Critical Mass

Critical Mass Read Free

Book: Critical Mass Read Free
Author: David Hagberg
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almost certainly bomb it again. He had to get away before the bombers returned.
    At the far end of the corridor the stairway was surprisingly undamaged and free of debris, though the smoke became heavier as he raced down from the third floor.
    At street level the pharmacy was burning furiously, but no one was doing anything to put out the flames. A few nurses were helping patients escape from the hospital, but there appeared to be no organized efforts at rescue yet. Everyone seemed to be in varying states of shock.
    Outside, directly in front of the hospital, a dozen people sat or lay on the grass, the clothes scorched off their bodies, their skin flash-burned and blistering.
    The only thing that Nakamura could think was that the American bomb had touched off an ammunition dump nearby, or perhaps ignited a gas works. But there seemed to be no fire concentrated in one area.
    An ambulance was overturned in the middle of the driveway, on fire as was a big, black car behind it. An American car, Nakamura realized, his stomach clutching as he pulled up short.
    His car. A Chrysler.

    â€œNo,” he shouted, leaping forward.
    He had to swing wide of the ambulance, the heat was so intense, and on the other side he had to pull up short again. There was no possibility of getting close to the Chrysler. Its gas tank had evidently ignited, spewing the synthetic fuel in the tank forward into the passenger compartment. Black, greasy smoke rose up into the dust-filled sky, and flames completely engulfed the big car.
    Suddenly enraged, Nakamura stood ten yards away from the burning car, and began hopping from one foot to the other. Burned and wounded passersby paid him absolutely no attention. People were crying for help, or for mizu— water, and others were screaming, Itai! Itai! It hurts! It hurts! It was a scene from hell.
    Gradually a familiar voice began to separate itself from the others in Nakamura’s ears. A man crying “Tasukete! Tasukete, kure!” Help, if you please!
    Nakamura turned in time to catch his driver Kiyoshi stumbling from behind the overturned ambulance. The back of his jacket and trousers had been completely burned away, as had some of his flesh. Part of his spine and a few ribs were exposed, obscenely white in contrast with his beet-red skin.
    Kiyoshi fell backwards onto the pavement, and immediately lurched onto his side, a high-pitched inhuman keening coming from the back of his throat, his burned hands outstretched as if in supplication.
    Nakamura reached him. “What happened, Kiyoshi? Where is Myeko?”
    Kiyoshi’s eyes focused on Nakamura. “Nakamura-san, what has happened?”
    â€œWhere is Myeko?” Nakamura shouted, grabbing Kiyoshi by the shoulders and shaking him. “Myeko?”
    â€œIn the car,” Kiyoshi cried. “She is dead. I could not save her. She is dead. Help me, Nakamura-san. Please help me.”
    Nakamura sat back on his haunches and looked down in contempt at his driver. There was absolutely no hope for the man. No medical science in the world could help him. Life was for the living.

    He looked up at the destruction all around him, then back at the ravaged body of his chauffeur, who had served him well for nearly ten years.
    Life was for the living, and Nakamura knew that he would be one of the survivors. At all costs.
    Somehow he would return to Nagasaki to his wife and children and to his factory and laboratory to do what had to be done before the enemy arrived.

1
    PARIS
JULY 2, 1992
    POLICE SERGEANTS PIERRE CAPRETZ AND EUGENE GALLIMARD watched as the Air Service panel truck bumped toward them along the dusty ILS access road. In the distance to the east, runway 08 was flattened in perspective because of a slight rise in the ground level, and because of the thin haze that had hung over Paris and her environs for the past two days. Farther in the distance, windows in the Orly Airport terminal building glinted and sparkled in the morning

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