Philip Hemplow: Sarcophagus

“Suicide?” interrupted Victoria.

“We think so. One jumped from the apex of the Carapace. Another was electrocuted, which may have been an accident. Many other workers have abandoned the project, gone home, refused to work.”

“Well, that shit stops now!” declared Swan. “Spread the word. Any Octra employee who doesn’t report for work gets shitcanned. Any contractor who isn’t holding their end up gets sued for breach of contract.”

“We can’t complete the Carapace without people,” pointed out Victoria.

“Screw ‘em! There are ten thousand contractors fresh back from Afghanistan looking for work. We’ll bring in who we need.”

“There’s the issue of expertise—” began Osterberg, but Swan interrupted.

“Just let ‘em know! I’m not here to play nursemaid to a load of lazy, communist Eurotrash! They shape up or they ship the fuck out! There’s a reason we hire non-union, and its so we don’t have to put up with this kind of shit. What I want to know is: what’s left to do? How long before we can sign off on this thing and take the money?”

“That happens when I am satisfied that the site is safe and secure,” said Osterberg haughtily. “Not one second before. I am responsible for the safety of the reactor, and only I decide when it is finished.”

“Okay, so what’s stopping you?” Swan wanted to know. “Thing’s built. Let’s just roll it down that train track, get home for Christmas.”

The burly German gave him a withering look. “It is not as simple as just ‘roll it down the track.’ There is work that must be completed first. Fireproofing inside the reactor: important, dangerous work—lots of radiation. Parts of the original Sarcophagus and a large part of the ventilation building are still to be dismantled as well, before the Carapace can move into place. The cranes and other pieces of superstructure we have mounted on the roof will have to come down. The computer system inside the Carapace needs to be checked and double-checked, and triple-checked! All of which you would know if you had paid any attention to this project for the last five years!”

His voice had risen to a bullish crescendo and he had risen to his feet, looming over Swan. Victoria had never seen him really lose his temper before, had never seen him lose control. She couldn’t help being slightly impressed that Swan seemed completely unfazed by it.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger aggressively at the German. “The buck stops with you, bud! Maybe if you’d been more goal-oriented, I wouldn’t have had to fly over here and wipe this project’s ass! Now, get real. It’s solutions o’clock, so let’s get granular. Your workers here, they all have a project completion bonus written into their contracts. Am I right?”

“Typical! Here comes Octra, trying to solve problems with its chequebook!” spat Osterberg, looking to Victoria for support.

“First thing tomorrow,” continued Swan, ignoring him, “we tell them— I tell them—that if this thing isn’t wrapped up by Christmas, they aren’t getting it. It’s discretionary, I checked.” He ticked points off on his fingers. “Anyone who walks off this project is going to see us in court. I’m bringing in another twenty guys for you as well, from a contractor in Turkey… or Morocco, or some shit—wherever. Point is, there’s twenty of them and we can have them here the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, really?” sneered Osterberg. “And these ‘twenty guys,’ they have experience in nuclear engineering? They have been approved to work in the Zone by the Ukrainian security services?”

“You can leave that shit to me. Even if they just push wheelbarrows or drive trucks, it frees up someone else. That’s twenty over your headcount, so no more excuses. This is me handing you an exit strategy. Seems to me this project has been coasting for a long time, so now we have to get out of our comfort zone—do more with less.”

“You’re mad,” said Osterberg, after staring at him in silence for a moment. “This is a nuclear reactor! ”

“No, doctor, this is an investment,” replied Swan without missing a beat. “And I’m here to protect that investment. Set up a meeting with everyone for tomorrow morning. And now, I’d like to see where I’m sleeping. This jetlag is a bitch.”

Victoria offered a silent prayer of gratitude. With Swan gone, she could try to mollify Wolfgang a bit. She knew that if the Carapace was late, and Octra needed a scapegoat, they would annihilate the German’s reputation to save their own. Swan might be an arsehole, but they had no choice but to work with him.

Osterberg sent Serhiy to escort Swan through the maze of pressurised habitats to his sleeping quarters. Once they were gone, Victoria did her best to placate him, assuring him that her end-of-project report would vindicate the doctor and castigate the American.

“You don’t know what it’s been like, Victoria,” Osterberg told her, lighting another cigarette. “Since the construction crews arrived, we have had nothing but problems. At first I thought it was sabotage, had to be. Brand new steel, unused, cracking with metal fatigue. Two men hospitalised by Crimean-Congo haemorrhagic fever—they survived, thank God—four hospitalised with psychosis. Eleven who just walked out of here in the middle of the night and never came back. Men downing tools, refusing to work, hallucinating, fighting—it has been chaos. Utter chaos.”

“No radiation illness though,” observed Victoria.

“No,” came the sharp reply. “I look after my men, you know that. No, these contractors just can’t handle the Zone. The stress, the living conditions, the silence—not like us, eh Victoria? You, me, Serhiy—we old stalkers, we can handle it.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Victoria gently. “We’ll sort it out.”

“You know, it doesn’t matter if this project is done late, as long as it is done right. You know? Screw Octra. Screw their profits. They don’t matter to me at all. What matters is the Carapace. Getting it finished and making sure that once it is in place it stays there. Permanently.”

“Don’t let Swan hear you talking like that,” advised Victoria. “Octra’s all he’s got.” She stood up. “If you look up ‘company man’ in the dictionary, you’ll see his picture.”

Osterberg grunted. “If I look up dorftrottel in the dictionary, I will see his picture, too. Are you going to bed?”

“I am if I can find it. Any idea where it is?”

Osterberg shrugged. “Serhiy will have organised something. Serhiy!”

The nervous technician appeared in the shelter’s doorway as his name was called, and stood there polishing his spectacles while Victoria said goodnight to her mentor. She felt bad to be leaving him on his own. As she left, she looked back. He remained seated, his hulking form hunched over the table. He seemed to be listening intently—but Victoria could hear nothing except for the leaves, muttering in the breeze.

Serhiy led her back through the encampment towards the ruins of the hotel. He even fidgeted while walking, Victoria noticed. She tried to strike up a conversation with him, to put him at his ease.

“So, Serhiy, how long have you been with Wolfgang? I don’t remember you from when I was here before.”

“Three years. Before that I work at Zhovti Vody, where I am born.”

Victoria nodded, signalling that she was familiar with the notorious name. The prairie town of Zhovti Vody was the site of another latent nuclear horror: a Cold War uranium mill that still broadcast cancer through the local population and filled their homes with invisible radon gas. In 2003 the government had finally ordered environmental restoration work there. She guessed that was how Serhiy had cut his teeth, before being recruited into the Zone of Alienation.