The C-Factor

By D.A. Ramirez

The Soviet Union of the late 1970s worried that their military superiority is in jeopardy, steals the formula for solid rocket fuel being used by the United States, but end up with a
Pandoras box capable of bringing them to their knees.

Dr. George Taylor, cancer researcher and college professor leads a team of doctors and nuclear engineers on a United Nations World Health Organization Inspection to the Ukraine State of the Soviet Union. The teams mission: evaluate the effects of nuclear power usage on power plant site workers, their families and the surrounding communities of several nuclear facilities, one of which is Chernobyl. During the course of the inspections Dr. Taylor is unwittingly drawn into a dangerous mystery which began years earlier in Greenland. The truth of this secret if released could place the entire Soviet social and political system at risk. George will find his loyalties challenged between the goals of the United Nations mission and those of his secret involvement with the Presidents National Security Agency. The height of the cold war is the setting for this mystery, adventure and love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469177342

D.A. Ramirez

D A Ramirez, is retired and lives in Northern California with his wife and two irreverent cats. During his careers in staff management he has written numerous procedural manuscripts.. He has enjoyed a lifelong interest in the history and political intrigue of the ‘Cold War’ era.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by D.A. Ramirez.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012903870

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-7733-5

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-7732-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-7734-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

Part X

for

Karen,

my Maria

Preface

George Taylor felt pain that was beyond imagination. The stench was strong, and the chilling dampness was everywhere. He almost welcomed death. But an innate force within told him to hold on. He had to give them time; he had to get the documents to Steffon. With a controlled effort, he moved his right arm and looked at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch—eleven o’clock. The last time he looked, it had been nine or nine-thirty. He only had enough painkillers to maintain consciousness for another five hours. He found himself thinking of his home: warm, dry, and secure. His life there seemed an eternity ago. Why had he agreed to help Steffon? Another surge of pain killed all thought; he was back to the reality of the present.

George shivered from the cold. He was half sitting and partially reclining on a canvas cot, propped up against the cold brick-and-mortar wall within the eight by-eight-foot room, which now housed him. His six-foot 180-pound body was not what this particular space had been designed for—not really a room, more of a closet that had been concealed and shut off from a much larger room within an unoccupied storage building.

The building was located in one of the oldest parts of Moscow facing a parade-staging area near Red Square. Situated on the Ultsa Petrovski, it was no more than a minute’s walk from the Budapest Hotel. The area became a tourist favorite during the day, but at this hour, it belonged to the forgotten horde of homeless men and aging prostitutes.

George had been briefed about the hidden room as an emergency extraction point, accessed from behind a row of garbage dumpsters in the back alley. It was one of two possible pickup locations. This site, unfortunately, had the distinction of being described as the last-resort pickup. The room consisted of four walls, without windows, and was completely void of any interior lighting. Several bricks in the wall facing the alley were actually not bricks at all. They were glass blocks that allowed George to peer out into the alley. This one-way viewing porthole was also the only source of light entering the room. The design of this hidden room had been clever, but did nothing to improve the accommodations of the occupant.

George wasn’t alone in the room. As it turned out, a somewhat large and menacing cat was inside when he arrived. The cat refused to vacate; and George, in his present physical condition, decided to conserve his energy and let the cat stay. The cat settled in one corner of the room, squatting, ever ready to pounce while maintaining its piercing stare.

George imagined the cat had questions for him. Who are you? What would bring you to this poor excuse of a cat box? And when are you getting out of here so I can have my space back? George grinned at the idea of explaining to a cat why and how he found himself in this hole.

Yet quietly talking to the cat, George realized he was doing just that—explaining his presence. He decided the cat’s name was Jake; he had no intention of making this cat a part of his life, but George was now directly addressing the cat.

Jake, he said, just be cool. This is just a short stopover for me. You keep your space, and I’ll keep mine.

George certainly hoped he was right. Remembering who he was and what he had become involved in only reinforced the fact that this was not what he had signed on for.

^ ^ ^

Part I

1

George Taylor, medical researcher turned college professor and now a hunted fugitive, only wanted to be back in his safe and secure classroom. His life in academia was a far distance from this stinking cesspool, freezing his ass off and racked by excruciating pain from a bullet wound and several cracked ribs.

The alley must have been the only toilet in Moscow. A constant procession of homeless old men provided a never-ending stream of urine projected on the brick walls. Whoever planned for this hiding place most likely knew this aided in its disguise.

It’s strange how smells have a way of resurrecting forgotten memories. George was eight years old the last time he was in the Soviet Union. That summer, sanitation workers went on strike, and the garbage hadn’t been collected for several weeks. To George, the rotting garbage smelled the same as the sewers during a Russian winter. Those thoughts took George back to his roots.

He was the only son of a career diplomatic employee. His father, Walter Taylor, had been assigned as a communications officer for economic affairs at the U.S. embassy in Moscow. George, his younger sister, and his mother spent what seemed to be the bulk of the three years they resided in Moscow confined to the embassy grounds, seldom venturing out to explore the countryside or the cultural attractions.

The cold climate there had a serious effect on his father’s health; and after several formal requests for reassignment to a warmer, dryer location, Walter Taylor finally got his transfer, and the family promptly relocated. Reassigned to Panama, Walter Taylor remained there with his family for the balance of his diplomatic career. His father often spoke of a desire to retire in Panama and even purchased a small villa in the countryside with retirement in mind.

Panama was a young man’s dream for George. His parents insisted that their children be a part of the local community and quickly enrolled them in local schools. George, in time, became fluent in Russian, Spanish, and English. There was a fourth secret language, one he preferred during his teen years—the language of the beach. Mastering beach volleyball and wind surfing, he had a steady stream of followers and girlfriends.

Embassy living had its benefits as well: lots of travel experiences throughout Central and South America, access to private resorts and beaches, and use of the training facilities the security troops and embassy drivers used. George learned high-speed defensive driving skills, took hand-to-hand combat courses, and when he really wanted to have some fun at the camp was afforded open use of the firing range. He qualified with the same or better accuracy level as the Marines, using a variety of semiautomatic and fully automatic small arms.

At the completion of his high school years, George graduated at the top of his class, earning a full scholarship to Stanford University in California. Leaving home for the first time to live the United States, a place he knew only from family vacations, was a tough adjustment. During every school break, he would head back home to spend time with his family. George excelled in the university environment, and during his junior year, made the decision to pursue a career in medicine. That decision would commit him to another seven years of advanced education and a residency at the Walter Reed Medical Center.

George discovered early on in his career that he possessed an amazing intuitive skill for finding the right combination of medicines and treatment regimens for his cancer patients. At Walter Reed, he immersed himself in cancer treatment and research and became hooked on the fast pace of activity there. With his dedication to making a difference in medicine, George found this school the perfect place from which to launch his career.

With an unquenchable desire to learn everything possible about treating cancer, George continued his medical education at several prestigious medical centers on the East Coast and in Great Britain. The ultimate prize for George was an educational grant from the National Center for Cancer Research that would culminate in his completing the requirements to earn his PhD in research medicine.

George spent the next five years in the labs of several major medical centers in Maryland and Chicago. George so committed himself to his work that he rarely had an opportunity to visit his parents and younger sister still in Panama. This turned out to be the greatest regret of his life; George would receive word that his father, mother, and sister had been killed. They were the victims of a midair collision of two small airplanes making a landing approach while on vacation in Brazil.

In stunned disbelief, George returned to Panama to settle his family’s personal affairs. It was during George’s final meeting with the embassy officials in Panama that he was introduced to Steffon Smith. Steffon, like George’s father, was part of the U.S. Foreign Service.

Primarily working on medical-related issues in conjunction with the United Nations World Health Organization, Steffon Smith held a post as assistant ambassador in Panama. Steffon approached George at the conclusion of the embassy meeting. George would later remember that he had almost passed on the meeting. Passing, in hindsight, would have made his life a lot less complicated.

Steffon expressed his condolences to George on the loss of his family and stated that he and George’s father had worked closely together for over twenty years. George thought the statement odd; he couldn’t remember ever seeing Steffon or hearing his father mention Steffon’s name. Steffon appeared to be about the same age as his father and had that same intensely committed look he remembered. Steffon was tall, physically well conditioned, but definitely didn’t have the complexion of someone who spent his days inside an office. George recalled how he was always telling his father that he needed to get out of his office and get some sun on his bones. The thought brought a smile to George’s face.

Steffon suggested that perhaps they could meet again before George returned to the States. More out of curiosity than anything else, George agreed. They made plans to meet the next day for lunch at a small café located across the street from George’s hotel.

The following day, as agreed, George met Steffon. George quickly let Steffon know that he had racked his memory with no success to recall Steffon and his father together. Steffon related that he could say the same about George. He knew Walter had a son, but they never discussed family or even shared any photos.

Steffon explained that he and Walter worked on mostly sensitive economic issues within the foreign service system and that they had agreed to keep their individual lives separate. It was best for all concerned. With that said, Steffon began what George would later describe as a recruitment interview. Steffon skillfully directed the conversation toward George’s likes and dislikes, his friends, the women he dated, and politics.

Steffon showed great interest in what George wanted to achieve with his medical research. It was this area of discussion that clearly revealed the passion within George. He spoke of his intense desire to understand the keys to cancer causation, and then use that understanding to orchestrate procedural approaches for controlling the growth of cancers. George had come to believe that a cure was not going to come from the lab, but rather from the classroom. He was convinced that a lack of creative thought existed when it came to current cancer treatments.

George believed the medical system was hung up on diagnostics and protocols. He saw a critical need to somehow get down to the level of the microscopic makeup of the disease itself, and then teach the body to outsmart it. George believed that our bodies possess the cure.

During his medical work, George had come into contact with an increasing number of patients, who for all practical purpose had willed their diseases into remission. The medical community just needed to discover, understand, and then channel that energy.

Sensing that he was losing Steffon with his medical diatribe, George decided to change the direction of the conversation. He wanted to know just who Steffon really was. This proved difficult. Despite George’s continued attempts, he found Steffon to be a closed book. He concluded that there was no way his father could have been friends with this man.

As their conversation progressed, Steffon slowly began to let his guard down. He finally gave George something that would help explain the mystery. Steffon told George that he worked undercover through the U.S. embassy system for the president’s National Security Agency. His assigned focus was related to the growing number of deadly diseases that seemed to be coming primarily from regions of Africa and South Asia. There was a critical need to understand the origins of these diseases and separate the natural from the manufactured.

Germ warfare was no longer just a topic for science-fiction stories. More and more nations and even some terrorist groups were now manufacturing biological weapons. These kinds of groups presented a direct threat to our nation. Steffon’s task was to secure information and samples, when possible, of these new weapons. The NSA then used government and university researchers, such as George, to develop defenses.

Steffon’s investigations were aimed at separating the truly naturally occurring disease strains from those that could be traced to germ warfare labs. Steffon related that he, too, was a trained physician. He had specialized in biological illnesses. Like George, some years ago, he had also made the move from the examining room to the laboratory.

The association he maintained with George’s father was as a point of contact. Walter Taylor was the best communications officer Steffon had ever known. Due to the serious nature of their work, the information and recovered samples were handled with an unparalleled level of security. Steffon saw himself as the one with his hands in the mud and Walter as the one who pulled the information into an understandable communication format. Walter made it possible for presidents and politicians to understand the threats that existed. It was then the work of government and privately contracted researchers to find the means to protect us. Steffon then presented George a handwritten note he had recently received from Walter.

George immediately recognized the distinctive scrawl of his father’s handwriting.

Steffon,

I would like you to seriously consider my son George as a resource for your investigative work. George has become quite a skilled medical specialist at Johns Hopkins. His mother and I are very proud of what he has accomplished in such a short time. His intuitive and analytical skills would be an asset to the work we handle. Please give this some thought and we can discuss it further soon.

Regards,

Walter

George stared for the longest time at his father’s handwritten note. He felt a sudden surge of pride knowing how his father felt about him and the work he had done. He folded the note back up and handed it back to Steffon.

George, Steffon said, this is not how I would have wanted us to meet. You’ve had so much to deal with from the loss of your family. I ask, as a favor, that you keep an open mind should I ever contact you for help.

George assured Steffon that his request seemed reasonable, and he would remember to keep an open mind. Their lunch ended after almost two hours with a final cup of locally grown coffee, followed by the usual give and take of who would pick up the tab for lunch. Steffon won that contest.

^ ^ ^

2

It would be nearly four years until their paths crossed again. During that time, George made a major course deviation in his career. He moved from the researcher’s lab to the role of a teaching professor. He decided to put his energy into encouraging a new crop of medical students to think outside the box. George had become convinced from his hands-on experience that each person had within them the ability to overcome a variety of cancers.

A lot had happened during those years. The settlement of his family’s estate had left George financially strong. He had written a best seller and was working on a second. His writings on self-directed healing and his demonstrated treatment practices, verified from his work, had brought him a significant measure of success and notoriety.

George was in constant demand from medical universities and medical centers on two continents, to speak and teach on his methods. The demands on his time had been a blessing in disguise. Keeping busy afforded him the distraction he needed as he struggled with the loss of his family. George remained single, dated when he could, yet found he was most comfortable with his students and fellow teachers.

George had also become quite accomplished in the field of forensic medicine. The investigative methods of cause-and-effect research he taught had led to George’s participation in several high-profile unexplained deaths. George seemed outwardly content with all he had achieved in such a short time. Yet he still had that inner urge to breakout and to tackle more challenges.

^ ^ ^

3

The winter of 1981 had arrived in Maryland, and with the holidays now a memory, George welcomed the challenges of the new year. A fresh foot of snow had fallen the night before, and George loved the smell and feel of the soft powder. He brushed the snow off his mailbox and closed the newly painted gate to the front walkway of his townhouse. The fact that he lived so close to the campus added to his enjoyment of the recent snow. Around him, he could see his many neighbors shoveling driveways or clearing the snow and ice from their cars, preparing to make their driving commutes. For George, snow was something to be enjoyed, not to be driven on and cursed. One had to expect traffic and accident delays when the first snows arrived.

New snow brought with it the memories of snow fights in Moscow and rolling in the snow with his parents, the only strong positive recollections George now retained of a place so far and so long ago. George quietly turned thirty-five that year, and with no family to share the event, he just treated himself to a banana split. Banana splits, a favorite since Panama, sparked thoughts of treasured walks in the warm sun from their home on Embassy Row, to the small ice cream shop owned and operated by a retired American sailor.

The loss of his family was always with him. The thought of things he should to have said to them, the many experiences he failed to share with them while they were alive, made his memories all the more conflicted. George promised himself that when he finally found the right woman and settled down to build a new family, he would remember to do a better job than his father had of balancing his time between family and work. George knew he was not practicing what he was preaching. He did not have a family, and with the amount of time he devoted to his teaching and research there, he was making it very difficult for him to find the woman and get that family started.

George was on his way to meet up with his current female interest and perhaps best prospect for that future, Karen Archer. Karen was an amazing woman. She was one of his current students at Johns Hopkins University. Definitely not your typical medical student, Karen was thirty years wise, recently widowed with no children. As a registered nurse, she worked with wounded soldiers still suffering from injures they received during their tours of duty in Vietnam. The public had been quick to forget that conflict, but now more than five years since its end, those soldiers were still fighting to recover. Karen felt a strong connection with them.

Karen was a very attractive woman, 5’6", properly proportioned with piercing grey eyes and light brown hair. She was committed to keeping herself fit and healthy. George had become accustomed to the attention they received when they were seen walking the campus. Were they looks of envy or of amazement that such a beautiful woman was in the company of the scruffy-looking professor with absolutely no fashion sense?

Karen was not looking for a relationship. The recent loss of her husband of eight years was still too fresh. As a highly trained marine medic, he had been assigned to the recovery team that was part of the unsuccessful attempt to free American hostages being held in Iran. Tragically, he was one of the many soldiers who died that night when their helicopter crashed. After a tough year of grieving, Karen realized that getting back to work was what she needed. She accepted a position at the Veterans Hospital in Maryland and began to rebuild her life.

Encouraged by her coworkers, Karen enrolled in a few courses being offered at the university. Karen approached George after class one afternoon, following his lecture on the human body’s ability to heal itself. She shared with George her own experiences working with wounded soldiers. She told him of witnessing positive changes that could not be explained by medical procedures and drugs. She was excited to increase not only her traditional medical skills, but her understanding of the methods George taught.

She confessed being totally consumed in reading his first book and wanted to know if more printed material was available on the subject. Karen was also intrigued by this thinking outside the box concept. In Karen, George found the response he had hoped to illicit from his students. George did a pretty good job of sorting out the genuine inquiries from those that were clearly just an attempt to kiss up to the professor. The sincerity of Karen’s thirst for information and her shared work experiences impressed George in a way that pushed him toward keeping their conversations alive.

George felt drawn to Karen but was careful to maintain the proper student-teacher relationship. He hoped that when that status changed at the end of the semester, they would continue their friendship. The next set of classes Karen needed would move her on to other medical subjects not provided through his department. For now, George would be content with their casual meetings on campus.

Over several months, their talks slowly moved beyond medical issues and research breakthroughs to a place where they began to feel comfortable in talking about their personal lives and families.

^ ^ ^

4

Today’s meeting with Karen would be unusual since they had agreed to meet off campus near the Veterans Hospital where Karen worked. The topic of the day concerned the latest news regarding an immune-deficiency illness that was killing thousands in Africa. There were now cases in California where similar symptoms were being reported. Sitting and drinking their favorite coffee, they discussed their concern that more was not being done to deal with the situation. Several African nations had recently appealed for help to the United Nations General Assembly only to be brushed aside. This medical mystery was still viewed as regionally confined and was not being seen as a global threat. George shared with Karen his disappointment that our own UN ambassador seemed unconcerned with the situation.

Karen was making a point about her concerns when George was suddenly distracted by a man entering the coffee shop. The man had the look of an aging GQ model. A flash of recognition hit George. No, that can’t be, what’s he doing here of all places? A few moments later, George stood up and grinned with surprise as Steffon Smith walked toward them and extended his hand in greeting.

I don’t believe it, what’s it been, four or five years since Panama? What a small world, George exclaimed as he stood up and shook Steffon’s hand.

Quick introductions followed, and George asked Steffon to join them.

Karen glanced down at her wristwatch and said, I’m sorry, but I need to get going, or I’ll be late. But please, you two stay and catch up. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. See you soon, Professor, and Karen was off.

Professor now is it? Did the lab finally get to you? And for the record, it’s been four years, Steffon said as he sat down and gestured for George to do the same.

As George and Steffon settled back down, George replied, Yes, on all counts. How the hell are you?

The next half hour was spent in conversation and one-upsmanship. George, remembering what he and Karen had just been discussing, shifted the conversation hoping he might get more information from Steffon.

This disease in Africa, is it natural, or was it manufactured? You’re the man who would know. George could see the color drain from Steffon’s face.

He took a deep breath and answered, Can’t say, so far, no one has asked me to look into it.

After a long pause, George found himself searching Steffon’s face, trying to read what was hidden there.

When Steffon spoke again, it was in a somewhat hushed but very deliberate voice. George, when we last met, I asked you to consider working with me at some point. Well, this could be that point. Steffon went on to explain that he needed help on a matter in Greenland. It was only a temporary assignment, several weeks at best.

George appreciated the offer and let Steffon know that he had just too much going on at the university. He had started his second book, on the power of touch, and was hoping to get the first draft finished in the next few weeks.

George, you’re full of shit. I don’t know what made you leave the lab, but you haven’t done anything substantial since. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you. Writing books and traveling the world trying to sell copies is not using the real George Taylor to his full potential, countered Steffon.

Look, I’m a university professor, not some kind of government spook, George said.

For the record, I’m not a spook. I may move in some secret circles, but at heart, I’m just like you, a doctor looking for solutions, replied Steffon, trying not to be overheard by the couple at the next table. Please hear me out. I really need a second set of hands and eyes on this one. It might have some real potential with the cancer work you’ve been writing about. Just listen to what I have to say then decide if you can help. Look, can we go somewhere more private with some room to spread out?

Steffon got up, grabbed the check, and headed toward the cashier. When Steffon returned, George suggested that they go back to the university and use his private office.

It’s quicker to walk there from here with all this snow today, stated George. And with that, they headed toward his office.

^ ^ ^

5

George unlocked his office and ushered Steffon inside. Steffon locked the door behind them. George’s office was on the third floor of the newest lecture hall. He had managed to secure a private office, somewhat difficult to do at the overcrowded school. The office was sparsely decorated, which George preferred. A purely functional no-nonsense environment worked best for him. George was known on campus for being a bit old fashioned. With his bowties and sweater vests, he could’ve been mistaken for TV’s Mr. Rogers. His hair was always a bit shaggy from allowing more time between cuts than he should have.

George enjoyed the abundance of natural light streaming in from the oversized windows. The walls were covered with book cases but held few books. Instead, the cases were abundantly stocked with VHS tapes and 8 mm films. George preferred those methods for saving his past and ongoing research data.

There were two VCR players, a nineteen-inch portable TV, a fax machine, and the latest phone with remote message recording. In one corner, gathering dust, were his video camera and tripod. He had stopped using them after the Surgery Department purchased a more advanced system for recording cadaver autopsies. A Mr. Coffee four-cup coffeemaker and a toaster oven completed the office.

Steffon moved to a worn, overstuffed chair opposite one of the large windows, removed his London Fog coat, and placed a small envelope on the table next to the phone.

Nice work space, George, a little too sparse for my liking, Steffon commented.

We can use the conference table to spread out if you prefer, offered George, pointing to the shabby folding table behind where Steffon was standing.

When Steffon and George were settled at the table, Steffon began, George, you have to understand that what I’m going to share with you is extremely sensitive and can never be discussed with anyone without the express permission of the president of the United States. If this information ever gets out, it will cause a major international crisis.

George, his curiosity aroused, gave Steffon his complete attention. Steffon began to describe in great detail the known facts of the situation and specifically why he needed George’s expertise.

"On January 14, just ten days ago, a Russian Badger-B bomber flying solo left its base in the upper Ukraine. It carried a crew of eight. It was scheduled to make a training bombing run to simulate a first-strike attack against the U.S. It was destined for the Beaufort Sea area above Greenland. On board, the bomber carried two nuclear weapons. Both were disarmed, per their nuclear operational safeguards during training exercises, and no arming codes were provided to the pilots. This information is only known because all the bomber’s flight logs, data, and voice recordings were recovered when the bomber crash landed in Greenland.

"Our intelligence tells us the Russians believe that when the plane disappeared after sending a distress call, it went down somewhere in the Arctic Ocean. Just last week, the bomber was found lying under a foot of snow and ice in Greenland, near the area known as Peary Land. The plane sustained almost no damage. We assume someone was at the controls when it came down, noise can be heard in the flight cabin but no voices. Best guess is that it missed its rendezvous with a refueling aircraft, and when the plane ran out of fuel, it managed to make a soft landing on the snow and ice. All eight crewmembers are still on the plane. The crew can be seen through the bomber’s windows.

"Six crewmembers can be seen in the forward cabins, frozen in place. The other two are lying in the rear portion of the plane behind the bomb bay compartments.

"First reports from the scene indicate no evidence of trauma to the bodies. However, they all show signs of massive decomposition in varying degrees. This is very strange because the plane landed in an area that has been consistently in subzero temperatures and body decay would not be expected to occur this soon. The worst decomposition can be seen on the crewmembers in the rear of the plane. It looks as if most of the crew moved forward and barred the passage way behind them, as if to keep something or someone out.

"We’ve recovered the internal communication tapes from the forward access panel of the nose cone. They’ve been screened and translated. Something was going on in that plane for several hours, then total silence. The plane’s data recorders indicate that about one and a half hours elapsed after the voice recorders went silent and the bomber went down.

"We assume that the plane continued in a northwesterly direction, slowly losing altitude, and when its fuel ran out, made a gear up landing on the snow and ice. The nuclear weapons are still on board. Although we haven’t moved them, they appear damaged.

No impact damage was noted to the bomb bay area, yet the bomb casings are breaking open. We haven’t broadcast any recovery or salvage report to any government or media source. At this time, we don’t want anyone to know what’s happened, especially that we have two Soviet nukes in our possession. On the surface, this would look like a strictly military matter, if it weren’t for the mystery as to what killed the crew. No one has been authorized to enter the plane at this point, and for sure, we don’t want to mess with the nukes.

Steffon continued to explain how he had been called directly by the president to return to Washington from an assignment in South America. Steffon told of his meeting with the president and his instructions to quickly put a team together and get up there to investigate and report back.

If some kind of chemical agent is responsible, the area will need to be sanitized to protect our people. The military wants those nukes. They would be a gold mine of information on the Soviet’s nuclear weapons program. But they can’t be touched until we know it’s safe to be near them, emphasized Steffon.

"The crash site was discovered by two native trappers. They promptly contacted the Arctic Coast Guard. From the time the coast guard received the call to the time the guard arrived at the site, two hours and forty-five minutes had elapsed.

The trappers reported that when they discovered the bomber, they looked the plane over from the outside, and after searching unsuccessfully to find an easy way in, they just waited for the coast guard to arrive. Once the NSA was notified about what had been found, a decision was made to keep this situation under very tight security. The trappers have been placed in quarantine. They were told they may have been exposed to a dangerous toxin from the aircraft. We couldn’t take any chances that they might begin telling others what they found. They’re currently being held at a military hospital in Prudhoe, Alaska.

Steffon told George of the president’s assurance that the area had been secured and nothing had been removed from the plane including the dead crewmembers.

"The deadlines I’m working under are these, have my team in place with boots on the ground within forty-eight hours. We need to conclude our investigation and get out before anyone knows we’ve been there.

George, I’m here because my main response team was exposed to a chemical agent seized from a rebel group in Columbia two days ago. The team’s in quarantine and will remain there until at least this time next week. George, I need your expertise with the autopsies involving decomposition factors. I can provide you with whatever excuse you need to explain your absence from the university. A complete mobile research center has been dispatched to the crash site. It will be operational by tomorrow morning.

George stared into the bright sunlight and didn’t speak for a few minutes. It seemed like an eternity to Steffon.

Is this the kind of thing my father was involved in during those sudden and unexplained diplomatic trips? asked George.

Yes, it’s what we did, and your dad was one of the best. I wish he was here now, answered Steffon.

George had been furiously scribbling notes during Steffon’s briefing and was now ready for some key information he knew would be needed once the investigation got underway. From the questions flying fast and furious toward Steffon, it was very clear that George was fully on board. There was no need for a formal yes from George. He understood the seriousness of the situation and that time was of the essence. George made some additional equipment requests of Steffon and suggested the area be sealed off for a twenty-mile radius.

I just need to contact my housekeeper to let her know not to expect me for several weeks. And I want to call Karen. Damn! When I do that, I become my Dad. Lying to someone I care about. OK, let’s make this happen, George was thinking out loud, talking more to himself than to Steffon.

Steffon handed George the small envelope containing the travel documents he would need. Steffon headed for the door.

I’ll meet you at your house. Don’t need the address, I was there earlier today. And with that, Steffon was gone.

^ ^ ^

6

George made the five-minute walk back to his townhouse; his mind running at full throttle, piecing together a checklist of the key indicators he expected would come into play once he got to the crash site. Steffon didn’t have such a short trip to George’s place. Two road closures due to vehicle accidents from the ice and George’s street blocked by a student demonstration in progress. Protesters in the middle of winter, the university administration must have raised course fees again.

Steffon finally just parked where he could and walked the final half block. When he arrived, George had made his phone calls, packed a few warm clothes, and prepared his autopsy instruments’ case.

"Let’s move it out, I just made a date with a gorgeous lady for two weeks from now, and