Tokamak

 

Western Pacific Ocean

 

Terry kicked the sheets away in frustration.  Despite having gone to bed more than three hours ago, she could not sleep, her concern over her father refusing to allow her mind to rest.

She looked at the digital clock:  2:38 a.m..

The hell with it . . .

She climbed out of her cot and unlatched toe cabin's porthole, breathing in the brisk night air.

Go for a walk.  Clear your mind and cool off.

She slipped into her jogging suit and opened the door to her cabin, carrying her tennis shoes in hand.  Barefoot, she entered the deserted corridor, emerging five minutes later on the starboard deck of the Goliath.

She pulled her shoes on and began walking at a brisk pace.  A tapestry of stars sparkled against a black velvet sky, soothing her soul.  Unexpectedly, an ocean breeze whipped across the deck, sending shivers down her spine, breaking the trance.  Pulling the jogging suit up around her ears, she stared at the Goliath 's pyramidlike superstructure rising above her head and listened to the cold wind as it howled through the maze of steel.

She passed a steel turret, the remains of what had been the missile cruiser's thirty-millimeter Gatling guns.  Continuing forward, she crossed the wide-open space of deck leading to the Goliath 's massive bow, the only visible structure being a series of steel hatches that had once covered several dozen missile silos.

Terry leaned against the bow's guardrail, staring at the lead-gray sea.  Four years ago her brother, D.J., had descended into the Trench with Jonas, only to be devoured by a species of shark her family now earned a living exploiting.  She and her brother had been so close.  How could so much have changed so quickly?

The wind blew tears across her face.  She thought about her father, how the last few years had aged him.  The Tanaka lagoon had been his life's dream—an aquarium so large that a pod of whales could swim in and out without restriction.  Not only would the facility never house a single cetacean, but financial difficulties over the Megalodon's capture had forced her father to turn over control of his organization to Benedict Singer.  It had been the final straw that had crushed his spirit.

She thought about Jonas, realizing she had probably been a bit harsh.  Her husband had suffered as much as anyone, yet, for some reason, her love for him had grown cold over the last year.  Deep down she knew she still blamed him for the loss of her stillborn, as well as her father's diminishing health.  She wondered if their relationship was salvageable.

Terry's teeth began chattering from the cold.  Turning to head back, she heard the sound of hydraulics coming from one of the steel hatches.  Ducking behind a wall of stacked life rafts, she watched three men in white lab coats emerge from what appeared to be a stairwell built within one of the missile silos.

The men stretched, inhaling the night air as if they had been below for quite some time.  Terry heard dialect that sounded Russian.  One of the men removed a bottle of vodka from his lab coat, took a massive swig, then offered the bottle to his comrades.  They waved him off, heading aft without him.

The man with the vodka spotted the stacks of life rafts.  Barely able to stand, he removed a small device from his breast pocket and aimed it at the open stairwell, swearing aloud until the hatch sealed.  Then he drained the remains of the bottle and staggered toward the spot where Terry was hiding.

She moved to the opposite side of the stack, remaining out of sight.  The Russian collapsed on deck, leaning back against one of the life rafts.

Several minutes passed.  The man began snoring.  Terry emerged from hiding and leaned over him, gagging at his breath.  She stared at the hideous scar slicing horizontally across the base of the man's throat.  The she noticed the remote-control device in his hand.

Gently she pried open his fingers.  The man stirred.  She froze as he opened his eyes halfway and flashed her a drunken smile.  "U minya tasnit—"  He passed out.

Terry removed the device from his hand and looked around.  The foredeck was deserted.  Moving to the sealed hatch, she pressed the green button on the remote control.  The hatch lifted, revealing a steel stairwell that disappeared below deck.  A shot of adrenaline coursed through her.  She recalled the words she had spoken only days ago to her father:  Dad, how much do you trust Singer?

Descending several steps, she turned around and pressed the red button, sealing the hatch behind her.

The hum of a powerful generator filled her ears, the noise coming from somewhere down below.  She descended two flights of stairs, coming to a sealed door.  Terry turned the circular housing counterclockwise, then pulled the hatch open, revealing a brightly lit, antiseptic-white corridor.

She secured the door behind her and moved quickly down the passageway. At the end of the hall was an imposing steel security door.  She felt disappointed, realizing that a personal identification card was necessary in order to enter.

Swearing under her breath, she turned to head back down the corridor when a loud buzz startled her.  The hydraulic door began opening outward.

Oh, shit, what have you gotten yourself into.

Totally exposed with no time to flee, Terry squeezed out of sight behind the steel door as it swung open with a metallic hiss.  She flattened herself against the adjacent wall, the back of the door pressing tightly against her face and chest.  She heard men's voices speaking in an Arabic dialect, diminishing as they continued down the corridor.

Terry felt the security door crushing her rib cage when the pressure ceased, the door retreating away from her face.  Without hesitation, she slipped inside, the door locking into place behind her.

She had entered a large lounge.  To her left, several chairs and sofas faced a big-screen television and VCR.  To her right, a kitchenette with sink, microwave, and refrigerator.  Directly ahead was a closed door.

She pulled it open gently.  A blast of humidity hit her square in the face.  To her surprise, she found herself standing in a large locker room.  Sinks and toilets to her left, lockers on the right, a passage leading into the showers directly ahead.

She heard men's voices in the showers.

Terry exited the locker room, only to hear the familiar buzz of the steel security door reopening.  Racing back into the locker room, she ducked into one of the toilet stalls and locked the door.  Heart racing, she sat on the seat, drawing her feet up to her chest, praying that no one would notice her.

Several minutes passed.  Terry heard the slapping of bare feet against tile.  Peering through the crack between the door and frame, she saw a naked man standing directly in front of her stall, facing the sinks.  Dark-complexioned, with thick mats of black hair along his back, he turned on the water and proceeded to shave.  Another man spoke to him in Arabic from the changing area.

The Arab finished shaving and moved out of sight.  The men continued speaking, occasionally laughing.  Moments later, Terry heard them exit the locker room through the lounge door.

She waited another few minutes.  Then, drenched in sweat, she opened the stall door and tiptoes out of the bathroom.  The locker room was empty, but she could hear the television playing in the lounge.

Damn . . .

Trapped, she walked past the shower stalls, entering a small alcove ending at a watertight door mounted within a framework of rubber insulation.  Above the door was a white sign with red lettering, its message written in English, Russian, German and Arabic:

"WARNING:  ALL PERSONNEL MUST SHOWER BEFORE ENTERING LAB."

Terry pulled hard on the door, which opened outward, a powerful hiss of air pushing at her back.  What kind of lab is designed to prevent air from escaping?  Is Benedict dealing with viruses?

She stepped into an antechamber, which appeared to be a changing area.  White tile lined the floor, walls, and ceiling.  Stacks of fresh towels sat on shelves above two large laundry baskets and a row of benches.  Suspended from hooks were dozens of pressurized bodysuits.

At the end of the room was another pressurized door with a warning sign posted above it:

"NO ONE MAY ENTER TOKAMAK LAB WITHOUT A PRESSURIZED SUIT."

Sweat poured down her face, her nerves quivering from the tension.  She swore at herself, wishing she had remained in her room.  She also realized she should have urinated while in the bathroom stall.

You came this far.  Finish it.

Searching the racks, she found one of the smaller pressurized suits and laid it on the ground.  Removing her shoes, she stepped into the suit, slipping her feet into the attached rubber boots.  Pulling the rest of the bulky suit onto her shoulders, she tucked her shoes into her jogging-suit pockets, then slid her arms into the sleeves, struggling to push her fingers all the way into the attached rubber gloves.

Terry reached behind her neck and pulled the hooded headpiece into place, then zipped the front of the suit up.  A popping sound filler her ears. The faceplate steamed up, blinding her.  She unzipped the suit, gasping, then noticed an orange hose attached to a machine along one wall.  Resealing the zipper, she grabbed the end of the hose and connected it to a valve on her suit.

A rush of air filled her ears as the suit inflated around her, clearing her faceplate.  She detached the hose, then opened the pressurized door and stepped inside.

Terry gawked at her new surroundings.  She was on a narrow catwalk towering five stories above a vast interior that spanned the entire forward compartment of the Goliath.  What had once been vertical launching silos had been gutted out, creating a ten-thousand-square-foot high-tech chamber, the centerpiece of which was an enormous object, shaped like a giant metallic ring.

Terry gripped that rail in front of her, unsure of what to do next.

Two technicians exited the strange object.  Both wore pressurized suits and air tanks.  One looked up in her direction.  Terry waved and they moved on.  She proceeded down the spiral flight of stairs, wondering how she had gotten herself into this mess.

She approached the doughnut-shaped vacuum chamber, an enormous circular tube of steel towering twenty feet above the floor.  Thick copper coils encircled its outer hull.  Numerous cables ran from the machine, attaching to computer terminals and high-tech equipment situated around the perimeter.  Within the farther recesses of the lab were massive generators, their deep thrumming sounds causing the steel floor to vibrate beneath her feet.

Terry looked around.  The two technicians were nowhere to be seen.  She located a computer terminal whose monitor was on and sat down, engaging the mouse.  A program menu appeared:

 

GTI TOKAMAK

 

Alpha Particles                             Electromagnetic Force

H-mode                                       Ionization Chamber

Magnetic Well                             Neutral Beam Injectors

Neutron Energy Absorber            Particle-in-cell (PIC) program

Passive safety systems                  Poloidal Field Plasma Current

Primary Transformer                    Reactor Fuels:              Deuterium

Superconducting Magnets                                                Tritium

Target chamber                            Toroidal Field Coils

Turbulence                                   Vacuum vessel

 

Terry looked up from the monitor.  The technicians had returned and were staring at her from across the room.  One motioned to the other.  They approached.

Terry stood, realizing that the air within her pressurized suit was diminishing.  Walking casually toward the spiral staircase, she kept her head low to hide her face.  The men followed her.  Nearing the stairs, she broke into a run, climbing two steps at a time.

Men's voices shouted in her headpiece, first in Russian, then in English.  "Whoever you are, stop now!  Identify yourself."

Terry reached the catwalk, out of breath.  She lunged for the pressurized door, her pursuers gaining on her.  Passing through the changing area, she reached the pressurized door and pulled it open, stumbling awkwardly into the showers, her rubber boots skidding out from under her.  She fell hard onto her back and slid across the wet floor.

Russian voices filled her ears.

Get up, girl—move your ass!

Regaining her feet, Terry ran into the lounge.  Four men, all dressed in surgical gowns, looked up from the television.

Concealing her face with her gloved hands, Terry darted through the lounge to the security door, searching desperately for the means of opening it.  She located a green button and pushed it as the Russian technicians came bolting out of the locker room.

Terry squeezed through the door and ran through the connecting corridor.  She pushed open the watertight door and ducked inside, smashing her forehead painfully against the steel casing.  Slamming the door closed behind her, she secured the hatch as the Russian voices grew louder in her ears.

As she dragged herself up two flights of stairs, Terry began stripping the pressurized suit from her body.  Her lungs ached from the physical exertion; her heart pounded in her ears.  At the top of the stairs, she reached for the remote control in her jogging suit, groaning as she felt it slip into her right boot.

Terry could hear the Russian technicians panting in the headpiece's earphones.  Pulling her legs free of the pressurized suit, she reached into the boot for the remote, then pressed the green button.  The hatch swung open above her head.

The Russians pushed through the watertight door, ascending the stairs as Terry emerged on deck.  She turned and sealed the hatch behind her, still dragging the pressurized suit.

The drunk!

She ran to the life rafts, relieved to find the man passed out on deck.  She pulled his shoes off, then shoved his feet into the boots, working the suit up his back.

She heard the hatch opening.

Terry shoved the man's arms roughly into the suit's sleeves as a half-dozen men emerged from the open hatch.

She ducked behind the pile of rafts and looked around desperately.  The foredeck was all open space.  With nowhere to hide, she ran across the deck to the rail and climbed over, clenching the lowest of the three bars as she dangled precariously along the Goliath 's outer hull, forty feet above the dark Pacific.

 

Men shouted.  They had found the drunk.

Terry pressed her bare feet against the cool steel plates.  Hand over hand, she made her way aft along the hull, her goal, to make it to an immense steel turret, all that remained of one of the missile cruiser's big guns.

Her hands and feet were numb, her fingers too small to wrap completely around the rail.  After twenty feet she had to stop.  Pulling herself up, she squeezed between the railing, hearing men running on deck.

Terry crawled along the outside of the turret, remaining out of sight.  Now only forty feet of open deck lay between her and the ship's superstructure.

Crawling on hands and knees, she reached the maze of steel and climbed up to the next deck.  Hearing activity below, she entered the ship, then ascended another level.

Five minutes later she arrived at the entrance to C deck.  Hearing voices, she peered around the corridor.  Benedict Singer was in his bathrobe, speaking with the two Russian technicians from the lab.  They were standing in front of her stateroom, glancing at her door.

Terry hurried back outside and crawled along a narrow deck situated beneath her cabin.  Looking up, she verified that the porthole of her stateroom was still open.

Okay, you can do this.

She jumped, wincing as her raw, numb fingers gained a grip along the outer edge of the open porthole.  Pushing her feet against the rail to gain leverage, she shoved her head through the hole, the rest of her body still dangling outside.

Her shoulders were too wide to squeeze through.

She heard a knock on the door.

Terry pulled her head out, slid one arm through the porthole, then pushed her head back through the opening.  Wiggling and twisting her shoulders, she managed to squeeze inside, falling headfirst in a heap on the cabin floor.

The knock came again, this time louder, more urgent.

"Just a minute—"

Terry closed the porthole, then stripped off her jogging suit.  Naked, she tore a sheet off the bed and wrapped herself in it, concealing her bleeding fingers and dirty feet.

She opened the door, feigning grogginess.  "Is it time to leave already?"

Benedict and the two technicians looked at her.

"No, my dear, not yet," Benedict said.  "We had a little disturbance earlier and just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"What kind of disturbance?"

His penetrating emerald eyes shot Terry an icy glare, then caught sight of the back wall.  "It's not important.  Go back to bed."

Terry gave a tired smile and closed the door.  She paused to listen, hearing Benedict spout orders in Russian to his men before closing his own door.  Satisfied, she limped over to her own bed.  She was cold, sore, and felt utterly exhausted.

What was Benedict hiding?

Too tired to care, she lay down, smiling at her own daring.  Just before drifting off, she reached for a pen and pad of paper off the night table.  She scrawled the word "TOKAMAK," then tore away the sheet, crumpling the paper into one of her shoes.

A minute later, she fell into a restless sleep, unaware of the trail of black fingerprints she had left along the porthole wall.