by Rob Horner
“See,” he replied, “you decided it wasn’t needed, thereby robbing me of the opportunity to make use of it.”
“Were you cold?” she asked sweetly.
“Are you kidding?” he asked, working the faucet nozzles to get the water to a good temperature. “With that hot little body of yours pressed next to me, it felt like I was sleeping in a sauna.”
“So, what are you complaining about?”
“Who said I was complaining?”
“Exactly,” Sherry replied, stepping into the tub.
“I see,” Travis replied thoughtfully, shaking his head and following her lead.
3
A gentle shake on the shoulder startled Lieutenant Barnes to wakefulness. He pushed himself back from the table, feeling a trickle of drool at the corner of his mouth. Wiping it away, he looked up into the face of an older Hispanic man, Captain Ortega.
Pushing his chair back from the table, Barnes lurched to his feet, knowing he must look awful, uniform wrinkled, face grizzled with two days’ worth of stubble. Only as he rose to his full height did it register that the captain was dressed in civilian clothes, dark blue or black slacks with a white golf shirt tucked into the waist band. The captain’s face belied his trim figure, cheeks a little too puffy, like a man constantly battling his weight. His eyes were a deep brown with just a hint of darkness beneath them; a man who’d lost some sleep but was none the worse for wear. His skin color attested to his heritage, though he was lighter skinned than Barnes was accustomed to seeing on Hispanic men and women serving in the military.
“Please sit back down, Lieutenant,” Ortega said, then followed his own advice and took the other chair. He hefted an accordion folder, stuffed full and held closed by little plastic clips, onto the tabletop between them.
Barnes was curious about the folder, but more curious about the easy and likable manner the captain projected. From their periodic phone calls, he’d expected a man driven to succeed for the purposes of succeeding further. The cultured voice put him in mind of other former military members who went on to become politicians, from John F. Kennedy as a good example to John Kerry as a bad one.
What he’d seen last night was a doctor walking in on a cardiac arrest in progress, taking control, assigning duties to the staff, and expecting the victim to cooperate and work with him in stabilizing his own heart rate. Captain Ortega was a natural leader, and he looked tired.
“What I’m about to tell you, Lieutenant, you did not hear from me. What I will then give you, you did not receive from me. Are we clear?”
Barnes’ eyes dropped to the folder, then flicked back up. Like that fateful day three years ago when he’d accepted this extra duty, he was being given a choice. He could say no, and maybe suffer a reprimand, maybe not. He could bull forward in ignorance, and perhaps there would be a good outcome, but it probably wouldn’t be his doing. Or he could follow his gut.
He assumed the captain was looking out for himself, because he, Lieutenant Barnes, always was. He’d said yes three years ago for that reason. He would say yes now, as well.
He had to swallow twice before his throat was wet enough. “Yes, sir.”
The Captain’s brown eyes searched his and was apparently satisfied with what he saw.
“Did you know, Lieutenant, that neither of our subjects have fingerprints on record?”
“I…what?” Lieutenant Barnes was confused.
“On any record?”
“Um, no, sir. I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Good.” Captain Ortega leaned back and rubbed his right hand through his brush cut, thinning brown hair. “Were you also unaware that all agents, no matter what agency they work for, have a full set of biometric data recorded, fingerprints, footprints, retina scans, dental imprints?”
“No, sir, but it makes sense, in case a body needs to be—”
“Including voice patterns?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand.”
Captain Ortega waited a moment, perhaps looking to see if Barnes was feigning ignorance. He had no idea why the captain was talking about how agents are identified.
“Were you aware that, approximately twenty hours ago, Agent Angela Bassett was shot to death in her apartment?”
Lieutenant Barnes eyes fell. He had suspected, but to have it stated to blatantly… “It was—” he started to say.
“Don’t say it, Lieutenant,” the captain whispered fiercely, suddenly leaning forward. The new urgency in Ortega’s eyes alarmed Robert. He was afraid!
“Just listen. Roughly four hours ago, Victoria Galer was extracted from the facility in Illinois. The agents upstairs don’t know it yet. In this folder, along with all the information about the project I have the authority to print, are a couple of addresses where she is likely being hidden.”
“In five minutes, you are going to walk out that door, get into your car, and get to Illinois. Find her and find the people she’s with. Get this information to them.”
“I…what? Wouldn’t that be treasonous?” Lieutenant Barnes couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just twenty-four hours prior, he’d fantasized about ousting the old man, stepping onto his metaphorical corpse and using it to propel his own career. Now the captain was giving him what he needed to make it happen?
“It’s not. Trust me. Once you read what’s inside there, you’ll understand. You’ll understand that what I’m asking you to do is in the best interests of the country. Hell, they’ll make you a hero, son.”
“Then why me?”
The captain leaned back, relaxing marginally, though his eyes flickered around the room, checking corners.
“You’re young and smart. You’ve got a pair of balls big enough to demand to accompany those agents even though you had no idea what you were getting into. And now you know too much, even if all you know is that you think one agent was killed by another agent.”
Lieutenant Barnes didn’t know what to say. Nothing would come to him.
“It’s okay, son. I know it’s been a weird assignment. I can honestly say it isn’t going to get any better.” Ortega took a deep breath. “Now, let me give you a little history lesson.”
4
By seven-thirty, Sherry and Travis were clean and dressed, though it had been a close thing, once the petting, kissing, and caressing began in the shower. Sherry wanted to let it continue, which would have them still rolling in passion on the unmade bed. If only because she feared it might be their last chance, she would have let it continue. But for that very reason, Travis stopped his playful ministrations, wanting to prove his conviction that their time together was unlimited.
Sherry envied him his easy optimism, yet she couldn’t deny the reassuring effect it had. For this man, she thought, checking her hair in the vanity mirror, she would do anything.
Just as he would do anything for her, she realized, catching his knowing smile in the mirror. It gave her great comfort to know they were so complimentary.
As if you should have any reason to doubt, he thought, drawing another smile.
Checking out of the hotel was simple; it required nothing more than a return of the room key and a brief wait while the receptionist verified no additional charges had been processed. The receptionist gave them both bright smiles, the twinkle in her eyes giving double meaning to her spoken wish that they’d spent a good night.
Travis had one nervous moment as they stepped out into the parking garage.
What if they’re waiting for us? Sherry asked, picking up on his fear.
Then we’ll just have to start running, he replied, though there was more humor than anything else in his words.
The Cherokee he’d swapped plates with the previous night was gone. There were no flashing lights, no patrolling policemen. With any luck, several days would pass before the owner of the Jeep noticed the exchange. By that time, they’d be on their way to a new life without the onus of constant pursuit hanging over their heads.
“Where’re we goi
ng?” Sherry asked as Travis drove away from the hotel. She couldn’t resist a last look back at the stone facade, behind which they’d found one perfect night of peace and privacy. How long would it be before they could rest that way again?
“First stop,” Travis announced, “is breakfast. I don’t have any intention of starving all morning.”
“A man after my own heart,” Sherry said.
“You know it,” Travis replied, smiling at her.
The morning sun bathed the Strip in brilliant golden hues, glinting off the many multi-faceted windows of the hundreds of novelty stores, hotels, and restaurants. Squinting in the glare, Travis pulled down his driver’s side sun-visor, revealing a hidden pouch. He pulled a pair of Oakley Half-Jacket sunglasses from the pouch and slipped them on.
“Very G.Q.,” Sherry said, laughing as he turned a toothy grin on her. Then, searching herself, she said, “I’m more nervous than hungry, though. Can we make it fast food?”
“Sure,” Travis answered, moving his right hand from the gearshift to her thigh for a moment. “I understand.”
Of course you do, Sherry replied, blinking as the blue and green lights flashed into sight with their contact.
Reaching Twenty-Second Street, which became Interstate 264-West within a few blocks, Travis turned left. Sherry watched as the speed limit increased in increments of ten miles per hour, from twenty-five to fifty-five, at which time Travis eased the Focus into the left lane, the better to avoid the early-morning church drivers making up most of the traffic. Sherry kept her mind focused on the scenery around her, refusing to contemplate what actions they might need to take that morning. That could wait until it was time to act, she decided stubbornly.
Besides, there was so much to enjoy about the skyline around her, things she’d never really seen before, though she’d lived in the city for most of her life. Sighing, Sherry supposed she was only paying attention to these things now because of a dread certainty that they were going to need to leave.
Travis took the exit for Lynnhaven Parkway South, putting them on a direct route to the back entrance of NAS Oceana. He pulled off the road almost immediately, turning into a McDonald’s parking lot.
True to Sherry’s desire, Travis chose the Drive-Thru window, ordering only coffee and hash browns. Sherry wasn’t the only one suffering from a nervous stomach. At first, Travis wasn’t even sure he could eat the hash brown patty, but common sense and a lack of food for more than twelve hours won out.
“Do you really think we’ll be able to follow the camera’s signal back to…wherever the people are who’re monitoring us?” Sherry asked.
Travis nodded, trying not to spill his coffee. “I’m beginning to think we’ll be able to strengthen the signal if we want, just to make it easier for us to see.”
“But then what? I mean, even if we can find where the signal’s going, what can we do then?”
Travis shrugged, not quite sure what answer to give. “I guess that’s depends on where the signal leads us.” He paused to take another swallow of his coffee. “Let’s assume that it’s somewhere close by—”
“Why would we assume that?”
“Well, the camera was small, and I can’t imagine it has a very long range.”
“Unless the signal is being amplified,” Sherry said.
“True,” Travis conceded, “but we’ll have to wait and see. For now, I’m going to work with my original assumption for the simple reason that the farther the signal must travel, the greater a chance that it could be degraded or interrupted.”
“Makes sense,” Sherry said softly. “So, if we find out it’s nearby, then what?”
“Well, first we can determine whether anyone is in whatever building it is.”
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“My guess is most of the people interested in us are already out looking for us.”
“Or waiting for my call,” Sherry added.
“Yeah, which means they’ll be at your mother’s house.”
“You’re thinking we might be able to get inside this place?”
“Exactly,” Travis replied. “And from there, hopefully, we can get some idea of where to go next.”
Sherry was silent for several minutes, not only absorbing what Travis said, but thinking of the best way to phrase her next questions. When it became apparent that he wasn’t going to add anything else, she asked, “Do you really think it’ll be that easy?”
Without looking at her, Travis replied, “If it isn’t, then we’ll find some other way to get what we want.”
5
At eight a.m., as Lieutenant Barnes pulled out of the Watchtower parking lot for the last time, Captain Manuel Ortega got to his feet. His mind and conscience were clear for the first time in ages. Only five years, but an eternity in sleepless nights, wondering when the phone call would come, when his name would be linked to a scandal the likes of which the country hadn’t seen since Watergate. Lieutenant Barnes was ambitious, ruthless, and smart; he would see the greater good in tearing down the program, and the untenable risk in trying to rise within it.
Yesterday, while waiting for the team of agents to return with Victoria Galer, Captain Ortega tried to contact Agent Bassett, but received no answer. The very large woman manning Watchtower, Lisa, told him of an argument between one of the subjects and the agent. At his request, she pulled up the audio of the argument, and the captain heard every word. After the argument, as Agent Bassett wept softly, Lisa excused herself. Ortega thought she was troubled by the sounds of another woman crying.
Idly, he ran several scenarios through his head, wondering how the woman’s affection for the subject might be used to help bring him in. Then came a knock on the agent’s door and the sound of her opening it. Then her shock, her fear, and a name. Two soft noises, barely audible through the speakers, were enough to explain her lack of response to his phone calls. He knew what he had to do.
Now, almost twelve hours later, there should be enough police interest in the homicide to come quickly when he called them again.
Before he could lose his nerve, he stepped outside and took note of the cars in the Watchtower parking lot. According to the lieutenant, he’d been picked up by a black Durango with all three agents inside. During the night, while they were scattered around the city investigating as many hotel parking lots as possible, the other agents retrieved their personal vehicles. The captain didn’t know which agent owned the red Mustang or which the silver Honda, but he jotted down the colors, makes, models, and license plate numbers of all three cars. There was also a boxy Nissan Cube, but a quick glance inside was enough for Ortega to determine it belonged to Lisa. Before he could change his mind, he called nine-one-one, this time from his own phone rather than a scrambled line. He wanted his call to be traced.
“Nine-One-One. What is your emergency?”
6
Travis drove his blue Ford Focus through the back gate of NAS Oceana at fifteen minutes to eight. Fear and anxiety bred a certainty that this would be the site of an ambush. Every muscle clenched, he tried and failed to control his breathing, desperately fighting the desire to make an illegal U-turn and drive away.
It was crazy to come back here, no matter how logical his arguments seemed. This was like willingly walking into the dragon’s lair without sword, armor, or shield. It was begging to be deep-fried and eaten.
Sherry shared his fear, though whether she developed it on her own or fed off his, he didn’t know. He tried telling himself the fears were groundless; after all, this was the last place anyone would expect them to go. The reasoning didn’t calm him.
Whew! We made it, Sherry said into his mind, watching as the guard post disappeared behind them.
None of the guards said anything, Travis replied, they just waved us through.
Good thing, too.
Why’s that?
I would hate to see you drive over them.
Travis couldn’t resist a chuckle, thankful for Sherry’s effort to
break the tension. “Might have messed up my paint job, huh?”
“Not to mention the frame.”
“Yeah. That one guard was rather chunky, wasn’t he?”
“A regular candidate for Jenny Craig,” Sherry replied, laughing openly now.
No amount of banter could keep their fears completely at bay. Not even the quiet drive down Oceana’s tree-lined back road could help, though Travis found the ordered chaos of the encroaching forest to be peaceful and soothing to the nerves. This part of the base was the reason the Naval installation won awards for maintaining forested lands in Virginia. Nothing looked out of place, and that screamed at him to be careful.
Travis wondered if it was natural to fear normalcy after being exposed to so many drastic changes. If his life had been turned inside out, then so should everyone else’s. The knowledge that life went on, business as usual, for everyone else was a bit disconcerting.
Travis slowed the Focus as they left the wooded area for the first of Oceana’s various warehouse locations. The closer they drew to the heart of the base, the slower the speed limit, so they were crawling at twenty-five miles per hour by the time they reached the barracks. Sucking in a shivering breath, he pulled the Focus into the parking lot, cutting the ignition and hurrying to get out of the car. If they were going to be attacked, he wanted to meet the charge on his feet.
Nothing happened.
The shrill trilling of birds filled the silence, lending another note of peaceful tranquility to the sunny and warm Sunday morning. Sherry hurried around to his side and grabbed his hand, re-establishing the contact they’d come to depend on. The pulsing green lines filled the air, some of them glowing brilliantly, more brightly than any they’d seen before. That made sense.
Without straining, Travis could hear the distant whine of jet engines coming from the hangars. No doubt there were other planes already airborne, their powerful radars filling the air with lines of transmission. Giving Sherry’s hand a reassuring squeeze, he started toward the barracks.