Fractured

By Rich Adams

FRACTURED is a cautionary novel of the still urgent problem of nuclear waste disposal and the errors governments and the scientific community can make, and have made, in trying to safely solve deadly situations resulting from our technological advances.

Geophysicist Mark Cabot and his lover/fiancé Maura race against an impending, but unknowable, geological deadline to prevent a nuclear meltdown that threatens future generations with a nuclear winter, spelling the end of human-kind, and perhaps all life on earth. The action ranges between Washington DC; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; Chincha Base, Peru; Cranston Labs, Snedens Landing, New York. It covers twelve days from discovery to the final climax. Mark faces death from a foreign covert group seeking nuclear power in their search for dominance over other nations. The resounding climax is a breathtaking, armed confrontation and geologic collapse in Peru, deep beneath the Andes Mountains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Second Wind
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301915194

Rich Adams

Rich Adams is a new and creative author in the world of romance and erotica. His stories are a must-read for every adult!

Book preview

PART ONE

-1-

17 JANUARY 1986

WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT? AMIL SAID.

Look at this.  The man pulled a photo from his thin leather briefcase.

This is him?  He said, studying the eight by ten glossy.

Yeah, that’s him.  Find him and kill him.

With dead eyes, Amil said, As you say.  He handed the file back. You mind telling my why?

No I don’t mind, the man said gruffly, but we have more important things to do right now. He got up.

 We’re leaving now?

Yeah.  We have to get to the island and see what has gone wrong.  I’m beginning to wonder if I chose the right side.

Amil scowled.  It’s a bit late for that kind of talk, isn’t it?

The man sighed. I guess it is.

The two men left the hotel and drove directly to Pisco’s dock area. Amil unlocked the trunk and handed the man a small blue automatic. He placed it in his belt under his coat.  Amil then slipped on a shoulder holster, adding a Beretta to it before closing the lid. They began walking toward a sleek launch tied up at the end of the long wide pier. Two men saw them coming and jumped into the boat, started the engine and began casting off lines. Amil was in the rear as they reached the boat. The other man had just stepped into the craft when Amil noticed another boat approaching the dock from the north side.  The third man in that boat caught his attention. Amil turned and ran, keeping pace with the slowing boat.  It was heading for the landing closer to shore. He found several wooden crates, stacked against some future shipping date, to hide behind.  Soon the four men were coming up the wet steps and walking quickly toward land. 

I am right, Amil thought.  The third man matches the picture.  It’s Cabot.  This is easier than I thought it would be.  Amil smiled and followed them at a distance.

You get the car, Mark said.  I’ll find a phone and meet you back here in ten minutes. 

Hal, Joe and Ray walked away through a narrow cobbled street that shone from the mist like wet snakeskin.

The area was abandoned.  Mark saw telephone lines looping toward a gray warehouse thirty yards away.  The building was dark and seemed vacant.  He headed for it. Once inside he spent several minutes finding the phone.

He had just picked up the receiver when he thought he heard a noise. Shit, he thought, some night watchma……

He saw the blue flash but didn’t hear the compressed report of the shot.  The bullet hit and spun him around. Mark dropped unconscious onto the table, and slumped to the floor.

-2-

8 JANUARY 1986

IT WAS STILL DARK.  Gradually in the silence Mara realized she had been awake for many minutes.  The heavy brocade drapes kept out the light of early morning beginning to filter through the garua, the heavy Lima mist, into the streets below.  Mara remembered it was Tuesday, market day.  She supposed the first of the mountain people were arriving with their heavy baskets of vegetables and parcels of handicrafts.  The knowledge made her feel even more delicious and secure in the stillness and embrace of the warm duvet.

She heard the steady breathing next to her and gently moved her hand down Mark’s back and under his stomach.  As she did, the warm musky fragrance of her perfume and last night’s loving rose from the bed.  Her fingers probed down the ridge of his hip and he shifted position, sliding his knee upward until it touched her naked thigh. 

Her hand moved on, searching.  She found him erect, and curled her fingers around the satin smoothness. 

Hello there, Mark said softly, reaching for her in the darkness.  I’ve always told you I find it hard getting up in the morning.  What a perfect way to start the day.  His hand brushed against her breast.

Mara began a slow, rhythmic massage at his groin.  Remembering last night made the blood swell into her breasts.  Her nipples hardened under Marks caress. She turned and pressed as much of her burning flesh as she could against his strength, and kissed him hungrily.

The telephone buzzed.  Mark’s leg lay between hers and he felt the ready moistness.

The telephone buzzed again and, insistently, again. 

Dog’s blood and cholera!  Mark swore thickly and, thinking he could return, untangled himself from Mara’s arms. He lifted the covers, swung his tanned muscular body clear of the bed, and turned quickly in one smooth motion, tucking the duvet close around her.

Don’t go ‘way, he said, as if she could even conceive of doing that.  Mark walked gingerly through the darkness. At the desk, he fumbled for the lamp, flicked it on, and picked up the receiver.

Yes?

Mark, this is Charlie.  I’ve got to see you.

Charlie!  I was just thinking about you.  Mark grinned broadly at Mara, and ducked the pillow she sent screaming past his head. 

Where the hell are you, still in D.C.?

No.  I’m in Lima - we have to talk.  His voice was urgent.  Charlie sounded exhausted. 

Mark looked at his digital.  It was five o’clock. Can’t it wait at least until daylight?

  No it can’t.  Where can we meet?

Right now? Mark looked across at Mara.  She had thrown back part of the covers, knowing that her wake-up plan had failed, and lay with one arm raised behind her head exposing one firm, silky breast.  He forced himself to look away..

How about breakfast? he tried again.  They have a terrific dish of eggs and pimiento with…

  No, it has to be now, Mark.  I have a return flight at seven thirty this morning. There is something happening you have to know about.  His voice was strained.

Mark sighed.  Ok, he said finally.  Meet me in the coffee shop downstairs in thirty minutes.  Can you make that?

As he stood listening, Mara watched as the chiaroscuro of light and shadow sculpted his taught body.  She thought how surprisingly invulnerable he looked standing completely naked.

I’m at the airport now, but there’s little traffic at this hour.  I’ll be there.

Mark hung up the phone, shrugged an I’m sorry look at Mara, and headed for the shower.

Mara watched him go.  She craved his lean, hard body.  The wide shoulders and narrow hips disappeared into the bathroom and she rolled up in the soft warm duvet, trying to still her heart and find solace in sleep.

Mark shaved first.  It never took long.  He was blond and his beard grew slowly. Steady hazel eyes looked gravely back at him as he quickly scraped at the lather, being careful to get his sideburns even.  He toweled briskly after his shower and splashed on some cologne.

Charley Smythe, he thought.  Charles Eddington Smythe was Assistant Director, Bureau of Oceans, International Environmental and Scientific Affairs, a division of the Department of State.  Mark and Chase had worked together in 1969 at the Cranston Geological Laboratories.  Chase had been overseeing a series of statistical reviews on earlier discovered magnetic reversals in sedimentary cores retrieved from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean.  That was an exciting time.  The mechanics of Plate Tectonics were being discovered and new chapters in the understanding of the earth were being written. 

Those were heady days, Mark thought, for all of us.  Not only was the earth not static, which had been known from earthquakes and volcanic activity, but it breathed. 

The earth was still creating itself.

He pulled on a pair of khakis, and a dark blue cashmere pullover.  On his way out the door, he grabbed a light tan jacket and headed for the elevator and thought of Chase again.  He was a few minutes late.  Chase probably was already waiting in the coffee shop, fretting.  Mark was surprised at the tension he heard in Chase’s voice. Usually he was relaxed, sensible, and reasonable. 

He married Sandy, a sweet girl from his home town, when he was thirty-two. Although he and Chase were about the same age, Mark had always been a mentor and advisor as well as friend.

Chase was also interested in science, and eventually added a degree in Oceanic Studies to his Master’s Degree in Political Science.  Mark met him at his racquet ball club one evening. Mark’s partner had been involved in a minor traffic accident and hadn’t shown up for their match.  Chase also had been stood up.  They played several games and went for a beer afterward.  When Chase learned Mark was working on the oceanic-bed-spreading project at Cranston Labs, he became very excited.

  Mark, I’m not normally a pushy guy, but I would really like to be involved some way in that study.  Do you think there might be a spot for me? Chase asked.

I don’t know, Chase.  Let me nose around and find out.  In the meantime, send me your vitae, so I have a better idea what your total skills are.  Ok?

Ok?  Hell yes, Ok!

Within three weeks Chase began doing scut work for the lab, and ended up running the statistical section of the entire operation.  His political savvy helped him secure a wide base of personal career support, and gradually his name began to appear as co-contributor on the reports emanating from Cranston. 

From then on, Chase sought Mark’s opinion and advice when he was faced with a difficult decision.  Several years after he had joined Cranston, Chase began his rise within the governmental bureaucracy.  His name had occasionally come across the desk of the Executive Director of Research and Investigation for the House Committee on Science and Astronautics.  When they had an investigative position open, Charles Smythe was the one of twenty interviewed who got the job.  Once in the government pipeline, it was a natural function of Chase’s personality and talent that he rose from committee to agency to department to bureau, each time assuming more responsibility.  Mark and he kept in touch through the years, mostly on the racquet ball court, but on occasion socially, when Chase’s wife, Sandy, invited Mark for dinner.

The last time they were together, Chase had just been offered his present job.

I think Chase is crazy for even hesitating.  It’s a wonderful opportunity for him, and for us, she had said, brushing her blond hair back from a freckled forehead.  She called her husband by her special nick-name for him Chase, which she contrived from Chas plus his middle initial E.  It started out being cute and stuck for good.

Mark had liked Sandy from the get-go.  She was one of those delightfully softig women one felt an immediate liking for.  She was a touching person who had difficulty talking with you if you were beyond her reach.

I’m a little concerned about the image I’m getting around the bureaucratic wave- makers, Chase said.  You know how many jobs I’ve had in the past two years?  Seven, and that don’t spell reliability or loyalty.  I guess the reputation of job jumper is not what I want following me around.

Relax, man, Mark said Perhaps you’re too close to it to make a rational judgment.

That’s what I told him, Sandy said, patting Chase’s arm.  Look at all the other really flighty people that flow in and out of the Washington jungle.  And I don’t mean the every-four-year ‘catharsis’ that occurs.

Yeah, Chase said.  I thought of all that.  Maybe that’s just a part of it.  I’ve never gotten the feeling that I truly knew what I was supposed to be doing before I was moved on.  I miss the long-term gratification on the job, you know?

I think I do, Mark said, and it is hard on the inner man.  But if you hadn’t performed well, you wouldn’t even have been considered for more responsibility, let alone actually getting promoted.  I think you should consider this: you were moved along so rapidly because the ‘powers that be’ saw you were more valuable elsewhere, that your skills weren’t being properly or efficiently used.  They simply used trial and error in finding your spot, rather than using their alleged brains, and the information in your file.  What the hell do human resource departments know about people-placement anyway?  Mark meant to be more than just supportive.  And, you have to remember that you’re dealing with the civil service mentality on top of it.  

Sandy, seeing that her case was in good hands, left them to go supervise her sons who were getting ready for bed by destroying the bathroom.

When she returned with three bulbous glasses and the brandy Mark had brought, Mark and Chase were sprawled on the floor in front of the fire setting up the chess board.

This time Chase had the Inca forces and Mark held the Spanish position.  Mark had brought the set back from Peru two years ago, especially for their games together. 

He had spotted them in a small rundown house in Lima.  It was tucked in behind the flower market, and once housed the workshop and showrooms of sculptor Maestro Antonio.

It had become a tangle of dubious treasures presided over by Deacon and Marie Preston, retirees from Philadelphia.

The Inca Chess pieces were fired pottery, done in the style of the early Nazca period.  Mark was first attracted by the colors, the llamas used for knights and the stepped-temple rooks.  Only then did he see the accompanying silver Spanish pieces.  He and Chase had spent many stormy evenings over the board, wrestling control back and forth between idle talk and Sandy’s kibitzing. 

On the elevator Mark thought, the man I spoke with is not the Charles Smythe I remember.

-3-

8 JANUARY 1986

THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED AND MARK STRODE ACROSS THE BLACK AND WHITE SERPENTINE MOSAIC FLOOR, PAST THE REGISTRATION DESK TOWARD THE COFFEE SHOP. As he passed the massive, tempered plate glass doors of the entrance he heard the roar of a car engine and the squeal of spinning tires.  He stopped and looked out into the misty street. There were five or six figures standing at the curb, one crouching in the street.  Mark, on impulse, pushed through the heavy doors and felt the wet garua chill his face. 

Three of the people were obviously early arrivals for the market, loaded with packs and baskets filled with produce and handcrafts.  Hearing his steps behind them they moved silently aside.  Mark saw a body curled like a fetus on the wet, dirty pavement.  It was a man dressed in a dark suit.  An Indian wearing a coarse black and gray patterned poncho and black pants, was in the process of going through the coat pockets. As Mark approached he got up from his kneeling position, empty handed, and backed away into the mist. Mark leaned over and, with his right hand, rolled the body toward himself.

Jesus, Mark swore to himself.  He was staring at the gray, pinched, unshaven face of Charlie Smythe.  Chase’s eyes fluttered open and Mark saw the light of recognition.  He reached up and grasped Mark’s jacket.

I really didn’t think they knew, he muttered.

Who knew what?  Mark answered him.

Chase whispered what sounded like Uskrudge.  Then life fled from his eyes, his body went limp, his hand dropped to the street. His closest friend was dead.

Someone behind Mark said, in Spanish, that a car had just sped from the scene and they thought he had been hit by it.  Mark knew better.  He could see the blood oozing through three bullet holes clustered near Charlie’s heart.

Madre de Dios, he said quietly.  What was Chase into? Mark got up, turned and walked swiftly back through the hotel doors.  He took no notice of the crisp modern steel and glass furniture, given a special hardness by the contrasting soft alpaca rugs.  He didn’t see the towering green plants or the quiet, small dark man watching him from a chair shielded by heavy palm fronds. 

Mark stepped to the desk, called the U. S. Embassy and then the police.  Mark then asked the night clerk for a blanket, and took it to the street where he gently covered the final memory of a long friendship. 

While he waited for the police, Mark decided he would ask Eduard Robinson, the Deputy Ambassador, to withhold his report to Washington of Chase’s murder for two days.  That would give him time to tell Sandy himself.  It was the best he could do under the circumstances.  Besides, Mark admitted to himself, feeling small and hard and cruel, she might be able to shed some light on the riddle of, what was it, Uskrudge?

The police car followed the coroner’s black van to the station complex.  Mark relaxed during the ride, letting his mind go blank.  He cleared his mind and sank into a meditative state for he did not know how long.  The car stopped, Mark checked his watch Six o’clock. Eduard came in as Mark was finishing his statement.  He had been treated with reserved respect due perhaps, he thought, to his position and connection with the Chincha Base project.  They retained his passport and travel identification.  He didn’t need the passport to leave Peru, but then he wasn’t planning to leave anyway, not without his entry card to other South American countries. At the time they were not quite as friendly to the USA as Peru was.  Over the years he had learned the hard way to be prepared for any emergency.  

Eduard was as expansive as ever. Through force of personality he tried to sweep aside the recent unpleasantness.  His handshake was strong and warm.  He had not yet had breakfast and took Mark to a quiet place on Jiron Cuzco, where they drank strong coffee, ate arroz con huevos, and talked.      There’s not much we can do except to keep pressure on the investigation.

I understand, Mark said.  The whole thing has to be linked to Washington.  I haven’t seen Chase for about three months, but the last time I saw him he wasn’t involved in any kind of cloak and dagger enterprise.

Not that he told you about, you mean.

Ok, so everyone has their secret inner life.  But you didn’t know Charlie.  He was quite open.  He’d had offers from the CIA, and feelers from the security boys.  He turned them all down.  Chase was - well, Chase was interested in the political side of science on the international scene.

And, you don’t think that has its intrigues, its power plays?

Christ, of course it does Eduard. But their game plan doesn’t include murder. They’re in your league, professional manipulators.  Mark waived his hand in the air between them, as if to erase his words. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.

I get your point. Assassination isn’t in my repertoire either. 

Can you drop me off at the hotel?

Sure.  You should have your papers back as soon as they get verification from Washington.  And, I’ll hold up my report until Thursday. Will that give you enough time?

Yeah, Mark answered, remembering then the sad duty that awaited his return.  They had permitted themselves the luxury of playing what-if, of dreaming, of second guessing.  Chase’s death was reality, a reality with which he had to deal. On the way to his hotel, Chase’s face kept Mark company.  He couldn’t shake it.  He had looked sixty years old, lying there on the mist streaked pavement.  Lack of sleep and the flight down could not account for the face he saw.  Chase must have been under extreme pressure at the department.  Extreme and continuous pressure, Mark thought.  There are things you have to know, he had said on the phone.  What things? Things that could kill?  And, why had he come in person.  Why not a courier, or coded cable to the Embassy?  Because he didn’t trust either, Mark thought, that’s easy.  Volatile information, perhaps incriminating, too sensitive to trust to any messenger.

Mara was fully dressed when he returned to their room.  A wheeled tray, with a cloth draped over the remains of her breakfast, stood beside the door.

It must have been really important, she said looking at her watch.  We were scheduled to have breakfast with Hal and Iona, remember?

I’m sorry love, Mark said, and meant it.  Chase is dead.

Mara’s face drained white and she sank into a chair. 

He was sorry to have laid it on her that way.  Mark crossed to her, sat on the arm of the chair and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

I’m alright, she said, taking his hand.  How are you?

I won’t lie to you. I’m stunned, upset, and I’m puzzled by it . . . and I have to leave.

Oh, Mark.  We have almost a week and a half left of our holiday. 

It was true.  They’d spent three glorious days sunning at Ancon and one day doing some of their favorite spots in Lima.  This time they had planned to return and visit the archaeological digs at Cahuachi in the Nazca Valley, where she had last worked.

We’ll have to postpone Cahuachi until next time, Mark said to her gently.  I’m going back on Aero Condor flight 602, if I can make it.  I have to tell Chase’s widow that’s what she is.

Yes, of course you do.  I’ll spend some time with Iona.  Perhaps I can go back to work early at Chincha Base and save time for your next trip.

Good idea.  Now, help me get packed I don’t have a lot of time.

They had just finished, and were sitting across the room from one another, staring blankly, not talking, each immersed in their personal well of sorrow.  It was a rotten end to

Reviews for Fractured

[sheiladeeth_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Rich Adams’ novel, Fractured, is filled with well-researched historical and scientific details concerning the storage of atomic waste materials—a problem that continues to grow as atomic energy becomes more prevalent. How do we keep such waste safe, not just from accident, but also from natural disaster and evil intent? Fractured presents one possible solution in complex and fascinating detail. But when disaster and evil intent combine, a novel of conflicting aims and desires, dire coincidence, and dangerous games of spy and counter-spy ensues.Chapters start with date and location, simplifying a rather complex braided timeline, as long as the reader remembers to check. Locations, many and varied, are evocatively portrayed with sometimes lyrical prose. And characters are given plenty of depth and backstory, their hangups as detailed as the scientific dangers they face. Occasional typos slow the prose, and details are sometimes weighty. But it’s an intriguing novel of what might-have-been, and a truly fascinating read.Disclosure: I was lucky enough to get a free ecopy and I’m sorry it took me so long to get around to reading this.