by Jeff Pollard
“Why a cargo plane?”
“I'm taking the K-Mobile,” Kingsley replies.
“Wouldn't that be way worse for the environment to fly your electric car halfway around the world than it would be to just rent a car there?”
“Yes,” K replies.
“Then why are you flying it there?”
“Because I want to.”
“Why?” Caroline asks.
“I'm a billionaire with my own space program, I get to do things like this. I'm eccentric.”
“You always have reasons.”
“I do.”
“So why are you doing this?” Caroline asks.
“Because I want to.”
“So you have a reason, you just don't want to tell me what it is,” Caroline says.
“Precisely,” K admits.
“Well, you better make sure that plane has room for me.”
“Of course it has room for you. It's a cargo plane.”
“I'm going with you.”
“What are you my babysitter?” K asks.
Two days later, at nine O'clock at night, Kingsley and Caroline depart their home in the K-mobile, headed for LAX to load the K-mobile, and themselves, onto a cargo plane destined for Johannesburg.
“What's in South Africa?” Caroline asks from the back seat of the K-mobile.
“Lots of stuff,” K says as he accelerates onto the highway, the K-mobile leans into the turn.
“Why are you going?”
“Meeting with George Clooney,” K replies.
“Doesn't he live in LA?”
“Some of the time.”
“Talking him into a space-cation?”
“Something like that,” K replies, putting the pedal to the floor and finding a way through traffic. He eyes the rear-view camera, spotting a blue sedan weaving through traffic to keep up.
“Slow down!” Caroline insists. K doesn't listen, watching the sedan try to keep up. “Do you have a death wish!? What are you doing?”
“I need to make it look believable.”
“Believable? What are you talking about!?”
Caroline and Kingsley drive out the back of the cargo plane in Johannesburg at three in the afternoon the following day. Caroline had given up asking questions as Kingsley refused to offer any more information and only cryptic non-answers. After two hours of driving, heading out into the South African countryside, Caroline finds herself in the middle of nowhere, driving down practically deserted roads surrounded by tall grass.
“Somebody needs to keep track of these warlord assholes,” George Clooney says. He has a ranch in northern South Africa. He's dressed in khaki colored clothes, large-brimmed hat, looking a bit like Crocodile Dundee.
“Wait a second,” Caroline says, catching up. “You have a spy satellite?”
“I own half a spy satellite,” Clooney corrects. “These Ugandan warlords and Sudanese dictators need to be exposed. Some people have a pet project, chihuahua charities and things like that. I have a satellite to spy on Sudan.”
“And you need to launch a new satellite,” Kingsley says.
“Two satellites, actually,” Clooney says. “Two spysats in a polar orbit. We'll slightly alter the orbit of one so they don't fly over at exactly the same orbit, they'll get slightly different views. We can make a 3d composite of the two image streams and come up with an interactive map that you can look at from any angle and see in true 3d. They also see in the infrared and so we overlay the heat map on the 3d composite.”
“Why do you need all that?” Caroline asks.
“Looking for mass graves,” Kingsley says.
“That and stopping there from being mass graves in the first place,” Clooney adds.
“Why are you doing this, I mean, are the Americans, the British, don't they have spy satellites.”
“Let's just say Sudan is not at the top of their priority list. If you don't have oil or nukes or Muslim extremists hell bent on slaying the infidels, the NRO doesn't much care about you.”
“NRO?” Caroline asks.
“National Reconnaissance Office,” Kingsley replies.
“Central Intelligence, National Security Agency, Homeland Security, those aren't enough, they need a separate agency for the spy satellites? I thought they all had spy satellites,” Caroline says.
“Don't forge the Defense Intelligence Agency, and each branch of the military has their own like Naval Intelligence,” Kingsley adds.
“And none of them are all that interested in humanitarian efforts. They archive the images, they sometimes go to the UN to point out what's going on, but they don't do anything about it. So I decided to do something about it,” George Clooney says. “Omar Al-Bashir just makes my skin fucking crawl. This child-soldier raising, mass-murdering fuckhead is a modern Hitler. So, I realized I could get my own satellite dedicated to watching the region, and we can spot these armies moving around and instantly alert the people in the Sudan as to where these armies are, where they're going, and give people warnings and time to get out of there or find cover. For all the intelligence they collect, the NRO is not very good about actually doing something with that information.”
“So you're doing something about it,” Caroline says.
“That's right.”
“And how many Eagle 9s do you need?” K asks.
“That's the thing,” George says, “my guy says they can fit both satellites into a single Eagle 9 payload, but that they won't fit in the normal payload fairing. So we wanted to get a custom payload fairing.”
“Sure, we can do that.”
“I feel bad that you came all the way out here for this,” Clooney says. “We could have done this over the phone.”
“I was gonna be down here anyway, just thought we'd stop in,” K says.
“Right, you're from here, seeing some family or something?” George asks.
“Something like that.”
“So what the hell was this all about?” Caroline asks from the backseat of the K-mobile. “You didn't need to come to Africa to talk to to George.”
“That's right, I didn't,” Kingsley says while eying the rear-view camera. The rarely used road is covered in dirt that's kicked up into the air by any car passing by. K see's a plume of dirt in the distance behind them, a second plume. He slows down the K-mobile, keeping one eye on the rear-view camera. He pulls to the side of the road, coming to a stop.
“Why are we stopping?” Caroline asks.
“You don't wanna know,” K says. A green sedan crests a hill in the distance behind them, appearing on the rear-view camera. At the moment the driver of the sedan sees the K-mobile stopped, he immediately slows down. “Gotcha,” K says.
“What?”
“This green car has been following us,” K says.
“How do you know?”
“Well, because I have a rear-view camera, and now that we stopped and he couldn't see that we were stopped, he closed the distance and now is slowing way down, hoping that we get going again before he passes us.”
“What does it matter if you're being followed?” Caroline asks. Kingsley turns around to face her, and to watch the green car approaching.
“You don't wanna know who they are?”
“Not really no.”
“Well I wanna know who they are,” K says. The green sedan has nearly reached them. Kingsley faces forward, looking into the rear-view camera. Just as the sedan is about to pass them, Kingsley presses a button and a taser-like device fires out of the side of the K-mobile, hitting the sedan's grill and imbedding itself. Thin wires leading back to the K-mobile carry a hefty electric charge which short-circuits the sedan's electronics. The sedan's engine dies and all electronics are disabled. The car coasts past and then the driver struggles against the lack of power steering or power brakes to pull over and stop the car just forty yards ahead.
“What the hell was that!?” Caroline demands. Kingsley slowly pull
s the K-mobile forward. He switches the screen to a front facing camera and a gun pops up out of the nose of the K-mobile. K pulls the trigger on his side-mounted joystick. The gun fires one shot, knocking the side-view mirror off the driver's side of the green sedan. Kingsley grabs a microphone, pressing the button. “Get out of the car slowly. Don't run, you won't make it far.”
“What the fuck are you doing!”
“Finding out who these assholes are,” K says. “Get out of the car and walk around to the trunk.” The doors to the sedan open slowly and two men get out with their hands up. They squint as the Sun is in their eyes.
K opens the canopy and hops out of the K-mobile. “Stay here,” he says, “and don't touch anything.” K walks down the middle of the road, away from the direct line-of-sight from the gun on the front of the K-mobile pointed at the back of the green sedan. K reaches them, standing off to the side of the car. One of the two men seems unfazed by all of this. This fifty-year old, bald, intimidating looking man had been in the passenger's seat. The driver was a twenty-something punk and he is terrified.
“There are guns pointed at you right now, and I haven't exactly done a lot of testing on the targeting system, so I wouldn't make any sudden movements if I were you,” K says.
“What do you want?” the old man asks.
“I wanna know who you are,” K replies.
“We're PIs, you don't care what our names are.”
“Who are you working for?” K asks.
“I can't tell you that,” the old man says without blinking.
“You can't or you won't?”
“Both. We never have direct contact with our employer. Never seen his face, never heard his voice. We report in with our findings, but they never say anything back, just send us a check.”
“You don't know anything?” K asks, not believing him. “Sounds like it's not government.”
“No sir, I don't believe it is,” the old man says. “But I can't be sure.”
“You can't give me anything?”
“We wouldn't be very good at our jobs if we did.”
“How much do you make working for this mystery man?”
“Can't say.”
“Well what if I paid you for information? What then?” K asks.
“Depends on the amount.”
“How much will it take for you to tell me who you work for?”
“I told you, I don't know who it is,” the old man says, annoyed.
“You don't know anything about him?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Ten thousand dollars, what do you know about him?” K asks. The old man just laughs, while the younger PI is pumped full of adrenaline.
“Ten thousand would barely cover our expenses on this trip,” the old grizzled PI says simply.
“Then name your price,” K says. The young PI reaches behind his back and whips out a pistol, aiming it at K.
“Give me the keys to your car, now!” the young PI demands.
“What are you doing?” the old PI asks his partner like he is an idiot.
“I'm not going to be left out in the middle of nowhere by this asshole.”
The young PI's gun explodes, flying out of his hand, shot away by a single shot from the car. The pistol falls to the ground under their car. The young PI steps away slowly, raising his hands back in the air.
“Damn, I thought you were bluffing with that targeting system stuff,” the old PI says.
“Me too,” K says, looking with worry back at the car.
“For a million dollars I'll give you everything you need to know.”
“Deal,” K says.
“Where's the money?”
“This isn't a Mexican standoff. This is a South African standoff, and I have the only robot car. So tell me what you know or I'm just going to leave you out here.”
“Fine, I don't see any reason to needlessly complicate things. Especially since you don't particularly want to make enemies with someone that knows everything about you.”
“Fair enough,” K says.
“The closest I've come to my employer was when I got the assignment. A courier dropped off an envelope with details on my assignment and a cashier's check that had gone through some middlemen and couldn't be traced back. Normally I don't work blindly like that. I'm not casing a target only to find out I was recon for a hitman. That's how you get caught up in some illegal shit. But this was a lot of money, so I looked into it. Like I said, I couldn't trace the money. I ran prints I got off the documents, the envelope. Got prints on the envelope, but they belonged to the courier who did time for minor drug offenses. Got a nice set of prints on the documents, but the trace came up with nothing, no record. Then I looked closer at the prints. These particular prints were rather greasy, a little more residue than you normally find. I took some tape, peeled off some residue and sent it to a lab. They said there was trace amounts of feces on there. Whoever I'm dealing with ain't big on hygiene. Look into it more, come to find out it's not human feces. . .”
“What was it?” K asks.
“Pig.”
“Pig shit?” the younger PI asks.
“That's right. Which, by itself didn't tell me fuck all, but as soon as I started casing you, I immediately realized who it was.”
“The fucking Kokes,” K says.
“That's right.”
“I guess I shouldn't be surprised,” K says.
“No sir.”
“What do they want you to find?”
“Anything they can use. Illegal activities, drugs, girls, anything at all. I'm guessing because they have their eyes set on your job.”
“Yeah,” K says. “Did you give them anything good?”
“They must think so if they're holding a vote of no-confidence at the next board meeting.”
“What did you give them that makes them think they can get rid of me?”
“I give them a lot, don't know what specifically they want. Secret meetings with gangsters and other corporations. Is that something they'd be interested in?”
“They know about the ULA meeting?”
“Not only do they know you met with her, and do some research K, how did you not do a Google search and realize you were meeting with a woman, but they know every word that was said in that meeting.”
“Did you get my Dark Knight Rises reference?” K asks.
“The what?”
“I got it,” the younger PI says. The old PI stares him down.
“You have me bugged?” K asks.
“Nope, long range listening devices. Next time don't stand out in the open like that.”
“Well, thanks for that,” K says. “Now I bid you adieu. Thanks for the info.”
“Hey, you said you'd pay us for this info!” the young PI demands.
“Us? You didn't know any of that stuff,” the older PI says to his companion.
“Well, you can't just leave us out here.”
“I don't think my car has enough room for the four of us,” K replies, walking back to the K-mobile.
“You don't want to stiff me on this money,” the old PI says sternly. “And you especially don't want us telling the world that you tried to kill us with weapons you put on your car.”
Kingsley laughs.
“What's funny?”
“You think I want to make an enemy over a million bucks?” K asks. “I'll get you the money later. Good luck getting back to the airport.”
“At least fix the car!” the young PI says, starting to panic. K simply laughs and closes the canopy. He puts the pedal down and whips the K-mobile out into the road and takes off at high speed.
“Nice shot, by the way,” K says to Caroline.
“He pulled a gun,” Caroline replies.
“They really thought the car was some kind of robot.”
“K, you're not just leaving them out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Why not?”
“You destroyed their car and I haven't seen another car in an hour. You can't just leave them to die.”
“To die? George Clooney lives two miles from here. Just because you can't see a five-star hotel doesn't mean they're on the verge of death.”
“K,” Caroline says simply.
“What do you want me to do? There's no room in here.”
“K.”
“I can't tow them, we'd be lucky to get this thing up to fifteen miles per hour with that thing behind us.”
“K.”
The K-Mobile whines like an electric blender that's been left running for five hours and is about to die. The green sedan looms large in the rear-view camera.
“I stand corrected,” Kingsley says, “nineteen miles per hour.”
“There's something I still don't understand,” Caroline says from the backseat.
“What?”
“Why did we come to South Africa to do this?”
“Because this was all legal,” K replies.
“What do you mean?”
“There's such a big problem with car-jackings in South Africa, made especially worse by the stark divide between haves and have-nots, and you know it's always the rich that write the laws. Long story short, cars can be fitted with all kinds of weapons and you have the right to use them if someone tries anything.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. If we tried this in say, Death Valley, it'd be assault with a deadly weapon. In South Africa it's just self-defense.”
“Do you have any other weapons on here? There's the taser thing, the gun on the front.”
“That's it,” K says.
“Really?” Caroline asks. “What about this button?”
“Don't press that button.”
“You can't see what button I'm pointing at.”
“Don't press any buttons.”
Caroline presses the button anyway, causing an instant flash of orange flames to envelop the canopy and then disappear.
“Is that a flamethrower?!”
“Thermal protection system.”
“They allow that!?”
“Yep. I even got a permit for it. Plus, it's great for de-icing in the winter.”
“For those harsh winters in South Africa in July.”
