Douglas Preston - Mount Dragon

“I went for a ride,” Carson said.

“A ride? You mean, on that hot young assistant of yours?” Harper cackled.

Carson rolled his eyes. Harper could be irritating. He had already decided not to mention meeting Nye to anyone. It would just create more problems.

Harper turned to Vanderwagon, who was chewing his lip and staring expressionlessly into the crowd. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see you in the canteen, either. Spend the day in your room again, Andrew?”

Carson frowned. It was obvious that Vanderwagon was still upset about what had happened in the Fever Tank, and about his dressing down by Scopes. By the look of his bloodshot eyes, he hadn’t had much sleep. Sometimes Harper had the tact of a hand grenade.

Vanderwagon turned and eyed Harper as a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Four people had entered the room: Singer, Nye, Mike Marr, and a slight, stooped man in a brown suit. The stranger carried an oversized briefcase that bumped against his legs as he walked. His sandy hair was graying at the temples, and he wore black-rimmed glasses that made his pale skin look sallow. He radiated ill health.

“That must be the OSHA man,“ whispered Harper. “He doesn’t look like much of a terror to me.”

“More like a junior accountant,” Carson replied. “He’s going to get a nasty burn with that skin.”

Singer went to the lectern, tapped the microphone, and held up his hand. His normally pleasant, ruddy face looked bone-tired. “As you all know,” he said, “tragic accidents such as the one that occurred last week must be reported to the proper authorities. Mr. Teece here is a senior investigator from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. He’ll be spending a little time with us at Mount Dragon, looking into the cause of the accident and reviewing our safety procedures.”

Nye stood next to Singer, silent, his eyes traveling over the assembled scientists. A knot in his jaw was working away, his powerful frame rigid in the tailored suit. Marr stood next to him, nodding his closely cropped head and smiling broadly beneath a hat brim so low it hid his eyes. Carson knew that in some ways, as director of security, Nye was ultimately responsible for the accident. He was obviously all too aware of it. The security director’s gaze met Carson’s for a moment before it moved on. Perhaps that explains his paranoia out in the desert , Carson thought. But what the hell was he up to? Whatever it was must have been damn important, keeping him out overnight before a meeting like this.

“Because industrial secrets of GeneDyne are involved, the specifics of our research will remain secret regardless of the outcome of the investigation. None of this will be reported to the press.” Singer shifted at the podium. “I want to emphasize one thing: everyone at Mount Dragon will be expected to cooperate fully with Mr. Teece. This is an order that comes directly from Brent Scopes. I assume that’s sufficiently clear.”

There was a silence in the room. Singer nodded.

“Good. I think Mr. Teece would like to say a few words.”

The frail-looking man walked up to the microphone, still carrying his briefcase.

“Hello,” he said, his thin lips forming a fleeting smile. “I’m Gilbert Teece—please call me Gil. I expect to be here for the next week or so, poking and prying about.” He laughed; a brief, dry chuckle. “This is standard procedure in a case such as this. I will be speaking to most of you individually, and of course I’ll need your help understanding exactly what happened. I know this is very painful for all concerned.”

There was a silence, and it seemed that Teece had already run out of things to say. “Any questions?” he finally asked.

There were none. Teece shuffled back.

Singer stepped back up to the lectern. “Now that Mr. Teece has arrived and decontamination is complete, we’ve agreed to reopen Level-5 without delay. As difficult as it will be, I expect to see everyone back at work tomorrow morning. We’ve lost a lot of time, and we need to make it up.” He drew a hand across his forehead. “That’s all. Thank you.”

Teece suddenly stood up, his finger in the air. “Dr. Singer? May I have another word—?”

Singer nodded, and Teece stepped up to the podium again. “The reopening of Level-5 was not my idea,” he said, “but perhaps it will aid the investigation, after all. I must say I’m a little surprised that we were not joined today by Mr. Scopes. It was my understanding he likes to be present—in an electronic sense, at least—at meetings of this sort.” He paused expectantly, but neither Singer or Nye said a word.

“That being the case,” Teece continued, “there’s one question I’ll offer up generally. Perhaps you’ll offer me your thoughts on it when we do meet individually.”

He paused.

“I’m curious to know why Brandon-Smith’s autopsy was conducted in secrecy and her remains cremated with such unseemly haste.”

There was another silence. Teece, still gripping his briefcase, gave another quick, thin-lipped smile and followed Singer out the door.

Although Carson took his time arriving at the ready room the following morning, he was not surprised to find most of the bluesuits still on their racks. Nobody was anxious to go back into the Fever Tank.

As he dressed, he felt a knot tighten slowly in his stomach. It had been almost a week since the accident. As much as he’d been haunted by it—those gashes in Brandon-Smith’s suit, the red blood welling up through the rents in her scrubs—he’d blocked the Fever Tank itself from his mind.

Now it came back to him in a rush: the cramped spaces, the stale air of the suit, the constant sense of danger. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing fear and panic from his mind.

As he was about to duck his head into his helmet, the outer door hissed open and de Vaca entered through the air lock. She looked at Carson.

“You’re not looking particularly chipper,” she said.

Carson shrugged.

“Me neither, I suppose,” she said.

There was an awkward silence. They had not spoken much since Brandon-Smith’s death. Carson suspected that de Vaca, sensing his guilt and frustration, had given him a wide berth.

“At least the guard survived,” said de Vaca.

Carson nodded. The last thing he wanted to do now was discuss the accident. The stainless-steel door with its oversized biohazard label loomed at the far end of the room. It reminded Carson of what he imagined a gas chamber to look like.

De Vaca began suiting up. Carson hung back, waiting for her, eager to get past the initial ordeal but somehow unable to go through the door.

“I went riding the other day,” he said. “Once you get out of sight of Mount Dragon, it’s actually very nice out there.”

De Vaca nodded. “I’ve always loved the desert,” she said. “People say it’s ugly, but I think it can be the most beautiful place in the world. Which horse did you take?”

“The liver-colored gelding. He turned out to be a pretty good horse. One of my spurs was broken, but it turned out I didn’t even need to use them. Good luck getting a spur rowel fixed around here.”

De Vaca laughed, slinging her hair. “You know that old Russian-guy, Pavel Vladimiro-something? He’s the mechanical engineer, runs the sterilizing furnace and laminar-flow system. He can fix anything. I had a broken CD player that he opened up and fixed, just like that. He claimed he’d never seen one before.”

“Hell,” said Carson, “if he can fix a CD player, he could fix a rowel. Maybe I should go see him.”

“Any idea when that investigator’s going to get around to us?” de Vaca asked.