Moon Rocks, page 2
“I don’t know.” Nick said after a long pause, then glanced at the moon rock sitting on his desk. “I’m still trying to figure out where the moon came from.”
Nick pushed back from his desk, stood, went to the window and stared out at a salt flat that surrounded a dry lake bed that ran all the way to the horizon and finally disappeared beneath a purple line of haze.
Staring at the broad expanse of salt always filled him with a sense of peace and timelessness. He let his eyes drift to a chain link fence that cut horizontally across the salt like a line drawn on a canvas, then dead ended next to a series of industrial looking buildings.
“Maybe it’s salt,” Nick said, turning back from the window, but Ray had already gone.
Chapter 5
The buildings that Nick had been staring at were all that remained of the Clayton Salt Mine.
The compound consisted of three large corrugated metal buildings surrounded by rusted machinery and a conveyor belt that chattered its way from the mine entrance to the top of a conical shaped mound, feeding it with freshly mined rock salt.
Scattered around in all directions were similar mounds—which looked like giant white Hershey’s Kisses—and every inch of the compound was covered in a layer of chalky dust. Heat waves from the hundred-plus degree day made the buildings appear to shiver and quake in the bright morning light.
Two hundred yards to the right of the Clayton mine was a guard kiosk with a sign that read: “STRATEGIC PETROLEUM RESERVE – GATE 3.”
Tall fences topped with razor wire ran out from each side of the kiosk. Beyond that, massive oil storage tanks, pipes, and Department of Energy workers in yellow hardhats moved around valves and gauges, checking to make sure that the 250 million barrels of crude oil stored in the salt below were safe.
A short distance up the road from the Strategic Petroleum Reserve directly on the other side of the Clayton mine was a humble-looking building with a sign that said, “WELCOME TO SALT SPRINGS CAVERN STATE PERSERVE.” And below that: “Tours by Appointment Only.”
* * * *
Inside the Clayton Salt Mine, a thousand feet below the surface, artificial light illuminated the alabaster walls of a vast, open chamber. Big as a football field, the only things breaking up the cavern were a series of large pillars that had been created by miners to support the ceiling.
Two middle-aged men dressed in coveralls and hardhats—Lucas Redmond, a six-foot-two, 200 pound black man from San Antonio and veteran sandhog who had spent the last fifteen years building the Los Angeles underground Metro Rail system, and Willie Clayton, the son of the mine’s owner—positioned a heavy electro hydraulic drill against a section of salt and buried the bit clean to the chuck in one fluid movement.
Despite the mine’s comfortable sixty-eight degree temperature, sweat streamed down their faces and the taste of salt bloomed in their mouths as they backed the drill out of the wall.
Working together, they pulled the drill free of the salt and placed it in the back of their Kawasaki Mule, an ATV runabout they used to haul their tools around.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Lucas said, smearing the salt that caked his face as he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.
Lucas and Willie were all that was left of the Clayton Salt Mine. The operation had been reduced to two men hand drilling holes in the salt, filling them with dynamite, and blasting off a few tons of salt. The salt would then be scooped into ore carts that ran on a rail to the crusher, where it would be ground up and then deposited on a conveyor belt.
The Clayton Salt Mine was a strictly old school, no frills operation. There was no multimillion dollar cutting tool sliding through tunnels effortlessly removing hundreds of tons of salt with each pass.
Long ago, most of the Clayton’s mineral holdings had been sold to the Morton Salt Company. The section that Lucas and Willie were working was soon to be condemned by the government, effectively ending the Claytons’ involvement in the rock salt business.
Lucas filled the holes they’d just drilled with Emulex, a type of dynamite suited for work in mines, then gathered up the detonation wires and ran them over to a crank box, a detonation device with a handle on top, attached the wires, and then called to Willie.
“Clear?”
“Clear.” Willie said, signaling with a thumbs up before ducking behind one of the support pillars for cover.
“Fire in the hole!” Lucas cranked the handle, there was a frozen silence, and then six sticks of dynamite exploded, sending an avalanche of salt onto the mine’s floor, filling the chamber with thick clouds of smoke and dust.
Five minutes later, after the air had cleared, Willie moved in to inspect the blast site. Navigating around car-sized chunks of salt, he assessed the take, calculating how many tons would need loading, and suddenly stopped when a flat rock about the size of his hand caught his eye.
Willie crouched, dug the rock out of the salt, and blew across the top, exposing a perfect likeness of some ancient predatory fish—a fossil. Well, half a fossil, anyway; the blast had broken it in two. Willie studied the sea creature’s needle sharp teeth, row after deadly row, then let out a soft whistle.
“Hey, look,” Willie said, excitedly walking over to Luke, who was adding diesel to a Bobcat loader. “Another one of them fossils.”
“Let’s have a look,” Lucas said, replacing the loader’s fuel cap.
“Some scary-looking fish thing,” Willie said, holding it out for Lucas to see. “Doc Walker’s gonna love it.”
Chapter 6
Nick shook the bottle and two aspirin dropped into his palm. He shook the bottle again, adding a third pill, then popped them in his mouth and chased them down with a slug of cold coffee. His color had returned. He was feeling mostly back to normal. But the morning’s flashback about almost having had drowned left him with a stabbing headache that had settled in behind his eyes.
Pressing on his temples to ease the throbbing, Nick stared at the moon rock sitting on his desk and shook his head. He couldn’t get over how ironic it was that it was here, in his office. His department had just spent the better part of a year modernizing the lab—positive pressure clean room, new slicing equipment, mass spectrometer, sterile glove boxes—all so that they could get certified to do analysis on lunar rocks from the Apollo missions.
He studied it a bit longer, then slipped the moon rock into its plastic bag. He was about to walk it over to their shiny new clean room for safekeeping when Ray leaned into the office and said, “Slade wants to see you in his office.”
Nick looked at Ray, and after a quick pause said, “Now?”
“Yep. He made it sound like it was important. Like he wanted to talk to you right away.”
“Great.” A lousy day made worse, Nick thought to himself, then let out a frustrated breath. “Okay, thanks. I’ll go see him.”
Ray stared at Nick a moment longer and said, “Good luck.”
Nick slipped the moon rock into a desk drawer; the nitrogen chamber would have to wait. He took another belt of stale coffee, then stepped out of his office, closing the door behind him.
He crossed a section of government issue vinyl flooring, his shoes clicking across the shiny surface, and entered a long hallway that ran to a corner office. His boss’s office.
Nick wasn’t exactly sure why Slade wanted to see him, but he figured it had to be bad news. If it were anything else, the peacock bastard would’ve called a meeting and made a big announcement to the staff, which, as of today, consisted of only four or five souls: Ray, himself; another lab tech who was in Houston for two weeks, Slade, a security guy, and Max, a German Shepherd guard dog. NASA had been dragging its feet about staffing up the lab. He had a bad feeling that that was what Slade wanted to see him about.
Nick stepped up to a set of double doors. He took a breath and knocked on the faux wood laminate. A quick beat, and then he heard Slade’s voice calling for him to come in. Nick mashed his lips into a line, pushed through the door, and stepped inside.
The office was large and spacious and lit with soft afternoon light. Apollo moon mission memorabilia filled the room. Mini Atlas rocket boosters. Apollo Command Modules. A detailed model of Armstrong’s Lunar Landing Module, Eagle. And covering the walls were framed photographs of astronauts bounding across the lunar surface under a g-force six times less than that on Earth.
If someone had just happened by and poked their head into the office, they would’ve thought the occupant had been single-handedly responsible for America’s moon missions.
Project Director Mark Slade, forty-five, blew out a cloud of water vapor and then tapped the e-cigarette as if to remove some phantom bit of ash from its plastic tip, then rocked forward, exposing a photograph of himself and Apollo 15 astronaut David Scott shaking hands, and motioned for Nick to have a seat.
“Have a seat, Walker,” Slade said, flashing a mouthful of fluorescent white domino-sized teeth.
Nick acknowledged with a nod, dropped into a chair across the desk from Slade, and thought to himself, Everything about this guy is fake—even the cigarette smoke.
Slade, dressed in a powder blue sport coat, NASA logo tie, and with mousse-slicked hair, looked more like a political spinmeister than the director of a NASA geology lab.
“You wanted to see me?” Nick said, glancing at a model of Lunar Rover 1 climbing out of a plastic impact crater that sat on a corner of Slade’s desk.
“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Walker. Your department didn’t make it.”
Nick straightened in his chair. “What are you talking about?”
“The geology department. It’s being embalmed. Collapsed. Funding for the lab dries up effective June 30th. That’s forty days from now.”
Nick gave Slade a stunned look, then after a long pause, said, “Why?”
“Budgetary reasons,” Slade said, slotting the e-cigarette between his fingers.
“That’s crazy—”
“No, Walker, it’s not. It’s called fiscal responsibility.”
“But I’m operating at a fraction of what NASA spends on most projects. ‘Frugal’ doesn’t begin to describe how we operate around here.”
“Listen, Walker, this isn’t a proposed cut—it’s a done deal.” Slade said, rocking back in his oxblood leather chair. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’m as disappointed as you are. I’ve got a dog in this fight, too.”
What a crock, Nick thought. From the minute Slade had gotten there, he’d been counting the days until he could get back to Houston—the cocktail circuit, the golf—and the chance to charm his way into another promotion.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Nick said, shaking his head. “We just spent a year modernizing the lab, and we’re doing valuable work in data analysis.”
“‘Redundant’—that’s the word the head honchos are using. Houston’s had a change of heart. Your geology department is going to be collapsed back to the Johnson Space Center.”
“Houston? Hell, by those standards, all of NASA is redundant. It’s a space program with no mission. And even if they had one, how the hell are they going to get into space? We don’t have a launch platform anymore. We’re down to begging rides on Russian rockets.”
“Well, whatever the thinking is, they’re obviously through spending millions so you and your team can slice and dice worthless bits of silica.”
“Bullshit. That’s bullshit, Slade. This isn’t about the science; it’s about a top-heavy bureaucracy that’s mismanaged itself out of funds.”
“Listen, Walker…Nick. Like I said, I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t start with the ‘how much this job means to me’ crap. You’ve been angling to get back to Houston from the moment you were appointed director. You drag around this place like it’s Siberia.”
“There is no Houston,” Slade said, a grim expression forming on his face. “At least, not for me. And yeah, I did put in a request for a transfer. It was denied. I even offered to take a demotion. All I heard were crickets.”
Slade rolled the e-cigarette in his fingers. He raised it to his lips, then stopped and added, “Things are bad.”
Nick held up a hand and ran his index finger back and forth across his thumb. “ You know what this is?”
“Yeah, yeah…I know. The world’s smallest violin playing; my heart bleeds for you. Very funny, Walker.” Slade rocked back, took a drag on the e-cig, and blew out a stream of vapor. “I’m going to ignore that. In fact, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’m working on a way to keep the lights on here. I’ll be calling in a few favors, and, with your help, we just might be able to get re-tasked. I’m talking about a new mission. Three, maybe four people max. You, me, and a couple of technicians.”
Nick gave Slade a skeptical look. Then, in a dubious voice, he said, “A new mission?”
“Right. If all goes as planned, a new antenna will be installed, and after it’s calibrated and the electronics are in place, we go online as a downrange tracking station for JPL. You’ll be in charge of maintaining equipment and doing data analysis. And I’ll be handling all the administrative duties. I should be able to confirm this in two, three weeks tops.”
After a long moment, Nick said, “Include me out. I’m a geologist, not a radar technician.”
“I’m talking about a job, Walker. A paycheck.”
“News flash—as hard as this is going to be for you to believe, it’s not about the money for me, it’s about the work.”
“Oh, Jesus. Grow up, Walker. You sound like some wide-eyed college kid. Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?”
Nick stood. “Are we done here?”
Slade looked at Nick and shook his head. He took a drag on the plastic cigarette, pulled in a lungful of water vapor, exhaled, and said, “Well, you sure as hell are.”
Chapter 7
Wide-eyed college kid. Slade’s words looped through Nick’s brain as he stood at his office window, gazing out at nothing in particular.
Maybe Slade was right. Maybe he should be grateful. Maybe he should have kissed Slade’s butt and jumped at the opportunity. God knows things were bad. The economy was in the tank, and more and more jobs were evaporating every day. He didn’t have to look any further than NASA to see the future, to see how far south things had gone. And the current crop of clowns running Washington seemed to be doing their damnedest to double down on past mistakes.
Nick turned from the window, went to his computer, and logged on. He was about to cross-reference the Spur Crater moon rock sitting in his desk with the SSPL database when he noticed a letter next to his keyboard—the one Ray had given him earlier, the one from the new teacher requesting a tour of the lab. Total hottie. That was how Ray had described her.
He unfolded the letter and read the burgundy-colored logo that ran across the top: “SALT SPRINGS HIGH SCHOOL.” And a line below that read, “Character Counts.”
He scanned the neat, to-the-point paragraph from the teacher requesting a tour of the lab. At the bottom it was signed, “Kylie Sinclair, Science Department.”
“Kylie,” Nick said, reading her name out loud. It was different. He liked the sound of it. Sounded kind of sexy. Then he thought to himself, Jesus, boy, you need to get out more. And that made him think about his ex-wife, Jenny. Correction—almost ex-wife. They’d been married for two years, and after that, they’d been getting divorced for two years. The problem was, Jenny kept going through lawyers. And Nick knew why. Boy, did he. Anyway, he’d just gotten word that the legal documents were on their way and the divorce would be final in a few days.
Nick picked up the phone and was about to dial Salt Springs High School to invite Kylie Sinclair and her students for a tour when there was a knock at the door.
“Knock, knock… Can we come in?” spoke a voice from the hall. Without waiting for an invitation, Lucas and Willie clumped into his office, both of them in overalls, both of them still covered with a fine layer of salt.
“How did you guys get past security?” Nick said, spinning in his chair to face them. “Hodges must be slipping.”
“Hodges,” Lucas said, his bass voice filling the office. “No flies on him. See him every Saturday for poker night.”
“Right,” Nick said. “The legendary Lucas Redmond Texas Hold ‘Em poker game.”
“Bingo.” Lucas grinned, the salt on his face making his teeth look butter yellow.
Most days, Nick would’ve been pleased to see Lucas and Willie, to exchange some friendly banter and catch up on the latest scuttlebutt. But not today. He wasn’t in the mood. Not after his meeting with Slade. He had some thinking to do. Some decisions to make.
“Look what I got, Doc.” Willie had insisted on calling Nick “Doc.” Officially, Nick was a doctor, but he preferred not to use the title. For a month after first meeting Willie, he had tried to get him to stop with the “Doc” treatment and just call him Nick. But he soon realized he was wasting his breath. Willie had made up his mind. Nick was “Doc.”
“Look what I found.” Willie dug into a pocket, removed the fossil, and handed it to Nick. “I found another one of them cool looking fossils.”
Nick took the fossil, gave it a quick look, then said, “Hey, guys, this isn’t a good time. I’m right in the middle of something.”
“What are you talking about? Me and Lucas humped straight over from the mine. I mean, heck, you was so worked up over the last one, I just thought—”
“Yeah, Nick,” Lucas said, giving him a ‘come on, you gotta help me out here’ look. “Tell Willie he found something.”
Nick glanced from Lucas to Willie. Willie’s eyes were locked onto him, boring into him like a birddog waiting for his master to command him to fetch something.
Nick dropped his eyes to the fossil. He turned the fine-grained sedimentary rock over in his hands. Then, after a short pause, he said, “Yeah. This is nice. It’s a good example of a mold fossil. Not sure what period. It’s a shame you only found half of it.”
