by Andrew Mayne
"Who are you?" I finally ask.
"I'm the guy who finds people."
"What kind of people?"
"Enemy agents. Spies. That kind of thing."
"That's how you found me?"
"You're not a spy, David. You're a victim. No offense, a patsy. You got played. Granted, you took your shitty hand and ran with it. Hand to God. I don't think anyone expected you to get as far as you did. Of course, if Peterson and Bennet's little plot had worked, you never would have been pulled into this."
"Plot?" I reply.
He makes a face. "David, haven't you figured it out? You're an astronaut. Aren't you supposed to be a genius?"
"I chose a line of work where my job is to sit on a million pounds of explosives and press a button to light them. How smart do you think I am?"
"Peterson and Bennet were working with the Chinese. This whole thing was an attempt to steal a Russian decoder. It's espionage that went way out of control." He whistles. "I thought you might have figured that out by now."
He can see the shocked reaction on my face.
Peterson and Bennet, spies? All this time I've been working for the bad guys?
43
RED AGENTS
"LET ME BACK UP A BIT. I can see the look all over your face. Peterson and Bennet weren't sleeper agents doing dead drops and knowingly conspiring with the enemy. It's a bit more subtle than that. Something I see all the time." Vaughn moves his chair back and sets his feet on the conference room table, like he's some kind of Texas wildcatter showing his disdain for the establishment.
"It starts like this; you're at a conference; for Peterson it was an aerospace technology transfer symposium in New Orleans two years ago. Someone approaches you from a company, in this case it was a Canadian firm – secretly owned by the Chinese. They say they're a satellite communications and security company. You Google them and find out they're real, holding patents and employing people from Stanford and the like. They tell you they'd love to get you to work for them. They talk about IPOs, huge growth and how you'd be a perfect fit.
"In Peterson's case, she politely declines and says she's happy at NASA. But they stay in contact. This company's liaison was a friendly woman who happened to be in Houston and a few other places where Peterson was working and they struck up a friendship. Coffee, shopping, wine tasting, all that chick stuff.
"Meanwhile, this woman has been recruiting Bennet. Now he's a harder nut to crack. We're talking Bennet, right? All men have their weaknesses – their ego. I don't need to get into details but we end up with two astronauts and this woman – actually a trained Chinese Army intelligence officer in bed together. Figuratively and literally.
"So here we have two heroes compromised. But outright blackmail isn't going to work on people who offer to put their lives on the line as part of the job. Another person approaches them and says he's going to go to the press with what happened. It's a fait accompli. Nobody asks for a shakedown. Nobody offers them a deal – at least not overtly.
"Peterson and Bennet get a call from their little red friend, who they still think is just some recruiter for a Canadian tech company. She asks about some quantum entanglement processor the Russians have. She alludes to the idea the NSA or the NRO is interested in this and that there could be a fat contract for her company and two jobs for astronauts who might be soon out of work.
"Bennet being Bennet and not doing anything half-assed, and also having no love for the Russians – you know he lost a friend to an undisclosed recon mission? He found out later NKVD captured him and held the man for over a year torturing him for information about avionics. Anyhow, let's just say he doesn't care for Russians whether they're capitalists or communists. He sees the mission as a matter of freelance national security. Anyhow, David, those are the broad strokes."
I try to reconcile this with what I know about Bennet and Peterson. "So...you're saying this is because they had some three-way with a Canadian chick?"
"Do you know how many times I get called in because somebody stuck their dick where they weren't supposed to?" He rolls his eyes. "Here's a fun fact, we're in the same state as two high school students who have no idea their father is a top Chinese official. Their mother was an operative of ours. We play the game too. But I like to think we're the good guys."
He takes a drink and shakes his head. "Peterson and Bennet thought they were the good guys too." He points the top of his bottle at me. "And then there's you. You weren't doing this out of financial gain or trying to cover up some sex thing. Were you?" He raises an eyebrow.
"No...Jesus, I had no idea what the hell was going on."
He waves his hand in the air. "I know that, David. The problem is that my bosses don't quite see it that way. The Russians are calling for your head. They're demanding that when you're found you get extradited back to Russia. Russian television is calling you a terrorist. Actually, so is our media after the stunt with the airplane. Wow. That was some Jason Bourne-level shit."
I feebly try to explain. "There was a shoot out. A Russian kill team was trying to...um, kill me."
"Oh, we know. That's because you took a decryption wafer they use to communicate with their nuclear subs, airplanes and everything else that underlies their defenses. That one chip compromises their entire military. Of course they were trying to kill you. Here's the upside for you. As mad as they are, you're lucky that you have something we really, really want. We can make all of this – or a lot of this at least – go away. That wafer is your get out of jail free card."
Everything he's saying is what I want to hear. But there's something making me anxious I can't quite put my finger on.
Someone knocks on the door. A man dressed in a black polo shirt like Vaughn pokes his head inside the door. A little younger, fresh-faced, he's got the same ex-military bearing that Vaughn possesses.
"Hey Vaughnster, we need you in ComStak in twenty. Director is screaming for you-know-who." He throws me a glance and grins. "When we clear up this shitshow, how about you come work for us? These assholes could learn a thing or two."
"I'll be there in a second, Cardwell. We taking the jet to Vegas tonight? There's a new steak place at Aria I'm dying to try." He looks to me. "You want to go?"
I'm confused. "Vegas? Tonight?"
"Yeah. We won't have all this cleared up. But I think I can appease the folks at Langley and get the FBI off all our backs. We'll have some agency issue a statement that you're in US custody and that'll call off the dogs."
"And then we go get steaks in Vegas?" I ask.
"Unless you have a better place in mind."
It was Cardwell poking his head in the door that finally put the last piece in place for me.
When I was a kid my parents brought me along to some housing development pitch on the edge of a grassy lot in a trailer a lot like this. I watched a man with a casual, friendly demeanor tell my parents all about the development and how it was a great investment opportunity.
One of his co-workers even poked his head in with a friendly word and a comment about time running out. While they didn't offer us a trip to Vegas to eat at a steak restaurant – instead it was an investor's barbecue they were holding in a few weeks.
Mom and dad's weak credit didn't bother them. The man was all about "handshake deals" and "trust." Dad wanted to do it, but mom pulled him out before he could commit.
As we drove off in our beat up minivan, I remember mom saying something that always stuck with me, "You can't cheat an honest man."
The housing development was a scam. After they collected their deposits and skipped town, the lot they'd only been leasing month-to-month became an overgrown field.
This man, Vaughn, is trying to work me. I just don't know his angle.
I'm sure he could make a jet materialize and get us a table at the fanciest restaurant in Vegas if he had to. But right now, he's going to try to get me to turn over the McGuffin for just a beer.
The moment I tell him where it is, there are no
guarantees.
I still have no idea who he is or what this place is supposed to be. Once they have it, the expedient thing to do is to put a bullet in my head and send my body to the Russians, minus the wafer – or whatever it really is.
If he's telling me the truth; great. If not, that thing is the only reason I'm alive.
"So what do you say?" he asks, flashing teeth that are too white. "You got it on you?"
44
EXAMINATION
I'M BEING PLAYED by an expert. I have to watch myself. I could end up in a steel drum buried in the desert. This whole facility is some kind of clandestine, non-existent operation that probably disappears people all the time.
Maybe he's genuine and they only rendition people who speak Arabic.
Maybe not.
The best way to avoid questions is to be the one asking them.
"Who are you?"
"I thought I made that clear. I'm the guy that finds people."
"Great, so does a bloodhound. That doesn't give it authority to do anything. Who do you work for?"
"The US government. Who else can afford all these toys?"
"Are you CIA, NSA, Pentagon? Or are you some private contractor working between the law. Are we even on US soil?"
He holds his hands up. "Okay, settle down, David. I understand that a little bit of paranoia has kept you alive. No, I'm not a private contractor or a freelancer. I work for an agency with a three-letter acronym."
"DIA?"
He taps the side of his nose. "Winner-winner."
The Defense Intelligence Agency is an under-the-radar intelligence organization that focuses on the tactical capabilities of our enemies. Its illustrious founder was Robert McNamara, architect of the War in Vietnam under Kennedy and Johnson.
One of the chief differences with the CIA is the degree that they provide combat support. These guys are usually in the shit – if not starting it.
When I graduated from college I got letters of interest from a variety of three letter agencies. I don't recall the DIA trying to recruit me, but I seriously considered the NRO, another shadowy organization that handles satellite espionage and was known to have a few pilots and astronauts on staff. But what good was going into space if you couldn't tell anyone about it?
I'm in a difficult position. Capricorn – whom I also don't trust – told me that some highly placed individual in the US government would try to catch me and kill me for the square.
And now here I am, sitting in front of a highly-placed individual in the US government that I don't trust.
Vaughn is a cocky son-of-a-bitch who's used to doing whatever the hell he wants. I have no problem with covert ops and the occasional dirty job, if necessary, but I'm also a big believer in checks and balances. Is anyone checking this guy?
"I want to speak to your supervisor," I reply.
"What? Is the beer too warm? You want to file a complaint?"
"I was told not to trust anyone."
"Good advice. Who told you that?"
Crap, I already said too much. Right now he has no idea about Capricorn or the sat phone – which is still on me. I'm kind of surprised he didn't have me frisked. Maybe that was part of his trust-building exercise?
"I'm not comfortable talking to just you."
"Want me to bring Cardwell back in here?"
"I mean here. This is all a bit...scary."
"Dude, you should only be scared if your name is Muhammed and you've decided to pack some C4 up your ass. You have nothing to be afraid of from me. I'm the guy who's going to clear this up."
"Okay...so why are we in a Black Site in the middle of nowhere?"
"Land is cheap. And don't believe everything you see in movies. This is just a remote airbase. If I flew you into Austin I would have FBI, CIA, DHS, USPS and everyone else in our faces trying to slap bracelets on you. And I don't know if you're familiar with the way they treat spies, but you'd be talking to your attorneys through a tin can with no string."
"Okay. Let me talk to your boss."
"He's busy in the Oval Office dealing with the international uproar you caused."
"I mean the head of the DIA."
"Oh, Bruce? He knows you're here."
"Could I meet with him?"
"David, you're hurting my feelings. You have to understand, he's one of the people yelling at me to arrest you. I take you into his office and you'll leave under arrest." Vaughn lifts up his phone to show me a list of voicemail and text messages, making a dramatic point.
I notice something on his screen I don't think he intended for me to see.
It's a Russian area code, specifically the number for Moscow Oblast, where the Russian space agency is based.
And how the hell would I know this? Because for two years while I was doing launch assist for all the other lucky jerks who got to ride the Unicorn before me, my job was to call Roscosmos and tell them six hours before a launch what our window was.
I'd speak to some Russian bureaucrat on the other end who would say, "Dah," repeat the time back to me, then hang up.
The purpose was to keep from bumping our rockets into each other and starting World War III. No big deal.
But I had their switchboard burned into my brain. And right now, that same number is on Vaughn's phone.
While I can understand him talking to people in Russia; operatives, colleagues, obstetricians, that number seems peculiar.
"How do I know you're not talking to the Russians?"
He's fast. Real fast. He glances at his phone. "Oh, the area code? I've got a friend in the Federal Security Service I'm trying to convince to settle things down a notch."
"Even though he knows you're after this wafer-thing?"
"He doesn't need to know that we recovered it. So can I see it?"
I shrug. "I don't even know what it looks like. I never saw anything."
His words are slow and measured. "And that's your official story?"
He just switched gears from frat pal to intense in a flash.
"Yeah..." I say hesitantly.
Vaughn closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Dumb ass. Now we have to do it the hard way. Well, hard for you."
He knocks on the table three times and two men in black armor with machine guns step into the room and point their muzzles at my head.
Another man grabs my wrist and a woman in doctor's scrubs enters and jabs a needle in my arm.
Everything goes dark.
45
THE HOLE
I WAKE up in a dark room. When I say "dark," I mean it's painted black with some weird kind of noise-dampening stuff on the walls. The only light is behind me. I'm strapped to a gurney with my head fixed into place and there's an intravenous drip stuck into both arms. Everything is woozy. My head feels like it's made of a cloud.
Vaughn leans over me. "How do you feel?"
"Confused...scared..." The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Is this some kind of truth serum?"
"You know, they used to say those things were impossible. But you'd be amazed by the kind of drugs you can develop with a billion dollars of anti-terrorism funding and the public outcry over waterboarding."
"This isn't right..."
"Neither is lying to me." He points towards the corner. "We went through your clothes and I had the doctors go over every inch of your body – inside and out." He checks his watch. "In case you were wondering, that was less than forty minutes ago. We've gotten very efficient at this kind of thing."
"You're an asshole."
"Hey pal, you only have to speak what's on your mind when I ask you a question. Let's start with something simple. How old were you when you got your first taste of pussy?"
I try to resist. My mouth starts to form the words as if I have two brains – one totally detached from the other. "Fifteen."
"Fifteen? All in or just your fingers?"
Resist. Don't let him do this. You've been a medical guinea pig.
Hell, they may have even tried
this drug on you.
My mouth wants to say something. I visualize myself going down on April Cassidy, the hot cheerleader a year ahead of me. "My tongue..."
"Tongue? Your first time at bat? I'm impressed. You must be a real lady pleaser. What was the occasion?"
"...Pool party. We were in the hot tub by the side of the house. We both were drunk."
Vaughn grins at me as if we were two guys swapping stories in a bar. "See, this isn't so hard."
No. It's not. I just think of someone else's story, in this case, a buddy of mine who actually did go down on April and visualize it in my mind – something I'd imagined many, many times.
"Okay, pal." He leans on the rail, lowering himself to my eye level. "You know, there's a division in the DIA where we try to get important people to sleep with our assets. Remember those Chinese Premier bastards I mentioned? That kind of thing. But you know, not all the people we go after swing like you and me. Sometimes you have to take one for the team. You ever do that?"
"...Homosexuality?" I say in drawn-out syllables.
"It's deep secret time. You can tell me."
"Are you a gay?" I ask drunkenly.
"David, the question is if you've ever done that kind of thing."
My voice is slow, like a tape played at half speed. "I...once got drunk with a friend...and held his cock while he peed...but there were girls there."
"Of course. That made it okay. So...was it thick?"
"Yellow..."
Vaughn lets out a loud laugh. "I meant his dick."
"...I don't remember..."
"How about the square? So you remember that?"
"Yes..."
Resisting is impossible. All I can do is overload my brain with other thoughts.
"I knew you would. Where is it?"
"...In the conference room......"
"You dropped it there?"
"...That's where you mentioned it....."
"Oh, got it. You're being a little too literal."
Damn straight. I can only lie about what I can see and describe.
"Is that the only time you heard about it?"