I catch a flash of a white-tipped red tail while I careen sideways off the road, onto a solid river of ice . . .
“SHHHHHHHH . . . !”
I’m headed toward trees, the mass of the heavy SUV propelling it . . . Nothing I can do but keep my hands on the wheel and not fight it, sliding, sliding . . . slower . . . slower . . . and slower until I drift to a stop a good 15.2 meters (50 feet) from where I started.
“Great!” I blurt out loud. “I may as well be on a frozen lake! I’ll never get out of here, and has anybody bothered to report the broken water main by the way?”
“Negative,” ART says.
“Too bad. Maybe we wouldn’t have driven back here if we’d known,” I’m careful not to sound as aggravated as I feel, not interested in dishing out what I don’t want dished back. “Okay. Now what? Because I’m out of ideas.”
“A solution would be to melt the ice,” is ART’s simple response, and if I didn’t know better I’d think what just happened is another test.
But not even Dick could orchestrate a fox running across the road as I reach a broken water main that’s created an impassible river of ice several inches thick. As I think of the Tahoe’s special features, I agree with ART. This might be an opportune moment to fire up the flamethrower housed in the rear right storage box.
“If we do rapid short pulses, we can melt what’s behind me a car length at a time,” I work out how best to avoid blowing up my truck.
The operation is straightforward, I’m shown on a menu, and I select the FLTH’s manual mode. That way I’m in control when I want to breathe fire, and I almost come out of my skin the first time I squeeze the trigger on the joystick.
“WHOA!” as a wall of flames billows up behind me.
I shove the shifter into reverse, using the cameras and mirrors to navigate. Inching along, I hit the trigger again, clearing ice one burst at a time. Backing up, scorching away, and at this rate we’ll be here all day. All I’m doing is clearing a narrow path behind me and creating no real room to maneuver. What’s needed is to melt as much ice as I can in all directions.
“Screw it,” I place both feet on the pedals NASCAR-style. “And I didn’t mean you, ART.”
“Copy.”
“Let’s do this. Please switch to hill-climbing gear and turn off traction control.”
“Wilco.”
“Hold on to your hat, and I don’t mean it literally!” as I step on the brake and the gas, cutting the steering wheel as sharply as it will go while working the trigger of the flamethrower.
I’m in the midst of a well-executed fiery doughnut (if I say so myself) when ART announces I have an incoming call.
“Deputy Chief Fran Lacey,” he says over the roaring engine as I paint a circle of fire.
“Not a good time!” which of course he misunderstands, perhaps assuming I’m not having a good time, and I wanted him to know it.
Whatever his computer brain unfortunately has concluded, he puts Fran through before I can tell him not to as I make another flaming orbit. I’m slowly spinning along like a fire-breathing dragon chasing its tail, the engine straining, tires smoking, ice melting and steaming.
“Where are you?” Fran asks crankily over speakerphone, and I’m back on the road, leaving a shallow lake in my hellish wake.
“Behind the data center where there’s a broken water main,” I let her know, taking a few deep breaths as my heart slows. “You don’t sound happy. What’s wrong besides everything?”
“A reported problem in 1205, a possible 10-15,” and no wonder she’s irked.
“What makes you think there’s a chemical leak?” I want to know. “And who’s over there now?”
“Supposedly a hissing sound, anonymously reported. It’s probably some furloughed scientist making a crank call just to piss everybody off. Well guess what, it’s working. I’m pissed off, don’t have time for crap piled on more crap, especially with so few of us here.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” I reply, on Langley Boulevard, the unplowed snow hard packed and rutted with patches of pavement showing through.
I also don’t like that she has to bug me about it when I’m on my way to headquarters for an important interview involving a 10-year-old boy and indirectly my father. I also understand all too well that Fran with all her phobias has no interest in being around something that might explode, poison, burn or electrocute.
“When did the call come in?” I inquire.
“A few minutes ago,” she says, and I can see Scottie’s and Butch’s ID numbers on my sitemap.
At the moment both of them are inside their shared office at our headquarters, or their smartcards are, that’s for sure, possibly stuck in the readers of their computers. I suggest that Fran have them follow up on the call, and perhaps get the fire department to respond.
“They’re tied up with me,” she lets me know neither investigator is available. “So, I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of it.”
I’ve reached the traffic circle, and up ahead, Langley’s iconic giant white vacuum spheres vaguely shine like prehistoric full moons or monster PONGs.
“We’re going over the suicide from the Point Comfort Inn,” Fran explains. “And obviously, if there really is something hissing when you’re doing your walk-through, we’ll send in the fire guys to deal with it. But I don’t want to do that if it’s a crank call.”
“I guess I can swing by really quick,” I answer unenthusiastically, the facility in question the Fatigue and Fracture Laboratory (another exciting name).
Mostly what goes on inside Building 1205 (and has for decades) is research into the effects of noise, vibrations, extreme temperatures and environmental factors on aerospace structures and components. It sounds nerdy and unexciting unless you know what’s inside that 1960s brick building in the center of the campus.
Some of Langley’s most dangerous solvents, chemicals and gases are stored in there. I’m talking really scary stuff like liquid nitrogen, cyanide and hydrochloric acid used in metallurgy and experiments with composites. And a reference to something “hissing” is nothing to sneeze at.