Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

Dressed, he picked his cap off the dresser and turned back to Mary. She looked at him with wide eyes that glistened wetly in the dark, and he thought of the blue light that spun in the eyes of Evelyn McHale. And he thought of how he would be free at last.

He said goodbye, said he loved her, and closed the bedroom door behind him.

As Mary turned over, in the gap between the bottom of the closet door and the thick carpet, a blue light shone.

It was cooler in the holding cell, which was a relief. Gone were the bag and the shackles, allowing Nimrod some small comfort, at least.

He couldn’t sleep. He paced the cell, a space hardly more than twelve feet by ten, his eyes on the cement floor, watching the toes of his boots. They were scuffed, and the boots — knee-high riding boots, his particular favorites brought with him from England thirty or more years ago — needed a clean, a wax and polish. He paused in his pacing and examined the toes of the left. The leather was thin, worn. Maybe he needed a new pair. If he ever left the cell.

He began to pace again. How many hours he had been kept locked up, he wasn’t sure, but dawn was just a couple hours away.

He knew his arrest and incarceration was most likely illegal, the charges certainly fabricated, the whole charade engineered to remove him cleanly and without fuss. Rather than a straightforward disappearance, the accusations of Communist leanings and his subsequent public confession would be used to shut him and the Department down, allowing Atoms for Peace to step in and take over the whole operation, lock, stock and barrel. Controlling New York, controlling the Fissure. The Director would have what she apparently needed to enact her terrifying plan: access to the Fissure, unimpeded.

Nimrod paused as someone walked past his cell. The door had a small square window, which was shut, but the relatively thin metal of the cover allowed sound to penetrate the cell admirably. Although he hadn’t been able to see anything through the black bag when he’d been brought in, he imagined the corridors outside the cell swarming with MPs.

Nimrod chewed on a thumbnail. He had to see the President. While it was clear the Director had got to him, the President was a good man and an old friend. And even if he was dazzled by the wonders that Atoms for Peace — the very organization the President had created — could offer him and the country, he would listen, Nimrod was sure of it. Nimrod’s position within the hierarchy of government was unique; his influence spread far and wide. He could not be ignored.

However, time was running out. They would remove him quickly. He doubted there would be a military tribunal — on paper, certainly, records could be created, a transcript composed. But Nimrod knew that the next journey would be to the gas chamber or the electric chair, whichever was available in DC for the federal death penalty.

More footsteps outside. Their volume increased; then they stopped. Nimrod turned. Either it was time to be fed, or this was it. The Department would be no more; he would be executed while federal agents and MPs massed at the Empire State Building, arrested all agents, consigned every file in the office to sealed secure document boxes for burial in the Nevada desert.

Keys in the door, loud, taking forever. Nimrod thought of the old days, the freedom of flying his airship across the polar skies.

The door was opened by an MP, who smartly stepped back to allow an officer in. The door remained open as General Hall ventured inside the cell and removed his hat. Beyond, Nimrod could see two MPs waiting outside in profile, each staring at the other’s nose.

Hall saluted, and Nimrod found himself doing the same.

“Captain Nimrod, I’m here to ask you one question and one question only. I hope you’ll answer me truthfully and that you won’t take much time about it, because time is the one damned thing that the whole world is running out of. Do you understand me?”

Nimrod could swear the General spoke with a slight slur, but he couldn’t smell a thing on the man’s breath. He looked Hall up and down, remembering the officer was responsible for the most terrible of weapons the United States had at its disposal. General Hall talking about time running out didn’t fill Nimrod with confidence.

Nimrod’s mustache rolled above his upper lip. “Is that the question, or is there another one coming?”

General Hall’s right eye twitched, the nervous tic so severe it almost closed his eye entirely.

“What?” Hall’s voice was high, fast. Something was playing on his mind.

Nimrod looked Hall in the eye. “Are you working with Evelyn McHale?”

The General flinched as though Nimrod had slapped him, and Nimrod could see his eyes fill with tears.

Then the General smiled widely, like a used car salesman who has found his mark, like a lover over a conquest, like a killer with his finger on the trigger. Nimrod had seen that smile before. The smile of the insane.

“I… met her. She…”

The General closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. Nimrod watched as the general shook his head like he was punch drunk. Then the officer sucked in a wet breath and spoke.

“Can you stop her?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

Nimrod frowned. “Are you feeling quite well, general?”

Hall’s eyes snapped opened and with his free hand he grabbed Nimrod’s lapel.

“Just answer the damn question, Nimrod!”

Nimrod glanced down at the hand gripping his jacket. Then, slowly, he uncurled the General’s fingers himself. Out in the corridor, the two MPs were ignoring a conversation well above their pay grade.

“Perhaps,” said Nimrod, keeping his voice calm, quiet, not because of the MPs outside, but because he could see Hall was fighting against her . He had seen it many times; contact with the Director of Atoms for Peace could break a mind. General Hall had been changed, and he would not be the same again. The only question now was what form Hall’s madness would take, whether he could hold out just long enough.

The General muttered something, and his eyes closed again as he nodded furiously like a child. And then he blinked and straightened up, the model officer. He snapped a salute and Nimrod could see it in his eyes, the spinning blue of eternity, the light of the Fissure.

The General called to the MPs over his shoulder. Nimrod heard their boots snap on the cement floor and the pair marched in.

General Hall looked Nimrod up and down. “Take the prisoner to helipad five. Transport is waiting.”

One of the MPs glanced at his companion, doubt passing over his face. The other’s eyes flicked between the General and Nimrod. But for both of them, years of military life had ingrained the chain of command.

“Sir,” said the first MP, before taking Nimrod by the arm and pulling him towards the cell door. The reluctant MP paused a moment, almost as though he was waiting for a second order from the General, one that fit their earlier instructions regarding the prisoner.

The General smiled, and Nimrod saw the corners of his mouth flecked with white foam.

“Where are we going, General Hall?”

“New York, of course. Sergeant, secure your prisoner. Let’s roll.”

They were alone together in the helicopter. General Hall was a fine pilot, and Nimrod sat next to him in the cockpit, headphones on, watching the officer at the controls. The flight from DC to Manhattan took an hour and a half, and during that time the General remained silent except for the required radio communications.

If Nimrod’s removal from the holding cells had been unauthorized, nobody appeared to have noticed, at least not while General Hall and the two MPs led him, unchained, un-bagged, through the facility. There were several checkpoints and guarded doorways, but at each the personnel on duty merely saluted and let the General through without delay, without a glance at his charge.