“Best time to do it, General, while everybody in the Sandbox is trying to figure out what happened at the bridge, and why we were so out front about it.”
Sybelle Summers was half-watching some talking heads on television discussing that very subject. “If the president’s goal was to send a message that we won’t ever stop hitting the terrorists, no matter where the chase leads, then he was successful. The TV people are constantly playing the videos of the center span dropping like an old Las Vegas casino being blown up, and then the missiles hitting the support towers.”
“It has everything the TV requires but a shower scene and a car chase.” Double-Oh Dawkins sipped from his ever-present cup of coffee. “Where you going on vacation, General?”
“I’m picking up my daughter and the grandkids in Richmond tonight and making the long drive down to the Cape to watch the Mars launch. That will be something they will always remember. After that, we’re going to Disney World. Then they go home and I break away for some deep-sea fishing.” He put the brochures in order, squared the edges, and put them aside. “What about our Coastie, Kyle? Did she make a decision before going on leave?”
“Not officially, sir. She’ll do it, though. The kid was made for this stuff, and she did great in Pakistan. Not only that, but she worships Lieutenant Colonel Summers.”
“As do we all.” The general chuckled.
“Fuck you very much, sir.
Benton Freedman walked in, carrying a handheld computer. “Got it all right here. You want a hard copy? I can send it to your BlackBerry.”
“Not yet.” She didn’t want him spinning off into techno-talk. “Talk to us.”
“Right. That Undersecretary Curtis fellow has disappeared, leaving a bomb in his residence, two agents killed and four wounded, another bomb found and defused at his office, his car abandoned in Maryland, la-da-da-da-da… and, uh, that’s it from the FBI.”
“Liz?” General Middleton arched an eyebrow.
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Summers asked for the FBI material. I was being specific, but the CIA has some interesting new stuff. You want to hear that, too?”
“Yes, Commander Freedman. If you please.” The general sighed. The Lizard could be a curse.
“They’re no longer sure he is a mole for the New Muslim Order at all, sir. He has strong connections with them, but there’s no evidence that he actually is like a soldier or a guerrilla. More likely, he works with them on some things but also is a lone wolf, carrying out his own agenda. He was married to a Muslim woman, and they had a son, but both were killed during the U.S. bombing of Baghdad during Desert Storm. The CIA believes personal revenge to be his motivation. Financial records show his construction company had a stake in building the bridge.”
Double-Oh interrupted. “He sounds like one helluva disturbed creature. A facilitator doesn’t booby-trap his house and office. Too bad about his wife and kid, but shit happens in war. Anyway, what about right now? Is he on some mission here, or is he flying down to Rio?”
Freedman’s round face lit up. “
“Back on track, Liz,” Summers coaxed.
“From everything that has been dug up so far, I believe that Mr. Curtis is still within the United States, because everybody is looking for him, particularly along the borders and at the airports, commercial and private. He will be too busy staying ahead of the folks with badges to do any more mischief.”
Swanson walked away from the window and filled a cup with coffee. “He’s not done,” Kyle said. “This all started with him, when he put the DSS onto chasing Beth Ledford, and he probably hired the two characters who attacked me before we left for Pakistan.”
“That is correct,” Lizard said. “Because the petty officer’s brother found the bridge in Pakistan, and was murdered there, she wouldn’t leave it alone. As long as she fought the system, the involvement of Undersecretary Curtis and the New Muslim Order was at risk. She is a brave young woman.”
Swanson smiled. “So it is going to have to end with him. He’s not done yet.”
“Which is why our Coastie should have an FBI escort for a while, particularly when she goes out to California with her mother to visit San Diego,” Summers said. “What about you? You want to go to Disney World, too?”
“I will leave Mickey Mouse to our esteemed general. Beth will be fine, because Curtis has bigger problems, like staying alive. I’ll be spending some time running tests on the new Excalibur rifle, so I will be out at 29 Palms in California in the middle of thousands of Marines. Good luck to Curtis on coming after either one of us.”
“Feebs will probably have Curtis soon, but you stay in touch with Coastie and keep your eyes open anyway, Kyle.”
“I always do, sir. Always do.”
31
AT TEN O’CLOCK ON Saturday morning, Eastern Time, astronaut Buck Gardener and the rest of the support crew rode the elevator up the side of the
The elevator halted at the platform from which a narrow bridge led from the steel support structure to the gleaming spaceship. There were eight members of the support crew, the same as the primary crew that would haul the huge ship into space. Although they were serious about their jobs, there was also an air of foolishness about them today as they went through the White Room. The support crews, since the earliest Vanguard missions, traditionally stashed away pranks that the astronauts on the flight would not discover until they were cruising into the dark void. In the big pockets of their coveralls, each had some unauthorized items, from nude pictures torn from
The final vehicle and facility closeouts were a frantic period, with checks being conducted on everything from the flight deck to navigational control software, and Buck had responsibility for final check for loading the power reactant storage and distribution system. It took him less than a minute to peel off the panel and exchange an already installed circuit board with the one he had retrofitted to include a tiny battery, a bit of wiring, and an altitude-sensitive ignition switch. He put the real one in his pocket and closed the panel, studying his work. Nobody would detect anything.
He rejoined the rest of the support crew, and as they finished the day’s tasks, the spaceship was less than a day from launch. The countdown clock stood at T minus twenty-three.
Gardener planned to be long gone by then. After the support crew reached ground level, he reported to the flight surgeon and complained about a mild headache and nausea. His temperature, blood pressure, eyes, and throat were normal, but the doctors would not chance the introduction of flu-like symptoms into the spacecraft. Buck would be replaced for the final closeout by a member of the backup crew, and he was soon on the road out of Merritt Island, heading toward Orlando, only forty-five miles away.
A final meeting and status report, another payday, and then Buck Gardener would board a flight at Orlando International Airport and jump over to the Bahamas, and further destinations unknown.
