Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (8 page)

It was a dark September evening, quite warm in south Texas. The local watering hole was a little dingy but a perfect rendezvous because NASA people avoided it like the plague. As soon as she walked in she saw Michael sitting at a booth in the back. There were only two other people there, sitting at the bar, and a bartender who eyed her suspiciously as she sauntered across the room. Michael had the look of a little boy waiting his turn to bat. She slid in beside him so she could watch the front door.

“Hey girl, can’t believe you passed me a note at the astronaut briefing. How romantic, reminds me of seventh grade.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Herrumph. You wish.”

“So what is it? Does Stick love Twinky? Is that it?” Michael laughed. Like a teenager on his first date, he yawned, stretched out his left arm and folded it over her shoulder.

She took advantage of the cover and moved in close. On her own for six months since Lazer had died, she had almost forgotten how good it felt to cozy up to a man. She was happy she had gone to the trouble to sneak out of her private prison.

“Ho ho, you’re a riot, Twinky.” She rested her right hand on his knee. “Don’t you love the ambiance of this place, especially that French bouquet. What is that,
Lysol?”

“So what’s with the cloak and dagger, and where’s your entourage?” Michael turned to her puzzled. Obviously trying to look dead serious, a fly landed on his nose and she giggled.

“Shut up Twinky and listen,” she half whispered. “I don’t know who to trust anymore, but something
big
is going down.”

She looked deeply into his eyes wondering what he was made of. Could he be counted on when the going got rough? “Yup, that’s right, Twinky. Believe it or not, I need you.”

His eyes lit up when she called him Michael. “Boy, this
must
be serious,” he said.

She decided to take a big risk. “7-3-3 wasn’t just a DROID test. We were on a Top Secret mission to rendezvous and destroy an Iranian satellite.” She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “Listen, Michael, this shit is classified, but I gotta tell someone.”

“No joke, Michael. Bad news is the mission failed, and that thing is still up there eyeballing every large city in America. Gleason’s balking on taking it out. We gotta do something!”
She almost choked on her words.

“Yeah?” he chuckled. “Like
we
could save the world? So what does our good man, Rhani, have to do with all this?”

“I’m virtually certain he sabotaged the mission.”

He backed away with a confused look. “Whooa now, Stick. He may be a little weird, but he’s a United States astronaut. He’s been vetted by every security agency in this country. Anyway, how could one person pull something like that off?”

She knew it sounded paranoid, so she tried her best to explain with a calm tone, “Actually it would be quite easy for someone with knowledge of the design, someone with access to the robot. As a matter of fact he had both. He had two opportunities to fiddle with the optics on EVAs.” She quit talking when the bartender walked over.

“Wha cane ah get ya ma’am?” he asked in a slow, cowboy twang.

Christina groaned. He was a middle aged, overweight slob, practically drooling on her. He wore an apron that looked like it had been used in an autopsy. It barely covered a huge belly swollen from years of guzzling suds.
Gees, run for cover, he could burst at any moment
, she mused. “Nothing, sir, I won’t be here long. Thanks just the same.”

He lumbered back to the bar with a look of disgust. “Y’all come in here and squak yer hades off an’ don’t buy a fuckin’ thing,” he grumbled.

Michael took a drink of his beer and whispered, “And what makes you think Rhani messed with DROID?”

“For one, we were on our first set of tests, and I saw him disappear behind
The Monster
for no good reason. He was back there a long time.” She was speaking at a New York City pace.

“Slow down girl, what the hell? The monster?”

“That’s what we called the attack DROID. Apparently the Air Force built about twenty of them to test as an ICBM shield.” She was uncomfortable divulging national secrets, but thought he had the need to know. At least
she
needed him to know.

“Stick, are you listening to yourself? What could he possibly do to it with a spacesuit on?” Michael wasn’t following her logic.

“All he would have to do is put a piece of Velcro tape over the TV lens. . .we carry Velcro patches in our tool kit. The mission to attack the Iranian satellite was advancing with no problem until it hit Stage III. When it switched over to TV track, the thing went nuts and blew itself up. There’s only one reasonable explanation for that.” She knew there were at least a half-dozen explanations, but she was losing patience, and time was of the essence.

“All right Nancy Drew,” Michael chuckled. “For the moment let’s just say he sabotaged the mission. Motive? Why would he do that? Wouldn’t it mean the Iranians got to him? How so? He’s lived in the U.S. all his life. He must’ve been cleared for any Mid East connections when he was checked out for NASA. I’ve got it, why don’t we go ask Director Scott?”

She cut him off, “No, no, no, my boy. I’m not at all sure that’s a good idea. I think the Director may be involved. Now I know I sound like a whacko, Michael, but think about it. Why is Rhani always hanging in his office, and why was he put on 7-3-3 at the last minute, and why were you replaced on 7-3-4?”

He scratched his head. “All good questions, but it’s impossible to believe the Director of NASA would be in cahoots with the very same people who want to drop nukes over his head. Sorry, Stick, it doesn’t add up.” Michael squinted.

“What if he was paid off? Those jokers are rolling in oily cash. First I want to break in Rhani’s apartment and look for evidence, then we have to figure a way to check out the Director.” She was getting frustrated, wondering if her illegal exposure of Top Secret information was a good idea after all.
What if Twinky cracks?

“Breaking and entering. . .theft. . .now you’re talking felony.”

“But if we find something, I’m willing to go to the President. I have access. I need your help, Michael. Not sure I can pull it off by myself.” She decided to appeal to his ego.
Men,
she thought,
they can be such pricks.
She squeezed his hand and brushed her lips across his cheek. She whispered as she breathed into his ear, “Michael, I’m saying I
need
you.”

He pulled back in shock, scratched his ear and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “
You
need
me?
Okay, hell yeah, sure, I like the sound of that.”

Christina slid out of the booth and headed for the door. Adrenalin pumped. For the first time in years, outside a spaceship that is, she felt electrified. She waited at the end of the bar as Michael paid the bill. The bartender rolled his eyes in her direction and raised one eyebrow.

Asshole probably thinks I’m a floozy.

They were in. It was a tacky little apartment with few furnishings. A portrait of Muhammad hung over the TV and lots of religious paraphernalia were strewn about. She didn’t want to turn on the lights so they maneuvered with flashlights around the two bedroom flat.

She started going through a big stack of mail on a table in the eating area. The kitchen was a mess, open cans and empty containers everywhere, dirty dishes stacked in several piles.
Men,
she thought,
all pigs.
How can anyone live like this?
Michael disappeared into the front bedroom. Nothing looked particularly unusual, just a pile of bills and credit card offers.
Guess they don’t care who they do business with,
she thought. One letter looked suspicious. She couldn’t read it but she knew enough to recognize Arabic. Also there was a bank deposit slip. She almost fainted when the bottom line read $20,000.
What? That’s twenty-thousand dollars in cash. What’s he doing with that kinda dough?

“Hey Stick, come look at this,” called Michael from the bedroom.

“What?” she asked walking his way.

“I thought Muslims were supposed to be holy. Look at all these porn mags. Gees Louise!” In the dim light of her flashlight, Michael looked like a kid who had just discovered a sex manual under his parent’s bed. He made silly noises as he took his sweet time paging through the material. “Oh my Lord, look at this.” He held something up in her direction.

Christina turned away in disgust and started rifling through drawers. There was the usual stuff one might find in the bedroom of a single man. But in one drawer by the bed she found a small, yellow book.
A Bible?
she wondered.
No, it’s the
Quran.
She opened it at the bookmark and noticed one passage had been underlined. As she read, horror caught in her throat; a cold icy feeling made her shiver. She could hardly believe such a thing was in the holy book of Islam.
And I thought it was supposed to be an instrument of peace.

“Michael, dammit, would you put those down? Come over here and look at this. Rahni has it marked in the Quran. Listen.”

Sura 47:3
This—because the infidels followed vanity, while those who believe, followed the truth from their Lord. . .

When ye encounter the infidels, strike off their heads till ye have made a great slaughter among them, and of the rest make fast the fetters. . .and who so fight for the cause of God, their words He will not suffer to miscarry; He will vouchsafe them guidance, and dispose their hearts aright; and He will bring them into the Paradise, of which He hath told them.

Believers! If ye help God, God will help you, and will set your feet firm: But as for the infidels, let them perish. . .

“It’s the Quran, Stick. Over a thousand years old. Says all kind of weird things. Studied it in college. You can find plenty of that ‘kill the enemy’ crap in the Bible too, if you look hard enough.”

“Sure, but he has it earmarked and underlined. Why do you think he would do that?”

“Okay, okay, it’s a little scary.” He made a spooky face with his flashlight under his chin. “Why don’t we get the hell out of here, right now, before the boogieman returns?”

“Not yet,” she said. “There’s some interesting stuff in his mail, like a twenty-thousand dollar deposit slip.”

“Twenty-thousand?”

“I’m sure it’s just pocket change,” she said sarcastically. “Let’s go through every drawer and check out that closet. See if you can find anything tying him to Iran.”

“Already did,” he smiled in his flashlight, holding up a photo. “Here’s a picture of Rhani and some other people in front of a monument. Look at the note on the back,
Azadi Square, Tehran.
Now, can we go?”

All of a sudden there was a clanging noise, then footsteps coming down the outer hallway. It sounded like a large man, heavy steps muffled by old, worn out shoes. They looked at each other in a panic and ducked behind the bed. She gestured for him to turn off his light. The steps got louder and louder then stopped. Her heart pounded. She hadn’t thought about what might happen if they got caught.
What if he had some spooky friends come by to find the door unlocked?
She could hardly breathe, sucking air in small gasps. She turned to Michael in the dark, and he seemed fairly calm for the circumstances.
Impressive,
she thought. He looked back and held up a finger in front of his lips. Then he eased up and peeked over the bed. After a long silence which was difficult to interpret, they heard the steps going back the other way and, finally, the front door of the building clanged shut.