Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [105]
“You think it’s bad, don’t you?” Viv says.
Yanking free of her grip, I head for the door.
“It could be anything, right? I mean, it didn’t look like a reactor in there, did it?” Viv asks.
Still marching, I don’t slow down.
“You think they’re building a weapon, don’t you?” Viv calls out.
I stop right there. “Viv, they could be doing anything from nanotech to bringing dinosaurs back to life. But whatever’s in there, Matthew and Pasternak were both killed for it, and it’s now our necks they’re sizing the nooses for. Now you can either wait out here or come inside—I won’t think less of you either way—but unless you plan on living in a car for the rest of your life, we need to get our rear ends inside that room and figure out what the hell is behind curtain number three.”
Spinning back toward the submarine door, I grab the lock and give it a sharp turn. It spins easily, like it’s been newly greased. There’s a loud tunk as the wheel stops. The door unlatches from the inside and pops open slightly.
Over my shoulder, Viv steps in right behind me. As I glance back, she doesn’t make a joke or a cute remark. She just stands there.
I have to push the door with both hands to get it open. Here we go. As the door swings into the wall, we’re once again hit with a new smell—sharp and sour. It cuts right to my sinuses.
“Oh, man,” Viv says. “What is that? Smells like a . . .”
“. . . dry cleaner’s,” I say as she nods. “Is that what was in those canisters out there? Dry-cleaning fluid?”
Stepping up and over the oval threshold, we scan around for the answer. The room is even more spotless than the one we came from. I can’t find a speck of dirt. But it’s not the cleanliness that catches our eyes. Straight in front of us, an enormous fifty-yard-wide crater is dug into the floor. Inside the crater is a huge, round metal bowl that’s the size of a hot-air balloon cut in half. It’s like a giant empty swimming pool—but instead of being filled with liquid, the walls of the sphere are lined with at least five thousand camera lenses, one right next to the other, each lens peering inward toward the center of the sphere. The ultimate effect is that the five thousand perfectly aligned telescopes form their own glass layer within the sphere. Hanging from the ceiling by a dozen steel wires is the other half of the sphere. Like the lower half, it’s filled with thousands of lenses. When the two halves are put together, it’ll be a perfect spherical chamber, but for now, the top is still suspended in the air, waiting to be loaded into place.
“What in the hell?” Viv asks.
“No idea, but I’m guessing those things are the photomultiplier—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” someone yells from the left side of the room. The voice is grainy, like it’s being broadcast through an intercom.
I turn to follow the sound, but I almost fall over when I see what’s coming.
“Oh, Lord . . .” Viv whispers.
Rushing straight at us is a man in a bright orange hazardous-materials suit, complete with its own Plexiglas face plate and built-in gas mask. If he’s wearing that . . .
“We’re in trouble . . .” Viv mutters.
50
YOU HAVE ANY IDEA what you’ve done?” the man yells, racing toward us in the orange containment suit.
I want to run, but my legs won’t move. I can’t believe I led us into this—even the smallest amount of radiation could . . .
The man reaches toward the back of his neck, then yanks the radiation hood off his head, tossing it to the ground. “These are supposed to be clean-room conditions—you know how much time and money you just cost us?!” he shouts, raging forward. If I had to guess his accent, I’d go with eastern European, but something’s off. He’s got sunken dark eyes, a black mustache, and silver wire-rimmed glasses. He’s also much thinner than he looked when the hood was on.
“There’s no radiation?” Viv asks.
“How’d you get down here?!” the man shoots back. Ignoring our orange vests, he takes one look at our clothes. Slacks and button-downs. “You’re not even