttons and badges gleaming despite the gloom, a variety of peaked caps arranged on the wood before them. The others were in suits, their faces flaring in the light as they leaned forwards or backwards to whisper to their neighbors. Nimrod recognized some, guessed others. Senators Mackenzie and MacNamara; some officious oaf he’d dealt with at the DoD once or twice too often; Wagner from the FBI; Grimwood from the CIA; two others he thought he knew. The rest were doing a better job of staying in the dark. Nimrod closed his eyes and barked a laugh, and when he opened his eyes again some of the people had shifted and the whispering had stopped.

“Do you find this amusing, Captain Nimrod?”

Nimrod focused on the man directly in front of him. He recognized the voice instantly: his old foe, the Secretary of Defense. Beside him was another military man, a general by the name of Hall, Nimrod thought. The General was rotating a pen between his fingers and the half of his face that was in the light looked nervous and twitchy.

“My dear Secretary,” said Nimrod, “there is much I find amusing in this world, but let me assure you that this situation has gone beyond the comedic and into the farcical. Now, if you would be so kind as to release me, I shall go directly to the White House and have a little chat with that President of yours.”

The Secretary seemed to tick something off a piece of paper in front of him. “You’re a funny man, Nimrod.”

Nimrod smiled tightly. “I think you’ll find I have the authority to do precisely as I please, which includes dissolving this committee and, I might add, expelling each of you from your posts.”

“That authority has been rescinded,” said the Secretary, “as has your rank.”

Nimrod kept his smile tight. Atoms for Peace had done a good job. They’d even got to the President, it seemed. Nimrod wondered if their Director was watching now.

The Secretary turned a page over in the dark. General Hall twitched again. Then the Secretary spoke.

“You are a Communist spy placed here by Soviet Russia in order to subvert departmental operations and gain control of the Fissure.”

Nimrod sniffed. “Is that really the best you can do? Even McCarthy was better than that.”

“You will be taken from this committee and held until a military tribunal is convened to pass sentence. That is all.”

“I want to speak to the President.”

The Secretary made another tick. “You have no such right.”

“I want to speak to Evelyn McHale.”

At this the chairman paused and the committee began to murmur, the sound like bees trapped in a jar. It was only General Hall and the Secretary who did not join the gossip. As Nimrod watched, Hall raised a hand to rub his forehead. Even in the bad light, from his position below the committee, Nimrod could see Hall’s hand shake.

The Secretary’s silhouette nodded.

“Take him away.”

The military police on either side of Nimrod snapped to attention, and a second later Nimrod’s world went black as the bag was replaced.