by Alton Gansky
“It’s not personal, Tuck. It’s academic because you’ve already made three flights. You’d be out of the rotation for a while anyway, maybe for good. Who knows?”
“Then clear me to fly and I’ll fight the schedule battle with the suits later.”
“I can’t do that, Tuck. I can’t clear you just because I like you. I have to make a medical judgment.”
Tuck leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His eyes fixed on the linoleum floor but he saw none of it. He was lost in the vacuum of his mind. Bob’s announcement had cored the life out of him. He had walked in a confident pilot and astronaut; now he sat as a shell of a man.
“I take no pleasure in this, Tuck. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I’ve washed other men out, but this is different. I’ve always considered you a friend.”
“A friend?” Tuck wanted to say more, something harsh, something that would inflict pain and drown the man in guilt. The best he could do was to move his head from side to side.
“Look, I know you didn’t want to hear that and you’re not going to like this any better, but I had to consider your family as well.”
“What have they got to do with this?”
“Everything, Tuck. They came close to losing you a year ago. They know the families of those who did die, and every time they see them, they are reminded how close they came to living the rest of their lives without you.”
“You don’t know my family that well, Bob.” The comment failed to prevent Penny’s words of last night from reverberating through his soul.
“I know them well enough, and to be blunt: you didn’t see their faces while we were trying to bring you in. You heard your wife over the com system, but I had to look her in the eyes, then your son, and your daughter. I had a few nightmares about that myself.”
“So that’s it. I’m finished.”
“Of course not. The work of NASA isn’t confined to a flight deck. We have the new human exploration projects; there’s still engineering, still training — ”
“Do you know what Leonardo da Vinci said about flight, Bob?”
“Not really.”
Tuck quoted, “ ‘When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.’ ” Tuck rose. “I’m not sure you can understand that, Bob.”
“Why? Because I’m not an astronaut?”
“Exactly.”
“Why do you think I work for NASA? Do you believe it’s because of the money? I make a third of what I could in the outside world. I walked away from a lucrative practice so I could participate in the exploration and utilization of space. So don’t tell me I don’t understand. I’ll never get to do what you do. It wasn’t in the cards for me. Nonetheless, I plan to do whatever I can to be a part of space exploration so jockeys like you can do what I can’t.”
“You can’t understand, Bob. You can’t. You’ve never flown in space.”
“To my knowledge, neither did da Vinci.”
A hot sword of regret pierced Tuck. “I’m sorry, Bob. I’m . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“Go home, Tuck.” .
Mark Ganzi felt ill at ease. He had spoken to the man and had done five grand worth of work for him, so why should he be nervous about meeting him at the airport? He had no answer. Not one to speak often of instinct, he knew a private eye wasn’t much good without it. His instinct had just found fourth gear, and each minute that passed pressed the accelerator a little closer to the emotional floorboard.
The George Bush Intercontinental Airport buzzed with activity. In the area where non-travelers bided their time waiting for friends, family, or coworkers to arrive, Ganzi tried to blend in. Several people held signs with names prominently displayed. He had been told not to do such an obvious thing. Instead, he had been told to wait near the back wall with his arms folded.
The flat-screen monitor showing departures and arrivals indicated his client’s plane had landed on time. Another stream of travelers started down the escalators into the waiting area near the luggage carousels. One slovenly man pushed his way through the crowds chanting, “Sorry. Excuse me. Coming through.” He jostled one man and Ganzi was certain bruises were about to be administered. Nothing came of it. No one wanted to spend more time in the airport than necessary.
At the top of the escalator the figure of a tall man appeared. Even though thirty or more paces separated them, Ganzi could see the man’s eyes scanning the crowd. When they made eye contact, Ganzi straightened. The man let his gaze linger for a second, then continued to scan the room. For a moment, Ganzi thought he had set his attention on the wrong man.
He hadn’t.
As soon as the escalator deposited him on the lower floor, the man took long strides until he stood before Ganzi. Close up, Ganzi could see the man was not only tall, but also thick across the shoulders. Muscles pressed against the sleeves of his tan sport coat.
“You are Mark Ganzi?”
“That’s me. You must be — ”
“Anthony Verducci.”
“Of course. I assume you have luggage.” Ganzi stood several inches under six foot, and standing next to his client made him feel all the shorter.
“One suitcase. I prefer to travel light.”
“A wise decision these days. Luggage pickup is this way.” Ganzi led his charge into the stream of humanity moving to baggage claim. Ganzi expected more waiting, but bags and suitcases were already moving around the metal carousel.
“It’s about time.” The voice came loud and harsh. Ganzi turned in time to see the same slovenly man elbowing his way through. “Come on, come on. Let me through. I’m late for a meeting.”
He brushed by Ganzi and his client, and in his haste stepped on the foot of a little girl. She screamed and dropped to the floor.
The brusque traveler stumbled but caught himself. He spun to face the fallen child. “Stupid kid. Watch what you’re doing.” He turned to the mother. “Can’t you keep your little monkey on a leash? Bad enough I had to hear her yammer all the way from New York.”
The mother reached for the child, tears welling in both their eyes.
Verducci stepped next to Loud Mouth, placed a hand on the man’s bicep, and began to squeeze. Ganzi knew what was happening. Verducci had dug his fingers into the space between bicep and triceps, pressing the artery and very sensitive nerve that ran from shoulder to elbow. “Let go of — ”
“You’ve been rude,” Verducci interrupted.
“I don’t have to listen to some foreigner — ” He winced. Strong fingers had moved an inch closer to the upper arm bone.
“Don’t you think you should apologize?”
“Okay . . . okay. I’m sorry, little girl.”
“The mother.” Verducci’s words were smooth. If he was angry, he didn’t let it show.
The man gave her a humble nod and said, “I’m sorry. I behaved badly.”
The mother glared at him and gathered her weeping daughter even closer.
“Get your bag and get out.” The words were so cold Ganzi thought he saw condensation puff from his client’s mouth. Verducci dropped his hand, and the man scrambled away.
Verducci squatted next to the little girl. “Hello, child. Are you hurt badly?”
She sniffed. “He stepped on my foot.”
“May I take a look?”
She nodded. “You talk funny.”
Verducci smiled. “I am from Italy. Have you ever been to Italy, little one?”
“No. Where is it?”
He moved the sock on her right foot down to the top of her small sneaker. A small scrape was visible. “It is far across the ocean. It is the most beautiful place on Earth. Maybe someday you can visit my country.”
“That would be fun.”
Ganzi watched Verducci. When subduing the impatient slob Verducci had showed no emotion, but with the child, he flashed a smile and displayed genuine concern.
“Yo
ur foot looks fine. There is a scrape and it will sting for a little while. Maybe your mother can put a Band-Aid on it later. Can you stand?”
“I think so.” She wiped the last of the tears from her eyes.
Verducci stood. “Then give me your hand, little one.” She did and Verducci raised her to her feet. She stood on one foot, and then tested the other.
“Thank you,” the mother said.
“Make no mention of it. I am glad to be of help.”
He put a hand on the little girl’s head and gave it a pat.
Fifteen minutes later, they were in Ganzi’s rental car and moving through the busy streets. Ganzi split his thoughts between the traffic and the man seated next to him. Verducci struck the private investigator as an oxymoron: willing to inflict pain on the sloppily dressed buffoon at the airport, yet eager to help a stricken child.
Hadn’t Verducci hired Ganzi to gather information on the most famous astronaut in the country? Ganzi still didn’t know why.
“You want a report now?” Ganzi asked.
Verducci shook his head. “At the hotel. I need to think.”
A moment later, Ganzi heard a gentle snoring.
TEN
Tuck wandered through downtown streets then along residential byways. He saw only enough to prevent him from running his car into the back of a truck or into a tree. Normally prone to stretching the restrictions of speed-limit signs, something he referred to as “speed suggestion” signs, this time he kept his foot light on the accelerator, and the Chevy Avalanche pickup seemed grateful for it. The gas pedal in his mind, however, was stuck to the floorboard.
Bob Celtik’s words blared like a car alarm, repeating and repeating and repeating. Bob had been as professional and as caring as a man could be, but anger boiled in Tuck. It wasn’t Bob’s fault. He hadn’t made the psych evaluation; he only read it.
He couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not with so much venom aching to inflict damage on the nearest clump of flesh and nerves that passed for human.
He had felt blessed his entire life: reared in a great family, guided by fine teachers, graduated the naval academy, given wings in flight school, and inducted into the astronaut corps. Only a handful of men could boast of such things. He was married to a woman he’d marry again in a heartbeat, and his children . . . his children . . . The thought of Penny and Gary drained the fury from Tuck and replaced it with scalding regret. Although he had never said it aloud, he drew an impossible- to-measure sense of satisfaction each time his children said, “My dad is an astronaut.”
“They can still say that.” The voice bubbled up from deep in his brain. At least a part of his gray matter remained connected to reality.
Despite the reassuring voice in his head, one undeniable fact stoked the coals of his regret: he wouldn’t be a “flying” astronaut, and flying defined him.
Sure. He could train incoming astronauts, oversee one NASA project or another; he could continue to speak at schools, colleges, and civic groups; he could make the rounds to the contractors who assembled parts of space-going vessels. He could do that and still be one of the most admired men in the country.
Maybe saying good-bye to NASA was the thing to do. Return to active Navy duty. He shook his head. Myra couldn’t handle that. Having him gone six months at sea would be unfair to a family that had already endured so much.
Minutes became hours and with little recognition of how he got there, Tuck was home.
The house sat empty. No sounds of children, no radio, no television, no smells of cooking, no laughter, no sibling arguing. His mind had been so full of self-pity that he had forgotten that the kids would be in school and Myra would be working at her part-time real estate career.
Tuck’s home was twenty-five-hundred feet of clean, organized, self-decorated bliss. Now, it seemed a well-furnished tomb. He decided tomb was the right metaphor. After all, something had died — his career. He knew the time would come when space travel would no longer be available to him, but he always assumed it would be because he had grown tired of it. One didn’t fly the Shuttle every week, or even every month. The time between flights could span more than a year, but just knowing that his name was on the list for upcoming missions satisfied him. He would never feel that satisfaction again.
He slipped into the kitchen and removed a small bottle of orange juice, twisted the lid off, took a draw, then moved back into the living room. A suede sofa became his perch. Leaning forward, Tuck rested his elbows on his knees and peered into the half-empty juice bottle as if the answer were floating somewhere within.
Thoughts that normally fell into line like soldiers in a parade resisted any attempt at organization. Instead of soldiers at attention, his thoughts swirled aimlessly.
Life wasn’t over. He knew that. He just didn’t feel it.
His gaze rose and fixed on a long open box in front of the cherrywood entertainment center. The box rested empty on the charcoal gray carpet. Next to it rested the long narrow contents: the skateboard he and Myra had bought Gary for his birthday. The sight of it brought a small smile to Tuck’s face.
The thought of Gary stimulated another memory. His son had been stunned when he discovered his father had met Ted Roos and didn’t know enough to ask for an autograph.
Ted Roos. He had given Tuck a business card. What had he done with it?
More from instinct than memory, Tuck set the juice on the coffee table and reached for his wallet. There it was, tucked just behind a twenty. He studied it. The card was simple translucent plastic with black ink, nothing indicating great creativity or marketing savvy: just the name Ted Roos, a phone number, an e-mail address, and a webpage URL. Straight and to the point. Tuck thought it odd that there was no physical or mailing address. Oversight or plan?
It didn’t matter. Tuck reached for the remote phone that rested on a side table and dialed the number.
One ring.
“Roos.” The voice sounded distracted. Tuck could hear the soft click-click-click of fingers putting a keyboard through its paces.
“You answer your own phone?”
“You taking a survey? Who is this?”
“Benjamin Tucker. We met in San Diego — ”
“Yes, Commander. Of course, I remember. It’s great to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at work . . . you really answer your own phone?”
“For an astronaut you sure are old school. We don’t have a company phone number. Every employee gets a cell phone. We have one number that goes to an answering ser vice — a computer really. We give that number to salesmen.”
“I see. So the number you gave me rings on your hip.”
“Night and day, Commander. Night and day.”
“I have a favor to ask. If it’s not something you do, just tell me.”
“Ask away.”
“I have a twelve-year-old son. Actually, he just turned twelve yesterday.”
“Congrats.” Keyboard noise continued to flow across the line.
“The point is: I told him I met you and he thought I’d lost my mind because I didn’t ask for an autograph.”
“Ah, he must be an avid video-game player.”
“Isn’t every boy his age?”
“I hope so. I have a huge mortgage and guys his age keep it paid for me. So you want an autograph.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Tuck felt awkward.
“No trouble for me, but it might be for you.”
“How’s that?”
The keyboard clicking stopped. “Here’s what I’ll do. Not only will I give your boy . . . what’s his name?”
“Gary.”
“Not only will I give Gary an autograph, I’ll give him an advance copy of Tower Terror.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard of it.”
Roos laughed. “I’d bet good money there are a lot of video games you haven’t heard of. This one doesn’t hit the stores for three months. Gary will be the only one in Texas and one of the few in the w
orld to have it.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Roos.”
“It’s Ted. I know I don’t have to, but it’s the boy’s birthday. That’s what makes it a gift, Commander. If I had to give it to him, then it would be an obligation.”
“There’s a hitch to this, isn’t there?”
“Yup. You have to come to California to get it. Bring your boy.”
“You want me to fly to California to pick up an autograph and a video game?”
“Nope. I want you to fly to California because I want to show you what I’m doing. The autograph and game are unabashed bribery.”
“At least you’re upfront about it.”
“That’s me. I’m transparent as glass. I’ll even send the corporate jet to pick you up.” The click-clack returned. “How about tomorrow morning?”
“I’d have to take him out of school for the day.”
“Sweet. He’ll love it. My dad used to take me out of school to go fishing with him. The school hated it but he didn’t care. Come to think of it, neither did I. How about it? Think NASA will unhook the leash for you?”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Verducci stepped from his hotel room looking refreshed and showing no signs of travel fatigue. The fact that he was now in a country on the other side of the planet rather than where he had been the day before apparently had not fazed him. He wore white slacks and an eye-blurring geometric print shirt. He looked every bit the wealthy tourist.
Ganzi also wore casual clothing: a dark aloha shirt, crisp new jeans, and New Balance sport shoes. Somehow, Ganzi felt underdressed. Perhaps it was the height difference; perhaps it was the fact that Verducci looked like a Roman statue come to life; maybe it was the air of quiet danger that surrounded his client. He couldn’t shake the idea that being next to this man was akin to sitting on a volcano overdue for eruption.
“How was your nap?” Ganzi asked. He had been waiting outside the door. Verducci told him to be ready at 5:35, of all things.
“I rested well.”
“And the room is to your liking?”
“It will do.”
Ganzi nodded. “Then to dinner. We will talk there.”