What if the world was faced with a terrorist’s nuclear threat, and there was no top secret agent with super-human, near-telepathic abilities standing by? What if the best people for the job were actually the laboratory scientists who had developed the appropriate diagnostic equipment? What if the decision-makers were bureaucrats who were possibly more concerned with their political careers than they were with the actual outcome?

What if the bad guys weren’t motivated by an evil desire to control the world but by circumstance and the need to provide for their families-and the device wasn’t a globe-destroying hydrogen bomb but a dusty, misplaced remnant of the Cold War?

In other words, what if the threat was real?

Guided to its termination by three distinctly different ideologies, the convergence of a series of events culminates in September, 1995, with six scientists sitting in silence deep within the Parisian catacombs, staring at an armed rogue nuclear weapon. With tens of thousands of lives hanging in the balance, they are awaiting a decision from the Control Point-a decision that they are increasingly beginning to fear might not come in time.

All heads turned as the device started to click.

CONVERGENCE

THREE WORLDS, ONE LONG AFTERNOONBy WILLIAM F. HARTMAN TERI L. HARTMAN

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 William F. Hartman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-6067-1

Chapter One

Bison

His parents named him Bryson. Bryson Baird. As with many three year olds, there was something about the letter r that defied pronunciation. So when the grinning three-foot tall Bryson Baird would introduce himself to someone he didn't know, it would come out, "Hi, I'm Bison Baihd." So Bison it became, through grade school, through high school, through college, and into his professional life—always Bison. It was Bryson only to his mother and generally then only on those frequent occasions when she was displeased with him. Few people even knew his last name: Bison—or more familiarly, Bise—was enough. Even some of his professional colleagues later in life paused for a moment when someone mentioned Dr. Baird.

Growing up in a small upper-Midwest town in America in the 1940s and '50s, the son of a schoolteacher and a one-time high school football coach-turned-school-superintendent, Bison had as idyllic a childhood as it was possible to have. His world was straightforward and God-fearing: everyone was good until proven otherwise, a person's word was his or her bond, and everyone in your hometown was naturally your friend.

Tall and rangy, with unruly dark hair and horn rims he seemed to wear from birth, Bison possessed a mischievous smile that appeared to say, "Go ahead, just dare me." His impishness and natural charm meant he was spoiled by the town's elderly women, who always seemed to find a piece of candy in their purses when they spied "that rascal Bison" coming down the street.

Bison's parents were a little more suspicious of their son's cheeky nature. His mom, in particular, felt that it was somewhat inappropriate for the school superintendent's family to be anything but beyond reproach. To that end, she devoted herself to community work, serving happily as volunteer librarian and substitute high school teacher and less happily as president of the Women's Christian Temperance Union (a group even she found too sanctimonious). Bison's dad was equally involved in the life of the town, attending school events three or four nights a week and devoting the rest of his spare time to the Masons and Shriners and acting as deacon and tending the church furnace on Sundays during the South Dakota winter.

Under their mother's watchful eye, Bison and his siblings were also active members of the community, either helping with their parents' activities or busy with jobs of their own. Throughout high school, Bison crammed in twelve to fifteen hours a week at the local newspaper office. He took great pride in his ability to compose stories right on the Linotype; it was only later that he realized these stories read exactly as if they were written as they were being set in type—completely without benefit of an editor or proofreader.

The hours spent working and in community service were enjoyable and made his folks happy, but to Bise they were utterly inconsequential. There was never any doubt in his mind that he would become a professional athlete. He spent hours, day after day, kicking a football through the ramshackle goal posts that he and his buddies erected on the lot between the parsonage and the Baptist church. If no one else could be recruited to play, he pushed a little dirt around the ball so it would stand up and then ran up and kicked it toward the goal post with the garage as a backstop. He would cheer as if it was a gamewinner and then go fetch the ball and repeat the process. When this grew old, he would swing the tire attached to the overhang on the garage, stand back twenty yards, and try to spiral the ball through the moving target.

During his first week at state college, it became apparent that Bise's professional athletic career was not going to be a reality. His sparse body had finally started to fill out, but he still weighed less than two hundred pounds. The college football players were not only bigger, they had more talent and commitment. Bise wistfully gave up his dream and decided to just have a good time.

That plan worked, until his father called him aside the morning he packed his car to return to school for his junior year.

"So what do you think you'll do when you graduate, Bise? You'd better start thinking about it."

"Well, I haven't thought about it much, but maybe I'll become a coach like you did. That seems to have worked well for you."

"Like hell you will," his dad roared.

That got Bise's attention. His father would repeatedly admonish that "the use of profanity shows a person doesn't have a very good vocabulary," so for him to swear meant he felt strongly about the matter. Later in life, Bison's mother told him that his dad had always regretted not becoming an engineer and did not want his only son to have similar regrets by simply choosing the easy way out.

So, with his dreams of gridiron glory squashed, Bison went back to school that fall and became a somewhat reluctant engineering physics major. He quickly developed a comfortable rapport with Dr. Ford who, with his fatherly manner, would almost daily reproach Bison for his lack of commitment to his education and, in particular, to the optics class Dr. Ford was teaching. Almost every week Dr. Ford suggested special problems for Bison to tackle in the lab, problems that would "bring your grade up to a respectable level." Bison resisted until it got close to the end of the semester, and it became apparent that some extra credit was a necessity rather than a luxury.

One Friday night, having failed at both finding a date and talking his friends into doing something fun, he dragged himself to the Engineering building to tackle Dr. Ford's current special problem. All by himself in the dark, creaky old building, Bison fell in love with the process of scientific inquiry. He raced home at 3:00 am, overwhelmed with the excitement of discovery and eager to share this discovery with his roommates. When awakened, not one of them was at all interested in his newfound joy about the wave nature of light.

College suddenly offered a lot more value for Bison. He found the library. He enrolled in advanced ROTC. When someone asked about this decision, Bison's stock answer was, "I'll probably be drafted when I graduate and I'd rather be an officer," but in reality the $1.20 a day ROTC stipend was the deciding factor.

After four years, Bison graduated with a military commission and a GPA that elicited a "you could have done better" from his father. Bise didn't care: it had been a happy four years, and he was a graduate engineer at a time when engineers were much in demand.

The Army Chemical Corps beckoned. When Bise found himself in Alabama in July, completely wrapped in a rubber suit, boots, and gas mask, watching the effects of nerve gas on sheep, he had some serious doubts about the wisdom of his ROTC decision.

Then came Maryland. "Getting assigned to Maryland was one of the best things that ever happened to me," Bison was fond of telling anyone who would listen. "If I'd gone to some intriguing place like France or Japan, I wouldn't have met Bev."

The tall blonde met him (another oft-told, frequently embellished tale) in the lobby of the Personnel Building so she could escort him to the major, who was waiting to hear why Bise was late reporting for his duty assignment. Once Bise explained the misunderstanding to the major, he set about a far more serious task: finding out about the blonde. In an act of bravery that was completely out of character—he'd always been shy and intimated around women—he asked her out that very evening. He was taken not only by her cute butt and her tall, slender build but by her quick retorts to what he considered his droll verbal banter.

Either in spite of the banter or because of it, the couple wed the following summer. At the end of Bison's two-year service commitment, the job market for young engineers and scientists was very good. After considering various options, the newlyweds found themselves in Albuquerque in the late 1950s.

Albuquerque had not been an easy sell to Bev. "You want to go where?" she cried when he first told her about the job offer from the national nuclear weapons laboratory. She had been a terrific sport, though, and Albuquerque had been a good choice. Their daughter was born, they bought their first house; their son was born, and they bought a bigger house. That was just the way it was for them and their friends. No one had much money: they played a lot of cards, they drank whatever was the fad of the season, they joined the church, and vacations were either extended car trips or tent camping. Bev endured the latter exactly once.

Bison usually could not wait to get to work. He liked and admired most of his colleagues and found the work meaningful. He found the politics of the workplace quite challenging: he'd always had a temper and found that it was occasionally useful in helping his coworkers understand their particular shortcomings. This trait was not career-enhancing, but his lab-wide reputation as a problem solver meant he was widely respected if not always liked. And he was compensated only slightly less than what he felt he deserved.

He was most content at home with his family. Just like his parents had been, he was happily involved in his community. He was the instigator and peacekeeper for the neighborhood ball games in the front yard, and he and Bev taught Sunday school classes, led the Boy and Girl Scout troops, headed up the PTA, and even taught a course to teenagers on human sexuality.

Inevitably the kids grew up, wrecked a few cars, made it safely to and from a few proms, and went off to college. Bev ran a consulting business, and at the end of a busy day they would share stories of human foibles over dinner.

In the late 1970s, the middle-aged, somewhat rotund Bison became deeply immersed in a multiple-national study to devise a proliferation-proof nuclear fuel cycle.

He deeply admired his boss on the project, Milt, because of Milt's ability to manage people. For his part, Milt was always afraid that Bison was going to incur a security infraction because of his desk, a cluttered surface on which classified and unclassified material commingled in a seemingly random fashion.

"Bise," the exasperated Milt cajoled one afternoon as he laid a Snickers bar on Bison's desk, "would you do me a favor and try to clear off that desk? You're about to give me an ulcer."

Irritated at the interruption, Bison tersely answered, "Which would you prefer—neatness or proficiency?"

"Oh, I'd settle for either," was Milt's smiling reply, which was followed briefly by Bison's all-out burst of laughter. "And while you're in one of your rare jovial moods, I do have another favor I'd like to ask of you."

"That sounds serious. Do you have another candy bar?"

"I am serious. I'd like to have you think about taking over the nuclear counterterrorism program for me. Right now, it's just not working. Good people, tremendously interesting problems, plenty of money, but it simply is not working. I think it needs the Bison touch."

"Because you're my friend, I'll think about it. But I can tell you right now that I'd rather not. This proliferation stuff might prove very important. It's intriguing, and I'm happy."

Bison was surprised that it took Milt two entire days to return. "Have you thought any more about that opportunity I offered you the other day?"

"Yes, I did. I'm very flattered by the offer but I think I'd like to stay where I am."

"That's final?" Milt answered, looking disappointed.

"Yeah, I think so."

Two hours later Milt's boss appeared in Bison's doorway. "Hey, Bise, Milt tells me you're not exactly jumping at the opportunity to run the counterterrorism program. I believe that is one of the most important programs in this organization and, quite frankly, I've been rather embarrassed by our lack of progress. Both Milt and I believe that you can straighten it out. I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd reconsider your decision."

Bison might have been a bit slow in understanding nuances of political situations, but he was not completely dense. Reconsidering his decision led him to the Parisian Catacombs that September afternoon in 1995.

Chapter Two

Evgeny

"What did they say? Are they going to let you go?"

"I didn't ask. Something came up. I decided it would be better to talk about it tonight. Tonight for sure." Fifteen-year-old Evgeny's voice was strained, his usual exuberance entirely absent. He was about to test the boundaries of his close-knit, loving family. The implicit assumption had always been that as soon as he finished the ninth form at school, he would go to work to help support his family. But lately he had become aware of other possibilities. He now wanted a brighter future, and he knew that his restless nature would not be satisfied by a life like that of his father, a man who had spent nearly thirty years working in the dirty and dangerous underground mines.

Evgeny's desire to deviate from the expected path was not really surprising. He was extremely slight of build, unlike his brawny, wide-shouldered father. He was content to stay inside, spending long hours reading and sketching Southern Ural scenes while his siblings and other boys from the village were playing boisterously outdoors. While his male friends were beginning to demonstrate lustful ambitions toward their female companions, Evgeny had not yet reached that stage, and his gaze inadvertently shifted to his feet whenever he found himself in a one-on-one discussion with a member of the opposite sex. His good nature ensured that he was well liked, but lately he had been uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn.

Life around his hometown of Zlatoust in the Southern Urals had always been hard. The collectivization of the post-World War II Soviet regime resulted in grandiose promises but a different reality. The state provided employment, free education, inexpensive housing, and medical care, but the price was enormous. An inept and corrupt administration meant that the collectivization system would never work, leading to low morale, low productivity, high inflation, and the scarcity of almost everything.

Evgeny's family made the best of the situation. His father, Dmitry, traced his ancestry in the local area back five generations and took immense pride in his heritage. He was well respected by all who knew him and dearly loved by his wife and three sons. His work in one of the nearly played-out magnetite mines dotting the southern Urals did not make him rich, but there was always food on his family's table.

The Ovstronov home was full of laughter and love. Dmitry led the family with a stern tongue and a tender heart. More from a sense of civic duty than any religious or political beliefs, he and his wife, Iridia, encouraged their boys in the Russian Orthodox faith and saw that they participated in the Pioneer and Komsomol Soviet youth organizations. "It can't hurt and it might help," the boys were told. "And," repeating the guidance of parents everywhere, "it will build character."

Evgeny and his brothers respected their parents and understood that the elder Ovstronovs had their sons' best interests at heart. So how in the world could Evgeny explain his plan? How could he explain that he wanted more for himself than his father had been granted? That night at dinner his mind raced as he silently practiced his appeal.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he had not heard his mother. "Evgeny! For the third time, what on earth is bothering you?"

"Um, I have something I need to talk to you and Daddy about...."

Sensing Evgeny's discomfort, Dmitry sent the two younger boys away from the table and asked, "What could be so difficult, son?" "I don't want to upset you, but when I finish the ninth form I want to go to secondary school. All my teachers—"

"Stop! Stop! Enough! Not a chance," Dmitry exploded, his face turning red. "I can't believe that you'd even have such a notion. Don't you know how hard your mother and I work to keep this family together, how tough it is to occasionally have a bit of meat in addition to our soup? You like pelmeni, don't you? And kvass once in a while? I'm ashamed of you for asking and ashamed of myself for having raised such a selfish son!" Glaring at Evgeny, Dmitry stormed out of the house.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from CONVERGENCEby WILLIAM F. HARTMAN TERI L. HARTMAN Copyright © 2010 by William F. Hartman. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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