Philip Hemplow - Sarcophagus

It was a dismal afternoon.

A blustery wind swept around Heathrow, and rain glittered in the runway lights as 747s and A320s lumbered awkwardly into the darkening London sky. Inside the gigantic terminal building, Victoria watched water trace bronchiolar patterns on the darkening glass of the VIP lounge.

Swan was on his phone again, reciting acronyms and glib, corporate gerunds to someone in New York. The American was young, 31 or 32, and wore his overpriced suit and supercilious attitude like armour. Victoria tried not to listen to him, or to anticipate sitting next to him for the next five hours.

In the distance she could see the glowing frown that was Wembley’s illuminated arch. Malcolm would already be on his way there with his stupid friends. England vs Ireland. Or Iceland, or possibly Israel—she couldn’t remember. He was probably already dropping his aitches, telling Les and Fat Frank his grievances in the vile, mockney accent he adopted whenever the football came on. She thought about phoning him but decided against it. She would call him from Ukraine. That way she could use the cost of the call as an excuse to hang up if he restarted their argument. Or she could just not ring him at all.

Swan finished his call and flung himself theatrically into a chair behind her. “Okay,” he began, rubbing his face vigorously to signify how complicated and important his conversation had been. “Osterberg missed the midday teleconference, but the board didn’t like what they heard from whoever they did talk to. They’ve decided we’ve got actionable compliance issues and they’ve empowered me—us—to action any staffing solutions we feel are necessary.”

“Meaning what?” asked Victoria.

“Meaning that when we get there, Osterberg gets stood down. We’ll have to keep him on site—he’s the only person qualified to play the chief safety role, and the contract says the government has to sign-off on any changes to the nuclear safety guy—but we’re taking charge. He gets to advise, I guess, but everything goes through us. We’re going to bring this home, baby, in time for Christmas!”

“You don’t think we should hear his side of the story first?” suggested Victoria. “He’s a medical doctor and a qualified nuclear engineer. We aren’t either.”

Swan was already tapping away at his Blackberry. “There are other engineers on site. He’s had his chance. He’s 19 weeks behind schedule. Won’t even tell us why! I tell you, that crap wouldn’t fly if this was an American company. You seen the penalty clauses in this contract? Three weeks from now, if they get activated, the share price is gonna shit the fucking bed.”

He tossed a pellet of chewing gum into his mouth without offering her any, and put the phone back to his ear.

“We pull this off, there’s gonna be some major fucking gratitude,” he assured her while he waited for his call to connect. “I’m talking promotions, bonuses, a seat on the board, even.”

A seat . Singular. There was no way Octra were going to put this juvenile bullshitter on the board of directors, no matter how proactive and incentivised and holistic he was. Then again, they weren’t going to give a seat to a 38-year-old woman either, she reminded herself bitterly. She had a PhD and an MBA, had overseen the construction of two brand new nuclear piles, answered questions from parliamentary select committees, and worked twelve hours every day to bring her projects in on-time and under-budget. However, she didn’t play golf, she hadn’t gone to school with half the Cabinet and no-one, least of all the President of France, knew her father. She had more chance of getting on the moon than of getting on the board.

“When we get there, we take Osterberg right out of the loop,” continued Swan, staring at her while he chewed his gum with his mouth open. “I’ve got a mandate to interface with the project teams directly, do what it takes to get them back on schedule.”

“And I’m there to do what?” Victoria met his stare and folded her arms.

“Keep Osterberg out of my way, for a start. You know him, right? Well, you’re good cop, I’m bad cop. You’re meant to liaise with the government as well, keep them from getting antsy. Maybe get them to pull the police off the site, that might be a good start.”

“The police?”

“Place is crawling with police at the moment. Militia types. Internal Troops or something.”

“The VV ? Why?”

Swan’s phone call was finally answered and he resumed jabbering into the handset without answering her question. Victoria curled her lip and went back to the window.

Interior Troops. The Vnutrisni Viys'ka . She’d seen them on parade the last time she was in Kiev, four years before, their smart blue uniforms immaculate, assault rifles clasped to their chests. She remembered Osterberg’s pawlike hand resting on her shoulder as they looked for his stepson among the marching ranks, the ground trembling as armoured personnel carriers rumbled past. The VV were not just police; they were a gendarmerie with fighting vehicles and machine guns. They took their orders directly from the office of the President, like a republican guard. Nuclear security was part of their brief—but who had called them in to the Zone?

She wondered what had happened to Osterberg. The Wolfgang Osterberg she knew was a walking stereotype of German meticulousness and efficiency. His engineering teams worshipped him, followed his orders to the letter. Now the rumour was that he had lost nine men, the Carapace project was falling apart, and he wasn’t even answering the phone.

The last time she had seen him was at Fukushima I. The two of them had been sent to the quake-stricken plant, ostensibly to offer their help with containing the multiple meltdowns, but with a brief to find potential cleanup contracts for Octra in the aftermath. Osterberg had been his usual, energised self: arguing with the TEPCO engineers, NISA, the Japanese Atomic Energy Commission, and even his translator; leading a team that inserted remote submersibles into the reactor basement, and personally repairing damaged electronics. And yet, the sense of humour she’d remembered had been absent. At the time, she’d put it down to the stress of Fukushima, but maybe it was something else.

Swan snapped his fingers to get her attention, as if she was a waitress or a beagle. He was standing up, still drawling into the phone. Victoria glared at him. He was just the kind of man who would snap his fingers at a waitress. He slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder and pointed upwards, drawing her attention to the flight being announced over the PA system. It was theirs. British Airways to Borispol. She was going back.

With his Blackberry and laptop in Flight Mode, Swan was fidgety and distracted. After some perfunctory attempts at small talk he buried himself in a book that promised to teach him Sun Tzu’s strategies for successful business administration.

Victoria gazed into the darkness beyond the cabin window and thought back to the eleven months she had spent in the Zone with Osterberg and the other ‘stalkers’—the ironic nickname that the technicians of the Complex Expedition had adopted. Days spent mapping the interior of Reactor Number 4, collecting metallurgical samples, piloting robots into areas that were too hot with radiation for their protective suits. Nights spent drinking vodka—officially forbidden—with the work crews, singing, and arguing, and playing cards. She had been just another member of the team. There were no glass ceilings in the Zone of Alienation. Eleven months she had gone without shaving her legs or armpits. The thought made her cringe now, but no one in the Zone had cared.