by Andrew Mayne
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
51
DETOUR
THE DRIVE to Florida has made me complacent. I stayed at the speed limit, did my best to blend in and made sure to take my naps in places far enough away from the gas stations and rest stops where I assumed the police would be looking for someone on the run.
In case of an emergency, I had Vaughn a.k.a. Flagler's driver's license, which kind of sort of could pass for me at a midnight stop. There's no way I'd get through airport security or something more thorough with it.
Between what I stole from Vaughn and his men, there was over two thousand dollars in cash. I have no idea what they needed that for, other than throwing at strippers in Vegas after a hard day dropping suspected terrorists out of helicopters.
When I had to go into a convenience store to use the bathroom, I made sure to get in and out pretty quickly so nobody could compare my face to the guy on the news.
Blending in isn't too difficult if you wear the Southern "regular guy" uniform of khaki shorts, baseball cap and fisherman sunglasses with a strap running around the back.
I also changed my license plate in a movie theater parking lot when I got into Louisiana and again in Florida. This time I didn't put my stolen plate on another car – that would establish my trail. Instead, I stole two plates, swapped one and kept the other.
The person whose plate is on my car will probably never realize their's has been stolen because I put some other poor schmo's plate on their car.
All of this is great and all, but may be for naught.
Five miles after I take the exit off the I-10 to I-75 I stop inside a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a pee break.
As I'm heading towards the back, avoiding contact, I overhear a heavyset woman complaining to the cashier. "It took us a god damn hour to get through that check point! Sobriety check, my ass. It's all about that asshole on the news...No, the other Virginia Slims."
Check point?
I watch as she waddles out to her car and leaves the gas station going north bound.
"Is there one going north?" a mustached man in a slightly beat up t-shirt asks the cashier.
I follow all of this with great interest.
"I don't know," says the clerk. "But I saw about twelve state troopers heading north."
Shit. They're locking down the highway.
Did I do something to tip them off? Or is it the fact that I'm getting close to Cape Canaveral and iCosmos?
The launch feels like a distant memory, but that was just two days ago. I landed the plane in the desert yesterday – so if they thought I was heading home, now would be the right time to try to lock down the roads.
Damn.
I pay for my coffee and go back to my car to look for some other option using the map on my phone.
Other than some small streets, I-75 and everything connected to it is cut off.
Do I risk driving through a smaller town, trying to find another route?
I crane my neck and look up as a helicopter flies south. It's got FBI written on the side in big bold letters.
Yep. This is about me.
I take a moment to read the latest online news.
There's nothing saying that the manhunt is focusing on Florida, but they've definitively announced that I'm the guy that crashed the plane on the border. They've also said that they think I killed the Mexican army soldiers. Wonderful.
Meanwhile, there's nothing on any of the Texas websites about Vaughn or his men. So maybe the DIA is keeping that under wraps – I guess that would be harder to explain?
I still need to get to Markov. He's the magic man who can solve all my problems.
The trouble is that there are a bunch of police between us who are convinced I'm some kind of violent-terrorist cop killer. Plus, there are probably people from the DIA and maybe a few Russians who will kill me on sight as well.
And...everybody I know is probably being watched. I can't ask them for help.
I could take a side road and risk it. Chances are I'll get stopped by some county police – maybe then...
I stop scrolling through the news when I see an article about Tyler Bennet:
BREAKING: US Senator Tyler Bennet reportedly killed in domestic disturbance.
Fuck! I feel my lungs seize up.
They killed him.
They goddamn killed him.
Tyler was worried that they would serve him with some kind of warrant, instead, they shot him and made it look like an ex-lover did it.
It's a sloppy way to silence him, but they're not worried about the long term. They needed to stop him now. And they did.
Christ.
Focus, David. You need to get to Markov. If you don't, you'll get killed too. It doesn't matter if the state or local police stop you, Silverback, whoever the hell he is, will find you and kill you.
All that matters is getting to Markov.
I need help.
Who do I know that they don't know I know?
I'm drawing blanks.
Okay, who do I know that has as much interest in this as I do?
Still nothing.
I fumble with my phone as I try to think of someone, anyone I could go to.
The third item down on Google News catches my eye.
Why do some bloggers insist Astronaut David Dixon is being framed?
What the?
I read the WIRED post twice. The short answer is that some space enthusiasts claim they overheard Russian chatter that contradicts what happened and uploaded it to the internet. But then intelligence officials debunked the YouTube video of the audio as a hoax.
One name stands out in the article, Laney Washburn. Where do I know her from?
Of course.
The Glitter Menace.
I do a search and realize she only lives eight miles away.
Can I trust her?
Do I have a choice?
52
MENACE
I'M NOT sure where I expected the Glitter Menace to live. But a trailer park, admittedly a well-kept one, wasn't in the equation.
Blue Water Cove is eight streets of double-wides with tiny yards. It's the kind of place retirees in the snowbound north dream about moving to. It's modest, but defies the stereotypical description my elitist friends tend to have about who lives in these homes.
The yards are filled with gnomes, flamingos and painted plywood caricatures of grandmothers tending to vegetable patches and cartoony animals.
Laney Washburn's address is towards the back. When I get there, the driveway is empty. It's already dusk, so I feel comfortable enough to sneak around the side and peek in the windows.
I'm afraid to knock on the door and find out her boyfriend is a policeman getting ready to go on duty.
Through an open window in the back, I spot a room full of race car posters. The next window reveals a room with pictures of planets and spacecraft. There's a desk in the corner with an old MacBook covered in glitter. A pair of crutches lays against the wall next to the chair.
This is where the tyrant blogger who helped kill a quarter-billion in government pork sleeps? The disconnect takes a moment to sink in.
There's a flash of headlights in the grass as a car drives down the street. I take a peek around the corner as a van pulls into the driveway.
Laney is behind the wheel with two boys, maybe 8 and 10, jumping around. There seems to be some kind of argument.
She opens the door and puts her crutches on the ground. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, there's less flash than I saw at the press conference. She looks like a grad student ready to pull an all-nighter in the library. The boys pile out, ignoring her, and head for the porch.
"No video games until your homework is done," she says, trying to keep up.
"Whatever," says the youngest as he slams the door behind him, leaving Laney outside.
I watch as she hops up the porch and balances a crutch so she can open the door.
May
be now isn't the right time to approach her.
I still don't know if I can trust her. I sure as hell know I can't trust those little jerks.
I go back to the side of the window and wait, trying to keep to the shadows, hoping that I don't get arrested as a peeping tom.
The home is filled with yelling about picking things up and who said what to who. A light flicks on in the race car room and the loud shrieks of a video game begin to emanate from a television as the little jerks start to play a game.
A door slams and a light flicks on in Laney's room. Through a reflection in the wall mirror I see her lean against the wall and let the crutches fall away as she puts her head into her hands.
She wipes her nose with her sleeve then goes over to her computer.
I think I'm starting to understand now.
I watch her for a few minutes, trying to think of the right thing to say. I'd call her, but I don't have her number.
Maybe there's another way...
I open up the browser on my crappy phone and pull up Twitter. Using the account I created to talk to Capricorn I @reply her.
Do you think Dixon is innocent?
There's a bubble sound from her computer as the message goes through. A second later I can hear her type a response.
I think it looks suspicious.
I type my reply.
Follow my account. I have something to tell you.
A few seconds later she sends a direct message.
This better be good.
Would you help him if he asked for it?
Probably.
Would you listen to what he had to say and not call the cops?
I'd do the right thing. You figure out what that means.
I need your help.
Who are you?
David.
Bullshit.
Promise me you won't scream?
Why?
I take a deep breath then type:
Look out your window.
Laney does a very slow motion turn. When she sees me she lets out a scream anyway that echoes off the aluminum walls of the trailer park.
"Shut up!" yells one of the boys from the next room.
She sits there staring at me. Eyes wide, not sure what to say.
After collecting her thoughts, she asks, "What happened to your hair?"
"I had a Brazilian. I thought you weren't going to scream?"
"I thought you were lying." She gets out of her chair and finds her way to the window and looks around the yard.
"Come on, get inside." She slides the window all the way open and pulls at my shoulder.
"Maybe I should use the front door?"
"I don't want my brothers seeing you. They won't shut up about it."
I pull myself over the ledge and land in a room decorated with unicorns and spaceships.
"How old are you?" I say, picking myself up off the floor.
She has me sit on her bed then shuts the window and closes her blinds. "Twenty-three. Oh, this?" She looks around. "Infantilization often goes hand-in-hand in dealing with a handicap."
"Oh..."
"I'm not a virgin," she awkwardly volunteers.
"Um, I wasn't asking. I was just worried if your parents were here."
"I'm sorry. That was weird of me. I just never thought I'd have an astronaut with an AFI of 8 say that to me."
"An AFI?"
Her face goes red. "Um...it's a thing space groupies came up with. I'm not one of them, but some of my friends are. AFI means Astronaut Fuckability Index. A five is solid. An eight is exceptional. Elevens are reserved for Neil Armstrong and Yuri Gagarin."
"Good luck with them."
"Elon Musk is a ten." She pauses. "Bennet was a nine. So was Peterson. I'm sorry. This is horrible." She wipes away at her eye. "What the hell happened? Why the hell are you here? I mean, what the hell?"
53
SUPPORT CREW
LANEY STARES at me like I'm a ghost. I'm having serious second thoughts about coming here. As she sits under a shelf of model rockets and glass unicorns, I feel like I've just brought an innocent into something very dangerous.
Peterson and Bennet are dead. So is Bennet's son, Tyler. This is a bad idea.
I stand up. "This was a mistake. Give me a head start if you're going to call the police."
"Sit down," she says, rising to her own feet.
There's something about the complete conviction in her voice despite the fact I can see her legs are about to betray her.
"There are some bad people who could be here any minute."
She puts a hand on my shoulder. "Sit down. I have a gun." She pauses, "I mean, I'm not going to shoot you. But if they come..."
I fall back on the bed. "This could be very bad." I nod to the room next door where her brothers are loudly playing their game.
"Understood. Tell me what's going on and we'll figure it out."
I give a nervous glance towards the window, trying to decide if I should run.
"I knew something weird was going on at the Korolev station," she says.
"How do you mean?"
"Before you even docked with them. They have an open channel and a secure one. There has been almost nothing on the open one. They use it for talking to school kids and stuff. The place was on some kind of lockdown before you even got there."
"Yes..."
I don't know what I should tell her. I notice a tall bookcase in her corner filled with binders. I walk over and take one down and start flipping through. It's a schematic of the Soviet N1 heavy launch system. Not just outlines, but detailed drawings.
I take down another one. It's filled with specs of the X-20 Dyna-Soar, an Air Force space plane that never made it past testing.
"Are all of these rocket schematics?"
"Communications systems. Space suits. I have them all on my computer but I like the physical copies best."
"And you've read them?"
"No. They're just there to impress guys. Yeah, dumbass. I've been collecting them since I was a kid. I couldn't decide if I wanted to fly them or build them."
"Why not both?" I reply, sitting back down.
"Yeah..." Her eyes drift off to the side. "Peterson and Bennet? Are they really dead?"
The image of Peterson's dead body floating by the window is still in my mind. "Yes."
Laney wipes at her eye. "I'd talked to Peterson several times. Did you know that? She was always nice. And Bennet, oh my god, he's a legend. What it must have been like to have learned from him. He knew Armstrong and Musgrave."
"Bennet was something else...So was Peterson."
Laney puts a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what it must be like for you."
"It's fine. To be honest, I'm still a little numb. There's time for that later."
These were people I worked with. For Laney, they were heroes. In some way, maybe she even feels more strongly. Peterson wasn't just some cool person she could fawn over. Peterson may have been a role model, a version of Laney in a different universe.
Laney uses her wrist to wipe away a tear. "Why are you here?"
"Why aren't you calling the police?"
"Because nothing makes sense. The Russians are lying and I get the impression you had nobody to turn to."
I nod. "Pretty much."
"So what the hell is going on?"
I make a flash judgement to trust her. "There's a nuclear weapon onboard the Korolev. The head of the Russian space agency is planning to detonate it in order to stage a coup."
"Holy shit. Zhirov?"
"Yeah, him."
"He's an asshole. You know that he's been trying to militarize their space agency into another army?"
"I don't think Radin is going to let that happen."
She sits there for a moment processing everything. "Why isn't our government doing something about it?"
"Zhirov has a spy inside our intelligence community. They already had a rendition team torture me."
"Oh
my god!"
"I...got away." I prefer to gloss over that episode. "Anyway, apparently we're worried if it gets out there's a nuke on the K1, Zhirov will go ahead and pull the trigger."
"Who is we?"
"As far as I know, it was Bennet, his son, Peterson and someone else. You heard about Tyler Bennet?"
"Yeah. They killed them? Why?"
"I don't know. But they did. I've encountered some nasty people."
"So what can I do?"
"I don't think I should get you involved. It's not safe."
She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I'm involved now. Why did you come here? Just tell me that."
"They're shutting down the roads."
"Yeah. The I-10 is backed up. I thought that might be about you."
"I can't get to where I need to go by myself."
"So you need a driver?"
"Basically. But I think..."
She interrupts me. "Let's go."
"Laney...I can't ask you to do this."
"You can't stop me." She's already standing up and shoving things into her purse.
"What if I'm lying?"
"I'll tell them you threatened to kill me. Meet me outside."
"What about your brothers?"
"My aunt is coming over. Worry about her."
Two minutes later she slides into the driver's seat of her van. I'm trying to decide if I should be a passenger or hide in the back.
She tosses me a pair of reading glasses. "I took these off the counter."
I put them on and check my reflection in the visor mirror. "What do you think?"
She takes them off my face and tosses them into the back. "Too intellectual. You look like you might know how to fly a spaceship, or try to nail UCF coeds by getting high and talking about social justice."
"Heh, that's half true. I'm just not sure how to get through the checkpoint."
"I got that covered. If they stop us I'll play some death metal. In this crappy van, they'll assume we're just white trash."
"Here's to stereotyping."
"And my angsty teenage years."
54
SMALL WORLD
WE WERE WAVED through a roadblock on the I-5 and thankfully I never had to endure Laney's full playlist.