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  “The objective is to test to the point of failure,” he told them. “For the record, the material used for the container is Alpha 300-series stainless steel with a threaded lid closure equipped with the specialized HEPA filter vent. The vent allows for the controlled release of explosive gases, including hydrogen.”

  Dr. Bose had already started his countdown for the sample, but no one seemed to be paying particular attention to the test start-up times, which were imminent. Marion knew the computers monitored and documented those events more closely than any of them could. Besides, this had all become part of their daily routine.

  Daily routine or not, there was nothing humdrum about the successes they had already achieved. Their work was part of a series of experiments aimed at the construction of a fast transportable reactor.

  Power plants already in existence currently burned only three percent of the fuel they created. The other ninety-seven percent was rejected as “spent” and fit only for disposal. In the ambitious project Marion was a part of, the ultimate goal was to create a process that would achieve an efficiency burn rate of ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the fuel. Once this level was achieved, only one tenth of one percent of the plutonium and the other “ium” products would need long-term storage. At that efficiency level, most of the waste was simply the residue of the fission process, and that nuclear waste had a half-life not of ten thousand years, but only three hundred years.

  Already, the project had surpassed the fifty-percent efficiency rate—far better than anything currently available for military or commercial use.

  In short, their work would change energy production forever.

  In one offshoot of the overall project, the metallurgists in the group had identified a unique alloy of stainless steel suitable for plutonium storage. The revolutionary process required revolutionary housings to go along with it, so the find was a huge accomplishment. That success alone could lead to the development of containers for very small nuclear reactors. With this, progress in energy sources could be as rapid as anything that the electronics industry had been going through in the past two decades. In the same way that computers which had been the size of a room were now palm-size and smaller, nuclear energy production would become transportable. With reduction in nuclear waste and the corresponding decrease in the need for long-term storage, it was clear where energy technology would be heading.

  Marion had been told by Robert Eaton that they had already surpassed every expectation for this stage of the project. Now they were all in it to see how far they could push the envelope. She could imagine more than a few of them had started jotting down notes for their Nobel Prize acceptance speeches. She had a feeling Eaton may have already started rehearsing his.

  “Each sample container is packed with plutonium-bearing solid material,” Dr. Sheehan added, before reading the specifications of the material in each container.

  Marion preferred not to think too much about the specifics—and the lethal qualities—of the radioactive material she handled in this facility. They were conducting their testing in an underground facility to minimize the contamination of the geological medium, in case of any accidents. Of course, she kept telling herself, there were not going to be any accidents. Choosing this location was only a matter of convenience and security. As a team, they were following safety guidelines that were stricter than those used in any military or commercial nuclear laboratory in the country. There would be no contamination. Dr. Eugene Lee, Marion’s advisor at UC Davis, had promised her when recruiting her for this project that, at twenty-five years old, she had a better chance of getting run down by a garbage truck than dying of radiation poisoning.

  She looked up at her advisor as Dr. Lee started articulating his contribution to the testing.

  “Two containers will undergo crash analysis in a drop test to an unyielding target. Two others will undergo collision tests. The leak test is the most critical feature of the NRC requirement, so we are dedicating five containers to that testing. The pressurized environment is temperature-controlled to plus or minus one degree Fahrenheit.”

  Dr. Lee summarized what Marion already had on her clipboard as far as raw numbers. She was well-read on the Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s requirements. There were minimum standards they had to adhere to. Unfortunately, she knew that some of the standards were forty years old and pretty much obsolete. But their device would be a first. A major outcome of this research project was the creation of specifications for future manufacturers.

  Robert Eaton interrupted the scientist. “A delivery? Now?”

  They all looked at the wall-mounted monitor that the project manager was staring at. The large computer screen dedicated to facilities data indicated that the elevator was descending from ground level.

  “Are we expecting a delivery?” Lee asked.

  “Not that I know of,” their leader answered. He looked at Marion. “Did we receive any communications from the power company this morning?”

  “I’ll check,” Marion replied, pushing to her feet and moving to her station. She was surprised that the landline phone connected directly to the ground floor hadn’t sounded. The security above always gave them a heads-up before the elevator was sent down.

  “It has to be a food delivery,” Arin Bose commented from his corner. “Maybe a cake or a dozen doughnuts for a little celebration.”

  “We don’t have any delivery on the schedule for today,” Marion replied. Technically, the nine scientists weren’t sealed in this facility for the duration. Still, food and any other special requests were delivered according to a preset schedule by way of the elevator. There was to be no human contact to further minimize the risk of disruption…or contamination.

  Andrew Bonn, a physicist from Texas, broke in. “I requested some antibiotics.”

  Marion already knew the man to be a total hypochondriac. While the rest of them went through standard testing for radiation on a biweekly basis, Bonn insisted on daily testing. But that was nothing compared to the dozen or so imaginary illnesses that he’d claimed to contract since they’d arrived here.

  “I didn’t know you were sick again,” Lee said, unable to keep the skepticism out of his tone.

  Bonn snorted. Nobody in this group would survive as a politician out in the real world. Each scientist was too outspoken when it came to anything that might inconvenience them personally. They were treated like celebrities in their own university surroundings, and they brought that expectation into this situation. The Texas physicist rolled his chair back from the table and stood up. A pressurized button on the wall by each door released the lock from inside. Everyone needed to type in a sequence of numbers to get into the control room. Leaving was no problem.

  Andrew Bonn left the control room through the door to the hall where the elevators were located.

  “They subtract five thousand dollars a shot from our budget for decontamination every time that stinking elevator comes down here,” the project manager complained as the door closed behind Bonn.

  Everyone in the room had his and her own opinion on the topic and was not shy about contributing it now. Marion, however, made a point of staying out of it. These academics were a peculiar bunch, and she’d decided on day one that she wasn’t going to get involved in their little dramas and power plays.

  “I’m sorry to mention it,” Eaton said over the voices of the cackling flock. “Let’s keep on schedule.”

  As silence gradually settled over the control room, however, a strange popping sound could be heard from the outside.

  “What the hell was that?” the project leader asked.

  “I’ll check,” Dr Lee responded, getting up and pressing the automated button. As the door opened, the stunned team watched two men wearing black ski masks sweep into the control room.

  Lee went down as a bullet was fired at his head.

  Marion’s scream caught in her throat. Suddenly, everything seemed to move in slow motion. She saw the blue eyes of the assailant moving in her direction. The overhead light shone on the top of knit ski mask. She stared at the light gray maintenance coveralls and the name of the power company embroidered on the pocket.

  “Hold on a second,” Eaton snapped, starting to stand. “What do you think you’re doing here? This is a secure research facility for—”

  He never finished. The other intruder opened fire, starting with the project manager and then shooting each person around the table in turn.

  Amid the popping of the weapons, the last thing Marion heard was the high-pitched shriek that she realized had finally burst from her own throat. As she tried to back away from the table, her metal chair tipped.

  She did not see or hear or feel anything more, however. All consciousness exploded in a molten sea of light as a pair of bullets struck her in the head, sending her flying off the chair. Spinning as she fell, Marion’s body hit the floor. And when she came to rest, a crimson pool quickly spread over the beige tiles around her head.

  3

  York, Pennsylvania

  Mark Shaw killed the engine of his old Chevy pickup and sat for a moment, looking at the pink neon lettering on the sign above the Silver Diner. Even in the morning sunlight, he could see the ner in the name flickering. Those letters had been threatening to go out since he was in high school. Some things never changed.

  There was a time when the thought might have been comforting.

  Through the windows, he could see the faces of guys he’d grown up knowing. Lucille came into view with an armful of breakfast plates. As he watched, she slung the food onto the cracked Formica of one of the booths as she had been doing since the ark landed. Her husband Abel was visible through the little window in the kitchen behind the counter, looking at the chrome carousel of paper order slips. Mounted on the wall at the end of the counter, the TV was tuned in to CNN.

  With a sigh, Mark hauled himself out of the truck. The smell of bacon and onions greeted him before he even went up the three concrete steps to the diner door. He knew Lucille would have a cup of coffee on the counter for him before he sat down.

  Inside, a few of the regulars were missing, but there was no one he didn’t know. He was surprised to see old Mrs. Swartley sitting at a booth down at the end with two other retired teachers he remembered from junior high. He didn’t realize she was still living in York. The three women were wearing matching gold bowling shirts. The short, permed white hair of the trio could have been part of their uniforms. A Thursday morning league, no doubt. She smiled at him but kept talking to her companions.

  Joe Moyer and Andy Alderfer were at the counter, and Mark took his place a seat down from them. Joe and Andy had graduated from high school with him and been working for the town’s public works department ever since. The bone-colored mug appeared, steam rising from the black liquid.

  “Hi, hon,” Lucille said. “Let me guess…three eggs over easy with sausage, home fries and wheat toast, with a side of raisin toast.”

  “No, let’s try something different this morning,” Mark answered, looking up at the Specials board. “How about bacon instead of sausage?”

  “Oh, be still, my heart,” she responded dramatically.

  “Lucille thought she had a live one on the line,” Joe said to Mark with a laugh.

  “I think I saw Abel start to dance in the kitchen,” Andy added.

  “Whadya say?” the cook asked suspiciously through the window.

  “Nothin’,” Andy replied innocently. “Our boy Mark was just thinking of having some Eggs Benedictine.”

  “Eggs Benedict, you idiot,” Abel grumbled. “Jeez, we need a better class of clientele.”

  “Hey, I’m really hurt here,” Andy responded wryly. “Aren’t you hurt, Joe?”

  “Don’t drag me into this,” his friend said, sipping his coffee.

  Lucille grinned at Mark and stuck his order up on the carousel.

  “So,” Joe said, changing the subject. “Did you decide what you’re gonna do?”

  Mark stirred the coffee thoughtfully. He couldn’t get away from it. Anywhere he went, whoever he spoke to, that was what they wanted to know. He couldn’t just be.

  “Hey,” Andy said. “My cousin Brian would give his left nut for that spot on the police force.”

  “Don’t rush him,” Lucille said, planting a hip against the counter. “He just got back from Iraq. And watch your language.”

  “Sorry,” Andy said contritely. “I meant left testicle.”

  “Oh, much better.”

  “How long do you have before you have to decide?” Joe asked.

  “The chief said he can give me till the end of the month,” Mark said. If only the rest of them could be as patient.

  “Well, that’s fair,” Andy said. “Do you know which way you’re leaning?”

  Mark shook his head. He wasn’t being a hard-ass. He really didn’t know. Before his reserve unit had been deployed overseas, he would have said he would be a member of York’s finest until he retired, but now…

  York was home, but it just didn’t seem the same. Fifteen months on the ground in Baghdad and Falluja had left him feeling…what? He wasn’t sure what the right word was. Disconnected. Hollow. Restless. Some word that incorporated all of that.

  He wanted to reconnect with things here, but something didn’t feel right. Just before he’d shipped out, his father had found a job in Erie, and he and Mark’s mother had rented out their old house and moved. The garage and the little apartment above it were saved for him. That was where he was staying…for now. Pretty damn depressing for a twenty-eight-year-old.

  Mark had no siblings, and the only relative he had left in York was his grandmother, who had been in an assisted-living home for the past five years. She didn’t recognize him at all and had even become agitated when he went to visit her upon arriving home. And his relationship with Leslie had simply petered out a few months before he went to Iraq.

  Two girls from the car dealership up the road came in, drawing Joe and Andy’s attention, and Lucille went in back to help Abel put together the take-out order.

  Mark was glad to be off the hook. He glanced up at the TV on the wall. Lucille never had the sound on, but the aerial images on the screen showed a spectacular fire on what looked like an offshore oil platform. From the text scrolling across the bottom, he realized it was some kind of research facility on a converted monitoring station in the Gulf of Mexico. As he watched, a huge explosion blasted flames and debris in every direction, causing the helicopter doing the filming to shudder.

  Whoever was on that thing, he thought, was a goner.

  4

  Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility

  Connecticut

  Jennifer Sullivan moved into the room with the practiced quickness that her twenty-six years as a nurse had instilled.

  “Hey, what’s going on in here?” she said brusquely. She was barely five feet tall, brown eyes, short dark no-nonsense hair, average weight. She considered herself nondescript, plain. But people told her she had a certain presence. She was impossible to ignore. Jennifer knew it was her confidence—and her insistence on providing the best care to her patients. She focused right now on the patient thrashing in the bed. “Come on, sweetheart. What are you doing to yourself?”

  Pat Minicucci was already there, trying to hold JD down. Jennifer could see the feeding tube was detached from the abdominal port and lay on the floor.

  “I can’t hold her much longer,” the nurse’s aide said, a note of urgency in her voice. “Have you ever seen her like this?”

  “Never,” Jennifer admitted. Glancing at her watch as she stuck her head into the hallway, she called to a passing dietary aide to get the doctor. Luckily, Dr. Baer wouldn’t have left the facility yet to see to his own practice. She moved to the other side of the bed and put a hand on JD’s shoulder.

  “Did something bite her or sting her?” Jennifer asked, glancing around in the bedding for a spider.

  “I don’t know,” Pat replied breathlessly.

  “Well, did she fall? Where did you find her?”

  The patient’s brown eyes were open wide, and she was looking about the room, continuing to fight against the arms holding her. With each heave of her body, JD emitted gasps of breath from between clenched teeth.

  “I heard her as I was walking past the room. When I looked in, she’d already slid down to where the bed strap was up almost to her throat. She’d lost the tube.” Pat leaned more heavily on JD’s arms as Jennifer checked the bed for anything that might be poking into her. “As soon as I unhooked the strap, she went wild.”

  JD couldn’t have been a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she continued to put up a fight against the hold on her arms.

  “Be gentle with her,” Jennifer found herself saying. Pat was young and close to twice the weight of the patient. She was also new and didn’t know much about JD.

  “I thought she was in a coma.”

  “No, she’s an MCS patient. She’s in a minimally conscious state,” Jennifer added as clarification.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “MCS patients, like JD here, can be visibly awake or asleep. There have been times over the past few years when I’ve seen her reach for things, even hold them. I’ve noticed her follow with her eyes people moving about in the room. Sometimes there is even gesturing or verbalization that is intelligible…at least to me.” Jennifer caressed the young patient’s brow. “The important thing to remember is that she’s really fragile.”

  There was no denying it. All the old-time nurses had a soft spot in their hearts for her. JD had been here a little over five years now, and she was the easiest of the traumatic brain injury patients to take care of.

  “Slide her up the bed a little.”

  Together, the two women moved the patient enough for Jennifer to reclip the bed strap. Sitting against the edge of the bed, Jennifer leaned over JD and put her hands on either side of the young woman’s face to check the skin of her neck for any bites or scratches.