“Schriever?” Eileen asked in surprise. There was never trouble at Schriever. Peterson Air Force Base, sometimes, Fort Carson, all the time, but Schriever, never. It was too small and too distant from everywhere else to be much trouble. Eileen, in fact, had never seen Schriever; it was out on the eastern prairie somewhere.
“Schriever. Some civilian Defense Department woman got herself murdered and that calm, collected voice you just heard was Major Jeff Blaine, Chief of Security.” Eileen grinned again. Harben's expression didn't change. Eileen had learned in her first year under Harben that Harben never laughed at his own jokes, or even smiled at them. But he didn't mind if you did.
“She's in some top secret area with classified information just oozing out of the walls, if the good Major can be believed. He'll be briefing you on the information, you'll have to promise never to tell, et cetera.”
“OK. I guess this takes priority over the Pendleton case?”
“Yes, it does. In fact, the Major tells me the Air Force Office of Special Investigations will not be able to get out there for at least today, so you are on your own. Their Major Stillwell is at some conference in Alabama and they're only one person deep in the OSI at Peterson.”
“So he'll show up in a day or so and take this off my hands?”
“Correct, Eileen. But you'll still have to write all the new standard Military Liaison reports on the investigation and file them.”
“Great, boss,” Eileen said, and sighed.
“Get on the road, ma’am,” Harben said, and flapped a bony hand. “I hear it's a long drive to Schriever. Oh, and one other thing,” he added as Eileen turned for the door.
“Sir?” Eileen asked politely.
“Get their shoes all muddy, Eileen. That’s what you’re there for.”
Space Command, Schriever Air Force Base
“Jake, hello,” Colonel Olsen said in tones of relief. He held out a hand and they shook firmly. They were both the same rank, so military protocol allowed them to call each other by their first names. They knew each other from Germany as well. Their daughters became fast friends in grammar school and were now attending the same high school in the Springs. Willmeth took a look around the Gaming Center. Blaine had them all in their seats. The Civilian Gamers were all sitting at the back of the room. No one looked well. No one was speaking. One was openly sobbing. The room was noisy with the hum of the air conditioning fans, but that was all. The huge screen still showed the Earth. Willmeth spotted the one closed door. Olsen noticed his glance and nodded slightly.
“Major Blaine is collecting the police detective at the gate,” Willmeth said in a low voice. “He'll be here soon and we can get everyone out of this room.”
“We stopped the simulation and shut down the systems outside the base,” Olsen spoke quietly in return. “But this is going to fuck us up in Washington, Jake.”
“I know, Brad,” Willmeth said. “As soon as the police release you from the scene, I've got a secure phone set up. We'll get on the horn and do some damage assessment.”
“Good,” Olsen said in satisfaction. “Thank you.”
There was nothing more to be said. There would be action, later on, and reports to be written and meetings to attend, but for now there was nothing more. The two Colonels stood and watched the Earth and the drifting pattern of simulated nuclear fallout.
Manitou Springs, Colorado
George Tabor was taking a walk. With him trotted Fancy, his English spaniel. The spaniel loved her Thursday morning walks. Meandering up and down the hilly streets of Manitou Springs, they brushed by overgrown lilac bushes and stepped over an occasional cracked piece of pavement.
Tuesdays they walked downtown, which was interesting but not nearly as pleasant to the young dog. The smells weren't as good.
George sat down for a moment or two at his regular stopping point, a low rock wall near Manitou Springs Avenue. It was a pleasant place to sit. The wall was shaded in the summer, sunny in the winter, and had a pretty view of the downtown area. Additionally, there was a crack in the stonework that occasionally contained a small beige cloth bag. George scratched his knee and leaned back and scooped the bag out of the crack and into his pocket.
He didn't always search the stone. If there was no bike chained to a light post downtown, or if it had a flat rear tire, he wouldn't have stopped by the stone at all. But the bike was there, sitting on fat knobby tires, looking cheerful. George felt cheerful, looking at it. Something good, he thought, and absently rubbed his spaniel's ears. Perhaps something very good.
The bag retrieved, he finished his walk briskly, as he always did. The spaniel leaped happily into the back seat of his car and George drove home through the mild summer morning, humming softly along with the radio.
As a child, he'd thought he wanted to be an American. He was a capitalist by birth, it seemed. He’d made pocket change holding places in food lines before he could read a book. He had a thousand ideas about making money. Life would be so easy if he lived in America, he thought. Then in George’s adolescence he revised his opinion on America. He could see, even with his limited vision, that the Soviet Union wouldn't hold together much longer. He might be able to live out the uncomfortable years of a Soviet break-up in some nice place like Great Britain or America, working as a spy for his country. Eventually he could come home to a freshly liberated Russia. A man who knew the workings of capitalism might do very well.
George never wavered once he decided what he wanted to do. At twenty-five, to all appearances a dedicated GRU officer, he made the ridiculously easy entry through Canada with papers declaring him the American George Tabor. He never looked back.
By the time he focussed on stealing secrets from the Missile Defense program time, his theory about the dissolution of the Soviet Union was proving to be correct. George's contacts started to change. An East German spy took him to a lavish dinner at the Broadmoor. After the first former Soviet satellite started to pay for information, George started probing for more. The new Russian Republic became a customer instead of a master. He expanded, like a good capitalist, to include the new countries that were once satellites of the former Soviet Union. A contact in Japan made a very polite request and delivered a staggering amount of money. George was very good at his job. In the post Cold War world of espionage, he was in his element. And absolutely everybody wanted to steal missile defense information from the Americans.
Posing as a headhunter for a defense contractor, George had obtained a phone directory from a janitor at the Missile Defense Center. The phone listing he received wasn't classified, but it was still a hit. It contained names, phone numbers, and supervisors' names. Eventually after hours tracing supervisor to supervisor, George figured out each employee's field; operations, administration, engineering, security.
George made discreet phone calls. He interviewed several applicants in his modestly plush office near Garden of the Gods park. He was searching for a person with a grudge. Or a person who needed money. Or even a person who knew someone who needed money.
Six months after the handy little pink directory fell into his hands, he had his contact. George worked on the contact like a fine fly fisherman -- a sport he'd recently taken up and found very pleasant. Hooking a trout was like landing a contact into a top secret installation. He got the same kind of thrill. The contact he found had an immense ego. The contact hadn't been given a promotion for a long time. The contact needed money. George commiserated. George soothed. George asked for some sensitive information -- just as a way to get a better idea of the program, so he could steal away good people and put them into better jobs. The contact delivered. The hook was set.
When he asked for classified information, the contact knew who he was. And didn't care. The packet was delivered. It was very good. The contact was in the bag.
George and Fancy entered George's apartment. His spaniel shook free of the leash and raced towards her water bowl as though afraid someone would snatch it away if she didn't get there in moments.
Silly dog, George thought fondly. He shut his front door and locked it. He didn't have to draw the shades. He drew them every morning before his walk as a matter of routine. Finally, at last, he drew the savory little bag from his pocket.
The smile, like the Cheshire cat's, was the last to leave. His eyes widened and his face muscles sagged in disbelief. Finally the smile winked out. He crumpled the piece of paper so tightly he would have a bruised palm, later. He said a very American word, with very American inflection. He said it again. Then he picked up the phone and, after a moment, dialed a number from memory.
“Yes?” a voice said briskly.
“Is this 387-7754?”
There was a pause.
“No,” the voice said heavily.
“Sorry.”
George cradled the phone gently and began to pack.
Chapter Four
The Pentagon
“There's been a what?” the Admiral's voice, unbelieving, was nearly shrill.
“A murder, sir. At the War Game Center. That's what stopped the Game.”
There was a long pause. The Admiral turned to look out his windows. He had an office at the E level, which gave him one of the prettier views of Washington, D.C. His face was thin and wrinkled. His sharply creased uniform was immaculate.
“Have the ships been notified of the stand down?”
“Yes, sir, I gave the abort code and we've verified that all the components have received the code. The ships are standing by. We had an All-Deploy sent to the Brilliant Pebbles --”
“All Deploy? All of them?” the Admiral's voice climbed towards shrill again.
“Yes sir. Listen, sir. We knew mistakes like that could happen during the progress of a Game. All-Deploy was considered one of the mistakes that could happen. We've sent the stand down command to the Pebbles, and they're all functioning. That's actually quite encouraging, and gives us a lot of data.”
“Well, that's something, at least.” the Admiral held the phone against his ear and patted his stomach with his free hand. He was rubbing against a network of burn scars, a souvenir of an Iraqi shell that was more accurate than most. The scars no longer hurt, but it was a nervous habit to touch and rub at them. The rubbing soothed him.
“We've had word out to the DIA to find out if they've gotten feedback on this.”
“Was this -- this was a death? Or was this a murder?”
“A murder, sir. One of the civilian Gamers was stabbed to death, or at least that's what it looked like to me.” Olsen didn't like admitting his vision problems.
“All right then. You aborted the duds in flight. We know the Germans think we were testing our early radar warning against rogue submarines. No one has to know we lost the Game. Everything but the ground interceptors worked perfectly.”
“Perfectly, sir,” Colonel Olsen said.
“All right. Make sure your OSI team is a bright one. Make sure they know what they're looking for. Who's on the case right now?”
“Civilian Police, sir. The Police Liaison.”
“Civilian?”
“The Schriever police don't have the resources to investigate a murder. The Peterson investigations officer is in Alabama on a case and couldn't fly into Colorado in less than six hours. Federal Law requires we get assistance from the Police Liaison in homicides. There's only one person, and she's ex-military. Air Force pilot.”
“Ahh,” the Admiral grunted. “Better. I guess it'll have to do. What's this detective's name?”
“Reed, sir. Eileen Reed.”
“Check her out.”
“Yes sir. I've already sent the request.”
“Thanks, Brad. We'll see you tomorrow here at the Pentagon. We'll have to set up for another Game.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Admiral pushed the intercom button that connected him to his secretary.
“Get me Mills at the CIA, Delores,” he said, and hung up the phone. He turned to contemplate the pretty view, his hand absently patting his stomach. In less than a minute, the phone rang.
“Mills,” Kane said into the phone. “There’s been another murder.”
Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado
It was a long drive. Eileen fought noon traffic south on Academy Boulevard and turned east on Platte Avenue. The city soon gave way to long stretches of hot, dry open land. She turned off Platte and aimed her Jeep down Highway 94. The open stretches of land became a ranch. Cattle dotted rolling hills, grazing on long brown prairie grass. She thought about Captain Bernie Ames.
They’d met when they’d been forced to bunk together in the overcrowded bachelor quarters in Minot, North Dakota. Bernie loved to talk. Eileen loved to listen. They were fantastically different. Bernie grew up in inner city Chicago, Eileen was raised on a Wyoming ranch. Bernie, short and round, busty and loud, confessed that she always wanted to look just like Eileen. Eileen, tall and gawky, frozen into silence by any crowd greater than two people, confessed that she always wanted to be just like Bernie.
Bernie would no more have flown her plane into a mountain than she would have put her clothes on backward. Bernie was a fighter. She was not the suicidal type. She loved to fly, she loved to crack jokes, she loved food and men and movies and every delicious part of her life. There had to be a reason she flew her plane into a mountain.
Eileen did everything she could to find out what happened on Bernie’s last flight. She went up her chain of command. She found out, astonishingly, that this was the third time a pilot broke away from a formation and disappeared. When her review board came up that year she was passed over for her promotion. The message was clear. Eileen handed in her resignation, and the greatest surprise was the intensity of her relief.
She loved to fly, though it was not a consuming passion. Eileen was a competent pilot without dash, and she knew before she graduated from pilot training that she would never be a great pilot. But she lived while four of her classmates died, so perhaps a lack of dash wasn’t so bad. Eileen liked being part of a squadron. She thought it would hurt more to give it all up.
It was only later, as she was waiting for acceptance into the police academy, that she realized how much she’d disliked military life. She’d joined to see more of the world than Wyoming, and because she wanted to be around people. When she was growing up she didn’t have many friends. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and her nearest neighbors were twenty-four miles away over dirt roads.
Eileen found there were pilots from the more thickly settled east who couldn’t comprehend that she lived twenty-four miles away from another living being, that there were ranchers who were even more isolated than the Reeds, that a trip to the grocery store was a large and well planned monthly event. One pilot from New Jersey could not believe there existed a place in the United States where pizza could not be delivered. Eileen laughed for a long time at that. She told him that when she and her high school friends got a hankering for McDonald’s, they would drive three hours into Rapid City, South Dakota. Six hours round-trip for a fast food hamburger.
Being in a squadron was crowded and never lonely. Delivery pizza was almost always available. Eileen found a real friend in Bernie. Military life should have been exactly what she was looking for.
But something about the Air Force just wasn’t right for Eileen, and she knew it long before Bernie flew into a mountain. Being in the Air Force was like eating a meal made of plastic. The food looked delicious, but it didn’t taste good at all. The family of the squadron, so enticing when Eileen considered it, turned out to be an insider’s circle where the condescension towards non-pilots was childish and cruel. And Eileen always felt like a second class citizen, no matter how well she flew. She was a girl, a woman, a female. An outsider.
At some point while she was still trying to get Bernie’s files re-opened, Eileen decided she wanted to try her hand at police work. She wasn’t even sure what made her decide that being a cop might be satisfying. Eileen found she loved it. And she was surprisingly good at it.
The new Liaison job was going to be difficult, but she was Detective Reed now, not Air Force Captain Reed. Things would be different. She would make sure of it.
Eileen smiled at the cattle. It was a long drive, but a pretty one. Time enough to get her thoughts in order and her temper firmly locked away. Eileen’s mother was a true redhead, tall and fiery and very intelligent, with ice cream skin and lots of freckles. Eileen’s hair was darker and she had no adorable freckles, but she had her mother’s height and her temper. To her regret, sometimes.
“Step on shoes,” she murmured to herself. “But softly, softly now. And don’t forget you’re not in the military any more. You don’t have to call anyone ‘sir.’”
Eileen found herself missing Jim Erickson fiercely. Jim was her partner, the senior member of their team. He’d moved to Denver six months ago. Eileen was glad for the opportunity to move up into a senior position, but she missed Jim’s steady and unblinking presence on a case. He made her laugh. And she’d never handled a really big homicide all on her own before.
“So what?” she said to herself. “I can handle it.” Up ahead, she saw a small sign modestly announcing Schriever Air Force Base and an arrow pointing to the right.
She made the long curving turn off the highway at a safe and sane cop speed, about 60 miles an hour, and as she headed down a side road she could see a group of buildings on the horizon. A cluster of big white golf-ball shapes, radar dishes, sat beside the buildings. As Eileen approached the base, she became aware of the enormous size of the dishes. They were huge, five or six stories tall, looking like puffball mushrooms from an old horror movie.
“This place is bigger than I thought,” Eileen murmured as she took the final turn onto the base. There was a security patrol Blazer waiting to meet her, lights flashing. The Blazer was parked in a poor position for Eileen to speak to the driver. She pulled up to the passenger side, rolled down her window, and waited as the occupant reached over and cranked down the passenger side window.
Ground Zero Page 3
