Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  John looked at Weston, who just shrugged, and then at each member of the board.

  “I assume you read the FBI file on the incident. What makes you think I have anything to add?”

  “Mr. Mathews, John, what we’re looking for are your impressions of Dean Atkins. What was her motivation in joining them, what were her criteria for recruitment of the members of the community?” Manchester asked.

  “And what? If I don’t give you satisfactory answers I get to go back to being a bartender?” “John said bitterly.

  “Not at all,” Simeon said quietly. “That is not why we hired you, nor why we are asking you. Your worth to GST is not in question, nor is it our intension to threaten you. We have spent over half a trillion dollars on Project Jove and its associated technologies. And it would be dishonest to pretend we aren’t looking for a return on our investment. The Jove spacecraft will be opening up our solar system to exploration, and, yes, exploitation, in the very near future. As you know, we will be building the next-generation spacecraft that will land on the moon and be able to return to Earth orbit very soon. However, as good as we are, GST is a poor second cousin to the separatists in technology.

  “Yes, we’d like to acquire their technology, and yes, we’d like to initiate a successful dialogue with the very community your Dean Atkins is a part of. Are we to be castigated for looking to advance the scientific reach of GST? Should we not be as thorough in our research into the people the mission is going to meet? Are we not employing the same techniques that made you the most successful missing persons detective the Atlanta Police Department ever employed?” Simeon concluded.

  Everyone waited for John to answer. He sat back in his seat, again looking from one member of the board to another, quietly taking their measure.

  “You’ve asked some very good questions, some with obvious answers. Let me ask you something: What makes you think that I haven’t thought about what you’re asking, wanting to understand Sydney’s motivation even more so than you?

  “You, the FBI, and Tom here. You all think that somehow I know something magical about those people that’s going to open the door to understanding some deep dark motivation they have for being out there. For some reason all of you assume that I’m keeping something from you, that I know some secret about Sydney and her community. What the hell is wrong with you people?” John asked, startling them all. “I mean really, what is wrong with you that you simply can’t take their farewell message at face value?

  “At least two of you grew up in the US. The rest of you can’t be ignorant of America’s history in its treatment of blacks. Look at all the backlash ignorant-ass whites have been visiting on African Americans since the separatists left; do you really think that has escaped their notice? We’d be fools to believe that they don’t keep tabs on us, especially in light of two expeditions about to be launched to visit them. They have to know things have gotten worse, not better. I’m guessing that’s not going to help the missions being sent out there, at least not yours.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Mathews?” asked Mr. Cho, speaking for the first time, in barely accented English.

  “Because I think the selection of Dr. Roscoe is a cynical ploy. And if I think this, I can’t be the only one who’s thinking it either. I guess the UN is going to send some ambassador along from one of the countries that offered the separatists asylum or citizenship, but that’s a waste of time. What do we really have to offer them? We can’t offer them equality in this country, there’s still too many country-ass Billy Bobs out there still pissed off the South lost the war. And I know very well that GST is basically a sovereign entity itself, but what can we offer that means anything? Technology? Doubtful. Additions to their community? Really now, they’d have to be crazy letting any stranger in the door at this late date,” said John, shaking his head.

  “Funny you should mention that, John,” began Manchester.

  “Whoa there! Wait just a minute. You aren’t suggesting what I think you are, are you?” John said, almost rising from his seat.

  When no one answered, he continued, “Now just wait a goddamned minute. I already got turned down by those people on account of the lack of pigmentation in my skin, for one thing, and for another, I’m no f-ing astronaut!” John shouted.

  Weston laid his hand on John’s arm, trying to calm him before things got out of hand. John shook off the hand, saying, “Lay off, Tom. I’m fine. Here all along I figured you were going to be pulling some shit on me; pumping me for information, maybe at one of the CIA’s black ops sites. I really underestimated you, this screwing goes all the way to the top.”

  “That is not the case at all, John,” Manchester said.

  “How’s so?’ John shot back.

  “Of course we would like to have every possible advantage in trying to make contact with those people. And your perspective would be eminently helpful. But let me ask you something. You’ve been brutally honest about your relationship with Dean Atkins before her departure; you were in love with her, correct?”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “Let me be blunt, wouldn’t you like the opportunity to speak with her again?” asked Manchester as the others watched closely for John’s reaction.

  John quietly got up from his seat and said, “This meeting is over.” Without a backward glance he left the room, Weston scrambling to his feet to catch up.

  Once the two were out of the room, Manchester said, “That went well, didn’t it?”

  John snatched his bag out of the security guard’s hand and just kept moving toward the elevator, ignoring Weston who was telling him to slow down.

  As the two waited for the elevator, Weston was silent, knowing that whatever he said wasn’t going to help.

  Back in the boardroom Sakamoto asked the others, “Do you think he’s going to do it?”

  “I’d bet on it. You saw how angry he got. That’s a man still in love. He wants answers, maybe even some measure of closure other than being left behind because he’s white,” Manchester said.

  “Let us hope that Weston can get through to him,” said Simeon.

  “You sure he’s going to try?” Cho asked.

  “Bet on it. They’re two of a kind, neither of them leave any stone unturned in getting answers,” Simeon replied.

  “You’re still convinced that if we send him up, he needs to go undercover?” Manchester asked Templeton.

  “Absolutely. Can you imagine the field day the press will have if they find out who he really is? Remember though, Dr. Milton and that engineer have both met Mathews. They’ll have to be clued in,” Templeton answered.

  “Milton, yes. We can get Mathews trained down here while the engineer is still in orbit, then swap them come time for the crew to board,” said Cho.

  “That is if Mathews chooses to go,” added Sakamoto.

  “Oh, he’ll be going all right. I’d bet a million euros on it. Any takers?” Manchester asked, chuckling.

  The elevator ride down to the ground floor was made in silence with John looking straight ahead at the door as if Weston wasn’t there. He didn’t like anything about how the meeting went down. Weston liked and respected John, and he knew exactly how John felt. There was going to have to be a lot more than mere fence mending behind what went down.

  “I’m really sorry, John. Want to talk about it or do you just want to take a poke at me?” Weston asked when they left the elevator, walking through the lobby.

  John paused, looking out the window to see if his car was parked out front.

  “Hang on. I’ll have them bring it around,” Weston said, guessing what John was looking for. He walked over to the security desk and told them to call John’s driver. When he returned, John was visibly calmer so he decided to try again.

  “Come on. Let’s grab a bite. Talk, don’t talk, no biggie.”

  “Fine. But make it somewhere
where I can get a drink,” John said.

  “After their performance up there I could use one too,” Weston said, seeing the car pull up. “Come on.”

  Weston told the driver where to take them, with John paying absolutely no attention to the discussion. When they arrived, John just followed Weston inside the nondescript entrance, with a full head of steam still up over the meeting.

  Once seated, John told the waitress, “Double scotch, neat.” Weston nodded to bring him the same.

  They waited in silence until the drinks arrived, John draining half of his in one gulp while Weston sipped somewhat more conservatively.

  “Those sons of bitches,” John muttered, almost under his breath. Weston remained silent, letting John go whichever way he wanted. “Those sons of bitches,” he repeated, draining the remained of his scotch and signaling the waitress for another.

  Weston watched cautiously, wondering if he was going to have to carry John out of the restaurant.

  When the waitress set John’s drink in front of him and took the empty, Weston asked for menus, hoping John wasn’t planning to continue drinking on an empty stomach. He was somewhat surprised when John asked, “What’s good at this joint?”

  “Ah, steaks are good. All their sandwiches are first class, as are the pasta dishes. What do you feel like?”

  “A sucker sandwich with a side of how fucking stupid can you be?”

  Weston laughed despite himself.

  “When you approached me with the job, I half-thought it was because you had something like this in mind. Well, not sending my ass into outer space, but pumping me for any information I may not have told the authorities. But this was completely out of left field,” said John, gulping down half of his refilled scotch.

  “Is this how you drink when you’re not at Pete’s?” Weston asked, trying to be diplomatic.

  “Don’t sweat it, this is my last one. Besides, I’ll be getting something to eat.”

  When the waitress came to take their food order, John ordered an egg-white-only ham and Swiss omelette, English muffin and sliced tomatoes, calming Weston’s anxiety.

  Weston settled for a club sandwich, and was quite happy when John switched to iced tea.

  “I never thought they would be trying to get you to go into space, John.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Hey, man. I have no idea how you feel about Atkins, and I know it’s been ten years, but you’ve got to be curious,” Weston said gently.

  “You know, I just don’t think about it. Like you said, it’s been ten years,” said John.

  “Yeah, but if it was me I’d always wonder.”

  “Leave off, Tom. I know you don’t mean anything by it, but just let it go,” John said, then paused. “So, what do you think this means for my job?” he said, sourly.

  “As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed. My phone hasn’t rung, I’ve got no text messages, so all in all I’d have to say is, so far, so good. That’s not to say that they won’t turn everything you love in life to shit before your very eyes.”

  “So eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I may die!” John said, laughing.

  “Maybe something like that,” Weston agreed, also laughing. “Let me ask you this, is there any circumstance where you’d actually consider going?”

  “Haven’t given it any thought. I was trying to get drunk until your not-so-subtle hint,” John said. “Besides, who needs a .38-special-toting astronaut with a knack for finding lost kids? You didn’t chase after me just now to try to talk me into it, did you?” John said, suddenly suspicious.

  “Hell no! This was just as big a surprise for me as it was for you. I’ll be honest with you, ever since you joined up I’ve actually been able to get more than four hours of sleep a night, you know?”

  “Then tell me this, what’s the head of the largest private security force in the world doing globetrotting instead of running the show from a desk with a cadre of flunkies at his beck and call?” asked John.

  “Because I hate sitting behind a desk! The board keeps after me about that too. But since I get the job done, and very well mind you, they don’t have much to complain about except that they have to come looking for me every time they get the notion to chat.

  “You know, I envied you working behind the bar at Pete’s. Nothing to worry about except pulling the right beer or mixing the right drink. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not breaking your balls or anything, but it just seemed so much less complicated, you know what I mean?”

  John laughed. “That’s another skill there’s no call for in space. Do they even allow booze in space?” John wondered aloud.

  “I happen to know that our grunts in orbit at least get beer. It drove the guys in R&D nuts trying to come up with a pressurized container that wouldn’t make a huge freakin’ mess whenever you popped a cool one in zero-G.”

  “So did they?” asked John.

  “Did they what? Oh, get the beer can thing done right? I have no idea. No, check that. They must have because they’re shipping beer up there every month,” Weston remembered.

  “Get out! Well, that’s at least something to think about. How long’s the mission supposed to last? Two years?”

  “About that. Same amount of time you spent in Nam, right?” asked Weston.

  “Give or take. Why?”

  “How long did that feel to you?”

  “About a lifetime. You serve?” John inquired.

  “Not exactly. I was a spook, did most of my time in Laos.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep. Hey look, I know what it feels like to be railroaded. And jacking your ass out to the asteroid belt is just about as far as man has gone, except for the separatists I guess. One thing’s for sure, John.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “At least you wouldn’t be flying in a space ship built by the lowest bidder!” Weston said, cracking them both up.

  “Let’s say I consider going. How am I supposed to let them know?”

  “You aren’t seriously thinking about it, are you?”

  “Absolutely not!” John said emphatically. “Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. There’s got to be hazard pay for something like that, right?”

  “Hell yeah! That’s not bad thinking. You go, you come back, you’re famous and you can retire—again! Pretty sweet deal.”

  Both men were quiet as they waited for the waitress to finish serving their food. Once she was out of earshot Weston said, “I’ve got a few things to do here for the rest of the day and most of tomorrow. Want to hang around? Not at the office or anything, just maybe cool out and see the sights? If you’re serious about considering the deal, it’ll give you some time to think about it.”

  “Maybe. What hotel are you staying at?”

  “You forget, I live here. I have a condo down in Soho, but GST has a couple of suites in the UN Plaza Hotel if you want something nice. It’s better than the corporate apartments we keep. At least the Plaza has room service!”

  “Right. Then all I have to do is figure out how to say ‘no’ to the five most powerful people in the world, or get used to the fact that the job ‘astronaut’ is going to wind up closing out my resumé.”

  * * *

  “GST wants to do what?” President Laughlin shouted.

  “They want their crew member to be a former Atlanta detective. Here’s the background on him. And get this, they want him to use an assumed name, and it’s easy to see why,” Dawkins said, handing Laughlin a folder.

  “This is that same guy, right?” he said, shuffling through the pages.

  “He’s the last person to have talked to Dean Atkins before she was picked up by the separatists. It makes sense. I’m kind of surprised we didn’t think of it first,” she said.

  Laughlin looked up, startled at the remark.

  “Well it’
s true, isn’t it?” she said defensively. “The only reason we didn’t even consider it was because it was just plain politically indefensible.”

  “It honestly never crossed my mind. For Christ’s sake, it’s been ten years already. I’m sure both of them have moved on. How is this possibly going to play out if the press finds out?”

  “How are they going to find out? Dr. Milton won’t spill the beans, Mathews won’t. Who’s going to know?” she asked.

  Laughlin spun his chair around to look out the window.

  “Stuart, this is GST’s call. They’ll take the heat if anyone finds out.”

  “That’s bullshit. No way in the world we’ll have any plausible deniability behind this. What did Milton say? You call him yet?” Laughlin asked.

  “No, I thought I’d leave that particular party for you. Besides, you have to approve of Mathews for him to even be presented to the good doctor.”

  “You mention it to anyone else yet?” he asked.

  “No, I just got the email from Nate Simeon,” she explained.

  “Right from the top, eh? That is serious.”

  Laughlin turned back around to face Dawkins, a sad look in his eyes.

  “They know we can’t turn them down, either.”

  “Not easily, Stuart,” she said quietly. “All we can do is make the best of it. Make sure no one finds out Mathews is on the mission, but just some GST functionary. And if we get a move on the approval, we can have him train with the ambassador.”

  “How’s she doing so far?” he asked.

  “She’s doing well. Dr. Milton says everyone likes her and she’s eager to learn. If we get Mathews in this week, he’ll have no problem catching up,” Dawkins suggested.

  “And have the usual suspects cobble up an identity for Mathews, and make it good. Get GST to do the heavy lifting; this is on them,” Laughlin ordered.