The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  ‘Rockets,’ Hank yelled over the noise and the chanting. ‘The Krauts think those trucks are carrying fucking missiles. Don’t these morons know we’ll be flying them in? Probably just truckloads of pizza and ice-cream down there.’

  Hundreds of demonstrators turned away from the base, swarmed onto the road and lay down in front of the trucks. In the rush, Garret saw two of the skeletons on stilts fall and become trampled by the swirling masses.

  A hover of helicopters arrived to film the action for the evening news. The riot squad cut off the main body of demonstrators while the water cannon went to work on the human speedbumps. The truck convoy inched forward.

  ‘Let’s cut the crap, Hank. Are you going to tell me why you’re looking over my shoulder, or do I have to make a formal complaint?’

  ‘No need to be a fuckwit, Garret. I’m just doing what I’ve been paid to do, which in this case is to keep you out of trouble. I’m not here to wipe your ass or be your whipping boy, so bottom line . . . keep a leash on your attitude, okay?’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question. I want to know who sent you here and why.’

  ‘You have friends in the administration.’

  Garret snorted in disbelief.

  The riot squad were hammering away with their truncheons, raising the heavy sticks high over their heads, way back behind their shoulders, and then swinging them down like pickaxes. Several demonstrators, faces covered in blood, were hauled from the mob by their fellow protesters. The crowd retaliated, swallowing a couple of police officers on the outer end of the line. The uniformed men disappeared beneath a torrent of fists and boots as another water cannon truck knocked down people before sluicing them away with powerful water jets.

  ‘You wrote a discussion paper,’ Hank said.

  Garret blinked. The paper he’d written was an internal one. As far as he was aware, it had gone no further than his section head.

  ‘Roy, frankly I’m surprised. Being such a bright spark, I thought you’d have figured it out by now. I work for the office of the National Security Advisor.’

  Garret was stunned. ‘You work for Clark?’

  ‘No, I work for the guy who works for Clark.’

  Hank paused as a unit of riot police sprinted past them and tackled a Grim Reaper to the ground for poking at another cop with a scythe, which was a cardboard blade, taped to a roll of cardboard. ‘So when you’re done here, that unmarked plane you saw will whisk you Stateside.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’re wanted back in Washington. Whatever it was you wrote in that paper, pilgrim, some hombres with some serious fucking weight want a word with you about it.’

  January 2, 2012

  The Florida Keys, Florida, United States. Ben Harbor propped himself up on an elbow in the sand and admired the woman as she tied the bikini string on her hip.

  ‘I used to think leopard-skin print only looked good on leopards,’ he said, grinning, lying naked beside her on a large beach towel.

  ‘You want me to take it off?’ she asked.

  ‘No, put it on. I’d like the opportunity to take it off you again. Just give me a little while to get my second wind.’

  ‘What’s a little while?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll give you five.’

  Ben grinned. ‘You’re a tough negotiator.’

  ‘Growing up in New York will do that to a girl.’

  The girl in this instance was twenty-three, tall, blonde, and maybe a thirty-four B cup. Her name was Joan, and Ben had met her only yesterday. Joan’s parents had booked an island discovery flight with Ben; her old man was keen to see a few of the best marlin and wahoo spots from the air before hitting them in a Riviera. It was the wrong time of year, but it didn’t matter. The guy was loaded. Joan said nothing the entire flight, just gazed out the window, her oversized white-framed sunglasses obscuring most of her face from view—either hiding or way too cool to communicate. Ben had also noted, when she walked down the dock, that she wore no underwear beneath her blue cotton sun-print dress. He hadn’t expected to see her or hear from her again, but she surprised him by calling first thing the following morning to book a joy flight. Ben wasn’t sure which of them was getting the most joy out of it, but so far the scores seemed about equal.

  ‘Have you been to New York?’ she asked over her shoulder as she stood up and tiptoed into the water lapping at the coral sand.

  ‘Nope. One day, maybe.’

  ‘A guy like you could have a lot of fun in New York.’

  ‘What’s a guy like me?’

  Joan porpoised under the water and came up smoothing her hair back. She trotted up the sand, tan breasts bobbing. ‘Okay, let’s see. Six two, six-pack, and way more than six inches. The blonde surfer-dude hair and green eyes wouldn’t hurt your chances, either.’ She regarded Ben in a detached way, as if appreciating a sculpture. ‘Good short-term prospects.’

  ‘Short term?’

  ‘Not a lot of seaplanes in New York. Actually, come to think of it, there aren’t any.’

  ‘There’s more to me than seaplanes.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got the cutest buns I’ve seen in a long time.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I split atoms in my spare time.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, giving him a sympathetic smile. ‘Hey, no offense, right?’ She knelt beside him and kissed him, her cold wet hair falling over his sunburned shoulders. ‘How’re we doing here?’ she whispered. ‘Your five minutes are nearly up, buddy boy.’ She took him in her wet hand. ‘Hmm . . . looks like we’ll be going into extra time.’

  ‘Are all New York girls as pushy as you?’

  ‘It’s a tough town. Push comes with the territory. You’d get eaten alive.’

  ‘If it’s so tough, why don’t you get out?’

  She laughed. ‘Get out? Look, after you’ve lived in New York, everywhere else is a trailer park. Besides, it’s not that tough for me.’

  ‘What do you do? What’s your day job?’

  ‘I was an art history major, which qualifies me to answer the boss’s phone. Junior PAs don’t earn a lot of money. But my daddy’s rich, as you know. He pays off my credit cards. And he takes me on amazing holidays once a year, like this one, though I’m sure he didn’t see this in the brochure.’ She leaned sideways, fondled Ben’s testicles and kissed his half erection. ‘And then, when the time is right, I’ll marry one of the men I know who has as much money as Daddy and then I suppose I’ll spend the next twenty years doing what everyone else does—charity work and fucking the hired help.’

  ‘And you think I’m aimless?’

  She sat up on her knees. ‘Say, have you got anything to eat or drink in that plane?’

  ‘Depends on what you want. I’ve got sandwiches, ice water, energy drinks . . .’ Ben started to push himself up.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ Joan insisted. ‘You relax. Save your strength.’

  She walked down to the water’s edge and then cut left, heading for the blue and white De Havilland Otter nosed onto the beach. Stepping up onto the float, she opened the door and bent over. A bitch with a real nice ass, Ben thought. A moment later, she held up two bottles of water and gave them a waggle. He answered her with a wave.

  ‘Is this yours? Or does it belong to . . . Key West Seaplanes?’ Joan called out, reading the name on the side of the plane’s fuselage.

  ‘Mine. And the bank’s,’ he said when she trotted up the beach toward him.

  ‘Well, that’s something. I’m impressed.’ She gently pitched a bottle underarm at him. ‘What would you do if you didn’t have it? Get a job with the airlines?’

  ‘Those guys don’t fly, they manage systems. And they wear dumb uniforms.’

  ‘I love a uniform.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised.’

  ‘Hey, there was a chopper lifting off back at Key West. I’ve never been in one. Can you fly those, too?’

  ‘Yeah. Back to what-ifs . . . What if your daddy ran o
ff with the maid and took all his money? What would you do?’

  Joan laughed. ‘She’s Mexican. She was also born when T-Rexes walked the earth. Come to think of it, she even looks like one.’

  ‘Then maybe his private fitness instructor? Does he have one of those?’

  ‘Hmm, yeah. Monica. She’s kinda cute . . . And I’m assuming in this “what-if” scenario that Mom didn’t manage to clean him out with the divorce settlement—which would happen by the way.’

  ‘Whatever, canceled credit cards for you, baby.’

  ‘Well, New York’s expensive. I guess I’d probably do what most girls my age do who don’t earn enough.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Have six or more boyfriends.’

  ‘For sex?’

  ‘Hey, it’s not always about sex, you know. Most New York girls spend their money on rent and clothes. Boyfriends are necessary if you want to eat. You can diet on the weekend so one for each night of the working week is best. Nothing elaborate, just something hot and served by a waiter, with a glass of wine.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give New York a miss.’

  Joan snuggled into Ben’s arms. A couple of pelicans soared overhead on a course for Key West, while high above them a jet drew a furrow like a speedboat across a pink lake. New York was a long way away.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to worry,’ she said. ‘I’d look after you as long as you looked after me, if you know what I mean . . .’

  Ben reached around from behind and cupped a breast, which had the effect of making Joan coo and wriggle her ass against his erection.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ he said.

  She giggled. ‘It’s starting to shape up nicely. I was beginning to think you were all talk.’

  His fingers picked at the spaghetti strap on her hip, the knot dissolved and her bikini bottom peeled off as she rolled onto her back. Ben admired her lithe, shaved, waxed, plucked and tan body. No doubt about it, Joan was one spectacular—and spectacularly spoilt—creature.

  ‘You love your job, don’t you?’ she said with a smirk, watching him watching her.

  Ben grinned shamelessly.

  ‘Someone’s gotta do it, right? So can you hurry up and do me? The sun’s going down. We have to go and I’m getting impatient.’

  Ben scooped her in his arms and stood up.

  ‘Hey . . . what are we doing?’ she squealed.

  He carried her to the water’s edge, the setting afternoon sun having turned the sea into a pond the color of orange juice.

  ‘This time, Joan, we’re gonna do it like fish.’

  She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and said, ‘Um, Ben . . . the name’s Jane.’

  Half an hour later, the Otter was approaching the landing pattern dictated by the winds. Ben banked hard over Key West until he could make out the windsock waving at the end of the dock.

  ‘Are you showing off? You’re making me sick.’

  Ben reassured her with a gentle squeeze of her bare brown knee. On this approach, when the sea breeze was rising over the spine of the key, the air could get lumpy. He glanced in the direction of the sun, a glowing rind vanishing below the horizon. The night was half an hour away. Time to deposit Jane on the dock and move on to the next adventure. Captain Tony’s Saloon was calling.

  ‘Is that where we’re landing?’ Jane asked. The inlet off the wingtip looked no bigger than a bathtub in the growing dusk.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Minutes later, the aircraft flared a couple of feet above the water and then the floats kissed the wavelets. With their speed washed off, Ben tweaked the rudder pedals and taxied to the dock.

  ‘That was fun,’ said Jane over the engine noise and propwash, her calm returned.

  ‘No, you were fun,’ Ben replied.

  ‘I’m here another couple days. Shall we, you know, get together again?’

  ‘Sure, key in your number.’ He took his cell from a door pocket and handed it to her, his mind already running through the after-landing checks.

  The water around the berth was dark and smooth. Ben closed the throttle, pulled the mixture and the engine died. The prop came to a stop with a chug and the Otter slid silently sideways, toward the pontoon. He opened the door, jumped out of his seat and hopped down onto the float, all in one fluid motion. Cecilia, the owner of Key West Seaplanes, was waiting on the pontoon.

  ‘Yo, Cecil!’ he called out.

  ‘How was it?’ she asked as Ben passed her the rope to tie off.

  ‘Flying won on the day,’ said Ben as he jumped onto the pontoon.

  Jane’s door opened and she tentatively stretched a toe down toward the float, nervous about falling into the black water.

  Ben came around and gave her a hand across.

  ‘Where do I pay?’ Jane asked Cecilia.

  ‘Up at the office—where you came in. Good flight?’

  ‘Amazing,’ she said, giving Ben a sly glance.

  ‘You go on up and I’ll be there in a minute, honey,’ Cecilia told her. ‘Help yourself to a soda.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Jane climbed up onto the dock and then strolled toward the shore in a sarong split to the top of her thigh.

  ‘Free sodas? There must be something wrong,’ Ben observed.

  ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘The tide was low, so over to N313.’

  ‘That little island’s a pretty public spot. Lots of fishermen call in there. You should watch yourself. One day you and a customer might find yourselves providing free, R-rated entertainment on YouTube.’

  Ben flashed her a grin and passed over a bag of trash.

  ‘I had a call from a lawyer in Miami—a guy by the name of Kayson Bourdain. You know him?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Nope, never heard of him.’

  ‘He wants you to give him a call.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘It’s about your father.’

  Ben stopped what he was doing and closed the log. ‘My father? What about him?’

  ‘He died.’

  Something caught in his chest. ‘What!? Frank’s—’

  ‘No, not Frank. Your other father.’

  March 5, 1983

  The Old Executive Building, Washington DC. There was no name-plate on the heavy oak door, which Garret figured meant that if you didn’t know whose office this was you probably weren’t meant to open it.

  Hank paused, hand resting on the brass knob. ‘You set?’

  Garret swapped the briefcase from one damp palm to the other and nodded. Hank opened the door. Behind it sat a thin middle-aged secretary. Her powdered face was accentuated by hair dyed fire-engine red. A purple vein wriggled in her temple. A cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on the desk curled smoke into shapes like bent wire. She glanced up from an IBM typewriter. With a voice dry as old sawdust she said, ‘Go straight on in, Hank. They’re expecting you.’

  ‘You’re a doll, Deirdre.’

  Hank moved to another oak door opposite, knocked, and opened it. A conversation on the other side stopped mid-sentence as they walked into the sprawling sunlit office.

  ‘Hank. Always good to see you,’ said a man in his mid-fifties with red suspenders, a ruddy face and several chins. He was leaning back on a comfortable couch that hugged the floor, hands clasped behind his head. Garret recognized him instantly. Ed Meese III. He knew him by reputation: a lawyer and a Lutheran, the President’s best friend and chief counselor, a member of the President’s cabinet. Meese had been responsible for calling in the National Guard to quell the People’s Park Protest at Berkeley back in ’69—one dead student, many wounded. He had a seat on the National Security Council.

  ‘You must be our author,’ Meese said, unclasping his hands and holding one forth for Garret to shake. ‘Thanks for coming in on a Saturday.’

  ‘No problem at all, sir,’ Garret replied as they shook. ‘Glad to meet you.’

  ‘And this is William Clark,’ Hank said behind him.

  Garret turn
ed. The National Security Advisor sat behind a broad, simple wood desk. With his dark, neatly combed hair, lined face and conservative suit, Garret thought he looked like a history teacher at exam time, an impression strengthened by the neat stacks of paper and folders organized in front of him. Four phones, each a different color, were arranged in a semicircle on the desk’s right-hand side.

  ‘Some analysis you’ve written here, Roy,’ Clark said, picking up a sheaf of paper from one of those stacks. ‘Congratulations on some great work.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Garret said as Clark’s CV ran through his mind. Clark was the President’s most trusted aide and former justice of the California Supreme Court—indeed, his nickname was ‘the Judge’. He was also a former army counterintelligence officer, a former Catholic seminary student, and known to be deeply religious. Up on the wall behind him hung a framed square of calligraphed parchment—a law degree—and a photo of a smiling Ronald Reagan haloed by the seal of the President of the United States. Dominating the wall, and in line with Clark’s deeply held beliefs, was a large porcelain Christ nailed to a cross, purple blood welling from a bleeding heart and his many wounds.

  A man in an expensive tailored suit occupied a chair in front of the National Security Advisor’s desk. Garret didn’t know him.

  ‘And this is Des Bilson,’ said Hank, filling the gaps. ‘Des, meet Roy Garret.’

  ‘The Roy Garret,’ said Bilson with the hint of a smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Bilson’s tan face and blond perm reminded Garret of a porn star, except that the man’s eyes were the color of ice build-up on a fridge freezer—cold on top, colder below. He was mid-thirties, Garret guessed, and a narcissist.

  ‘Des is my go-to guy,’ said Clark.

  ‘For the last six months, the Judge has been heading up a working committee looking at ways to turn around public opinion on these missiles,’ said Meese. ‘And then out of the blue your paper comes along and blows our thinking clean out of the water.’ There was a chuckle mixed with gravel in his voice. ‘Sit down, Roy, and take a load off.’