The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "Early tomorrow. Andrea said I have no business driving up there tonight." Andrea was Kyler's beautiful bride.

  "She's right, son. Get some rest and go tomorrow. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "Gotta go, Dad. I'll call as soon as I get back to California, okay?"

  "Sure. Fly safe, Big Guy. And I love you."

  Win's throat tightened, squeezing out those last words as a whisper.

  When was the last time I told Erik I loved him?

  He could hear the tears in Kyler's thin response.

  "Love ya, too, Dad."

  The connection broke, leaving Win Steele alone. The darkest, deepest alone he'd ever been.

  He slumped in the chair, too weak to stand, staring at nothing. His eyes refused to focus. He felt as if he were standing outside his body, watching himself. Never had his chest hurt so acutely. Breathing was a bothersome nuisance. He was numb, devoid of feeling, other than that unbearable, relentless constriction of his chest.

  He stood and shook his head, demanding his lungs relax and accept oxygen.

  Think!

  He had to get a flight back to Colorado… but he was hungry as hell. A rational, take-care-of-the-host mind-voice spoke loud and clear: You'll need all the energy you can muster. Nourish the body and keep the mind functional. Don't give in and crack up. Don't fail Erik and your family.

  In a fog, Win left the room and found the elevators. He was incapable of fully grasping the magnitude of Kyler's blunt, soul-shattering report. The idea that Erik was no longer walking, talking, laughing, working, loving and enjoying the day was too monstrous, too amorphous, too impossible to grab. The truth kept slipping away, like a wisp of smoke.

  Win was vaguely aware of an odd, distantly familiar phenomenon: His mind kept focusing on trivia, just as it had the day he bailed out of a doomed Canadair Challenger business jet, before it crashed. At the emergency-escape door, he'd wondered whether there was enough altitude for his parachute to open. He'd jumped, felt his body slammed by a 180-knot wind, uttered a quick "thousand-one," and pulled the D-ring.

  Unable to wrap itself around the magnitude of reality, his mind had seized on trivia: Shut your eyes! These are brand new contact lenses! You'll need 'em to find your way out of the desert!

  Totally irrelevant, the thoughts had shot through his brain in a second. That's how the mind protected a body battered by incomprehensible trauma. Similar diversions were fighting for mind-control now.

  He stared at the Hyatt's elevator doors, noting that he'd exited the same ones ten minutes earlier, back when the worst thing in his life-of-the-moment was a detached gold button. Now, everything was upside down. Life would never be the same again. A beautiful light had been snuffed out, and could never be reignited.

  A chime dinged and the elevator door yawned. He exited and spotted Violet, thumb-typing on a BlackBerry. She glanced up, flashed a smile, then frowned.

  "Win! Are you alright? You're white as the proverbial specter!"

  Win explained, fighting to keep a reed-thin voice from failing. He paused to draw a deep breath.

  "God, Violet. My oldest son is dead!"

  Tears threatened to spill, but somehow didn't.

  The all-business executive editor of Pygmy Books muttered something that failed to register and extended both arms. Win bent and wrapped an arm around her tiny waist, as Violet hugged his neck tightly. She held him, refusing to let go, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, Win. I am so sorry!"

  She released the neck-grip, but held his wrists. Brow furrowed in concern, Violet declared, "Oh my God, my God. How can I help?"

  Win shook his head, trying to clear a persistent, numbing brain-haze.

  "I… I have to get a flight back to Colorado. I'll use the hotel's business… ."

  "Nonsense! We'll go to my office," she declared, characteristically taking charge. "But first, you have to eat. The strength of God may carry you through this horror, but you have to help Him by taking care of yourself. Come on."

  She hooked an arm through his and gently guided him to the hotel entrance.

  Although hungry, eating was the last thing Win felt like doing. But he was old enough to understand his body and how it reacted. Without food, the tall, thin sixty-three-year-old retired reporter-turned-author would flame out. Endurance was not his forte, and an unusually high metabolic rate demanded frequent refueling. His wife joked that Win could skip one meal, but missing two would be terminal.

  A waiter led the couple to a small table and took their order. Mulligan's emulated an authentic Irish pub, complete with rough-hewn floors, dark wood trim and a brass footrest fronting a long, massive bar. Rowdy patrons celebrating something generated a loud din, as they hoisted pints of beer. Win struggled to focus on whatever Violet was saying.

  "I can't begin to comprehend what you're going through right now," she said, leaning into the table for two.

  Background noise made it difficult to hear and nearly impossible to understand what Violet was saying. Win's hearing had deteriorated long ago, a casualty of too many jet aircraft engines and too little ear protection throughout his flying career.

  "You have a tremendous support network here at Pygmy," she said, louder. "Use your writing skills, Win. Write your way through this nightmare. I'll give you a global stage, a forum. Whatever you find in Las Vegas, write it. Through you, let Erik's voice be heard."

  Win heard the words, but their meaning and the profound impact of her commitment would not fully register for months. In this, the darkest, stormiest hour of his life's voyage, the woman's statement struck him as inappropriate and trivial. Not so. Violet Hawthorne, Win would come to realize, had extended both a lifeline and a powerful weapon. One would save his sanity. The other would destroy his enemies.

  Win forced himself to eat the sandwich, despite interruptions by a flurry of phone calls expressing heartfelt condolences. News of Erik's death was sweeping through a network of family and friends faster than a wind-driven prairie inferno.

  During a lull, Violet gently urged him to share his shattered heart, to express his feelings-of-the-moment. He was too shocked and numb to form a coherent thought, let alone a statement that made sense. Thoughts refused to align and command his lips to deliver anything remotely intelligent sounding. He rambled, wondering aloud what possibly could have happened that was so serious, so terribly threatening, that a police officer would find it necessary to shoot and kill his son.

  Win's logical, engineer self accepted that Erik was, indeed, dead. But his father self, Erik's feeling, emotional, irrational dad, refused to believe that was true. This was so monumental, so unthinkable that it simply could not be. Surely, Erik would call and say, "Just kidding, Dad!" and deliver that hearty, infectious laugh.

  Violet snatched the bill from Win's hand, paid the waiter and led the elder Steele back onto New York's scruffy, gum-patched sidewalks. The air was still heavy and humid, but evening had brought cooler temperatures. Walking five blocks through crowds of purposeful city dwellers and wide-eyed, drifting tourists relieved a smidgen of all-consuming tension. Win's gut and kicked-in chest felt better, by the time they entered Pygmy's office building at Two Penn Plaza.

  Violet said something to a security guard, who checked Win's driver's license. Minutes later, they were whisked to the building's twenty-fifth floor, where Violet's executive smart-card opened the publisher's suite. All offices were empty and dark.

  Violet seated Win at a computer and insisted he down a bottle of water, while scouring the Internet for an affordable flight home. Nothing before Monday on Frontier, forcing an airline change. Luckily, one of the flight-aggregator websites offered a United flight at 5:30 Sunday morning. It bounced in Chicago and would arrive in Denver before noon, giving him an option to leave for Las Vegas the same day.

  He booked the United flight, printed a boarding pass and signed off.

  Violet was in her office, back to the door, speaking softly into a cell phone. Win waited in the hallway, until she signed
off.

  "Hey," he announced.

  She spun, whipped off a pair of reading glasses and waved to a sitting area. He hesitated and muttered something about having consumed enough of her Saturday evening.

  "Oh, nonsense," she sputtered, hustling around the desk and slipping into an expensive, upholstered chair. "Sit down. Sit, please! I'll get you back to your hotel in a few minutes, but there's something I have to do first."

  Puzzled, Win did as his half-pint, fiery editor ordered. A glass-topped coffee table between them groaned under neat stacks of thick manuscripts. She folded her hands slowly, deliberately. Green eyes bored into his.

  "Win, what I'm about to say will sound off-the-wall and absolutely heartless, right now. This is important, though, so please humor an old lady."

  He nodded. "I appreciate everything you've done, Violet, but… "

  She raised a palm and tipped her head, cutting him off.

  "Win, I just spoke to your… 'sponsor' for the Atlas Attacks project. I told him about Erik, and that we were putting Atlas on indefinite hold. You have far more important issues to handle now, and will not have time to write Atlas anytime soon."

  Win's lips tightened. Piercing, intelligent blue eyes probed hers.

  He's tuned in, she decided, relieved.

  Violet rushed on. "The sponsor asked that I extend his sincere personal condolences, and those of his Northern Command colleagues. He meant it, too. Your reputation as a fair, savvy reporter 'survives at Northcom,' he said.

  "Obviously, he concurred with putting Atlas on hold, but asked that I address several related items, while we have this face-to-face opportunity: One, he still wants you to sign a contract."

  Win blinked in disbelief. "Violet! I'm in no state of mind to review and sign a damned contract! Does Colonel 'Sponsor' really think I give a rat's ass about this project right now?"

  Violet was nodding vigorously.

  "I know, I know, I know," she said, palm elevated again. "Hear me out, okay?" She waited, until Win calmed down, taking note of the raw fury in his eyes.

  "Two, I'm to give you this." She handed Win a business card. "He will be your local contact, your day-to-day link to the sponsor."

  The card read Michael D. Black, Counterterrorism and Intelligence Operations, Lawhead Corporation. The office address was Northern Command Headquarters at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs.

  Puzzled, he looked up to find Violet smiling.

  "You know 'Doc' Black, of course."

  "I do. He lives less than a mile from me. Former sheriff of Jefferson County, north of Denver. He works for Lawhead's homeland security division as a liaison to Northcom."

  "And you two get together for breakfast every few weeks, because he's also an author?" she said, with an insider's smirk.

  Win nodded. "I don't get it, though. What does Doc have to do with Atlas?"

  "I'll get to that," Violet assured. "Let me finish. The primary reason for our dinner tonight was to give you this."

  She handed Win a sleek black-and-silver Apple iPhone. "Your sponsor and I met in Washington recently, and he made it clear that I should deliver it to you, in person. This phone contains a special module designed by the National Security Agency, and is your link to highly sensitive information that was to be integrated into Atlas Attacks. It will encrypt voice calls, e-mails and text messages, and can access highly classified databases. Oh, and the sponsor knows you were once assigned to NSA's space communications security unit."

  Win was thoroughly confused—and annoyed.

  "Look, this is all very spooky-cool, but I am not going to be working on Atlas. Hell, I don't have a clue what I'm dealing with in Vegas, but I do know I won't have time to write a damned book anytime soon! So, let's return the secret-agent bat-phone to this mysterious sponsor and tell him 'thanks, but not now.'

  "Surely, he'll understand, if he has an ounce of humanity… ."

  "Win, you agreed to hear me out, right?"

  He nodded, reclined and folded his arms, scowling at the woman.

  "Nobody expects you to write Atlas, until you're absolutely ready. Is that clear?"

  Again, a head dip.

  "Alright. I'm going to repeat what your sponsor said tonight, paraphrasing, of course: 'Tell Win that we may be able to help him, but we can't do it openly.' Something about a 'pending operation' in Las Vegas.

  "He didn't explain that statement or what this operation might have to do with you. Evidently, I'm not cleared for such critical information, even though I'm in the middle of this weird transaction."

  She, too, flushed with a burst of irritation. The lady was accustomed to being in charge, not playing go-between.

  "Okay," Win said, trying to make sense of the sponsor's missive. "What does Northcom expect of me? They surely want something in return."

  "I honestly don't know," Violet shrugged. "I was told to get you under contract, give you Doc's contact information, and put that special iPhone in your hands. My sense is Doc Black will fill you in, after you get home."

  Win stared at her, still skeptical.

  "Doc may have to wait. My top priority is to get to Vegas and figure out what the hell happened to my son. But, one more question: What's in this for you?"

  "I can't say. When Northcom approached me with this highly unusual offer, they offered to pay Pygmy a handsome fee for publishing Atlas Attacks. We would make no investment in the project. Our costs were to be covered, and we were entitled to whatever revenues the book generated.

  "Nothing like this has ever come up in my publishing career! It was a no-lose proposition for Pygmy—and you coauthors also were going to be paid up front.

  "Basically, this is a work-for-hire contract," she explained. "Our only 'deliverable' was to give the project our best, pulling out all the stops to make Atlas a best seller. If you guys wrote a great book, we promoted it properly, and readers embraced it, the sponsor was prepared to take it to the next level on his dime."

  "Next level?"

  "A movie based on Atlas. Maybe a video game. And, if the novel did really well, maybe even a television series."

  Win shook his head, amazed.

  "That's incredible. But, I'm sorry, Violet. That's not going to happen. At least not in the near term."

  He choked and looked away, battling tears.

  Violet waited.

  Win pulled a steadying breath and added, "Northcom's sponsor guy should understand that I'm out of this game for at least six months, maybe longer. I'll take his bat-phone, and I'll contact Doc Black. Beyond that, no promises."

  "Of course," Violet said, returning to her desk. "Here's the contract. Initial here and here, and sign the last page. The verbiage only addresses the Atlas project, but the sponsor assured that it will cover whatever else they have in mind."

  "And he didn't elaborate on that tonight?"

  "No. He said, 'The objective hasn't changed. This is still about fighting terrorist cells in the U.S.'

  "Oh! He did add one more thing: 'Tell Mr. Steele that he will be combatting a nontraditional enemy.' But he wouldn't explain. Very stubborn man. Isn't that… odd?"

  Violet's emerald eyes probed Win's, but saw only confusion.

  "I don't pretend to understand, Violet. Right now, I don't really care, either. Let me sign that contract, then point me back to the hotel, if you would, please. My flight leaves in…seven hours," Win said, checking a wristwatch.

  "Of course," she said.

  While he scrawled initials and a signature, she switched off her computer and shouldered an oversized purse.

  "I'll get you a cab."

  "Thanks, but I need to walk."

  "Then I'm walking with you," she declared.

  Before he could object, she brushed past him and flipped a light switch.

  "I'm not letting you wander around New York in a daze. I'll walk you to your hotel. No argument, hear?"

  They strolled in silence, again threading clusters of gawking tourists and Saturday-night re
velers. Win caught Violet glancing at him now and then, wondering how he was doing.

  Frankly, not so good. He was still in a murky quasi-trance, concentrating on breathing deeply, trying to mitigate that awful, unrelenting chest pain. Part of him worried that his heart would simply stop beating, a victim of cardiac arrest. Another part almost wished it would. Hell, it was thoroughly broken anyway.

  Erik's dead. I'll never see or talk to my Big Son again.

  In the Hyatt lobby, Violet hugged Win and extracted a promise to call her, if he needed anything. Anything!

  "You've been my guardian angel tonight, Violet. I can't thank you enough for hanging with me." He left the rest unsaid: I damn sure didn't want to be alone with this nightmare.

  She patted his upper arm and departed, wiping tears.

  Win arranged for a taxi pickup at 3:15 a.m., alerted the hotel's front desk that he'd be checking out early, due to a family emergency, and angled for the elevators. When a door opened, he was face-to-face with several authors he knew, including one of the ThrillerFest organizers. The woman smiled, then stopped abruptly and touched Win's arm.

  "Hey, Win! Are you okay?" she asked, worried.

  Must look like hell, he thought.

  Hesitantly, he gave her the short version. Visibly shocked, she stammered condolences, offered vague assistance and backed away. It was a scene Win would see repeated hundreds of times over the next months. In America, death made people uncomfortable, and most went to great lengths to avoid confronting it, even peripherally.

  Losing a child to brutal violence was the heart-stopping fear of every parent, perhaps the worst conceivable horror. Consequently, through an illogical twist of human instinct, being in the presence of a father or mother unfortunate enough to have lost a wonderful son in a hail of gunfire triggered a knee-jerk flight response.

  Somehow, their misfortune might rub off and threaten you and your child! Flee! Or, if that's not an option, change the subject.

  Win returned to the hotel room, kicked off his shoes and placed a third call to his wife. This time, she answered.

  Muted, strained, but surprisingly "together," Layna also was battling shock and utter disbelief. Neither could fully grasp the magnitude of losing Erik.