Chapter 5

Rafe Simpson did not look like your stereotypical research scientist, he more closely resembled the linebacker, or wide-receiver for a professional football team. His 255 lbs. were well distributed on his six and a half foot frame, and it took only a glance to determine that very little, if any, of the weight could be attributed to fat. He played college ball, but his real love was the nuclear metallurgical research to which he had dedicated his life. He gained his Bachelor's Degree in Nuclear Engineering from the University of Texas fourteen years ago, and it was his research team at the Fermi Institute for Nuclear Research, which discovered, actually were the first to isolate Element 123. The grant he worked under described his line of research as " A Search for Positive Applications for the Residue From Fission Reactors. "

The grant was necessary, not only for the funding it provided, but more importantly it gave him access to Nuclear Waste material. The use of NW, Nuclear Waste, was an extremely touchy subject because of the Toxic Waste Act of 1990. The TWA90 made it all but impossible to access the tons of nuclear waste that were produced in atomic power plants around the country, and made the production of atomic power enormously more expensive. The cost of the treatment that must be made to every iota of radioactive material, not to mention the cost of the federally mandated reservations, made the building of new plants fiscally impossible, as well as physically extremely difficult. Already existing plants were kept in operation through concessions the President wrested from the rabidly anti atomic Democrats in Congress. Those concessions allowed existing plants until 2020 to be completely in line with TWA90 directives, and allowed the establishment of federally funded groups like the one in which Rafe had had a part.

The methods of production of Element 123 are considered a national secret. Any disclosure of these methods is punishable as directed under the National Secrets Act of 1990.

After eight years of eighty hour weeks Rafe was forced, via sheer mental fatigue, to dip into his twenty-odd weeks of accumulated vacation time. His plan was to spend the month of April fishing the manmade lakes of East Texas. As his luck would have it, he found himself stuck in the middle of nowhere on the first day of his repose. "If you must be picky," he thought to himself, " an absolutely dead American four-wheel-drive Wonder Wagon."

The burnished, silver-white Ford Bronco became stuck on the pipeline, cum road, Rafe chose to get himself back on the way to his first stop on the month long interregnum, Lake Wright Patman. He arrived at the city of Texarkana in good shape, but took a wrong turn in the city and ended up well east of town instead of southwest as he had planned. Then, instead of leaving the vehicle and going to look for help, he attempted to free himself. He succeeded only in running out of gas. It was late enough by then to discourage an attempt to trek back to civilization in the dark Instead, he set up camp in the open area, cooked himself some freeze-dried stew, and spent a mostly comfortable night curled warmly in his sleeping bag.

He was awaken by the sound of dirt bikes just after dawn, and then again by a larger number of two cycle engines shortly after seven. They were close by both times, but an unnaturally thick ground fog prevented him from attracting their attention. He cursed the fog for preventing his rescue, and went through the necessary routine of camp policing and breaking his fast with hot coffee and a double handful of trail mix. He retracted his curses when heavy gunfire broke out from the direction the two groups had taken. He didn't know what had happened, but was entirely sincere in his desire not to find out.

He wasted no time while hurriedly packing up the gear he would take with him, and set out into the woods parallel to the pipeline. He had only reached the crest of the hill behind his camp when the stillness of the forest was again shattered by a single shot and then the reports of an even wider range of guns.

He dove into the heavier brush he had first skirted. Without a conscious decision he began to assemble the AR-7 Camp Gun he had chosen not to leave unguarded in the Bronco. The little .22 caliber rifle, brought along as an after thought, was a reassuring equalizer with the sounds of gunfire so near. Had he stopped to rationalize his next move, it may have been much different. Had he retreated back to the pipeline, he would have soon been out of danger entirely. Had he even just continued on the path, or in the direction he at first chosen, he would have been totally unaffected by further events of the morning. But, his curiosity prevailed and he stalked the sounds of gunfire.

Less than two hundred loping strides along the ridge leading into home hill, brought a pair of scruffy youngsters into view thirty yards ahead. Both teenagers were armed, and their attention was focused away from Rafe. They lay in wait, watching for something, someone to come down the trail.

The firing stopped, but sounds of hurried movement drew closer from somewhere past the waiting pair. Rafe rested the 16 inch barrel of the dull gray gun on the trunk of a fallen sweetgum, and took preparatory aim on the larger of the two teenagers. His original intention, to challenge the pair after taking his protected position, but as he was prepared to shout his challenge a gruesome trio burst thru the brush just past them, and the pair opened fire. Rafe didn't stop to think about whom he should side with, he just pulled the little auto's trigger, and emptied the seven round magazine into the backs of the two ambushers. He rolled to his left and fumbled with the catch to free the magazine, then fumbled as he sought to insert a replacement into the small gun. "It actually takes longer to load the bastard, than it did to empty it." He mouthed under his breath while struggling with the rifle. He paused, and realized he was attempting to insert the clip with the bullets facing the stock, instead of the barrel. He reversed the clip and pushed it home, took a quick glance over the mossy trunk, and cursed when he saw the three ambushed by the two bastards were a pair of women in nursing uniforms, and a kid who couldn't have yet seen his eighteenth birthday.