by Ward, Steve
“Don’t worry about me, Julia, I can take care of myself,” She had an idea. “Can you give me his precise itinerary?”
“Sure. But don’t let him know I told you, or he’ll be after me too.”
“Don’t worry, your secret is safe. And thank you, thank you so much for letting me know. I can take it from here. You just go home and get some rest.”
Christina’s mind was in high gear. Revenge had little time to weave its sticky web. The last time someone crossed her, he ended up at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Vengeance was like a cancer, and it ate away at her soul. When she thought of Scott, she could only picture the torture she had endured and the recurring nightmares. She would never sleep through the night again. And that ringing in her ears, that horrible curse, it was another gift from Scott. That bastard isn’t going to get away with it, not as long as I’m still alive. She found her way to the cafeteria and saw Michael sitting off in a quiet nook. It was 6:45 a.m. and there were few people there.
“Michael, guess who I just had a little chat with?” She sat down across from him and put her hand on his.
“The janitor?” he joked. “Who the hell else would be around this early?”
“Julia.”
“Julia? Is this a joke? Knock, knock, Julia who?” he laughed.
“How many Julias do you know?”
“Julia Baker? The Director’s personal, or I should say, very personal assistant? Couldn’t be her, she doesn’t get up this early.”
“She was crying, very upset. Claims the Director himself put the terrorists on us. Can you believe that?”
“No, that can’t be. He called me with the good news that the terrorists had been paid off and sent us to pick you up.”
“Well, think about it. If he wasn’t involved, how would he know who the terrorist were, who to pay and where I was located?”
“I just assumed Rhani had contacts.”
“You know what they say about assume, ass-you-me? She has handwritten notes, hard evidence. He had this sensor planted in my back so I could be tracked. He passed the information to Rhani for no good reason, and he has plans to leave the country tomorrow. Add it up.”
“Leave? Can’t leave, we’re launching day after tomorrow.”
“Oh he’s leaving all right, and it’s a big fat secret. Only Julia knows. Let’s see, I wonder why he’d leave the country just before the Iranians are planning a nuclear strike? Right at the very same time the President has given him the sober responsibility of protecting the U.S. of A. She said something else, Michael. Julia thinks the Director has sabotaged our mission.”
“What! How could he?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better check around. Let’s stick our heads into some of the prep groups unannounced and see what we can find.” Christina was feeling paranoid, but after all she had been through, it seemed justified.
“That bastard!” Michael shouted. A boiling rage slowly worked its way across his face. “We can’t let him get away with this. The President thinks he’s the good guy here. What can we do?”
“I don’t know yet, but we need to think of something quick. Julia gave me his schedule. A limo is picking him up at home at ten in the morning.”
“Got an idea,” his face lit up in a big grin. “I think my new friend Billy and I might just be driving that limo and show up a little early.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” she said. “I gotta get on the simulator in twenty. Let’s eat, I’m starved. We don’t have much time. I’ll meet you for lunch, and we’ll come up with something, then we’ll call Billy and get him on it. I’m going over to Launch Prep this afternoon to talk to the folks who handle the DROIDS. I want to see if there is any way someone could screw with our mission.”
Later that evening, dark plans were made. Billy volunteered the services of his friend in the Houston area, Guido Gardner. Gardner was a hulk of a dock worker with a mean streak. At six-five and 275, he had worked as a professional wrestler. Billy figured he might come in handy.
* * *
Scott paced the floor. He had to remind himself to quit biting his nails. He peeked out the window every five minutes, and it was twenty minutes before his driver was to arrive. With D-day only a couple days away, it was time to take the money and run. Rhani had been too slow to disappear, and he was atomized. Scott peeked out the window again, afraid of the same boogieman. He who hesitates.
All his luggage was at the door by 9:30, and it was packed with a shit-pot-load of cash. At 9:45 the doorbell rang, and he found the limo driver on his front steps. Odd, he thought, the young man looks too big for his uniform, looks like a bouncer for the Mob. Wow, must grow ‘em big in Milan, he mused.
“Name’s Johnny Cash, sir. It’s ah nice ta-meet-cha. Ready to go, ah when you are.”
“Fine, Mr. Cash, take these to the car, and I’ll be right with you.” Scott was glad the driver was early. He went to the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror to make sure his attire was perfect. He was known to be a well-dressed man, and where he was headed, he wanted to look his best. When he walked out the door and locked it behind, he saw the driver straining with his bags.
“Wathca got in ah here, ah tha kitchen sink? Hot tub maybe?” the driver complained. “Never seen a man with such ah heavy bags.”
“None of your business, son. Just get me out of here.”
When Scott followed him around the back of the car and opened the left passenger door, all hell broke loose. Two masked men jumped out and knocked him to the ground. He was stunned as he fell face first into the dirt. Punches to his backside and kidneys came in a quick barrage. He doubled over in pain.
“What the. . .” he was so shocked he couldn’t finish the sentence.
The two men picked him up and wrenched his arms back as far as they would go. He screamed as the driver gave him a solid blow to the midsection. Gasping for air, he was finally able to say something, “Wait. . .wait. . .I got. . .money.” Words rattled between gasps for air.
“Money? How much money?” the driver asked.
“Millions. . .in those bags,” Scott was sucking for air. “I’ll give you a million. . . cold cash. . .to let me go.” He felt like he had been hit by a truck. He had no idea who these people were, but he knew one thing, Every man has his price.
“Ah that’s ah nice to know,” the driver pounded him again in the stomach and slapped him beside the head so hard blood spurted out of his nose. “In the car,” he ordered. The two masked men responded in cold silence, throwing him inside and climbing in behind.
Scott tried to think, but he was barely conscious. Pain gripped his entire body. Consumed with panic, he shouted, “What in the hell do you want?”
A bag was pulled over his head, and he crunched forward fearing he’d be shot. The limo maneuvered a long distance and eventually came to a stop. The thirty-minute drive seemed like forever as he struggled with his bindings in fear of his life. His arms were numb with poor circulation. When they finally pulled the bag off, he could see they were in some sort of warehouse. As he turned to look around, a large door was being lowered. They shoved him out of the car and dragged him by his arms into a small room. There were two more people waiting there, and they appeared to be female. It was hard to tell because they all wore black uniforms and masks, all but the driver.
He felt like a lamb going to slaughter. The room was something from a horror movie. There were whips and chains, even a baseball bat. Some heavy electrical equipment was wired to a chair. My God. . .electric-chair! They strapped him in and pulled a metal cap down on his head. Wires were attached all over his body, and his heart raced with fear of what horrible fate was to come.
“Please. . .don’t do this. I’ve got money. More money than you can imagine. If you’ll just let. . .”
“We don’t want your filthy money,” the taller female said in an obviously fake Russian accent. She walked over to him and looked directly in his eyes.
“What do you want then?”
>
“We want the truth!” she screamed as she whacked him with an open hand across an already bloody face.
What an Amazon! he thought, shriveling in pain. “What truth? I’ll tell you. . .I’ll tell you anything. The truth about what?” he pleaded, shaking with trepidation.
The big man fiddled with the equipment on a rickety, folding card-table.
“Okay, you will answer my questions now,” the shorter female said from behind him. “Why are you leaving the country, and what have you planned for Miss Matthews on her next mission?” The big one, Amazon, stood in front ready to strike him again.
“Christina?” Is that bitch behind this? He stared at the eyes to see if they were familiar. The limo driver had his hand on the switch, so he had to think fast. “I’m going on a much needed vacation. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Matthews?” he responded in a bloody sneer, eyes shifting back and forth.
Amazon gave the signal, and the driver cranked up the juice. Scott felt a surge of electricity run the full course of his body. All his muscles cramped, and he screamed in torment. It was just a few seconds before the man backed off, and his body went limp.
“You must not understand,” Amazon said. “We want the truth, and we want it now.” She raised her arm to give the signal again.
“No, don’t! I’ll tell you the truth.” He wasn’t about to let them shock him again. For the next fifteen minutes he spilled his guts, telling them all that came to his tortured mind.
“I want details of the sabotage,” Amazon probed.
“But I can’t. . .”
She waved her arm, and the driver socked it to him once again. His body jerked and ticked in seizures. The pain was beyond imagination.
“Okay. . .okay!” After a few seconds he was finally able to speak. He could feel the blood running from both nostrils over his lips. “The space suit,” he sputtered.
“What about it?”
“I had a technician limit the oxygen. . .just enough to get her off the ground. . .too many Gs. . .suffocate during launch.”
Amazon walked over to the table. He watched in horror as she pushed the buttons to rewind two tape recorders. Then she played each one back. She turned up the volume to make sure he could hear. She called some guy, Charlie, and gave him the location of, “the nation’s number one traitor.” All five left the room, and he could hear the sounds of their departure.
Scott reeled in pain pulling against the wooden chair which had been anchored in the middle of the room. His luggage full of money was stacked up there. One audio tape was left on the floor on a piece of white paper. He squinted his eyes to read the message: CIA. . .LISTEN TO THIS.
* * *
Christina and her friends made their way back to JSC. The entire interrogation had been accomplished on a long lunch break, and she and Michael kept the rest of their training schedule without raising suspicion. She got a call that night from President Gleason, to fill her in on the Director’s plot. He felt it was important she be told that NASA had been reassigned to Vice President, Tom Bolten. Bolten would oversee her imminent mission to defend the country.
Gleason rambled on, “Apparently the Director didn’t like you much, Christina. He had your pressure suit tampered with. Don’t worry young lady, Bolten has had all your support systems double-checked, and we have arrested the technician who cooperated with Scott. You’re good to go, and God’s speed. The fate of our nation may rest in your hands.”
“Thank you sir, I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Seventeen
Christina was beginning to feel those irritating butterflies. An unusual cold-front had wedged its way into Florida putting a chill on the Cape. She shivered, not sure why she was having so much trouble getting warm. She pulled up a comforter that had been folded at the foot of her bed. On top of the normal tension of prelaunch jitters was the critical nature of her mission. She hadn’t been sleeping well. After hours of trying to get to sleep, she would finally drop off only to wake up in a cold sweat with visions of being strapped in a torture chamber. The ringing in her ears was worse at night and a real nuisance. It was around 10:00 p.m., and they were in quarantine at Kennedy Space Center. Astronauts were always sequestered the night before launch to make sure they weren’t exposed to infectious diseases. She tried to read but was much too restless. Finally, she decided to sneak down the hallway to Michael’s room. His light was out, but she knocked softly on the door.
“Come in,” the faint reply.
She went in and pulled the door behind. “Can’t sleep. Can I get in with you?”
Michael was already in bed and looked a little groggy. “Sure, come here, sweetheart.”
He’d never called her “sweetheart” before, and she was taken aback. Lazer always called her that. She suddenly remembered the first time Lazer had done so. It was when she met him, and they were combat training in a Sky Warrior T-34 Mentor. She didn’t like the condescending tone and almost snapped his head off. God, what a bitch I was. I wish I could hear him say it again.
Michael held up the covers, and she slipped in. The small beds were obviously meant for one. Nice and warm, she thought as she snuggled into his chest.
“Sorry, I know this is a violation of mission rules, but I couldn’t sleep.”
“I don’t think the rules mean much right now, Christina.”
She was well aware this could be their last night together, at least on Earth. Blasting off with over seven-million pounds of thrust was one thing, but fighting a nuclear war in space was something else. It had never been done, and there were no manuals, no rules of engagement or survival doctrine. It was a Kamikaze mission, and she knew their chances were slim.
War in space carried a whole new set of issues. There were so many risk factors carrying explosive DROIDS aloft and deploying them in orbit, it was almost better not to think about it. Over the years space junk from hundreds of old satellites had become a problem with several near misses. Their objective on this mission was to put so much junk in space ICBMs couldn’t survive. But what would it do to their own chances? Once all that sand was deployed, how would they be able to avoid it? What if a DROID exploded prematurely in the cargo bay on launch or upon extraction? What if the ICBMs detonated prematurely in orbit? What if the Russians countered with an anti-satellite missile or a powerful, ground-based laser beam? There were too many risks to catalogue. There had been no time to develop countermeasures or counter-countermeasures. Impossible to sleep, Christina was bombarded with annoying questions which couldn’t be answered. Just do your job, she told herself. Fly the airplane.
She snuggled closer to Michael and asked, “Would you just hold me for a bit, then I’ll crawl back to my cage.” He wrapped his arm around her, and she could feel the tension draining away. He rubbed her neck gently. No doubt, this brainy young man was carving a niche in her heart. She was so happy he would be co-pilot on the most dangerous mission anyone had ever flown.
“I’ll do more than that,” he said as he turned and kissed her.
* * *
T-3 hours
At the standard three-hour hold, NASA fueled New Hope with liquid oxygen and hydrogen. Along with the solid-rocket-boosters--SRBs--the STS would produce seven-million pounds of thrust to lift four million pounds of payload. With fueling complete, the countdown picked up, and the astronauts were awakened. At breakfast they were presented with the standard cake decorated with the mission emblem. Instead of the normal STS label, it was marked TSM2 for Top Secret Mission. Regardless of the military nature of the flight, the ground crew felt it important not to depart from long held traditions. The space program, although highly technical and professional to the max, had long been steeped in tradition. A little luck and a lot of good Karma were treasured by astronauts.
After breakfast, Christina, Michael and two military specialists, the crew of TSM-2, were taken to launch prep for donning their flight suits. The “partial pressure suits” were imposing, kind of like a knight climbing into
armor. The outfit included long underwear, body sensors, diaper, parachute pack, A/C unit, communication gear, helmet, gloves and boots. Recalling how the Director had tried to sabotage the mission, she double-checked her A/C unit to make sure it was fully charged. She had requested they forgo the most intrusive body sensors, and her request was approved. Guess you gotta fight a war to launch with dignity, she mused.
Once the crew was properly suited, they were taken to the CTV--crew transport vehicle--and headed to the launch pad. Christina reached over and squeezed Michael’s hand the best she could. With her visor lifted she said, “Guess this is it, Michael, no turning back now.”
