The Wind Guardian

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Cameron raced down the narrow streets of San Roque heading for Jack's house, knowing full well he was late. Having stopped to fill his gas tank and engaging in a conversation about crossbows with the station attendant, he had lost another twenty minutes. Glancing at his wristwatch now, he noted it was nearly 9:40 p.m.—later than usual.

He stared blankly out the windshield.

Damn it! Why am I always doing this to myself?

Nearly passing Second Street, he slammed on the brakes, slid halfway through the intersection, revved the engine, threw it in reverse, and sped down Second Street, passing the flashing neon sign: Sea Gypsy Apartments.

As he pulled along the curb at Jack's little beach house, he saw that the porch-light was off.

Not a good sign, he thought

He leaped from his car, walked briskly to the porch, and knocked. When there was no answer he tried the buzzer, ringing it incessantly, and then tried pounding on the door—still nothing. He leaned far over to the side of the porch and tried peering through the front window, but the curtains were completely drawn. He tried the door knob but it was locked.

There was that inevitable sinking sensation.

He left without me!

Cameron left the porch in a hurry, not thinking to check the carport. Back in his little Honda, he raced down the small streets of San Roque. He made a couple quick turns and got on to the Coast Road, heading out toward San Roque Gate, the main gate of the power plant, a couple miles away.

Think of what you're going to say, he thought, nervously thumbing the steering wheel. It's best to have a plan.

John Harkin, his hard-driving, by-the-book Supervisor, had already placed him on notice for excessive tardiness, absenteeism, and various other work-related misconducts. Cameron's only saving grace was that when he wanted to work, and took it serious, he was damn good at it. And Harkin knew it.

Still, he was near the end of his rope, Cameron knew, and despite the fact that he hated his job, he needed it. And there was Grace too. The job provided him time with her, although it was strictly monitored time; monitored by surveillance cameras and motion detectors, and if there was to be any future between them, he was going to need a job.

Indebtedness is a good thing, Cameron thought, as he motored along.

He recalled several instances where he had come to Supervisor Harkin's aid, and hoped, now, that Harkin would remember them.

Harkin owes me, he thought. No matter what he has to say about me being late, he owes me!

There was that time with Kelly Murphy. Yes! How could he forget that?

The supervisors had commenced a competition between themselves on who could get their crews firearm qualified quickest, and with the highest average score. It was an annual event; a requirement of the State. As usual, Supervisor Harkin's crew had fired top-notch, and swiftly. Three of the five of the Security Force's top sharpshooters were among his shift, including Cameron. But the exception was Kelly Murphy. She just lacked the natural agility to fire a handgun. And, with the specific wish of the higher-ups to have women in armed positions, and for them to qualify first—a wish inline with affirmative action and political correctness—it was imperative that Kelly succeed. Upon Harkin's request, Cameron took Kelly under his wing, and trained her, in a different way than Harkin, in his own direct but non-threatening style. In the end, not only had she qualified, but she qualified highest among all female officers. It was a huge feather in Harkin's hat.

Also, Cameron now recalled, there was the incident of the NRC quarterly meeting. The 'NRC' or Nuclear Regulatory Commission, the federal watchdog agency charged with the task of controlling, regulating, and monitoring everything nuclear, scheduled quarterly meetings, and this particular one, to be held at the power plant, was to include the local congressman.

“Some clown,” as Harkin described, had called in a bomb threat to a local hospital, advising them to get “one hundred cots ready.”

Cameron was consequently asked to double-back from his midnight shift and stand post on a mountaintop with a pair of binoculars and a high-caliber rifle. His orders were simply to observe and report any unusual activity in the back country.

Despite the short notice and lack of sleep, Cameron accepted cheerfully, without complaint. In fact, he didn't mind it at all. He got paid time-and-a-half and spent most of the day watching migrating grey whales through the high-powered scope.

As Cameron sped along the Coast Road, he could see the white crashing waves of the Pacific flashing beneath him. In the distance the lighthouse flashed, there at the very tip of the promontory. As he neared the power plant's main entrance, he saw some activity at Port San Miguel, which lay just beyond. A group of fishermen had come in late and were hoisting their small boat from the water onto the landing platform.

Cameron zoomed around the corner into the short approach road. A solitary figure sat in the guard booth—a small, eight-by-six, four-windowed box just large enough to fit one guard on a high stool, some gear, and a shelf for coffee and log books.

Ahead was the brightly illuminated access to Mal Loma Nuclear Power Plant. There was a kiosk along side the guard booth with two toll-barriers resembling a railroad crossing. Flood-lamps perched atop high-rise poles, similar to the lighting provided at a ball park, flooded the area in a thirty-yard radius. On either side of the entrance were ten-foot high cyclone fences, topped with overturned rolls of razor-wire. A large, illuminated sign posted on the right roadside left no doubt of the property's ownership and restricted access:

MAL LOMA NUCLEAR POWER PLANT

Pacific Alliance Power Company

TRESPASSING STRICTLY PROHIBITED

Marvin Spencer, the security officer assigned gate duty tonight, wore the same finely-pressed, regal blue uniform, with the flying atoms and words 'Nuclear Security' bold across the shoulder. He stepped from the guard booth with a Mini-14 magazine-fed, combat rifle strapped to his shoulder. A field utility belt, strapped around his waist, contained a holstered handgun, a radio, a flashlight, and several ammo clips.

As Cameron pulled up to the toll-bar, he checked his wristwatch.

Twenty minutes late!

“Hey there, Marv,” Cameron greeted, as he rolled down the window.

“Harkin wants me to log your 'in-time',” Marvin said bluntly.

“What?”

“Yeah, sorry to say, but he called me and asked me to log in your time.”

Cameron frowned. “Did he say anything else?”

“No, just that; 'log in your time.'”

Shit!

Marvin leaned in and looked over at the empty passenger seat. “Where's your side kick?”

“He didn't come by already?”

“No.”

“He hasn't?”

“He hasn't. That's what I said.”

Cameron looked puzzled. He had assumed, because he was running late, Jack had left without him, and was already en route to the power plant.

“Maybe someone's in deeper s**t than you?” Marvin said. “That's always a good thing, ya know.”

Cameron glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He nervously swept his hand back through his already-combed hair. “Can you give me ten minutes, buddy?” he asked.

“Sorry, I can't do that. Harkin knows how long it takes from the gate.”

“Come'on buddy.”

Marvin gazed up the access road, thoughtfully. “Five minutes,” he said. “That's the best I can do. Five minutes.”

“Thanks,” Cameron replied. “That's better than nothing.” He stared straight up the road. “Have fun.”

Marvin nodded an acknowledgement, went back inside the guard booth, and lifted the toll gate.

Cameron accelerated up the winding access road, feeling doomed. He was still several miles from the power plant, and he knew Harkin was in 'documentation' mode, building an employee disciplinary docket or worse yet, a termination case under the Fair Labor Standards Act.

It was Harkin's way not to take it personally, he thought, just log the facts and drop the axe. I'm as good as fired. Thanks for all, boss!

Adding insult to injury, two departing coworkers, driving home from their swing shift, passed him. And as they did so, they honked their horns, as if letting Cameron know what trouble he was in.

Cameron frowned. Thanks pals!

Within minutes Cameron's little Honda crested the small mountain divide that separated San Roque Gate from the ocean on the opposite side of the promontory. Dropping down to the coastal slopes beyond, he zoomed along the steep cliffs above the smashing waves. His headlamps illuminated the road before him. Through the windshield he could see the dark, brooding ocean, speckled white with white-caps rolling out to the horizon.