Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (28 page)

He felt like a lamb going to slaughter. The room was something from a horror movie. There were whips and chains, even a baseball bat. Some heavy electrical equipment was wired to a chair.
My God. . .electric-chair!
They strapped him in and pulled a metal cap down on his head. Wires were attached all over his body, and his heart raced with fear of what horrible fate was to come.

“Please. . .don’t do this. I’ve got money. More money than you can imagine. If you’ll just let. . .”

“We don’t want your filthy money,” the taller female said in an obviously fake Russian accent. She walked over to him and looked directly in his eyes.

“What do you want then?”

“We want the truth!” she screamed as she whacked him with an open hand across an already bloody face.

What an Amazon!
he thought, shriveling in pain.
“What truth? I’ll tell you. . .I’ll tell you anything. The truth about what?” he pleaded, shaking with trepidation.

The big man fiddled with the equipment on a rickety, folding card-table.

“Okay, you will answer my questions now,” the shorter female said from behind him. “Why are you leaving the country, and what have you planned for Miss Matthews on her next mission?” The big one, Amazon, stood in front ready to strike him again.

“Christina?”
Is that bitch behind this?
He stared at the eyes to see if they were familiar.
The limo driver had his hand on the switch, so he had to think fast.
“I’m going on a much needed vacation. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Matthews?” he responded in a bloody sneer, eyes shifting back and forth.

Amazon gave the signal, and the driver cranked up the juice. Scott felt a surge of electricity run the full course of his body. All his muscles cramped, and he screamed in torment. It was just a few seconds before the man backed off, and his body went limp.

“You must not understand,” Amazon said. “We want the truth, and we want it now.” She raised her arm to give the signal again.

“No,
don’t!
I’ll tell you the truth.” He wasn’t about to let them shock him again. For the next fifteen minutes he spilled his guts, telling them all that came to his tortured mind.

“I want details of the sabotage,” Amazon probed.

“But I can’t. . .”

She waved her arm, and the driver socked it to him once again. His body jerked and ticked in seizures. The pain was beyond imagination.

“Okay. . .
okay!”
After a few seconds he was finally able to speak. He could feel the blood running from both nostrils over his lips. “The space suit,” he sputtered.

“What about it?”

“I had a technician limit the oxygen. . .just enough to get her off the ground. . .too many Gs. . .suffocate during launch.”

Amazon walked over to the table. He watched in horror as she pushed the buttons to rewind two tape recorders. Then she played each one back. She turned up the volume to make sure he could hear. She called some guy, Charlie, and gave him the location of, “the nation’s number one traitor.” All five left the room, and he could hear the sounds of their departure.

Scott reeled in pain pulling against the wooden chair which had been anchored in the middle of the room. His luggage full of money was stacked up there. One audio tape was left on the floor on a piece of white paper. He squinted his eyes to read the message: CIA. . .LISTEN TO THIS.

* * *

Christina and her friends made their way back to JSC. The entire interrogation had been accomplished on a long lunch break, and she and Michael kept the rest of their training schedule without raising suspicion. She got a call that night from President Gleason, to fill her in on the Director’s plot. He felt it was important she be told that NASA had been reassigned to Vice President, Tom Bolten. Bolten would oversee her imminent mission to defend the country.

Gleason rambled on, “Apparently the Director didn’t like you much, Christina. He had your pressure suit tampered with. Don’t worry young lady, Bolten has had all your support systems double-checked, and we have arrested the technician who cooperated with Scott. You’re good to go, and God’s speed. The fate of our nation may rest in your hands.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Seventeen

Christina was beginning to feel those irritating butterflies. An unusual cold-front had wedged its way into Florida putting a chill on the Cape. She shivered, not sure why she was having so much trouble getting warm. She pulled up a comforter that had been folded at the foot of her bed. On top of the normal tension of prelaunch jitters was the critical nature of her mission. She hadn’t been sleeping well. After hours of trying to get to sleep, she would finally drop off only to wake up in a cold sweat with visions of being strapped in a torture chamber. The ringing in her ears was worse at night and a real nuisance. It was around 10:00 p.m., and they were in quarantine at Kennedy Space Center. Astronauts were always sequestered the night before launch to make sure they weren’t exposed to infectious diseases. She tried to read but was much too restless. Finally, she decided to sneak down the hallway to Michael’s room. His light was out, but she knocked softly on the door.

He’d never called her “sweetheart” before, and she was taken aback. Lazer always called her that. She suddenly remembered the first time Lazer had done so. It was when she met him, and they were combat training in a Sky Warrior T-34 Mentor. She didn’t like the condescending tone and almost snapped his head off.
God, what a bitch I was.
I wish I could hear him say it again.

Michael held up the covers, and she slipped in. The small beds were obviously meant for one.
Nice and warm
, she thought
as she snuggled into his chest.

“Sorry, I know this is a violation of mission rules, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“I don’t think the rules mean much right now, Christina.”

She was well aware this could be their last night together, at least on Earth. Blasting off with over seven-million pounds of thrust was one thing, but fighting a nuclear war in space was something else. It had never been done, and there were no manuals, no rules of engagement or survival doctrine. It was a
Kamikaze
mission, and she knew their chances were slim.

War in space carried a whole new set of issues. There were so many risk factors carrying explosive DROIDS aloft and deploying them in orbit, it was almost better not to think about it. Over the years space junk from hundreds of old satellites had become a problem with several near misses. Their objective on this mission was to put so much junk in space ICBMs couldn’t survive. But what would it do to their own chances? Once all that sand was deployed, how would they be able to avoid it? What if a DROID exploded prematurely in the cargo bay on launch or upon extraction? What if the ICBMs detonated prematurely in orbit? What if the Russians countered with an anti-satellite missile or a powerful, ground-based laser beam? There were too many risks to catalogue. There had been no time to develop countermeasures or counter-countermeasures. Impossible to sleep, Christina was bombarded with annoying questions which couldn’t be answered.
Just do your job
, she told herself.
Fly the airplane.

She snuggled closer to Michael and asked, “Would you just hold me for a bit, then I’ll crawl back to my cage.” He wrapped his arm around her, and she could feel the tension draining away. He rubbed her neck gently. No doubt, this brainy young man was carving a niche in her heart. She was so happy he would be co-pilot on the most dangerous mission anyone had ever flown.

At the standard three-hour hold, NASA fueled New Hope with liquid oxygen and hydrogen. Along with the solid-rocket-boosters--SRBs--the STS would produce seven-million pounds of thrust to lift four million pounds of payload. With fueling complete, the countdown picked up, and the astronauts were awakened. At breakfast they were presented with the standard cake decorated with the mission emblem. Instead of the normal STS label, it was marked TSM2 for Top Secret Mission. Regardless of the military nature of the flight, the ground crew felt it important not to depart from long held traditions. The space program, although highly technical and professional to the max, had long been steeped in tradition. A little luck and a lot of good Karma were treasured by astronauts.

After breakfast, Christina, Michael and two military specialists, the crew of TSM-2, were taken to launch prep for donning their flight suits. The “partial pressure suits” were imposing, kind of like a knight climbing into armor. The outfit included long underwear, body sensors, diaper, parachute pack, A/C unit, communication gear, helmet, gloves and boots. Recalling how the Director had tried to sabotage the mission, she double-checked her A/C unit to make sure it was fully charged. She had requested they forgo the most intrusive body sensors, and her request was approved.
Guess you gotta fight a war to launch with dignity,
she mused.

Once the crew was properly suited, they were taken to the CTV--crew transport vehicle--and headed to the launch pad. Christina reached over and squeezed Michael’s hand the best she could. With her visor lifted she said, “Guess this is it, Michael, no turning back now.”

He gave her the thumbs up along with his biggest smile. “Don’t worry, we can handle it. Don’t forget, I’ll be right there with you all the way. Give ‘em hell Commander, and good hunting.”

Commander! Wow, can’t believe I went from snotty-nosed college brat to Commander of the most advanced space vehicle in the world in just seven years. Seems like yesterday I was getting drunk at frat parties. God, help me.
All of a sudden she was overwhelmed with patriotism as she prayed,
and God bless America.
She sat up straight and tall trying to bolster her self confidence. It was clear that if DROIDs were needed as the last line of defense, she would be responsible for millions of American lives.

Riding out to the pad was always disquieting. Sitting by the window she got a good look at the enormous spacecraft.
Incredible!
Out-gassing and sparkling in the early morning light, it was a sight to behold. Fifteen stories tall, the huge spaceship was a vision of grandeur, a sentinel against the Florida sky, a view few people were allowed to see up close. At a range of a few hundred feet, it looked too big to fly. She understood the physics, but it was still difficult to fathom.

All of a sudden it dawned on her that all the other traffic around the pad was headed the other way. Hundreds of support personnel were leaving.
Gettin’ the hell outta Dodge,
she thought.
Can’t blame ‘em.
Once the liquid fuel tanks were filled, the explosive mass was a ticking time-bomb. A single flaw in the structure would be catastrophic. Only six support personnel were there to greet them when they climbed out of the CTV. They were saluted one by one, then Mack, ground crew supervisor, walked over and gave Christina a friendly slap on the back.

“You go get ‘em, tiger. We’re all countin’ on ya.”

As far as she knew none of the support people were privy to the mission objectives, but they seemed to be aware of its critical nature. It was a huge responsibility, but she was so proud to serve as Commander. She knew her mom would’ve been proud too. C
ome a long way baby, since women got the vote,
she chuckled quietly.

Stepping into the open wire-cage elevator, she became aware of the shuttle chorus. The monstrous vehicle wheezed and sang an awesome overture, hissing, creaking and moaning as the metal structure endured –297 degrees on the inside and +42 on the outside. She knew it was designed to handle the strain but couldn’t help giving another little prayer.
Dear God, let it hold together long enough to get us in orbit.

At the top of the platform the view was breathtaking, blue sea in one direction and flat, green land in the other. Following another tradition, Mack led them over to the eighteen-inch pipe that fed liquid oxygen into the shuttle’s main tank. It was covered in two inches of frost, and the custom was for each astronaut to use a finger to carve out his initials in the ice. Christina was first to scratch
C M
then saluted the others.

She looked toward the nose of New Hope and thought about how small the crew section was compared to the rest of the ship. She could hardly believe the cargo area was packed full of DROIDs, her own peaceful vision turned into a violent reality, the lethal actuality of a missile killer. Finally, the closeout crew began squeezing them into the cockpit, one by one, aiding the difficult passage into their recliners and connecting power and communication gear. Christina was last as she took the left seat, the highly honored position of Pilot Commander.
You’d think they’d make these suits a little more comfortable,
she thought as she looked back out the entry port. A shadow came over it, and her stomach clinched with the sound of
CLUNK!
It went deathly dark as the ground crew slammed down the hatch and bolted it shut. It took several nervous seconds for her eyes to adjust.