Don Pendleton - Meltdown

"Where do I meet her?"

"Right here. She should be in the reception area," Brognola answered as he checked his watch before moving to open the door.

Bolan turned in surprise to stare at the slender dark-haired woman who stood in the office doorway. Her eyes were even darker than her hair. As she walked toward him, Bolan decided there was a no-nonsense look about her, and her grip was firm when she reached out to take his hand in her own.

"I've heard a great deal about you, Mr. Bolan. And to set things straight from the beginning, I assure you, I can take care of myself, and of you, too, if it should come to that."

"I believe it," Bolan said, relaxing somewhat. "Let's get to work. We have a lot to do."

"More than you know, Mr. Bolan."

"Call me Mack."

"Fair enough."

Bolan was impressed by Rachel Peres's grasp of detail as she outlined the information she had gathered. Her efficiency reminded him of someone, someone it was too painful to remember. A woman who had made the supreme sacrifice for him. A woman who had given her life for him.

April Rose.

But this woman was something else. As Bolan's thoughts returned to the present he decided that working with her was not going to be that bad. Not at all.

Robert Hanley was nervous. When Hal Brognola had returned his files that evening, he had told him that someone was coming down later with more questions.

Brognola hadn't said anything specific, but Hanley knew something big was happening. You could see it in the man's eyes. Hanley had asked, but Brognola had all but ignored the question.

"You don't want to know," Brognola had said.

And Hanley didn't want to know. It was spooky, sitting alone in the big house. His wife and kids were safe at least. They had gone to her sister's in Phoenix. But the darkness of the Virginia countryside was no comfort. If anything, it made Hanley feel more vulnerable.

He wanted to look at the files again. But first he had to make sure the house was secure. He turned on the outdoor floodlights, but a glance at the wide front lawn didn't reassure him. There were too many shadows. The trees that had been his pride and joy could hide anything. Or anyone. Locking the windows one by one, Hanley felt cold shivers slip down his spine.

On the way up the sweeping semicircular staircase, he thought he heard something on the front porch. A thud maybe. Or a footstep. He went back down to peek through the thick glass of the front door. There was nothing there.

Returning to the top of the stairs, he checked the bedroom windows one by one and then the sitting room.

As he moved toward his office, he thought of the papers again.

So much anxiety over them meant there had to be something in them. Something he hadn't seen the first time. A pattern, some link that bound all the accidents together.

Whatever it was, he wanted to find it. After all, Robert Hanley knew he knew more about nuclear safety than anyone in the country. If there was something in those files to upset Brognola, he'd find it. He'd be ready for Brognola's emissary. He could do it even without knowing what Brognola knew. He didn't need any help.

He was the best.

The door to his office was locked as usual. He had taken to keeping it closed, not so much for security, but because of the kids. It was off-limits to them, even for hide-and-seek. When the lock clicked open, he pushed through the door and felt for the light switch with his left hand.

Across the large office the broad window was bright.

The outdoor floodlights cut through the thin curtains, which moved gently in the evening breeze.

The window was open, and the thick bands of shadow cast by the fighting squirmed like a tangle of snakes. The side window was rarely opened, but he glanced at the heavy draperies for a second. They were still.

When the overhead light clicked on, the shadows on the curtain disappeared. Hanley crossed the room swiftly, pulled the sliding glass closed and locked it. He flipped on his desk lamp and went back to the doorway to shut off the overhead light. He returned and sat down at his desk and pulled the folders toward him.

Opening the first file, Hanley felt another chill. He knew it wasn't the breeze; it was the file itself. He started to examine the thickest of the documents. It was the detailed report of a research team that had explored the causes of a reactor shutdown in the Ohio Valley. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission, for all the flak it took outside, was proud of its research. Meticulous and thorough, the NRC examined every nuclear "event," and issued a comprehensive analysis.

The public, especially those opposed to nuclear energy, might argue with its conclusions, but never with its science. The fat sheaf of papers before him bore out the depth of the NRC's scrutiny. Hanley sometimes believed the research teams gathered too much information.

It was often difficult to know why things happened, when you had so much detail on what happened. The Pitt General reactor event was no different. Midway 2 was a medium-sized pressurized water reactor. It was older than most, and Hanley knew age could have been a factor in the malfunction. That had been the conclusion of the NRC, in fact. Now Hanley wasn't so sure. Neither was Brognola apparently.

"Good reading?" The question so startled Hanley that it took him a minute to react. The visitor moved out from behind the heavy draperies at the side window before Hanley could say anything. He was tall and slender, but his features were obscured by the shadows cast by the desk lamp. Hanley didn't recognize him.

But he knew a gun when he saw one. And the one in the man's left hand looked very deadly.

"Who are you?" Hanley demanded.

"It doesn't matter who I am, Mr. Hanley. It's what you do for a living that counts."

The man moved to the easy chair at the left of Hanley's desk. He sat down, keeping the gun pointed at his reluctant host. Seated, his features were visible at last, but that meant little to Hanley. He had never seen the man before. The intruder took off his slouch hat and dropped it to the floor beside his chair. The man's hair was sparse in front and thinning everywhere else. He ran the fingers of his free hand through it once or twice, arranging the stray hair in a way that was supposed to conceal his baldness.

"I asked if your reading was interesting. Is it?"

"Who are you and why are you here? This is my home. You have no right to be here."

"You're right, of course," the visitor said.

His manner was nearly apologetic. Hanley found this more annoying than the rudeness he had expected.

"Still, there are things I must know, Mr. Hanley. Things that you already know."

"What things?"

Ignoring the question, the man said, "Someone visited your office this afternoon. He returned some papers to you, did he not? Important papers?"

"What business is that of yours?" Hanley was beginning to sweat. The longer the intruder remained polite, the more uneasy Hanley became.

"This time I must disagree with you, Mr. Hanley. It most definitely is my business. Now, if you continue to make things difficult, my assistant and I will have to change our demeanor. I will, at least. My assistant, as you will see if you remain obstinate, has few manners. In fact, he barely has any of the social graces. Otto?"

While the intruder spoke, Hanley watched his face intently. He barely noticed as the closet door behind the man's left shoulder slid open. The intruder's assistant had made his appearance. He moved quickly across the floor to stand behind his superior.

The hulking newcomer was massive. Otto's broad shoulders were clearly used to heavier work than supporting his hairless, bullet-like head.

"Otto, Mr. Hanley seems reluctant to tell us what we need to know. Do you think you can persuade him to be more cooperative?"