“If you want to know what would be most effective,” I say what I always have, “take a look at what’s already been done. Take a look at nature. That’s your best model. And when an animal attacks, what does it do? It goes after the face, the eyes, the mouth, the ears.”
“Not just animals. Any smart predator will do that,” Dick says.
“No matter how powerful our missiles or guns, without the ability to communicate, to receive and transmit, we’re no match for the enemy.” Paying close attention to my driving, I watch the slow-moving strand of bright-red taillights ahead. “This is the rest of what I was going to say today before I had to bail because of the detector alert. It’s what I’m always preaching. Except it’s more like crying in the wilderness or screaming wolf, if you want to know how I feel most of the time.”
“People like you and me live in an invisible world.” Dick says this constantly. “What we see is not there to the masses, which is good if you don’t want panic in the streets. But critically bad if you want to survive and live freely, if you don’t want our planet to one day be a scorched rock like Mars. Your average person never thinks about what might happen if and when Russia or China or both decide to take out our satellites, our space stations and telescopes, our rovers and rockets.”
“Or worse, take them over to turn on us,” my remark followed by another one of Dick’s silences.
As I drive slowly, I can barely make out the shape of NASA Langley’s water tower, red and white swirled like a tulip against the dark horizon. And the tall stack of the trash-recycling steam plant, its black silhouette quiet for the night.
“I mean, what could be worse than fighting against your own training and invention?” I add. “What could be more horrible than having what you created betray and hate you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Why don’t you ask God?”
“I don’t need to, and we already have the problem anyway, the massive and intractable problem of stolen intellectual property,” I reply. “The most insidious enemy we do battle with every day, and the very thing I was worrying about during the briefing. Why do you think I wasn’t thrilled? Because nobody listens.”
“I think everybody was listening. Whether they took it to heart is another matter,” he replies. “It’s what we always say about the forest and the trees. You have to see both to get the complete picture, and most people don’t. A lot of them don’t see either one.”
“Which is why I spend a lot of my days feeling the way Chicken Little would if he knew the sky really will fall because it has before.” I’m resting my right arm on the console between us as I drive, and Dick startles me by reaching for my hand.
Taking it in his and gently squeezing as he explores the topography of my right index finger again. Touching the scar the same way he did at the briefing, only more carefully now that we’re alone in the dark. And maybe I’m figuring out what he’s doing. Better put, maybe it couldn’t be more obvious.
“I’ll sure as hell never forget that day.” His demeanor is instantly more relaxed and familiar.
“I won’t either. It was pretty stupid.” Freeing my hand from his, placing it on the wheel because I’m not sure what to do with it now.
“I thought I’d walked into Helter Skelter,” he says, and it did rather much look like the scene of a massacre. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to slice open stale bagels again.”
“They weren’t stale. Just frozen in the middle. You want to tell me what this is about?” I ask, and it’s a toss-up whether I’m more indignant than hurt. “First, it’s misinformation as if you’re quizzing me in an episode of Mission: Impossible . . .”
“Ouch. I’d like to think I’m more finesse-y than that.”
“Calling me Carme isn’t exactly subtle. And now for some reason you seem to feel a need to check out facts including my, quote, ‘unique identifying feature.’ Seriously, Dick? Is this our new secret handshake? Feeling my scar? A scar that for sure my twin sister doesn’t have. Do you not know who you’ve been talking to today? After all we’ve been through, do you not know me?”
9
“I’M NOT trusting much at the moment, Calli,” he admits, his attention fixed straight ahead as I drive through the windy dark.
“Nor should you or any of us now or any other time, I suppose,” barely creeping along Langley Boulevard, the traffic bumper to bumper. “But why would you assume I might be Carme? What would possess my sister and me to play a juvenile trick like that on you of all people? Not that it would be possible, as I’ve not seen her in almost a month. But I wouldn’t anyway. And why would you call me the wrong name? Why would you test me?”
“You two used to swap places with each other when you were younger.”
“The operative phrase being when we were younger, as in grade school, and high school occasionally.” I’m stung that he would think so little of my judgment and maturity. “As in kids, teenagers. Why would you assume she’s in the area? Because if she is, it’s news to me. Not that I have any idea of her whereabouts. She might be in Colorado Springs with you, for all I know.”
Silence.
“Or North Africa or the Middle East,” I add. “Why would she be in Virginia, why would you assume that?”
“I try not to assume anything,” he says.
“Is that why you have your gun in your lap? Because you can’t assume you can trust me?” Dismayed by the emotions threatening to flare.
“Why would you think that?” he says quietly without moving in his seat.
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s some other reason your right hand is under your parka, and has been since you walked out of HQ and got into the truck?” I reply pointedly. “I also noticed you were doing something on your phone as you were coming down the steps, probably another app that’s reading the analyzer in your backpack. I should know, since I’ve got one in my gear bag. A good one.”
“I have a feeling mine’s better.”
“I have no doubt that’s true since your budget might be slightly bigger than mine,” I reply. “And gosh only knows what you’re trying to read or figure out. But if you really do have a gun, then you’re in violation of the law because no weapons are allowed on the NASA campus unless you’re sworn police. And I am. And you’re not. I could turn it into a felony if I wanted.”
“I can only hope you’ll be fair.” Drolly.
“In fact, it would be within my rights to cuff you and bring you in.” I couldn’t be more serious.
“How awful if you had to toss me in the clink,” he deadpans.
“I’m not kidding, and in case you didn’t notice, you’re not the only one armed and dangerous. Word on the street is I’m pretty much an Annie Oakley. So why don’t we just agree right now not to shoot each other as I’m driving you back to your room?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Good.”
“Now that we’ve agreed to a cease-fire, I have a riddle for you,” he adds. “What are the two biggest problems you don’t want in an aircraft, a spacecraft? Think forest and not the trees.”
“Obviously, loss of control and loss of signal. You don’t want either one. And they come in pairs, one almost always leading to the other, and you’re . . .”
“Screwed,” only that’s not the word he uses to finish my sentence.
I look out at the picnic and recreation area, the historic wind tunnel and other landmarks where Carme and I used to play while we were growing up here. Barely moving toward the traffic circle, and with the bad weather report and threat of a furlough, a number of people already have buttoned up their offices, not hanging around until we’re officially closed at midnight.
Sensible and makes my life easier, but the normal staffers aren’t who I worry about. It’s the
die-hard researchers we have to chase off with a stick. That would include me if I weren’t the one carrying the stick, and it’s a hard, heavy one at the moment. Harder and heavier than usual, as if made out of ironwood. I could crack a skull with it if I’m not careful, and I feel the slow burn of a bad mood heating up.
That’s what happens when someone creates chemistry, and Dick has created it. I wish he hadn’t. But he has.
“If we lose the ability to communicate with an asset and can’t control it?” he continues to confide now that he doesn’t outrageously think I’m Carme pulling the wool over his eyes. “Whether it’s our new super rocket or a human being equally capable of doing great harm . . . ?”
“We’re screwed.” Because I feel I am.
Trying to ignore the ache in my gut. Slightly nauseated as if I’m hungry and not.
Please don’t throw up.
Driving with my left hand, self-consciously rubbing my right thumb and index finger together, and Dick and I are quiet. Inching along until the traffic tapers off dramatically when I hang a left on West Durand Street, toward the air force base. I don’t want to be insubordinate. But no way I’m letting him out of this truck without an explanation for what he’s been implying and why he’s been acting this way all day.
As the silence continues, he knows better than most that when presented with a void, eventually I’ll fill it.
“Okay,” I have to say. “Obviously, something’s happened. Something serious. So serious that a minute ago you weren’t sure who you were sitting with inside this truck. And possibly haven’t been sure who I am since you arrived on the Langley campus. Even though I’ve acted the same as always and wore the flight jacket you and Liz gave me.”
“I’m glad you still have it.”
“I would never part with it,” I reply, and it’s the truth. “Tell me what you can. You know I’ll help. I’ll try, at least. Just level with me, whatever it is. No matter how much I might not want to hear it, Dick.”
“You’re correct in saying that something serious has happened. Yes,” he replies quietly, grimly.
“How serious is serious?”
“Unprecedented, frankly, in terms of potential damage. Welcome to our brave new world. Where nothing’s what it seems.”
“Nothing’s what it seems?” I bounce his own words back to him. “That sounds about as bad as it can get. What exactly are we talking about?”
“I can’t and won’t say. You’ll have to deduce from me what you will. But understand up front, Calli, that I’m not at liberty to satisfy your curiosity no matter how unbearable.”
“Unbearable?” My suspicions stampeding again. “I could have done without hearing that.”
10
WE’VE reached the sturdy brick Durand Gate with its barriers and tire shredders, the security forces less friendly over here on the air force side. Not that our protective service officers are warm fuzzies, either.
“Unbearable is a strong word.” I slow to a stop.
“Yes, it is.” Dick takes off his lanyard and badge.
“With personal shadings,” I add.
“Both correct and not.”
“Let’s hold that cryptic thought. See this MP coming up?” As I watch his approach. “He’s always such an a-hole. Better get ready.”
Lowering my window, I say good evening to the unsmiling military police officer in his camouflage and beret, his M4 carbine slung across his chest, his Beretta 9mm on his hip. The name tape on his uniform reads Crockett, and based on that and the unusual accent I’ve noted from our previous encounters, I’ve pegged him as being from Tangier Island. Whatever his pedigree, he goes out of his way to give me a hard time whenever he can.
Don’t ask me why. But if anyone in my custody or company doesn’t display his or her credentials fast enough, MP Crockett is going to lower the boom. He might make a comment about my truck, insisting on running a mirror under it to delay and hassle me further. Or point out the beginning of a crack in the windshield that needs to be fixed instantly or else, costing me additional toil and trouble.
Dick drops his badge in my lap. But before I get a chance to hand it and mine out the window, MP Crockett has his flashlight on, practically blinding us. More aggressive than usual, as if I’ve done something to really piss him off this time.
“Playing musical cars tonight, ma’am?” he snipes in a cold flat tone.
“Excuse me?” I have no idea what he means.
“I need to check your registration, ma’am,” he goes on severely, and I’d almost be disappointed if he didn’t make sure it’s current.
Because he does it every time, and I open the glove box for the hard copy, knowing full well he won’t stop there. Even when he’s less angry than he seems right now, he’s always a jerk.
“I’m talking about the stickers on your plates, ma’am. And I’m going to need to check the undercarriage of your truck. Both of you need to step outside.”
“Whatever you say, Officer.” Making a big point of handing him our badges. “But first, here you go.”
Directing the light on our lanyard-tethered IDs, and silence. As it dawns on MP Crockett that while I may not matter in the food chain, it’s probably not the best plan to bully a 4-star general by making him stand outside in the brutal cold. While you inanely check the undercarriage of my NASA police truck for explosive devices, stowaways, fugitives, who the hell-o knows what.
“Have a good evening! Sir!” He foolishly snaps a salute at Dick, making him a target if the wrong person is watching.
Returning our badges, the thoroughly rattled MP waves us through.
“That’s probably one of the biggest reasons I’d like to be a general someday,” I say, driving away.
“Sounds like a good enough reason to me.” Dick is his old self again but more somber than I’ve seen him in a long time. Maybe ever.
“Considering my promotional trajectory crashed and burned when I left the air force as a captain?” My usual self-deprecating humor, as if all is fine. “I don’t think that particular MP back there is ever going to be more threatened by me than he is right now.”
“You never know.” Dick stares at the winter-brown grass of the Eaglewood Golf Course and its driving ranges, where I’ve hit my share of balls very badly. “I’m not about to ask or tell you something out of school, Calli,” he says. “You just heard me say it loud and clear.”
“Copy that. I heard you.” I try to smile but can’t pull it off. “I admit you’re making me nervous. Saying ‘nothing is as it seems,’ and now something ‘out of school.’ As in personal but not?”
“Yep.”
“Oh boy. Deception and personal in the same breath. Then you have something to say that involves me. At least sort of, it seems.”
“I’m afraid so,” he answers, and my stomach tightens as if I’m about to be punched.
No matter what else might be going on, he wanted to see me face to face tonight to inform me that I didn’t make the cut. I’m not the right stuff to be an astronaut. What else would it be? It’s been the better part of a month since Carme and I concluded our weeklong interviews at Johnson Space Center. We’re expecting to hear any moment whether we made it to the final round.
Down to the last 50 out of an original pool of some 17,000 who applied to the Astronaut Candidate Program, and with each day that passes, I’m more nervous and worried. Fran’s not wrong when she complains that I’ve been more tightly wound and edgier.
Unlike my sister, I have emotional strings that play strongly, loudly, and I wish I didn’t. It’s hard not to think of all the times my father has cautioned me about getting my hopes up. Don’t live ahead of yourself. Or spend what you’ve not been paid. Or make decisions based on what hasn’t happened yet
.
“I’ve gotten some feedback about your visits to Houston,” Dick starts in, confirming what I suspect.
At least I think he is, and I assure him, “You don’t need to spare my feelings.” Paying close attention to my driving, always on the alert for deer around here.
“I never have when it comes to shooting straight with you,” he says as I notice something moving in the dark, a jogger out in this weather up ahead on Dodd Boulevard.
Probably a man based on the height and long powerful stride, broad shouldered, head down, moving relentlessly along the fitness path. In stealth black that I note is non-reflective as he passes through the outer reaches of lamplight in swirling fog. Turning off on Andrews Street toward Air Combat Command, the vertical wind tunnel and Back River. Running as if it’s nothing in this bitter cold. Springing around icy patches, sure footed and directed.
“But I suspect that what I’m about to tell you isn’t what you’re anticipating.” Dick is looking down at his phone, typing something with his thumb. “You might think I came here to give you answers. And I didn’t. I can’t give you the news you’re waiting for, Calli. I’m sorry I can’t tell you. Good or bad.”
“Then you’re not here to inform me I’ll never be an astronaut.” It may be the hardest thing I’ve ever asked point blank.
“I’m not here to tell you that,” is his non-answer as I turn off on a narrow lane leading to officers’ housing.
He isn’t going to allay my fears. He won’t say yea or nay either way, and I’m reassured while at the same time gripped by dread. Driving slowly along a poorly lit narrow lane. Following it to the private enclave of handsome buildings tucked back behind trees.
00:00:00:00:0
THE IRREGULAR MOON slips in and out of clouds above slate roofs, and if you didn’t know where you were, you might think you’re in an early 20th-century English village.
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