We Know

The Black Hawk straightened up again, the ground righting itself beneath us where it belonged. Wydell folded his hands, leaned forward. His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth. "Let me lay out the facts," he said. "The pool is rectangular, about forty feet deep, built with five-foot concrete walls and lined with stainless steel. Under the high-density water are spent-fuel rods making up one of the greatest concentrations of radioactivity on the planet." His voice remained steady, but he armed moisture off his brow. "The pool houses ten times more long-lived high-penetrating radioactivity than the reactor core. It holds more cesium-137 than has been deposited by every atmospheric nuclear test ever conducted in this hemisphere. There under the water, it's relatively stable and harmless. If that water goes away, bringing the spent fuel to within a few feet of the surface-"

"Like from an explosion." Despite the night air, my T-shirt was damp where it pressed against the nylon seat.

"Like from an explosion. Then the scenario changes dramatically. That pool would catch fire at north of a thousand degrees Celsius. A fire like that"-he shook his head-"a fire like that cannot be extinguished until the burning's done and the radioactivity released. It would render Southern California uninhabitable for half a million years."

Sever lifted a cell phone from inside one of the Pelican cases and extended it to me.

"So," I said, "you need me to call and talk to him."

Wydell said, "We need you to go in there and deliver this cell phone to him."

At first I thought I'd misheard. "I'll talk to him over the phone, bullhorn, whatever, but I'm not a trained agent. Someone who knows what they're doing should go in. What if I make a mistake? Five hundred thousand years is a long time."

"He made it clear he'll see only you, and it has to be face-to-face. We're out of options here."

When I swallowed, my throat clicked dryly. Why would some terrorist want to see me in person? Would he recognize my face but not my voice? Sever held the phone out to me again and shook it impatiently, but I kept my hands where they were. Wydell took it instead, put it in his lap.

I said, "I thought we don't negotiate with terrorists."

Sever said quietly, "We negotiate with terrorists every day."

Wydell didn't seem to hear him. "Facing this level of destruction? What would you do?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm not the one with the policy."

"Listen," Wydell said, "this guy's holding the cards. You claim you're not with him. That means you're with us. And your part of the mission is to get this phone in his hand. Just give it to him when we call. We've got the top crisis negotiator in the state on scene already. Once we have comms, we'll take it from there."

"What if I can't convince him to take it? What if he blows us all up first?"

Wydell nodded solemnly, pulling at the loose skin below his chin. "I knew your old man. I bet we have a fighting chance, as long as you got a few of his genes."

"He was my stepdad," I said, "so it's a safe bet I didn't."

Wydell's dark brown eyes fixed on me. "Frank Durant was a great man. Stepson or not, that gives you something to live up to."

Instead of taking the phone, I released a shaky sigh and leaned back in my seat. A decision was inevitable. In the relative quiet, reality finally began to sink in, and with it a bone-deep chill. What had I woken into? The dark flew by as we whipped along toward a nuclear plant with a terrorist inside.

I thought about what my stepfather would do. Frank Durant. Seventeen years dead. My hero, if such a word can be used anymore with a straight face.

Chapter 3

Seven years to the day after my father died, I met Frank. He was sitting in our yellow kitchen and had his hand on my mom's knee, and I thought, Fuck him.

My real dad ran his truck into a canyon when I was four, barely old enough to store some hazy recollections. I never had to experience his shortcomings, which were considerable, right down to his. 2 blood alcohol level when they pried the steering wheel out of his rib cage. I could just idealize him, plain and simple. I kept a photo of him framed on my bookshelf. In the picture he's wearing a white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes cuffed in, his hair's short, and he's smiling. Down at the bottom, almost lost behind the frame, a Camel sticks out from the fork of his fingers.

When I came into the kitchen that morning, Frank took his hand off my mom's knee and stood, a weirdly formal gesture. I tapped the tail of my skateboard, jumping it up so I could grab the top truck. He was tall, maybe six-two, with a tapered waist and a tattoo in what looked like Chinese down his forearm.

My mom hopped up, clearing their cups of coffee, her jangly bracelets making a nervous clatter. "Nicky, this is my new friend Frank. He works in the Secret Service, protecting our vice president. Isn't that neat?"

I thought, My new friend? Neat? Where did adults get this shit?

"Doesn't sound so neat to me," I said.