The Wind Guardian E-Book

Frank Scozzari

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

With the help of three inside men, a group of extremists targets a nuclear power center with the intent to spread deadly radiation to the world.

This harsh reality is lost on security guards Cameron and Grace, who have temporarily deserted their posts for a romantic tryst. When they realize what's happening in the power plant, the two rally to thwart the terrorists' plans.

But has their renewed commitment to duty come too late?

Leseprobe

The Wind Guardian

Frank Scozzari

Copyright (C) 2015 Frank Scozzari

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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 the author's permission.

Prologue

The shadows of the two lovers danced awkwardly on the bedroom wall. Their images projected like giants, stretching halfway across the ceiling. On the nightstand by the bed was a clock radio blaring out the classic Rolling Stones tune, Sympathy for the Devil. And there, on the bed, beneath a woman ten years younger, lay Jack Garner. The woman, straddling above him with palms pressed against his chest, rolled her hips in rhythm with the music.

Jack turned and looked over at the clock.

The blue digital numbers read: 8:30 p.m. He smiled.

Plenty of time, he thought.

The young woman was not pleased by his distraction. She reached down with her hands, turned his head back toward hers, and stared down at him wrathfully. In a single motion, she rolled and pulled Jack on top of her, and with her arms snaking up behind his neck, she pulled him down against her bare body. Rolling again, she came back on top, straddling once more, and she kissed him deeply.

Outside the bedroom window, dusk settled over the small coastal community of San Roque. Like every other California beach town, it had the typical storefronts which lined its beach promenade, known as Front Street. The cafés, which were most active during the summer months, were idle now. Beyond the promenade were the roof-tops of many apartment complexes, and further out were the vibrant green coastal hills, soon to be singed brown by the coming summer sun.

The Coast Road, which dissected the town, approached from the south winding through small coastal hills along a creek filled with sycamore trees.

To the north the road followed the coast for two more miles to a great promontory where mountain cliffs dropped precipitously to the sea. Near the end of the promontory a huge rock jetty fingered out into the Pacific, which served as a breaker for both the beach at San Roque and for the small port of San Miguel. At land's end was a still functioning, nineteenth century lighthouse, one of the original California light stations. As it had for over one hundred and fifteen years, its perennial light flashed every six seconds sending its beam across the ocean to ships up to twelve miles out.

Beyond the promontory lay an isolated strip of rugged coastline, one of the few undeveloped pieces of property left on the central coast of California not owned by the military or State Park system. Here, twenty miles of green hills and windswept marine terraces had remained virtually unblemished since the time of the Chumash Indians. Though development had spread rampantly in the southland, especially over the past ten years, it had not yet stretched its covetous paw into this place. The P.A.P.C.—Pacific Alliance Power Company—made sure of that. They had leased the land in a tricky transaction from a cattle rancher to build a nuclear power plant, and had since gained ownership through an eminent domain suit. In doing so, the nuclear power plant served, in an ironic way, to ward off resort development along the coast. Now by virtue of federal trespassing laws meant to protect nuclear facilities, the area had become a virtual wildlife reserve. Aside from a few cattle ranchers grazing herds on the western slopes, the Plant's operational crew and security personnel were the only ones to step foot within the Protected Zone. It remained now as a sanctuary only to coyotes, seals, dolphins, and whatever other natural wildlife had always thrived there.

From a couple miles south, a pair of headlights snaked along the road, following the twisting inlets of the creek. The vehicle came around the last long bend, lined with poplar trees, turned on Front Street and turned again on Second Street before settling into the parking lot of the Sea Gypsy apartment complex. The driver stepped from the vehicle to the faint sound of music coming from the small house across the street.

Inside, the shadows of the two lovers still danced awkwardly on the bedroom wall. Jack and his young companion were deep in their love throes, indulging in the intimacies of physical love. It is why they did not hear it when the Visitor first knocked, until the knock came again.

“Did you hear that?” Jack then asked.

The young woman did not answer, but the expression on her face said that she did. Jack turned and looked over at the clock radio. The blue digital numbers now read: 8:45 p.m.

It's early, he thought. He was expecting no one. His ride wasn't due for another hour.

Again came the knock.

He reached over and lowered the volume on the radio.

“Someone's here,” he said, flatly.

He pushed the young woman off of him, dragged himself from the bed, slipped into a pair of trousers, and grabbed a light-blue shirt from the chair. As he staggered down the hallway, slipping into the shirt, the knocking became more persistent.

“Okay! Okay!”

On the porch the Visitor stood waiting, patiently, neatly dressed in a regal-blue uniform with shiny black dress shoes. His hair was meticulously slicked back and on his chest was a gold badge which glistened from the street light.

Jack flipped on the porch light and swung open the door, surprised to see a familiar face, but not the face he was expecting.

“What's up?” he asked.

He turned and glanced at the mantel clock on top of the desk in the front room. As he did so, he pulled the corner of his shirt over his shoulders. And in that same millisecond, the Visitor pulled a gun from behind his back. Its barrel came up quickly, up against Jack's chest, and before Jack's head swung back around, two shots fired out, muffled by a silencer.

Pooff! Pooff!

Jack fell back into the front room, dead before he reached the floor. Stepping forward, quickly, the Visitor advanced into the room, closed the door behind him, walked over to an end-table, and turned a lamp on. He removed the silencer from the tip of his firearm, tucked it in his back pocket, and holstered the gun. Scanning the room, he grabbed a towel from a pile of laundry on a couch and tossed it over Jack's face. Then, kneeling beside Jack's dead body, he cast a careless glance over him. The two bullets had struck just below the sternum, less than a centimeter apart. The holes were bloodless and seemed to be already closing, though blood was already streaming from Jack's back, and the Visitor could see it streaming out onto the hard-wood floor.

The Visitor searched Jack's shirt pocket and found nothing. Then he rolled him over and checked the pants pockets as well. He glanced around the room, searching everywhere; the end-table, bookshelf, cabinet and couch. Near the door was a bookcase cluttered with encyclopedias, novels, and magazines—there was nothing of interest. On the television was the usual collection of junk, a TV controller and some DVD cases. The sofa chair was likewise piled high with miscellaneous items, laundry, some magazines, and a couple pairs of jogging shoes. Finally his eyes came upon a small roll-top desk against the far wall. On top was a small, ornamental palm tree, a key-stand from which hung an assortment of trinkets and keys.

He leaped to the desk, glanced through the items, and quickly pulled from the tree stand a photo I.D. badge, to which was clipped a plastic card.

He held the card to the light. It was about the size of an ordinary credit card. Upon it was the familiar symbol of three spinning atoms along side the name: Jack Garner. Angling the card to the light revealed several metallic, anti-counterfeit strips inside. Placing it flush against the desk-lamp so that it was fully backlit, revealed a tiny rectangular chip inlaid in the bottom right corner.

The Visitor clasped the card tightly in his hand, and for a moment just stood there, holding it. He seemed content just to stay there, holding the card all night.

Then an unexpected noise drew his attention to the hallway.

A voice called; that of the young woman.

“Jack?”

With the same predatory instincts he had displayed earlier, the Visitor drew his gun, the barrel flashed up, pointing at the hallway, and he waited, quietly.

“Jack?” the voice repeated, closer now.

With his free hand, the Visitor slipped the card into his shirt pocket, gripped the pistol with both hands, and stepped slowly forward toward the hallway opening.

From the bedroom, the young woman entered the hallway, slipping into a bathrobe. She stopped midway to tie the band around her waist. Now, raising her head, she glanced up and saw a dark figure standing at the end of the hallway.

“Jack, who is it?”

The front room was dimly lit so she could not tell who it was, nor see the gun leveled at her chest.

“Jack?”

There was no answer at first. Then the pistol spoke loudly, without the benefit of the silencer.

BAM! BAM!

A bright double power-flash spit from its barrel. The woman staggered backward as if clubbed in the chest, and fell to the floor.

The Visitor advanced down the hallway, keeping aim on the woman. He could hear sound coming from the bedroom. He carefully stepped over the woman, straddling her for a second, glancing down at her dead face, then, swinging his gun barrel around, he entered the bedroom. His aim locked in the direction of the clock-radio, as if ready to shoot it. Realizing it was only a radio, he quickly swung the barrel to the other side of the room. It was clear. Then he eased back calmly, holstered the handgun, walked over to the radio, and turned it off.

At the window, he looked out for a moment. It was now completely dark outside. There were only two street lamps, a vacant lot next door, and across the street, not many lights were on at the Sea Gypsy Apartments. Except for the flashing neon that featured a gypsy woman holding a starfish, and the 'vacant' sign which blinked on and off, there were little signs of life. He looked down the street. The street was essentially barren. He drew the curtains shut.

He pulled the card from his pocket and gazed upon it once again. It looked no different than a hotel keycard, but, in truth, was quite different, he knew. It held all the information he needed. Of that he was certain.

He placed the card safely in his wallet, in a side compartment. Then he stepped out of the bedroom, over the dead woman, and returned to the front room. He clicked off the lamplight, and the porch light as well, and exited the small house, locking the door behind him.

Chapter 1

Cameron Taylor gazed quietly at the image in the broken mirror.

Only twenty-eight years old and already burnt to dust!

For him, waking up to an 8:30 p.m. alarm clock was just the start of another night's work. Stuck on the midnight shift at Mal Loma Nuclear Power Plant for the past eight months, he was still trying to adjust to his capsized schedule. Having answered a newspaper ad hiring 'Armed Responders' to protect a nuclear power plant 'from acts of terrorism and industrial sabotage,' he was initially enthused by the prospects of his new job. But the position turned out to be a boring routine of mundane security procedures and endless hours marching with a rifle on blacktop. Truth was, guarding a nuclear power plant from “acts of industrial sabotage” was simply not what it was cracked up to be, nor what he expected.

He stared into the mirror, naked except for a pair of white boxers.

Nothing had changed, he thought.

The time on the small, fold-out digital clock sitting on the shelf beneath the medicine cabinet was 9:20 p.m. Beside it, the tube of tooth paste, still with cap off, remained lying exactly as he had left it the night before. On the shelf beside that, carelessly discarded facedown was his badge.

Here I begin my upside-down world, he thought. While the 'real' world sleeps, I drape on my armor.

From the very start, his body had rejected the time change. He tried giving up caffeine, took Ambien to no avail. He had even purchased a yoga CD thinking the gentle sound of waves might help lull him to sleep. For some it came easy. For Cameron it seemed, adjusting to night work was next to impossible.

He reached in, turned on the shower, and climbed in with a million thoughts rushing through his head, none of which were any good. In less than five minutes, he stood fully clothed before the mirror with his hair slicked straight back. He donned a regal blue uniform. On the shoulder was a telling patch—the insignia of three spinning atoms in counter-orbits. Bordered across the top by the word “Nuclear,” and arched across the bottom with the words, “Security Service.”

He picked up his badge and held it to the light. He never imagined the treadmill it would eventually become.

It had all started out ambitious enough just eight months before. Cheerful at the prospects of his new job, Cameron was thrilled to have passed the initial interview. He took on the challenge of the physical agility tests like a school boy at a track meet.

The requirements included a four-hundred-meter dash in less than seventy-five seconds, a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound-sack-of-sand-drag across fifty-yards of blacktop, and a ten-foot-wall scale with a dummy rifle strapped to his shoulder, all of which he passed easily enough. Next came the security clearance and background investigation, which put some light on the enormity of the position. They wanted to know every detail of his past life, even what grammar school he attended.

They're absolutely serious about this stuff, Cameron remembered thinking.

First there was the fingerprinting—a LiveScan digital-ten-print which fed directly into the FBI's mainframe in Washington DC, and into the Department of Justice Office in Sacramento, revealing Cameron to be clean except for a few speeding violations. This was followed by an eighteen-page background questionnaire, confirmed by a polygraph test and scanned into N.O.R.A.—Non-Obvious-Relationship-Awareness, a 'next-generation' cross-referencing software capable of linking members of terrorist cells and crime groups in more than seventy-five countries. Lastly was the MMPI—the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, which was evaluated, analyzed, and followed-up via an interview with a Pre-employment Consult Psychologist.

He was an odd-looking guy, Cameron had thought, bald with glasses, the picture perfect scientific type. Cameron anticipated trouble coming when he was handed the read-out of his MMPI. The first sentence read:

You lied when taking this test to make yourself look better to your prospective employer.

“Is it true?” The Psychologist asked pointedly.

Cameron hesitated. He knew enough about the MMPI to think twice about faking it. He had researched it ahead of time. The test was said to be capable of identifying an alcoholic with ninety-seven percent accuracy and to fish-out the major symptoms of social and personal maladjustment with prophetic-like accuracy, and was the primary screening tool used by employers for candidates for high-risk public safety positions.

“Sure it's true,” he replied, staring at the computerized print-out. “I need a job.”

The psychologist nodded his head and scribbled in his notepad.

“Okay then,” the psychologist said. “Next question: If you could be anyone in the world other than yourself, who would it be?”

Cameron had to think about it for a moment. Frankly, it was a bit weird being asked this question by a psychologist. The first thing that came to his mind was how therapists are crazier than their clients. And besides, what does it have to do with employment at a nuclear power plant?

But after a little thought, he thought he'd better answer. It might have some underling value after all.

“Bugs Bunny,” he replied.

“Bugs Bunny?” the psychologist questioned, mulling it over like a scientist pondering a new mathematical equation. “That's interesting. I never had that answer before.” He scribbled sentences on to his notepad.

Cameron looked worried. He was not trying to be funny. It was an honest answer.

“And why Bugs Bunny?” the psychologist asked.

Cameron glanced at the ceiling panels, thoughtfully. “Well, I really admire the crafty little rabbit. It seems no matter how dreadful things get, how bad the situation could be, I mean, you know how deep they'd pile it on him, and he'd still find a way out looking good and unruffled.”

The psychologist gazed back with fascination and scribbled furiously in his notepad.

Cameron thought he was doomed.

Despite the seemingly failed psychological interview, two weeks later he received a slim envelope in the mail, on which the return address was the San Roque PO Box for Mal Loma Nuclear Power Plant. Inside was a five-paragraph letter welcoming him to an “Elite Security Force,” a congratulatory statement on being selected, a line requesting that he report for training promptly at 8:00 a.m. the following Tuesday morning, and to arrive in what was described as “appropriate civilian attire.”

Cameron was elated. After six months of unemployment, searching for jobs with a less than impressive resume gapped with lengthy periods of unemployment, and with a savings account nearly depleted, he was happy to find work again.

Now he gazed back at his reflection in the mirror, feeling it was all for naught. There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, beyond which life cannot rise. It seems Cameron's ecstasy had come and gone at the tender age of twenty-eight. Aside from the occasional raccoon that wandered into the perimeter fence tripping the alarm system, truth was there was little action to speak of. He found neither the intrigue nor sophistication promised by the recruitment ad. Night after night, he toiled to the same boredom. The job was without future, full of bureaucratic rules and regulations that seemed absurd at best, and governed by a bunch of corporate executives sitting in a high-rise office building in San Francisco. A born optimist, charmed by nature and amused by humanity, he was indeed stricken with the ills of monotony.

Standing in the rain for hours on end with a rifle in one's hand; staring into a surveillance screen at the same motionless images; performing repetitious drills which neither made sense nor would ever be put to test; watching a clock hoping time will pass. Is that what life's all about?

His reflective image raised a doubting brow.

A security guard on the midnight shift, he thought, straightening his tie. Let's face it, that's what I am.

The one bright spot in his otherwise dismal existence was Grace Baker, a twenty-six-year-old new hire at the power plant, with whom Cameron had commenced an accelerated romance. The attraction had been immediate and mutual. In three short weeks, the two had found a fondness for one another likened to the romances of old Hollywood. In Grace, Cameron found a wild, defiant beauty; the type men cross oceans for. And now Cameron found himself thinking more about Grace than the prospects of looking for another job, which he had considered until Grace came into the picture.

Grace! Grace! Grace!

He took a deep breath. Time to defend the masses.

With one last look in the mirror, he pinned his badge to his chest, turned, and walked to the kitchen to make a sandwich, fill his thermos with hot coffee, place both in his lunch pail, and pile in a heap of potato chips. Then he grabbed his car keys, and headed for the door.

Chapter 2

Cameron raced down the narrow streets of San Roque heading for Jack's house, knowing full well he was late. Having stopped to fill his gas tank and engaging in a conversation about crossbows with the station attendant, he had lost another twenty minutes. Glancing at his wristwatch now, he noted it was nearly 9:40 p.m.—later than usual.

He stared blankly out the windshield.

Damn it! Why am I always doing this to myself?

Nearly passing Second Street, he slammed on the brakes, slid halfway through the intersection, revved the engine, threw it in reverse, and sped down Second Street, passing the flashing neon sign: Sea Gypsy Apartments.

As he pulled along the curb at Jack's little beach house, he saw that the porch-light was off.

Not a good sign, he thought

He leaped from his car, walked briskly to the porch, and knocked. When there was no answer he tried the buzzer, ringing it incessantly, and then tried pounding on the door—still nothing. He leaned far over to the side of the porch and tried peering through the front window, but the curtains were completely drawn. He tried the door knob but it was locked.

There was that inevitable sinking sensation.

He left without me!

Cameron left the porch in a hurry, not thinking to check the carport. Back in his little Honda, he raced down the small streets of San Roque. He made a couple quick turns and got on to the Coast Road, heading out toward San Roque Gate, the main gate of the power plant, a couple miles away.

Think of what you're going to say, he thought, nervously thumbing the steering wheel. It's best to have a plan.

John Harkin, his hard-driving, by-the-book Supervisor, had already placed him on notice for excessive tardiness, absenteeism, and various other work-related misconducts. Cameron's only saving grace was that when he wanted to work, and took it serious, he was damn good at it. And Harkin knew it.

Still, he was near the end of his rope, Cameron knew, and despite the fact that he hated his job, he needed it. And there was Grace too. The job provided him time with her, although it was strictly monitored time; monitored by surveillance cameras and motion detectors, and if there was to be any future between them, he was going to need a job.

Indebtedness is a good thing, Cameron thought, as he motored along.

He recalled several instances where he had come to Supervisor Harkin's aid, and hoped, now, that Harkin would remember them.

Harkin owes me, he thought. No matter what he has to say about me being late, he owes me!

There was that time with Kelly Murphy. Yes! How could he forget that?

The supervisors had commenced a competition between themselves on who could get their crews firearm qualified quickest, and with the highest average score. It was an annual event; a requirement of the State. As usual, Supervisor Harkin's crew had fired top-notch, and swiftly. Three of the five of the Security Force's top sharpshooters were among his shift, including Cameron. But the exception was Kelly Murphy. She just lacked the natural agility to fire a handgun. And, with the specific wish of the higher-ups to have women in armed positions, and for them to qualify first—a wish inline with affirmative action and political correctness—it was imperative that Kelly succeed. Upon Harkin's request, Cameron took Kelly under his wing, and trained her, in a different way than Harkin, in his own direct but non-threatening style. In the end, not only had she qualified, but she qualified highest among all female officers. It was a huge feather in Harkin's hat.

Also, Cameron now recalled, there was the incident of the NRC quarterly meeting. The 'NRC' or Nuclear Regulatory Commission, the federal watchdog agency charged with the task of controlling, regulating, and monitoring everything nuclear, scheduled quarterly meetings, and this particular one, to be held at the power plant, was to include the local congressman.

“Some clown,” as Harkin described, had called in a bomb threat to a local hospital, advising them to get “one hundred cots ready.”

Cameron was consequently asked to double-back from his midnight shift and stand post on a mountaintop with a pair of binoculars and a high-caliber rifle. His orders were simply to observe and report any unusual activity in the back country.

Despite the short notice and lack of sleep, Cameron accepted cheerfully, without complaint. In fact, he didn't mind it at all. He got paid time-and-a-half and spent most of the day watching migrating grey whales through the high-powered scope.

As Cameron sped along the Coast Road, he could see the white crashing waves of the Pacific flashing beneath him. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, there at the very tip of the promontory. As he neared the power plant's main entrance, he saw some activity at Port San Miguel, which lay just beyond. A group of fishermen had come in late and were hoisting their small boat from the water onto the landing platform.

Cameron zoomed around the corner into the short approach road. A solitary figure sat in the guard booth—a small, eight-by-six, four-windowed box just large enough to fit one guard on a high stool, some gear, and a shelf for coffee and log books.

Ahead was the brightly illuminated access to Mal Loma Nuclear Power Plant. There was a kiosk along side the guard booth with two toll-barriers resembling a railroad crossing. Flood-lamps perched atop high-rise poles, similar to the lighting provided at a ball park, flooded the area in a thirty-yard radius. On either side of the entrance were ten-foot high cyclone fences, topped with overturned rolls of razor-wire. A large, illuminated sign posted on the right roadside left no doubt of the property's ownership and restricted access:

MAL LOMA NUCLEAR POWER PLANT Pacific Alliance Power Company TRESPASSING STRICTLY PROHIBITED

Marvin Spencer, the security officer assigned gate duty tonight, wore the same finely-pressed, regal blue uniform, with the flying atoms and words 'Nuclear Security' bold across the shoulder. He stepped from the guard booth with a Mini-14 magazine-fed, combat rifle strapped to his shoulder. A field utility belt, strapped around his waist, contained a holstered handgun, a radio, a flashlight, and several ammo clips.

As Cameron pulled up to the toll-bar, he checked his wristwatch.

Twenty minutes late!

“Hey there, Marv,” Cameron greeted, as he rolled down the window.

“Harkin wants me to log your 'in-time',” Marvin said bluntly.

“What?”

“Yeah, sorry to say, but he called me and asked me to log in your time.”

Cameron frowned. “Did he say anything else?”

“No, just that; 'log in your time.'”

Shit!

Marvin leaned in and looked over at the empty passenger seat. “Where's your side kick?”

“He didn't come by already?”

“No.”

“He hasn't?”

“He hasn't. That's what I said.”

Cameron looked puzzled. He had assumed, because he was running late, Jack had left without him, and was already en route to the power plant.

“Maybe someone's in deeper shit than you?” Marvin said. “That's always a good thing, ya know.”

Cameron glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He nervously swept his hand back through his already-combed hair. “Can you give me ten minutes, buddy?” he asked.

“Sorry, I can't do that. Harkin knows how long it takes from the gate.”

“Come'on buddy.”

Marvin gazed up the access road, thoughtfully. “Five minutes,” he said. “That's the best I can do. Five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Cameron replied. “That's better than nothing.” He stared straight up the road. “Have fun.”

Marvin nodded an acknowledgement, went back inside the guard booth, and lifted the toll gate.

Cameron accelerated up the winding access road, feeling doomed. He was still several miles from the power plant, and he knew Harkin was in 'documentation' mode, building an employee disciplinary docket or worse yet, a termination case under the Fair Labor Standards Act.

It was Harkin's way not to take it personally, he thought, just log the facts and drop the axe. I'm as good as fired. Thanks for all, boss!

Adding insult to injury, two departing coworkers, driving home from their swing shift, passed him. And as they did so, they honked their horns, as if letting Cameron know what trouble he was in.

Cameron frowned. Thanks pals!

Within minutes Cameron's little Honda crested the small mountain divide that separated San Roque Gate from the ocean on the opposite side of the promontory. Dropping down to the coastal slopes beyond, he zoomed along the steep cliffs above the smashing waves. His headlamps illuminated the road before him. Through the windshield he could see the dark, brooding ocean, speckled white with white-caps rolling out to the horizon.

Chapter 3

The coast here was as magnificent as the Amalfi. Where mountains met ocean at the edge of a continent was always the perfect formula for grandeur and wonderment. It made Cameron recall the first time he saw it, in daylight, white waves crashing in turquoise blue coves, deepening in color to the outer reefs; sea lions lounging on rock inlets, and further out, the occasional spouts of California Grey whales moving with their seasonal migration from Mexico to Alaska. Sloping upward from the ocean were long, emerald-green terraces of tall shore grass, which replicated rows of shimmering silk banisters, diminishing in size until vanishing in the distant haze. Cameron especially liked this time of year, when everything was in bloom. Although it was dark now, he could imagine it vividly. Eastward, where the slopes angled steeply up to the towering coastal mountaintops, emerald green hillsides were brush-stroked with bright yellow lines of mustard flowers.

It was the Great Irony, Cameron thought, entering the Protected Zone. By virtue of the Pacific Alliance Power Company and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and all the entry prohibitions that came along with it, the California pelicans, and sea otters, and the red and black abalone, which clung in the tide pools, and all the other wildlife, remained as bountiful as they had been during the time of the Chumash Indians one-hundred years before. It was here the Chumash had lived in harmony with nature for centuries, navigating Pacific currents in their reed-built tomols, building their bent-poled shelters along the coastal terraces, and burying their dead on windswept knolls above the sea. It was a place where the warm Santa Anas swept across the ocean, carving artistic formations in the sandstone cliffs and chattered through the leaves in the sycamore canyons—where wind still whispered through the tall shore grass—oddly enough, all due in thanks to a nuclear power plant!

And thinking of the power plant, Cameron recalled the first time he set eyes on it. He was humming along the access road on his first day to work when suddenly, ahead, there were two enormous white domes. To him it appeared as if Poseidon had misplaced two huge Trojan helmets on the Pacific shoreline. It reminded him of a time he had taken a helicopter ride to the Grand Canyon, flying low toward the South Rim, one-hundred-feet above the tree-tops; then suddenly breaching the rim, the view gave way to a five-thousand foot drop and an awe-inspiring view of the Canyon.

It was the exact same feeling, Cameron thought—Jaw-dropping.

The power plant was indeed a futuristic-looking complex, awkwardly perched at the ocean's edge. Stretching out before the two massive containment domes was the Turbine Building, a structure large enough to house a football field, and nestled in-between was the Auxiliary Building, a multi-terraced, skyscraper-looking structure which served as the 'brains' of the power plant.

A marvel of Modern Technology, Cameron mused.

And from the start, he was mystified by it. Everyone was mystified by it. Building a nuclear power plant on a pristine coast of velvet-waving shore grass seemed as idiotic as painting over a Van Gogh with motor oil. And yet, despite the absurdness of it, the reasoning was undeniably prudent. Ideal was a power plant strategically placed, out of eyesight and earshot of the masses, and isolated far enough from areas of population as to provide a cushion zone in the event of a radiation leak or nuclear disaster. From here there would be time to orchestrate a mass evacuation, should the unlikely necessity arise.

In truth, it was no easy task building a nuclear power plant on a coastal terrace in central California. For the Pacific Alliance Power Company, it had been a battle from the beginning. It rubbed so hard against conventional thought that it instantly confronted a firestorm of hostility. The permitting process was constantly thwarted by legal action brought on by the Sierra Club, Abalone Alliance, and Mothers for Peace. But eventually, with the backing of the federal government, whose new mantra was 'Independence from Middle Eastern oil,' the permits were granted and the power plant was built.

Contingency plans, evacuation plans, coordination plans, of every kind, with every vital agency, were made. Local, state and federal law enforcement agencies, the U.S. Coast Guard, and even local National Guard unit stationed forty-five minutes north, had committed to a quick-response plan to provide immediate assistance for any event, including terrorist threat. In the event of a mass evacuation, letters of agreement were signed with many local businesses and corporations to provide aid and assistance. Local municipalities, as well as Amtrak and Greyhound Bus Lines, signed-on for transportation purposes, and McDonalds Corporation agreed to provide emergency food to a weary population if a mass evacuation became necessary.

A problematic matter was in the winds. The area was known for its Devil Winds—unpredictable winds—sometimes blowing from offshore, sometimes from the land, often converging in flurries and funnels visible at sea. Several tests with balloons never netted the same wind direction. This caused great concern among the scientific authorities who tried to predict, with reasonable consistency, the wind currents for evacuation and planning purposes.

Yet an early warning system was developed based on a 'best guess' scenario of prevailing wind conditions, strategically dissecting the central coast into a twelve-ring “Protective Action Zone” which radiated out from the 'epicenter' of the power plant. Each ring varied in its level of response determined by wind and proximity to the Plant. Tall warning sirens were tactically placed in all neighborhoods, mountainsides, school yards, city streets, and along beaches and highways, throughout the region. Automated gamma ray detectors were positioned along Protective Action Zone Two, a six-mile radius from the Plant, which fed data into a centralized computer which would enact an automated alarm if dangerous levels of radiation were detected. Local media, radio and televisions stations all had pre-scripted instructions; how, where, and when to provide emergency airway information should a Level-One Emergency be enacted.

Orchestrating the efforts was the Nuclear Regulatory Commission through volumes of federal regulations designed to increase safety measures and prevent the possibility of a nuclear disaster. Millions of dollars were expended for earthquake upgrades after fault-lines were discovered just offshore. Back-up power supplies, to ensure the constant pumping of millions of gallons of ocean water to cool the reactors, consisted of no less than six huge diesel generators, a battery room the size of a tennis court, and four separate electric lines traversing the hilltops to a neighboring fossil-fuel plant thirty miles north. The reactor containment domes, standing two-hundred and fifteen feet high and constructed of three-foot thick concrete and steel, were capable of withstanding the impact of a commercial jetliner. A sea wall and huge support braces were built on the western front to handle a sixty-foot tidal wave. P.A.P.C. had even gone so far as to employ marine biologists to take samples from the ocean to monitor the effects of the discharge and ensure the protection of the marine life. In the end, despite many protests and demonstrations, the power plant was built, became operational, and began producing mega-watts of electricity for hungry cities throughout California.

Cameron's little Honda sped over the last hill and down toward the small city of lights, from which rose the two white containment domes of Mal Loma Nuclear Power Plant. He headed directly for the Security Building, which, illuminated brilliantly, hung like a jewel at the southern end of the perimeter fence. He could tell by the number of cars left in the parking lot that the shift change was well underway. It meant his post replacement was still waiting. Speeding into the lit parking lot, he slid in between two large cars. He grabbed his lunch pail, leaped out of the car, and headed for the entrance lobby.

Chapter 4

Nine miles inland from the power plant, a streamlined Dodge Ram 1500 truck lumbered slowly up a steep canyon grade along the eastern flanks of the coastal mountains. The vehicle was crystal black pearl in color with four-wheel drive and a high-wheel clearance. It had a standard transmission and a pair of high-strength, polypropylene lamps which now lit the way up the dark, uneven road.

The Driver clutched and down-shifted, causing the truck to nearly roll backward, but its all-terrain tires quickly gripped the turf and the truck continued to climb until the road gradually leveled.

Ahead was a locked gate. The truck's brake lights came on and the door opened. The driver stepped out to a strong gust of wind blowing through the sycamore trees. He glanced up at them. To the south, the mountaintops glowed from the distant lights of San Roque. Directly west was the huge, dark shoulder of the mountain he climbed, still separating him from the sea.

The Driver retrieved a set of bolt cutters from the bed of the truck. Using the headlamps to illuminate the gate, he snapped the lock and swung the gate open. He dumped the bolt cutters back into the bed of the truck, returned to the cab, and preceded through the gate.

The road ahead was dark and narrow, and equally as steep. Leaning forward, the Driver strained for a better view.

Ahead was a familiar landmark—a huge, brooding oak tree in an opening in a sloping field. He knew this place, and knew the sycamores would soon thicken and the embankment to the south would steepen into a cliff. Having scouted the road two weeks earlier in daylight, on a warm day, he had etched landmarks in his mind. He had hiked all afternoon with a daypack until the road narrowed and steepened, finally reaching the top. The further up he got, he noticed, the less traveled the road was, evident by the increasingly taller grass and lack of fresh tire tracks. Judging by what he saw, the upper portion of the road hadn't been used in weeks.

He had found the road on a standard topographical map issued by the U.S. Geological Survey, which he had conveniently downloaded off the internet. It followed through a dense grove of oaks and up a narrowing canyon filled with sycamore trees. The snaking line on the map was marked; 'Miguelleto Canyon Road.' It was a remote passage at best, used sparingly by cattle ranchers to gain access to grazing lands on the northern coastal slopes. In the lower stretches, the map indicated three creek crossings, two over cement spillways and the last over bare boulders. The road started out on asphalt, and ended on dirt, and there were two places where earth slides had covered the road, but jeep-tracks had since blazed a path around them. The upper portion of the route was nothing more than a two-wheeled jeep path.

Now, in darkness, beneath tree-filtered starlight, the Driver followed the same path he had walked two weeks earlier. His Dodge truck's hemi engine powered smoothly uphill, its headlamps bearing down on the bumpy terrain. A couple of times, he encountered steers on the road, having to nudge the animals aside. Further up he came to a second locked gate where he repeated the earlier process with the bolt cutters. This time, when he stepped out of the truck, he heard a crackling noise. Looking up he saw the dark outline of a huge, power tower. It was a place where the high-voltage power lines stretched from the power plant at Mal Loma over the mountaintops to inland cities. Hunched over like colossal, high-shouldered Martians, the silhouetted, two-legged steel towers connected one hilltop to another, linking them all the way to California's Central Valley.

Getting close, he thought.

Nearing the top of the grade, the truck came out of the sycamore trees onto a sharp, slope of starlit chaparral. The road practically vanished, steepening into tall, waving grass. As the truck climbed, nearly vertical, its engine bore down. The Driver downshifted, and the truck's engine labored briefly, until easing as the grade gave way to sky.

The Driver reached over and switched off the headlamps. The darkness was sudden and complete, causing his eyes to dilate. When his vision returned, the stars filled the night sky, and before him emerged a vast, panoramic view of the Pacific coastline.

He had summited a barren, grass-covered peak, from which one could see as far north as Point Piedras and south to Point San Miguel. West, beyond the vague white outline of the jagged surf, loomed the dark ocean. It was a perfect crow's nest. The view was unobstructed by tree, pole line, or clouds. Above was only the brilliant white starlight.

For a moment the Driver just sat there, taking it in. Then he checked his position, left and right. The mountaintop was cone-shaped and the truck was resting slightly back on the eastern slope, positioned perfectly just below the rise. He was on the dark side of the mountain, he knew. The truck could not be seen from the West, even with the most sophisticated night vision equipment, and from the East, he was a good fifteen miles from the nearest human being.

He killed the engine, and stepping from the truck, he was greeted by a shoreward breeze. It blew briskly through his short-cropped brown hair and against his handsome face. He walked slowly to the precipitous, western edge. His deep, remarkably blue eyes gazed downward intently. There, straight below him, fifteen-hundred yards away, was a small city of lights; the layout of which was completely familiar to him. Encircled in a ring of lights was an elongated building with two magnificent domes protruding from the back end. He had seen it before in daylight, had studied aerial photographs and maps, including a detailed, satellite-image downloaded on Google Earth, and what he saw now was the perfect nighttime perspective.

He nodded his head contently. There she blows.

Kneeling down, he cupped his hands, lit a cigarette, and let the wind blow a straight line of smoke eastward behind him. With hawk-like attention, he studied the topography and layout before him. From this high vantage point, the two enormous, concrete containment domes seemed dwarfed in size, gleaming white beneath the blackened sky. The perimeter fence surrounding the Plant looked like a sparkling silver chain, illuminated by evenly spaced diamonds of high-intensity flood lights. Along the eastern fence-line, the side closest to him, two stick-figures marched slowly. To the south was the Security Building, separated from the power plant by one-hundred feet of asphalt, which, from this distance, appeared to be less than two centimeters. The bulk on the Turbine Building was concealed beyond the containment domes and the auxiliary building, but the rooftop was exposed at both ends.

The Driver turned his attention north beyond the blackness of the western slope. There, before the vague white outline of the surf, was a single pair of headlights traveling slowly along the terrace. It was one of the Plant's two security mobile units; a modified eight-cylinder, Jeep Cherokee. Having completed its patrol route along the northern property boundaries, it was en route back toward the power plant.

The Driver watched it, taking a long drag from his cigarette; his practiced, deep-blue eyes flickered contently.

Behind him, to the east, there was nothing but blackness, except for a few distant lights of distant cities.

It was an absolutely clear night. Nearly perfect conditions. The wind would be a factor, strong and steady from the west, but he had accounted for that. All the necessary equipment had accompanied him in the truck and the necessary adjustments could be made easily enough. The temperature was a cool fifty-eight degrees, nearly ideal for keeping a trajectory. His line of fire would be straight for the furthest possible distance, he knew. He was lucky, he thought, to have a clear night without fog. He flicked the cigarette butt into the grass.

A strong gust of wind came against him and he braced himself with a hand in the grass. He waited for the wind to subside, then leaned forward and rested his elbow back on his knee.

The wind will definitely be a factor, he thought, but not a problem. Just a couple turns of a screw. Nothing more.

Besides, he thought, they wanted wind.

Chapter 5

Cameron burst through the front double-paned glass doors of the Security Building, scanning the large entrance lobby for any sign of Supervisor Harkin. Harkin was nowhere to be seen.

The wall clock read 10:20 p.m.

Only twenty minutes late, Cameron thought. Not bad.

Straight ahead was the search train, a long gauntlet of sophisticated security search-machines; x-ray machines, explosives detectors, and metal detectors. Among the devices was a Barringer Sentinel Contraband Detection Portal, capable of detecting traces of ammonium nitrate, semtex, RDX, PETN, TNT and other explosives; nerve and blister agents such as mustard gas, Agent VX, tabun, sarin, soman and cyclosarin; and a wide range of narcotics including marijuana, cocaine, methamphetamine, and heroin.

Beyond the search train, elevated and catty-cornered on the far side of the entrance lobby, were the bullet-proof, plexiglas windows of Security Computer Station Two—called simply 'Control Two' by the security staff. Inside was the silhouette of a solitary security officer seated before a console of blinking lights. Above him, virtually wrapping around the small cubical, were closed-circuit television monitors flashing different scenes from around the power plant.

Several security officers, male and female were scurrying about, preparing for the shift change. Two officers conversed loudly near the badge counter, and exchanged equipment. Two others, exhausted after a long shift, hustled quietly to their lockers, wanting nothing more than to unload their equipment and make a quick exit home.

At the head of the search train were Jimmy Becker and Rae Anderson. They had drawn the Security & Access post this night, and waited for Cameron with malicious smirks on their faces.

Cameron, looking up at them, frowned. They're going to make my life miserable, he thought.

The Security Building was the only portal by which a person could enter or leave the power plant. Everyone from top to bottom, along with all their accompanying baggage, was subjected to the airport-like security of the search train. In fact, it was much more rigorous than any airport security. Through these doors, one must pass; and through these machines, one must pass cleanly. Outside, a ten-foot tall cyclone perimeter fence, topped with overturned razor-wire and monitored by highly-sensitive microwave motion detectors, encircled the plant and ensured such was the case.

Cameron stepped ahead through the turnstile, shooting a discerning glance at a doorway along the north wall, through which a hallway led to Supervisor Harkin's office.

For the moment, it's safe.

He set his daypack on the conveyer belt, hurried on through the contraband detector portal, spinning simultaneously so that the detector would scan his body quickly, and nodded a friendly hello to the two waiting officers as he came out the other side.

“Hello Cameron,” Rae Anderson said. She was a tall, slender redhead, quite beautiful.

“How's it going, Rae?” Cameron replied.

“It's going well. And you?” She held out a basket.

“Not bad.”

Cameron dumped his keys into the basket, and trying to keep the conversation brisk, proceeded quickly through the metal detector. On the other side he lifted his arms in advance for Jimmy Becker, who approached with a metal detector wand. All the while, Cameron kept an eye on the open doorway which led to Supervisor Harkin's office.

Everyone in the lobby knew Cameron was late. Everyone knew Cameron was in a bad way with Supervisor Harkin. And for Becker, it was a moment of long-awaited retribution. Cameron, the unrelenting prankster, had pulled some good ones on Becker, most recently putting a dead fish in Becker's lunch pail. Becker was blamed for the foul smell in the briefing room for two weeks. Not that there were any hard feelings. Razzing was an acceptable form of entertainment in the boring world of security work, and turnabout was considered fair play.

Becker took his time.

“Come'on guys. Help me out,” Cameron pleaded.

“Have to do our job,” Becker maintained.

“Come'on, have a heart.”

“We have procedures to follow…”

“Could ya hurry it up then, maybe?”

Cameron turned and Becker passed the wand slowly across his back, exceedingly slowly.

“Don't worry,” Rae Anderson laughed. “Harkin's been hibernating in his office.” Cameron glanced at the doorway that led to Harkin's office.

“He's been busy with paperwork since he arrived,” she said.

Two rooms away, Supervisor Harkin was in fact sitting at his desk with his head buried in a huge pile of papers. He had arrived on shift finding an urgent memorandum from the Security Director sitting on his desk. It seems the brass wanted the monthly reports early, and Harkin, the type who never put off work, delved straight into it. Cameron's absences, tardies, and misconducts, were not far from his mind, but for the moment, not high on his priority list.

Cameron snapped up his keys, took his daypack, and broke off the chat undiplomatically. “Thank you kind friends for taking so much damn time.” Then, beneath his breath, “dirty bastards!”

“Cameron!” Rae snapped.

“Not you,” Cameron answered.

Becker laughed.

Sliding to the badge counter, Cameron collected his film badge. Before clipping it to his shirt pocket, he checked it for color, which was standard procedure. The card was colorless, as usual.

No such luck, Cameron thought, as he snapped it on.

Used to monitored harmful radiation exposure in increments of millirems, the film dosimeter badge gained color with radioactive exposure. Upon reaching a certain annual limit set forth by CalOsha—the California Occupational Safety and Health Agency tasked with the over-watch of industrial safety—employees got the remainder of the year off with full pay.

As he headed for the rear doorway he slipped past an exiting swing-shift officer and nodded a quick hello. Then, taking one last glance back through the entrance lobby, he ducked into the rear corridor en route to the briefing room.