Starfire (42 page)

“Sure,” Brad said. He opened the entry door for her, then glanced at her business card while she admired the interior—and yes, admired a peek at her exquisite ass that was shaking at him as she looked inside the plane. “You're based in San Francisco? That's an easy flight too. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos, we can do a test flight, and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?”

“That sounds wonderful, Brad,” Yvette said.

“Yvette. Pretty name,” Brad added.

“Thank you. French mother and Swedish father.” She turned to him. “You are very generous with your— Oh!” Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wohl standing just a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hello, sir. May we help you?”

“He's a friend of mine,” Brad said. “Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, a reporter from the
European Space Daily
.” The two looked directly at each other. “What's going on, Chris?”

Wohl remained silent for a few long moments, looking at Yvette; then: “There's a few necessary items we have to cover before you depart, if you got a minute.”

“Sure,” Brad said, blinking in surprise. Something was going on here—why didn't Brad detect it . . . ? “Yvette, will you—”

“I have taken up enough of your time, Brad,” Yvette said. “I can e-mail you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please reply; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your trip.” She extended a hand, and Brad took it, and then Yvette leaned forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck with your flight and the test firing. I hope you have a safe trip and much success.” She then extended her hand to Wohl. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Wohl slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand, never taking his eyes off hers. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, entered her car, and drove off.

When she was out of sight, Brad whirled toward Wohl. “What's going on, Sergeant Major? You gave the warning code-phrase ‘necessary items.' What's happening?”

“Who is she?” Wohl asked in a low, menacing voice.

“A reporter for the
European Space Daily,
an aerospace blog based in Austria.” Brad gave him Yvette's business card. “I've spoken to her before, at a press conference.”

“Did you check her out before inviting her out here to meet with you one-on-one?”

“No, but she was cleared by the university and given press credentials and access to the campus,” Brad replied, carefully studying Wohl, who looked genuinely worried about that encounter.

“A chimpanzee can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger,” Wohl said, using Brad's new call sign, given to him after the shoot-out in Paso Robles—he didn't know if it referred to the shoot-out or to the fact that he was a horse's ass. “You didn't check her out, but you invited her out to your hangar, at night, alone?”

“Dad checking in on me,” Brad said. He had forgotten that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell-phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to head out to the airport immediately and check out the reporter.

“Probably saved your ass, Trigger,” Wohl said.

“All right, all right, I violated standard security and countersurveillance procedures,” Brad said. “You and your team have been in town for months without one alert, one warning. Now why suddenly the warning code-phrase? How do you know she's a threat?”

“I don't know for sure—yet—but I have a very strong suspicion, and that's all I need,” Wohl said. For the very first time since Brad had been working with Chris Wohl, he saw the big retired sergeant major hesitate, as if he was . . .
embarrassed
? Chris Wohl, retired sergeant major of the U.S. Marine Corps, caring what the hell anyone thought of him . . . ?

“What the hell, Sergeant Major?” Brad said.

“I get a standard and . . . expected response from persons when I first encounter them, especially . . . especially women,” Wohl said.

“Let me guess: they recoil in abject gut-wrenching horror at the very sight of your radiation burns,” Brad deadpanned. “Pretty much the same reaction I had when I first saw you.”

“With all due respect, Trigger: fuck you,” Wohl said.
That,
Brad thought, was the real Chris Wohl he knew. “You didn't notice it with your friend Yvette, did you? You've been lax in your countersurveillance tactics, haven't you?”

“What in hell are you talking about, Sergeant Major?”

“Did you see the reaction from your friend Yvette when she saw me?” Wohl asked.

“Yes. She was . . . surprised. A little.” But Brad was thinking back and reevaluating his response. “And nice.”

“You think so, Trigger?” Wohl asked.

“I . . .” Brad paused. Boy, he thought, I completely missed something that has the big ex-Marine concerned, maybe even . . . scared? He thought hard, then said, “She was actually very collected. True, she didn't react in shock or surprise to you, like I've seen even grown men do. But she was polite.”

“Polite, yes,” Wohl said. “What else? What was she really going for, being nice to the ugly weird-looking stranger that had suddenly appeared right behind her that she didn't expect? What else was she computing, Trigger?”

“She . . .” Brad's mind was racing, trying to catch up with the things that Chris Wohl obviously had already divined way earlier, the things he himself should have discerned if he hadn't been distracted by outside—meaning sexual—factors. “She . . . she was trying to decide how she was going to . . . to deal with you,” Brad said finally.

“ ‘Deal' with me?”

Brad hesitated again, but the answer was painfully obvious: “Eliminate you,” he corrected himself. Holy fucking shit, Brad thought, his eyes bugged out, shaking his head in disbelief. “She was after my ass, but you came along and surprised her, and she didn't know what to do,” he said. “She had to make a last-second decision about whether to attack or withdraw, and she decided to withdraw. Oh,
shit . . .
!”

“Finally, you're thinking tactically,” Wohl said. “You think that you if spend a few months with nothing happening that you are safe? You couldn't be more wrong. Time always favors the patient hunter. It gives the enemy more time to do surveillance, plan, replan, and execute. You think that since the bad guys haven't attacked in six months they've given up? Wrong. Moreover, you can't
afford
to be more wrong.” Wohl frowned, deepening the lines in his face even more. “Tell me, Trigger: Will you ever see your friend again?”

“Sure—when she's done stalking me and closes in for the kill,” Brad said. “But as a reporter? No way. She's going to dive deep underground.”

“Exactly,” Wohl said. “She's not done hunting, but you won't see her interviewing anyone ever again, at least not in North America.” He looked around at the gathering darkness. “She had several opportunities to take you down out here at the airport from a distance, without being seen by security guards or cameras, and she didn't take them. What does that tell you, Trigger?”

“That she doesn't want to do it from a distance,” Brad said. “She prefers to do it up close.”

“What else?”

Brad thought for a moment; then: “She's not afraid of being photographed. She believes she can escape, or she has a network behind her that she's confident can get her out.”

“Or both,” Wohl said. He looked at the business card. “
Svärd
. Swedish for ‘sword.' She picked that cover name for a reason, I'll bet.” Brad swallowed hard at that. “She's pretty brazen, that's for sure: she picked a cover that puts her in rooms with lots of cameras and microphones, and she's not afraid to dress in a way that calls attention to herself—exactly the opposite of what is taught. She's either really stupid, or a very talented assassin. She's definitely a cool cucumber. I'll bet there are lots of pictures of her. I'll have the team start tracking her down.” He thought for a moment. “Huggins is already in Battle Mountain, yes?”

“Casey had to go early so they could fit a space suit for her,” Brad said.

“How's the weather between here and Battle Mountain for tonight?”

“Clouds over the Sierra, maybe a little turbulence over the summit, but okay otherwise.”

“You had something planned for tonight back on campus, yes?”

“The college of engineering was going to throw a little party for the Starfire team.”

“Something came up, and you had to report early to Battle Mountain to prepare for the flight to the space station,” Wohl said. “Make your apologies later. Your new friend Yvette was invited to that party, yes?” Brad said nothing, but the realization was clear on his face. “If I was brazen enough to try again on the same day, that's where I'd lie in wait. You're not going back to that campus.” He got no argument from Brad—who knew how close he had come to being the woman's next victim, if she was indeed who they thought she was. “Do your preflight, then get going as soon as you can. I'll wait here until you're airborne.”

Brad nodded and stepped inside the hangar. But before beginning his preflight, he turned to the security camera up in the corner and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Seconds later, he received a text on his smartphone. It read,
You're welcome, son. Fly safe
.

O
VER
CENTRAL
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EXICO

T
HE
NEXT
DAY

“Pressure disconnect,” Boomer announced. Brad McLanahan pulled off some power and let the S-19 Midnight spaceplane slip back into precontact position behind and underneath the Sky Masters Aerospace's B-767 aerial refueling tanker. The refueling boom retracted back up underneath the tanker's tail.

“Showing you clear, Midnight Seven,”
the computerized female voice of the robotic boom operator said.
“Is there anything else we can do for you, Seven?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice,” Boomer said, “but failing that, we'll say adios.”

The 767 tanker started a steep left turn.
“Masters Three-One is clear, Seven,”
the voice said.
“Have a nice day.”

Boomer raised the visor on his Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit's oxygen helmet, observed the Midnight spaceplane's computers run the “After Refueling” and “Before Hypersonic Flight” checklists, then looked over at Brad in the mission commander's seat. Brad was wearing an ACES orange partial-pressure space suit and helmet; his gloved hands were on the sidestick controller and throttles on the center console, and he was comfortably seated, staring straight ahead as if he was watching TV on the sofa. Brad raised the visor on his helmet when he noticed Boomer had done so.

“You know, Brad, you're the second passenger in a row that I've had that has watered my eyes.”

“Say again?” Brad said.

“First President Phoenix, and now you: both you guys are acting as if you've been astronauts for years,” Boomer said. “You fly the spaceplane like a pro. You look totally at home.”

“It's really not that much different than the B-1B bomber, Boomer,” Brad said. Sky Masters Aerospace under Patrick McLanahan had refurbished a number of retired B-1B Lancer bombers and returned them to service, and Brad had trained to ferry the planes from Battle Mountain to Guam to counter the People's Republic of China's aggressive moves against its neighbors in the South China Sea. “It's a lot sprightlier at higher airspeeds, but subsonic it handles very much like the Bone, and the sight picture at the contact position under the tanker is almost exactly like the B-1.”

“Well, I'm impressed,” Boomer said. “You've been hand-flying it for almost the entire flight, and from the right seat no less, and wearing a space suit and bulky space-suit gloves to boot. Ready for the next step?”

“You bet I am, Boomer,” Brad said.

“I'll just bet you are,” Boomer said. “Now, up until now the worst G-load you've pulled was about two, but now it's going to get a little more intense. We'll only pull about four Gs maximum, but you'll feel them for a longer period of time. I'll let you hand-fly it, but if the Gs get to be too much, let me know and I'll let George the autopilot fly it. Remember the weight of your fingers will be almost a pound each. Don't try to tough it out—say something and I'll turn the autopilot on.”

“I will, Boomer.”

“Good. Casey?”

“Yes, Boomer?” Casey Huggins replied. She was in the spaceplane's passenger module in the cargo bay with Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner. Casey was wearing her partial-pressure space suit with her visor closed; Gonzo was wearing her skintight EEAS.

“Remember what we told you about the G-forces,” Boomer said. “If you've been on a roller coaster before, you've felt pressure like you're going to feel, only it'll last longer. Your seat will help you stay ahead of the pressure. Ready?”

“I'm ready, Boomer.”

“Gonzo?”

“Ready.”

“Brad?”

“I'm ready.”

“Then prepare for some fun, mission commander,” Boomer said to Brad. “You've got your flight director in front of you. I've got your throttles. Keep the flight director centered, just as if you were flying an instrument-landing-system cue. We'll start out at around twelve degrees nose up, but as the speed picks up it'll go higher. Like you said, the S-19 likes to go fast, so it'll feel very light on the controls the faster it gets until we're above the atmosphere and the control sticks switch to reaction-control mode, and then it'll be kind of a pig. I show us at the insertion window now. Checklists are complete. Here we go.”