Reckless: a book tied to the Cotton Creek Saga (Shattered 1) Read online

  The voice of the demon whispered in her ear, its breath hot against her skin. “You will surrender. Eventually. Completely. You will be mine. Forever.”

  Before she could respond, she jerked awake, finding herself sitting in the wooden chair by the table on Joe’s porch. Sobs wracked her body from the pain and grief of the dream. Joe sat in the chair across from her, watching silently.

  When she’d composed herself and dried her face, he spoke to her. “What do your dreams tell you?”

  She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was to talk or think about that horrible dream. It didn’t tell her a damn thing except that she wanted Cord to get the hell home.

  Chapter Three

  Washington, D.C.

  Cord leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It’d taken several hours of note comparison and questioning before the entire story emerged. Now that he had the facts, he needed to evaluate how best to proceed. No matter that McGuire was sitting at his desk staring at him, Cord wasn’t going to speak on the issue again until he'd thought things through.

  He smiled to himself as he remembered explaining it to Morgan when he first started developing his software. They were sitting on the back deck, watching the day give way to twilight.

  “I don’t know that much about it,” she admitted. “I mean I know uranium is used in nuclear power plants, but I didn’t know it lost its power or whatever.”

  Cord drained the remainder of his beer and put the bottle beside his chair. “Most people never give a thought to what happens in a nuclear power plant, what kind of nuclear fuel is used and what happens to the waste. Honestly, I hadn’t until I was approached about adapting my application.”

  “So, tell me.”

  He propped his booted feet on the porch rail to get more comfortable. “Okay, HLR waste, or high-level radioactive waste is primarily uranium fuel that’s been used in a nuclear power reactor and is “spent” or no longer efficient in producing electricity. Once spent, that fuel has to be removed and safely stored for disposal.

  “Spent fuel is thermally hot along with being highly radioactive and it requires remote handling and shielding. Nuclear reactor fuel contains ceramic pellets of uranium 235 inside of metal rods. Before the fuel rods are used, they’re just slightly radioactive and can be handled without special shielding.”

  “Slightly radioactive still sounds radioactive, if you ask me,” Morgan commented.

  Cord chuckled. “Yeah, but nothing like they will end up being. During the fission process, two things happen to the uranium in the fuel. First, the uranium atoms split. That’s what creates the energy used to produce electricity. The fission creates radioactive isotopes of lighter elements like strontium -90 and cesium -137. Those isotopes are called fission products, and they account for most of the heat and penetrating radiation in HLW.

  “But also, second, some uranium atoms capture neutrons that are produced during fission, and these atoms form heavier elements like plutonium. These heavier-than-uranium or “transuranic” elements don’t produce nearly the amount of heat or penetrating radiation that fission products do, but they take a hell of a lot longer to decay. Transuranic wastes, or TRU, account for most of the radioactive hazard remaining in HLW after a thousand years.”

  Morgan shuddered. “It still creeps me out every time I think about using radioactive material for anything. Seems like we’re working overtime to poison this planet.”

  “I know, but hopefully the storage protocols and maybe my application will help prevent contamination until we smarten up and start using more solar and wind.”

  “You mean if, don’t you?”

  He gave her a smile. “Optimistic much?”

  “Okay, okay, go on and 'splain it to me. No, wait. Let me grab you another beer. Be right back.”

  She got up, gave him a quick kiss and headed inside. Cord thought about how best to finish explaining. Morgan was, without a doubt, the smartest person he’d ever met. He didn’t need to get into the basics. If she had a question, she’d ask. And formulating how to explain things to someone else helped him to see things more clearly.

  “Here ya go.” She returned, handed him the beer and reclaimed her seat. “So, continue.”

  “Okay. HLW’s. They’re especially hazardous because they produce fatal radiation doses during short periods of direct exposure.”

  “Can you be a little more vague there, Cord?”

  “Hmm, yeah, okay. Ten years after being removed from a reactor, the surface dose for a typical spent fuel assembly exceeds 10,000 rem/hour.”

  “Which equates to what? Give me something I can understand to measure.”

  He looked at her as he answered. “It’s a whole lot more than the fatal whole-body dose for humans, received all at once, which is about 500 rem.”

  “Holy hell. That shit is way too dangerous.”

  “Tell me about it. If isotopes from HLWs get into groundwater or rivers, they can enter food chains.”

  “Okay, I think I’m moving from creeped out to scared here. Are you sure that stuff is being stored in a way it can’t get out?”

  “I sure as hell hope so. Right now, power plants store it in spent-fuel pools. They’re made of reinforced concrete that’s several feet thick and have steel liners. The water in the pools is at least forty feet deep, so it shields the radiation and cools the rods.”

  “Okay, but where do you come in?”

  “In the storage process. You know my tracking system was based on absorption spectrum, right?”

  “Yes, I remember all those conversations.”

  “Okay, so I calibrated the tracking for the chemical composition of the housing of the fuel rods and factored in the radiation. Using that we can virtually see every fuel rod and know when and if it is moved from a storage pool to the dry cast storage.”

  “Which is?”

  “Stainless steel canisters surrounded by concrete. Usually, fuel is cooled for at least five years in the pool before it’s transferred to cast. The NNRC certifies cast designs and licenses dry cast storage facilities for up to forty years after which the licenses and certifications can be renewed.”

  “Okay, so your system is a safeguard, so the NNRC knows where every used fuel rod is at every second of the day.”

  “Yep, in a nutshell.”

  “Well, damn, Cord, you sure took the long way home on that explanation.”

  Cord opened his eyes. At present, facilities at reactor sites at Morris, Illinois, and the Idaho National Engineering and Environmental Laboratory were licensed by the NNRC for temporary storage of spent fuel.

  The one vital bit of information that McGuire had not supplied was which facility was showing missing fuel rods. Cord pulled his tablet out of his messenger bag and accessed the application. Ten minutes later, he looked at Tom. “You’re wrong. This is the fourth time I’ve checked, and I can access every storage facility in the country.”

  “Except the new one in Andrews, Texas,” McGuire replied.

  “Pardon?”

  “Waste Control Specialists was granted permission to begin HLW storage six months ago, and we installed the system.”

  “We? We installed the system?” Cord was furious. “That’s my system.”

  “Beg to differ, but it belongs to Uncle Sam, and we can install it wherever we want for whatever we want, and we’ve got the multimillion-dollar receipt to prove it.”

  Cord had to rein in his anger. The issue wasn’t where the system had been installed but whether the installation had been performed correctly or if a mistake had been made that caused a corruption. “Look, first of all, it's not Uncle Sam's system. I sold a license for use, but I own it."

  "That's beside the point."

  Cord counted to three before speaking, just to tamp down his annoyance. "The point is, there’s no way the system failed if it was properly installed. You know as well as I, if one rod were to be moved out of a pool it would register and we could track its movements. You’re wrong.
”

  “Wrong?” McGuire jumped up from his seat and rounded the desk. “Wrong?” He repeated as he leaned over and shoved his face to within inches of Cord. “I’ll show you whose wrong, you arrogant prick.”

  Cord’s gaze locked with McGuire’s and he rose from his chair. He towered over the older man by a good six inches. McGuire took a step back and averted his eyes. Cord spoke in a slow and deceptively calm voice that belied the anger threatening to erupt. “Look, we’re both dead tired, Tom. It’s after ten, and I haven’t had but an hour’s sleep so why don’t we take a break? We’ll go over everything again this afternoon and get with the people at Andrews to get this worked out.”

  Inwardly, Cord made a vow that once he got to the bottom of things, he was going to give serious thought to walking away from this entire thing. Right now, the life of a rancher was looking pretty damn good.

  Cotton Creek, Texas

  Morgan didn’t bother to return to the house when she reached the ranch. She parked at her office and went inside. Her receptionist was on vacation this week, so she was dealing with having a temp worker.

  “Dr. Alexander. Good morning.”

  Morgan smiled at the pretty blonde, searching her memory for a name. The temp agency had mentioned it when they confirmed they were sending someone. Sandy? Yes, Sandy. “Good morning, Sandy. Any messages?”

  “Yes, you have one. Your husband called about ten minutes ago and said to tell you to get to Washington asap. He said it’s urgent.”

  “Are you sure?” Morgan couldn’t imagine why Cord would want her to come to Washington. “You’re sure it was Cord?”

  “Well, I’ve never spoken with him, but he said very plainly that he was your husband, Cord Alexander and – wait a minute, I wrote down exactly what he said. It’s right here somewhere – oh yeah, here it is. He said tell Morgan to get the first flight to Washington. I need her here now. Tell her it’s urgent.”

  That message pushed all thoughts of her dream to the foreground. “Call and cancel all my appointments, Sandy and apologize. Say it’s a sudden family emergency. Once you do that, you can go. I have your cell number, right?”

  “Uh no, I don’t think so.”

  “But you have mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then text me, and I’ll keep in touch and let you know if you need to come in tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Morgan headed back out to her Jeep and then on to the house. She remembered the promise she made to Cord about his car and grabbed her cell phone. The call was answered in two rings.

  “Alexander Enterprises, this is Carla. How may I help you?”

  “Carla, hi. It’s Morgan. I need to speak with Slats. Oh, and while I’m on with him would you mind calling to see how soon you can get me on a flight to D.C? Put it on Cord’s company card.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of it. Hold on.” The reply was followed by piped music. By then Morgan had reached the house. She parked in front and went inside, headed straight for the bedroom.

  A voice came on the line. “Mor-gahn,” Slats drawled in his Jamaican accent. “How are you, girl?”

  Morgan got quickly to the point. “In a hurry. Listen, I need a favor if you can. Cord left his car at the county executive airport, and it’s supposed to go in for service today. Could you get someone to take you over to get it and take it to the dealership? He can pick it up when he gets home.”

  “Can do.”

  “Thanks, Slats. I owe you.”

  Carla cut in. “Morgan, the next flight leaves in a little over three hours in San Antonio. They had two seats open, so I was able to book you into first class.”

  “Thanks, Carla.”

  Morgan turned her attention to cramming things into an overnight bag. She’d feel a lot more comfortable if she could just figure out why Cord wanted her to come to Washington and what she was supposed to do once she got there.

  Washington, D.C.

  The ride to the hotel was quiet, but Cord felt tension like stale air filling the car. The driver parked in front of the hotel entrance and got out to open Cord’s door. Cord nodded to Tom, thanked the driver and went inside to register. Once in his room, he put a hold on the much needed and much-wanted shower, to call Morgan.

  As the connection was made, he checked his watch and muttered. “Damn, it’s after ten.”

  The phone rang only once before voicemail picked up. “Hey, it’s me,” he said as soon as the message ended. “This is the first chance I’ve had to call. I’m at the Hilton. You know, the one I usually stay in. Anyway, I’m in 421. I’m gonna shower and crash. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call before I go back to Tom’s office this afternoon. I love you.”

  The moment he finished leaving the message, he headed for the shower. He emerged twenty minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist to discover he wasn’t alone. There were two men in his room.

  A blond man who had to be at least 6’3” stood in front of the window, looking out through a part in the drapes. A much shorter, dark-haired man with hard eyes was positioned in front of the exit door. The blond man turned in Cord’s direction. “Mr. Alexander?”

  Cord’s mind went into a whirl. Was he about to be robbed, shot or killed? Who were these men and what were they doing in his room? How did they know his name? “Yes,” he replied warily.

  “I’m Special Agent Mark Samuels with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and this is my partner, Special Agent Workman.” Samuels reached into his jacket pocket as he spoke and pulled out his identification.

  Since he felt the need to gather his wits, Cord walked over to take the identification. It appeared real but how the heck would he know? He returned the ID to Samuels then gestured toward the suitcase on the bed. “Mind if I dress? Talking to the FBI naked just seems wrong.”

  “Sure, Mr. Alexander, take your time.” Samuels settled his tall frame into the chair beside the bed.

  “So,” Cord said as he pulled on a pair of black slacks. “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing in my room?”

  “Well?” He asked when there was no answer. That kind of rubbed him the wrong way, but then Samuels did that anyway. It didn’t make any sense, Cord had an immediate dislike for the man.

  “Mr. Alexander, we’d like you to accompany us to the Bureau. There are some questions we need to ask you.”

  “About what?” Cord finished dressing and looked around for his phone. He didn’t have a clue why the FBI would want to question him. “And why can’t you ask your questions now?”

  “It will all be explained when we get to the Bureau. Now if you’ll be so kind as to come with us.” Samuels stepped around Cord and made a sweeping motion with his hand as if to usher Cord to the door.

  “I don’t guess I have time to brush my teeth or order something from room service?”

  “No, sir, you don’t. Now, if you please.” Samuels motioned to his partner who opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  Cord looked from the man waiting in the hall to Samuels. Oh well, what the hell.

  As they emerged from the front entrance of the hotel Cord felt for his cell phone. He usually kept it clipped to his waistband. Then he checked his back pocket. “Hey guys, I forgot my wallet and phone. Wait right here, and I’ll run to my room and get them.”

  He turned to go back into the hotel, but Samuels reached out and grasped his arm. “We don’t have time for that, Mr. Alexander.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Cord jerked his arm from Samuel’s grasp. Lack of sleep and a grumbling stomach was starting to make him ill-tempered. “I’ll only take a minute, and I’ve got to get something to eat soon.”

  “No problem. We’ll spring for lunch.”

  Cord gave in and strode off behind the silent Agent Workman, followed closely by Samuels. The situation was making him feel very ill at ease.

  The car was a dark blue Ford. Workman unlocked the car and opened the rear door for Cord. Cord g
ot in and watched as Samuels got into the passenger seat. Workman started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to take Connecticut down to K Street and then 14th?" Cord asked when they took a left onto T Street.

  Until then Workman had not uttered a word. “Just sit back and let me do the driving, Alexander.”

  “Sure thing.” Cord sat back, watching the two men in the front seat. Something about Samuels still nagged at him. It was odd for him to have an immediate dislike for anyone. All he could attribute it to was what Morgan would call bad chemistry.

  As he contemplated his aversion to Samuels, he noticed that Workman kept glancing into his rear-view mirror and then into the side mirror. The frequency of his actions made Cord curious, so he turned and looked out of the rear window.

  “What’s so interesting?” Samuels asked.

  “Nothing.” Cord turned around and caught Workman looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

  With nothing to occupy himself with except worry, which was unproductive, Cord looked around for something to focus on. The dash of the car caught his attention. There were few options on the car. It was equipped with air conditioning, a basic sound system and there was a radio installed under the dash.

  Cord wasn’t familiar with that sort of thing, so he had no idea if the radio was new, old, good or bad, but he did figure out one thing. The radio definitely didn’t work. From where he sat in the back seat, he could see wires hanging loose.

  By that time, they were on 16th Street. Workman continued to look in the rear-view mirror and drove at an average of five miles per hour under the speed limit. Samuels didn’t appear to be paying attention. He just stared out of the side window and chain-smoked.

  He did, however, suddenly seem to notice where they were and looked over at Workman. “Taking the scenic route?”

  “Just avoiding traffic.” Workman looked again in the rear-view mirror.

  Samuel’s gaze followed Workman’s glance then he turned in his seat and looked back. Cord did the same, trying to figure out what had the agents’ attention. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Traffic was light. A white Honda with a woman driver was behind them and following her was a black Audi with dark tinted windows.