by Alton Gansky
The elevator from the sixth floor released them at the lobby adjacent to the atrium. The place buzzed with activity. The hotel hosted a complimentary manager’s reception, and men and women dressed in their best business garb washed away the stress of the day with sips of wine and swallows of beer.
“If the place is too crowded for you, we can go to another place or order room ser vice.”
“This will be fine. I’ve had my fill of airplanes and cars. There’s an empty table in the corner.” Verducci led the way. Minutes later they each had a drink in front of them and had ordered meals.
“Let me see it.” Verducci held out a hand.
Ganzi handed a leather folder to his client. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I expected a thicker accent.”
“Much of my schooling was done in the US. I not only learned your language but your manner of speaking. I’ve found it useful.”
Tempted as he was, Ganzi didn’t ask what that meant. He doubted he wanted to know. Instead, he rested his arms on the table and fingered the glass of Samuel Adams in front of him. He assumed Verducci would have gone for a red wine or similar. Instead, a wide glass of Chivas Regal scotch rested by the open folder.
“You’ve double-checked this?”
Ganzi nodded. “Every place, every distance.”
“It doesn’t show the whole city.”
“Of course not. Houston is the largest city in Texas. Shoot. It’s the largest city in the south, fourth largest in the country. I gave you what I thought was pertinent to your project, what little I know of it.”
“I’ll decide what is pertinent.” He didn’t bother looking up. “This will be fine. I see you’ve listed the hospitals, fire stations, police stations and . . .” He flipped through the pages. “I don’t see the locations for FBI offices. Why?”
Ganzi had been expecting this. He took time to knock back a third of his beer before answering. He was stalling and didn’t care if Verducci knew it. The next words would be hard.
“Look. I appreciate the work and the more-than-generous fee. I don’t mind tracking someone down. PIs do it all the time. I don’t mind gathering information on a person. That’s half my business income. But when someone starts asking for the locations and photos of government buildings, I get a little touchy.”
“You think I’m a terrorist?”
“Mr. Verducci, everyone is suspected of being a terrorist. We live in a frightened society now. We doubt everyone and everything.”
“Mr. Ganzi, I assure you, I’m no terrorist. Last time I looked, my country and yours were on the same side.”
“Then why request this information? Why do you want to know about the Houston police substations, hospital locations, and the like?”
“You will see, Mr. Ganzi.”
The waiter brought the food. Steak and potatoes for Ganzi; red snapper for Verducci. When the plate was set before him, Verducci ordered a glass of red wine. The server left.
“Aren’t you supposed to drink white wine with fish?”Ganzi didn’t care, but he thought the question might lighten the moment.
“Not where I come from.” Verducci finished the scotch and pushed the glass aside. They fell silent waiting for the waiter to return with the wine. The moment they had the table to themselves Verducci pressed his fork into the fish and asked, “Are you licensed to carry a weapon?”
“This is Texas. My dog is licensed to carry a weapon.”
“Good. If you ever see me do anything that makes you think I’m going to blow up a building, shoot me in the head.”
“I would, you know.”
“That’s why I hired you.”
ELEVEN
I can’t believe Mom let you do this. I have to be bleeding from the eyes for her to let me stay home sick.”
“Where do you get phrases like that? Bleeding from the eyes? You’re a sick puppy.”
“I am my father’s son.”
Tuck looked at Gary, who sat opposite him in the Cessna Citation business jet. When the boy spoke, he barely looked up from the handheld video game he had been wearing out since they took to the air. “Your mother taught you to say that, didn’t she?”
“I’ll never tell.”
Tuck smiled. His boy did sound like him and each month looked more like his old man. Twelve wasn’t old, but he seemed to be maturing fast — maybe too fast. If pride were alcohol, Tuck would be forever inebriated.
“So flying in expensive business jets is old hat for you, eh?”
“No way. I ain’t never seen one . . . I mean, I’ve never even seen one before. This is way cool. Off the hook.”
“Yet you play a video game instead of spending quality time with your pops.”
“It’s called multitasking, Dad.”
“It’s also called rude.”
Gary turned the game off. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t like video games.”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve played plenty of video games. My generation invented them.”
“Pong doesn’t count. Neither does Donkey Kong.”
“Oh, is that a fact. Now you’re a game snob. How about flight simulators? Big, honkin’ projection screens, real aircraft controls.”
Gary faked a yawn.
“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Tuck undid his seatbelt. “I bet I can still tickle you until you beg for mercy.”
“I’ll cry child abuse.” His grin lit up the dark part of Tuck’s mind.
“Once the judge meets you, he’ll give me a medal.” He rose from his seat.
“Okay, okay. You win.” Their laughter filled the passenger cabin. The cabin could seat six more, but Tuck and Gary had the place to themselves.
“This is about more than a video game, isn’t it? Not that I mind.”
“What makes you say that, Son?”
“Nobody sends a private jet from California to Texas to pick up a kid and his dad so he can give them a video game — cool as that is. Are you going to take the job, Dad?” His eyes took on a hint of fear, although it was clear he was trying to be brave.
Tuck turned his eyes to the scrolling ground thirty thousand feet below. “You know what, Son? We’ve never had a man-to-man talk. You’re getting old enough for such things now and you’re smarter than your age.”
Gary waited, his eyes on his father.
Tuck took a deep breath. “They’re taking me off the mission rotation. I won’t be doing any more Shuttle missions.” Tuck dropped the bomb and waited. Gary gave no indication of what he felt.
“Really? Why? Because of last year? That wasn’t your fault.”
“They’re not blaming me for what happened. They just don’t think I’m fit to fly anymore.”
“Does that mean you’re fired or something?”
“No, just that I won’t be commanding any more missions.”
Gary nodded. “How do you feel about it?”
“That’s a very mature question. I’m more concerned with how you feel.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, I worry when you go up, but I know it’s important to you. Mom said it defines you.”
“She did? She told you that?”
“Yeah. She didn’t mean anything bad.”
“I know, Son. I know. I’m just surprised that she’s been talking to you and Penny about such things.”
Gary looked sad.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, buddy. What’s eating you?”
Gary shifted his eyes to the window, but Tuck was certain he wasn’t seeing anything except what was in his brain. “She talks to us because we can’t talk to you.”
“What does that mean? You can talk to me about anything.”
“Not about your work. Not about flying in space.”
“Why not?” The words came out harsher than Tuck intended.
“Because, Dad, we just can’t. Being an astronaut means everything to you. We don’t want you to know how it scares us. We know you need to think about the mission, about
your work.”
Tuck felt like a candle in an oven. “Gary, there isn’t anything in the world you can’t talk to me about, and as time goes on — the closer you come to being an adult —the more we need to share. You’re my pal. You’re my boy. You, Penny, and Mom mean everything to me.”
“I know, Dad. I didn’t mean that we don’t trust you. It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . hard.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Have you told Mom?”
“Not yet. I want to think about it some more. I’m not sure what to say or how to say it.”
“Sheesh, Dad. Just tell her. She’ll read your mind if you don’t.”
“Read my mind?”
“Come on, Dad. She’s a mother. She always knows what I’m thinking. Creeps me out. I love her and all, but it really creeps me out sometimes.”
Tuck laughed. “I know exactly what you mean. Come to think of it, the way she knows things creeps me out too.”
A tinny voice floated from the cabin speakers. “Commander Tucker, we’re beginning our descent. Please make certain your safety belts are buckled. We’ll be landing at a private runway so there will be no delays.”
“Ready to meet your hero?” Tuck looked at the belt around Gary’s middle — buckled and snug.
“He’s not my hero, Dad. He’s just way cool. You’re my hero.”
“Thanks, bud. That means a lot to me. Wait until I tell your mom you think I’m as cool as Ted Roos.”
Gary shook his head and frowned. “I didn’t say that. I just said you were my hero.”
“What? I should come over there and — ”
Gary wagged a finger. “Sorry, Dad, we’re on descent. The pilot said you have to remain buckled.”
“You little sneak.”
“That’s me.” .
The business jet touched down lightly and began to slow. There was nothing to do but wait for it to come to a stop. When it did, Tuck popped his belt latch and stood as straight as the low cabin would allow. The sleek craft continued to move along the tarmac. The motion was smoother than Tuck expected for a private runway.
He looked out a port side window and saw flat, brown desert dotted with sage, juniper, and odd trees that looked like something from a scifi movie: scraggly, gnarled, with bent branches like arms reaching for the sky.
“Are those trees?” Gary’s face was as close to the window as it could be without leaving nose prints.
“Yup. Odd-looking things, aren’t they. They’re called Joshua trees.”
“Joshua? Like Joshua in the Bible?”
“Yes. When the Mormons were traveling through they saw the trees and it reminded them of the biblical story of Joshua raising his hands to heaven.”
“They look like monsters holding pom-poms.”
“Those pom-poms, as you call them, are the leaves, except they’re not like the leaves of other trees. These are sharp and pointed, like narrow spearheads. Back into one and you won’t forget it anytime soon.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Edwards Air Force Base is thirty or forty miles east of here, in the Antelope Valley. I did test pilot work there before you were born.”
“This isn’t Antelope Valley?”
“Nope. Victor Valley. Actually, we’re north of that.”
The sparse terrain scrolled past the windows. “There must be a building or two around here somewhere.”
As if fulfilling Tuck’s request, a large metal building with a curved roof came into view; next to that stood the building’s twin. Next to that a concrete tilt-up sat like a large white refrigerator box glistening in the sun.
The Citation turned toward the tilt-up and came to a stop. Over the PA the pilot announced, “We’re here, folks, you can release your safety belts.” Tuck and Gary exchanged glances. The pilot was several minutes too late with the announcement.
The copilot exited the flight deck and stepped to the door. “Enjoy the flight?” He looked at Gary.
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
The copilot held out his hand to Tuck. “Let me say again what a pleasure it has been to have you aboard. You’re a hero in my book.”
Tuck’s stomach twisted. “Um, thanks.”
“Okay, it may be September, but it is still hot out there. We’ve been having a warm spell and temps have been scratching at a hundred. So prepare yourself.”
He opened the door and lowered the airstairs. For a moment, Tuck was certain the man had opened the door to an oven.
“Yuck,” Gary said.
“You can say that again.”
“They tell me it’s a dry heat.” The voice came from the pilot, who stood just behind his crewman.
“That just means your bones bleach faster.” Tuck moved to the stairs and took the few steps that bridged the distance between cabin and ground. Gary followed close behind.
The pilot had pulled within twenty yards of the tilt-up. “Just head toward the door. Someone will let you in.”
The building was the pale gray-white of naked concrete. A concrete wall made sense in an area known for wind as much as heat. Tuck could see no windows in the wall. The sound of a large — probably several large — air conditioning compressors drifted on the hot, thick air. A single three-foot-wide metal door stood at the middle of the wall. It opened the moment Tuck and Gary started forward. Ted Roos held the door.
Gary looked over his shoulder. “They went back in the jet.”
“Nothing to worry about. They need to refuel, and I bet one of those metal buildings is a hangar.”
“I wasn’t worried. It’s just that I left my video player on board.”
“I’m sure it will be there when we fly back.”
They crossed the distance between jet and building in short order. Sweat was already forming on Tuck’s brow.
“Come on in. Get out of the heat.” Roos’s hair still looked as if he had combed it with an eggbeater and his face still needed a shave. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt two sizes too large.
“You must be Gary.” He held out a hand. Tuck expected a polite professional handshake. Instead, he saw a choreographed shake-grasp-palm-slap maneuver that looked like it would take a week to learn.
Roos held a hand out to Tuck.
“I’ll take the old-fashioned handshake, if you please.”
“No problem, Commander. I remember how to do that.”
Roos led them through the gunmetal doorway and into a reception room that would make a Spartan soldier feel deprived. A simple metal desk butted next to one of the walls. A large flat-screen monitor dominated the desktop. Behind it sat a blonde woman of maybe twenty-five years. Her eyes were bright and she wore a simple smile that made her face glow.
“This is Audrey Hull, heartthrob of SpaceVentures, Incorporated. Audrey, this is the famous Gary Tucker and his father, Commander Benjamin Tucker.”
Roos was playing to Gary, and the boy seemed to be enjoying it.
“Pleased to meet you, Gary. Thanks for bringing your father along.”
“I had to. Couldn’t put up with his whining.”
“Hey, I know where you live, kid.” Tuck put a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy had picked up his father’s quick quips and it filled Tuck with a sense of pride only a father could appreciate. Tuck said he was pleased to meet Audrey, then added, “As far away from the public as this place is, I’m surprised you need a receptionist.”
Roos looked confused for a moment. “Ah. The room. Audrey isn’t the receptionist; she handles scheduling for material delivery and keeps the lines of communication open. This room may look like a receptionist’s foyer, but it’s not. We don’t have many offices at the complex. Everything is open. Consequently, things get noisy.”
Audrey nodded. “Since much of my work involves the phone, I needed a place away from the Chimps.”
“Chimps?” An image of the early days of space exploration flashed on his mind. “You send animals into space?”
; Audrey laughed. So did Roos. “No. The Chimps are the on-site workers and engineers. No one knows how the name came to be, it’s probably because we work in isolation like a colony of chimps.”
“Not many engineers would put up with that,” Tuck said.
“Not many engineers have the kind of vision these guys possess. One doesn’t do work like this unless they’re a little whacked.”
“I can believe that.”
“You’d fit right in, Dad.”
“Yet another jab at your old man. I may have to ground you for twenty or thirty years.”
“You guys hungry? I got leftover pizza, snacks, some type of Mexican food, soda. Or I can send out for something.”
“Send out to where?” Tuck asked.
“Let’s see, Victorville is to the south, Barstow is to the north. It could take a little time. Maybe an hour or so.”
“We’re fine for now.”
“I’ll take a root beer,” Gary said.
Roos smiled. “We have a fine vintage of root beer.”
Audrey stood. “I’ll get it.”
“This way, gentlemen. Let me show you the dungeon.” Roos walked to the rear door and held it open. Tuck and Gary crossed the threshold.
“Wow.” Gary stopped so fast that Tuck almost tripped over him. “This place is huge.”
Tuck had spent time in hangars that dwarfed the one he was in, but the size of the place still impressed him. The place was far more cavernous than he expected from a small enterprise.
Half a dozen things caught Tuck’s eye. A long brown curtain separated a quarter of the space from the rest of the open area. In one corner of the space sat a young man talking to his computer and running a finger along the monitor. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt decorated with holes in the fabric. He nodded, shook his head, rocked back and forth then side to side, stood, sat, and mumbled. The distance separating them made it impossible to hear what the man said. When the man sat, he typed on the keyboard; when he stood, he paced.
Another man about the age of Roos stood at one end of an acrylic Ping-Pong table. The opposite end of the table stood vertical to provide a wall for the man to bounce the plastic ball against. He was playing a one-man game. The clack-plack of the ball filled the massive space. He wore jeans, a long-sleeve dress shirt, untucked, cuffs rolled up. He started a short volley then abruptly stopped and stared into the distance. The ball dribbled from the table to the naked concrete floor and rolled toward them.