The Kill Button

by Tom Hron

  She shook her head and dried her eyes. Sometimes promises were made for one’s own sake.

  All evening she played the grieving friend, even after the two women she had befriended had left for home. At last almost no one remained at the wake, only ten people or so, of whom she guessed most were family. As she started leaving, she heard some noise, then saw several unsmiling men come through the door. The place had been quiet before, but now fell into a classic hush. Senator Jefferies! A few family members began protesting, then thought better of it and backed off, helped, no doubt by the sight of Jefferies’ flat-faced bodyguards. He walked to the casket, stood there, and sobbed as she had never seen a man sob before. She thought him a little Kennedy-like in appearance—unruly hair, fair-skinned, sharp nose. Intuitively, she knew he had found the wiretaps and come unhinged even more, which, though unintended, wouldn’t lose his enemies a thing. She crept out while everyone was distracted by his visit.

  The walk around the corner to her car was the longest she’d ever taken, partly because she’d come away so empty-handed. What had she been thinking? she wondered … like Harry Sharp would run up to his ex-wife’s coffin, every bit the loving husband? For all she knew they had despised each other. She had played a long shot and missed by a mile, all driven by her obsessive-compulsiveness, and if she had a brain she’d give it up. When she reached the Oldsmobile, she sat there a long, long time. She didn’t even know where to stay.

  After a few minutes she turned on the dome light, looked up the church where the funeral would be held the next morning, and set off through town. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept in her car, she told herself, since she’d become a fugitive. Stay strong. Besides, Tungsten would think it was great.

  When she reached the Lady of the Lourdes Parish, she parked on its darkest side and climbed out. Moments after, a limousine cruised by on the street, seemingly the same vehicle she’d seen at the mortuary. Her hair stood on end. Why would it be following her? she wondered, or was she just imagining things? Keeping a sharp eye out, she took Tungsten for a walk, but no other vehicles passed by. Finally, she went back to the Oldsmobile, changed out of her dress, and tried sleeping. In twenty-four hours, she would know. The night dragged by as though it were her last.

  At eight in the morning, she went to mass, straightening herself in the women’s bathroom beforehand, afterward waiting around the parish until the funeral began at ten. Hundreds filed in, and she waited along the back wall near the door, which left her where she could see everyone when he or she came back out. She studied the front pews where the families sat, but saw no one who looked like Sharp. An hour later, there was hardly a dry eye in the place.

  Family members followed the casket out, then folks whom she thought must be aunts and uncles, cousins, or whatever, finally all the rest. Old men and young men passed her. Men with long hair and those who were bald passed her. Most were well-dressed but a few wore jeans. They gimped, limped, and strolled past her, but none with a familiar face. She noticed that Senator Jefferies hadn’t shown, which didn’t surprise her. With the black cloud hanging over his head, it would have been stupid for him to come, especially in his mental state. She turned and walked back to her car.

  She followed the funeral procession to the cemetery but parked where her car would stay hidden behind the mausoleum, alongside the main entrance, then walked over to the crowd around Catherine Sharp’s burial site. Slowly, she sidled between the mourners until she could see almost everyone beside the casket. Once again, there was no one she knew, despite there being fewer people than at the church. Strike three was on its way. She started crying softly, not only for the heartbreak all around her, but also for the utter loneliness she’d brought upon herself, never feeling lower in her life.

  Again overcoming the temptation to give up, she went back to her car and started her graveyard sojourn. She would give it until midnight. There were plenty of reasons, she decided, why Sharp might not want to be seen at the funeral, considering all the dangerous publicity he’d gotten. Anyway, she’d stay, walk with Tungsten through the headstones, and pretend to be searching for someone’s grave. For all its sadness, the cemetery smelled of fresh grass, yellow flowers, and pines—its air sang to the whistles of robins and the squawks of crows as well. Nearby she saw gravestones mossy with age and was sure they dated from the Revolutionary War, maybe even earlier. The sun had reached its height and a light breeze cooled her. She felt worthwhile again.

  Always within eyeshot of Catherine Sharp’s grave, she walked and played with Tungsten, who now hunted to his heart’s content. A gravedigger came by, leveled the site, and planted the flowers that had been left behind. But, by the time she had gotten over there to see his face, he’d already set off for another fresh grave. Next, she saw someone with a cane, but he wasn’t white. She saw a clergyman, but he looked too fat. Returning to the Olds, she watched from there, but nothing moved. Finally, the red sun went down and she felt so hungry she ate some old popcorn she’d kept, which only made her thirsty. Was she going bonkers?

  When it fell dark enough, she slipped out of her car and went over to a boxlike tombstone near the Sharp grave. The granite still felt warm from the afternoon’s sun, but she shivered nevertheless, since there was nothing about a moon-shadowed graveyard she liked. Looping her arm around her knees, she sat against the stone and waited. This was her last stand, even as futile as it seemed. On the one hand, she couldn’t believe she’d come up with the harebrained idea she’d find Harry Sharp in such a boneheaded way. But, on the other hand, she had been given little choice, no matter how convoluted it seemed. She hadn’t known what else to do, and still didn’t.

  All of a sudden she saw three sooty shadows standing a short distance away. In her entire life she had never, never felt so much terror. Every muscle screamed that she should run for her life, but she couldn’t breathe, let along stand. Telling herself they were just a man with his dogs out for a walk, she decided to stay silent and pray that they’d go away. Maybe they hadn’t seen her. Then she couldn’t believe her stupidity, as if her vision was better than theirs.

  “What are you doing here?” asked a bad-tempered voice.

  “Nothing. And, ah, I was just leaving.” All that education and she’d answered like a stupid schoolgirl.

  “Why are you watching Catherine Sharp’s grave?”

  “I’m not. I was simply out walking—”

  “You were at the wake and funeral, now here.” The words came at her like bullets. “You better answer me.”

  “Listen, I haven’t hurt anyone. I’m leaving, okay?”

  “Stay where you’re at and keep your voice down, else I’ll sic the dogs on you.” The shadows then stepped closer. “Now answer me.”

  She couldn’t bear the terror any longer. “I wanted to see Harry Sharp.”

  “Why?”

  “I might know who killed Catherine, or at least who’s involved. I saw him in the newspapers, standing behind Muhammad.” She could hardly speak. “Not Harry, I mean another man. Someone named Reechi.”

  For a moment there was a dead silence, then the low voice asked, “What made you notice something like that? It don’t make no sense.”

  “I worked at the CIA, in the classified library, that is until my boss was murdered. Reechi came over from the White House afterward.”

  She then could hear bats flying overhead in the stillness.

  Seconds later more words shot toward her. “Keep quiet and come with me.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I want to see if you’re telling the truth.”

  “Do you know Harry Sharp?”

  “I told you to keep quiet and follow me.”

  “Can I get my cat?”

  “What?”

  “My cat. He’s in the car I stole. They’re trying to kill me as well.”

  “Godalmighty, I can’t believe this.”

  “Please, he’s all I have. Besides, I want to wipe my fingerprints
off the car and lock the keys inside.”

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this. Okay, but no funny stuff. The dogs will take you and then bring you back.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No, and if you’re up to something you’ll be sorry.”

  “I promise that I’m not.”

  Then he was gone and the dogs, nudging with their noses, were alongside her. Frightened to death, she stood, and picking her way through the darkness, she walked back to the car where there was just enough light to see the dogs. Black with a patch of white at their throats, sheep dogs were what most people would call them, she thought to herself. She opened the car, grabbed a cotton blouse from her bag, and wiped the car’s interior as carefully as she could. Tungsten took one look at the dogs and headed for the back seat, but she caught him, picked up her bag, and locked the car. The dogs were already giving her the eye and telling her to get a move on, turning themselves partly away from her.

  She groped in the dark again, one dog leading her and the other trailing behind. The lead dog sensed she couldn’t see and stayed just a step ahead, giving her plenty of time to follow. All three wound their way through the headstones to the other side of the graveyard, then she nearly bumped into an executive sedan parked on a service road. Was it the limo she’d seen the night before? Then she heard the voice she’d heard earlier tell her to hurry up and get in the back.

  For several minutes she sat inside holding Tungsten, who now felt like a coil spring. Don’t blame you one bit, big guy, she thought. Chances were that she would be raped, killed, and stuffed into some culvert. Then the front door opened and the dogs jumped in, followed by a longhaired Indian in a chauffeur’s uniform, the same man she’d seen outside the Resthaven Mortuary. She suddenly wanted to laugh, cry, and scream all at once. What, in God’s name, had she gotten herself into?

  Next, the door beside her opened and a tanned figure whose face didn’t have a wrinkle on it climbed in. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and his hair, eyes, and kind smile were like sunshine in the brief second the dome light switched on. He closed the door and the light blinked off, but she could still see his smile. She waited for him to say something.

  “You said that you worked for the CIA, yes?”

  “Until a few days ago, but I ran away after they killed my boss and then blamed me for the murder.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “He’d given me a code name that has something to do with an old U-boat named the Black Dragon. They knew that I’d read the classified file on it.”

  “You are not making sense, completely. What did you see?”

  “That a genetically designed disease meant to kill all the Jewish people in the world had been lost at sea at the end of World War Two.”

  A long silence filled the car.

  Finally, the man’s gentle voice asked, “The man named Reechi you mentioned, who does he work for?”

  “The president’s Security Council.”

  “A person’s name, please.”

  It took her a second to think of it. “David Skeleter. He’s always in the news.”

  She heard him sigh, or maybe take a deep breath.

  “Wait here,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  The car door opened and he slipped into the night as fast as he’d come out of it. At last she felt a sense of peace and that she’d just made a friend, and her emotions welled up and she hugged Tungsten under her chin. She hadn’t realized how fragile she’d become, and the worry and lack of sleep had left her whole body on the edge of exhaustion. If she could only get some sleep.

  Suddenly the foreigner jumped back into the car, followed by another man with the saddest brown eyes she had ever seen. He looked a little over thirty and his cheekbones and mouth were strong and he obviously hadn’t slept in a long time either.

  She had found Harry Sharp.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  “Pick up line three, Mr. President, there’s an emergency.”

  Startled by his secretary, James Connolly looked up. It wasn’t her habit to barge unannounced into the Oval Office. Hitting the speakerphone, he answered, “Yes.”

  “Mr. President, this is Sandy Landers, the FAA administrator.” There was a short, nervous laugh. “We’ve only met a couple of times, so I hope you remember me.”

  “Of course, how can I help you?”

  “Air Traffic Control issued a clearance over an hour ago to an aircraft departing, well, in Air Force parlance, Dreamland, or Box Fifty-one, as some pilots call it.” She took an audible breath. “The plane was cleared direct to Andrews Air Force Base.”

  He didn’t want to be rude but he was expecting Jordan’s prime minister in a few minutes, so she needed to get to the point. With violence breaking out between Israel and the Palestinians for the umpteenth time, he couldn’t imagine a greater emergency. “Why are you calling?” he asked impatiently.

  “The plane isn’t answering them, and they’re worried about where it might be headed.”

  Now it was his turn to inhale. “What kind of airplane is it and who is the pilot?” he asked instantly. What in hell could go wrong next?

  “An F-twenty-two Raptor, the Air Force’s best stealth fighter, and I’m told the commander of Groom Lake, Nevada, is the pilot who filed the flight plan. A brigadier general.”

  He hesitated a moment. “Sandy, have you telephoned the Air Force about this?”

  “Yes, on our direct tie-in to Air Combat Command at Langley Air Force Base, but they seemed … well, I wasn’t happy at all with their response. They thought they would have someone go up and take a look. You know, it’s one of their own…” She cleared her throat. “But there’s less than an hour and then it will be too late. You must get out of there, Mr. President. Take Marine One and fly north or south as fast as possible.”

  He looked at his watch. “Does Air Traffic Control have him on radar, and do they know his position?”

  “Yes, he was assigned a transponder code and forty-nine thousand feet before takeoff, but he hasn’t answered since. ATC has called him repeatedly.”

  “Do you think he’s incapacitated?”

  “We have no way of knowing, but I’m told the Raptor has computer and avionics integration, global positioning, and microwave and laser systems that steer it to predetermined targets or even onto final approach, whatever was programmed before takeoff. Whether he is conscious or unconscious, the plane is a dangerous threat. Please, Mr. President, you must leave the White House right now. It’s simply not worth the risk.”

  The FAA administrator, of all people, had toppled the Nixon presidency back in 1974, and now it looked like it just might happen again, he thought to himself. Apart from a miracle, there was no easy fix for a runaway supersonic fighter, armed with who knew what. An airliner was one thing, as 9/11 had catastrophically proven, but a tactical fighter was quite another. He faced the speakerphone once more. “Sandy, stay on the line and get Air Traffic Control so I can listen to them. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes. Listen, the controllers we’re speaking about, they’re called Center, okay?”

  “Yes, I know. Now do as I ask and do it without delay, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  He turned to his secretary. “Call General Lockhart, Air Force Chief of Staff. I don’t care where his is or what he’s doing, get him patched in here. Then I want him hooked up to Air Combat Command so I can hear both. When you have that done, get David Skeleter in here. Now run, damn it.”

  After watching her flash away, he stood, rested his hands on his waist, and gazed steadily at the telephone. “Sandy, as we go through this, I want you to simply answer my questions, nothing ancillary, okay? And tell your people to do the same. Drop the Mr. President as well, because we don’t have the time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me Jim.”

  “Thank you.”

  He thoug
ht he heard her sniffle or maybe gasp a little. “Where’s the airplane?” he asked.

  Sandy’s voice echoed a little on the line. “Center, give us Raptor zero-ones position.”

  A remote voice answered, “Over Kansas City, about forty-eight minutes out.”

  All at once, a raspy voice filled the speakerphone. “This is General Lockhart. Do you hear me, Mr. President?”

  “General, have you got Air Combat on the line?”

  “Ah, well, no. Maybe in a minute or two…”

  “General, you have an inbound F-twenty-two Raptor that hasn’t answered ATC for over an hour.” Skeleter quickly walked into the office and Connolly pointed at a chair, then went on. “Either the pilot is incapacitated or he’s intentionally targeting this city. In either case, we must stop him.”

  “That can’t be true.” There was a short pause. “Listen, there’s got to be a mistake of some sort. We can’t do that, because we haven’t taken delivery of that many of them. They’re much too valuable.”

  “Sandy Landers, the FAA administrator is on the line and she has Center where we can hear them.” Connolly pinched the bridge of his nose, irritably shook his head, then hardened his voice. “General, you have five minutes to get your F-fifteens in the air, armed with Sidewinder and Sparrow missiles. Then I want them on Center frequency so I can talk to them. Now I’m putting you on hold and when I pick up again I want those planes underway. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” softly answered Lockhart.

  Popping the hold button, he stared at Skeleter. “What do you know about this?”

  Rounding his eyes, Skeleter spread his hands as if he were pleading for divine help. “Nothing, I only did what you asked, told Drucker that you wanted to see him right away. That’s his name, by the way.”

  “Was there any reason to think that he’d snap or commit suicide? What did he say?”

  “No, not at all, he only sounded nervous, that’s all.” Tilting his head, Skeleter shrugged. “But I would have sounded nervous as well if someone had said the president wanted to question me.”