by Ward, Steve
Because of the tight security, target video was not sent to the ground. Even if it were scrambled, there was a chance someone could figure out what they were up to. Between Flash and Christina, they were on their own with just a few coded messages to be transferred between orbit and ground.
“Duckbill. . .hello Duckbill, Daffy Duck’s on his way,” Christina reported to Mission Control.
“Roger, standing by.”
Short range telemetry from the attack robot did, however, deliver target video to the shuttle for observation and recording. The crew nervously watched the Soyuz 23 payload growing in the screen. It was a strange looking satellite with a wide array of grids and antennae. With a large red panel on its back, it looked like a monstrous black-widow spider, a formidable creature poised and ready to bite.
“Funny,” Sandy said, “doesn’t look like a weather satellite.”
“No it doesn’t,” Christina agreed.
Suddenly, just as guidance switched to video tracking the picture veered to one side and started spinning. Warnings went off on Flash’s console, and The Monster tumbled out of control.
“What. . .what the hell?” Flash yelled. “No, no! Oh God, I’m losing it.”
Before anyone could say anything, there was a brilliant flash in the shuttle ports as The Monster exploded. Of course, there was no sound in space, but the result was clear as the video screen went black. The Monster had disappeared, and the Soyuz 23 payload remained, untouched. The crew looked at each other in disbelief. Flash dropped the remote, and it floated away in a tumble.
“It was going so well, what happened?” Christina pleaded as she snatched the remote and stared at the indicators.
“I don’t know, it went nuts on Stage III video tracking, lost acquisition and auto-destructed. My God, think of the implications!” Flash looked like he had just seen a ghost. The deadly threat remained, and his career was over. The military strike was a colossal failure.
Christina felt even worse. This was her baby, and DROID had bombed. “Duckbill, Duckbill,” she called Udahl. “We got a little problem up here.”
“How did it go?” Udahl replied.
“Not sure what happened, but we lost the Duck, went out of control and destroyed itself. No fortune, no fortune. What’s our backup?”
“How do you know it self destructed, Stick? It may have been attacked by. . .well, you know,” Udahl sounded quite concerned.
She looked at Flash for some confirmation. He just spread his hands; he didn’t have a clue. She spoke back, “I can’t imagine that would be feasible, but you are correct. I didn’t think of that scenario. Do you want us to try to rendezvous and acquire it with the shuttle arm?”
“Hell no, Stick, get the hell out of there A.S.A.P. You might be next.”
“Roger, Duckbill, we’ll back off and move to orbit position Omega for reentry.”
She was sick to her stomach. She had never been a good loser, but now all kinds of thoughts raced through her brain. She couldn’t get Rhani out of her mind. On the Beta-test EVA, she remembered how he was mucking around with the front of The Monster. She also considered the fact that he was with the vehicle for almost an hour by himself just prior to the disaster. But what could he have done, and why was he always sneaking around the Director’s office? It was clear that America was at risk, and she didn’t know who to trust.
She turned and looked at Rhani. He was inspecting his fingernails with a big smile. Funny, he doesn’t seem awfully upset.
Chapter Six
Three days after her historic mission, Christina remained conflicted between the stellar results of DROID beta-testing and the subsequent Soyuz 23 disaster. Why did it fail? What the hell’s going on at NASA anyway? There were just too many unanswered questions, and the United States remained at risk.
Plagued by the burden of security, she concocted an elaborate scheme to break free. She needed to talk to someone she could trust, and Michael Jacobs was the only one who came to mind. Considering her plan she felt like a high school kid again. Can’t believe I’m doing this. After claiming to go to bed early, she piled up pillows and covered them with the blanket on her bed. Then she climbed out a bathroom window onto the branch of an old oak tree and shinnied down to the ground. She heard the guards talking at various locations around her building and waited for a truck to pass to cover the sounds of her escape. Crawling on hands and knees behind a hedge, she hoped the guard at her front door wouldn’t notice. Finally, she made the sidewalk free and clear and jogged away into the night. Some two miles down the road from her condo, she found the Here’s To Ya Tavern.
It was a dark September evening, quite warm in south Texas. The local watering hole was a little dingy but a perfect rendezvous because NASA people avoided it like the plague. As soon as she walked in she saw Michael sitting at a booth in the back. There were only two other people there, sitting at the bar, and a bartender who eyed her suspiciously as she sauntered across the room. Michael had the look of a little boy waiting his turn to bat. She slid in beside him so she could watch the front door.
“Hey girl, can’t believe you passed me a note at the astronaut briefing. How romantic, reminds me of seventh grade.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Herrumph. You wish.”
“So what is it? Does Stick love Twinky? Is that it?” Michael laughed. Like a teenager on his first date, he yawned, stretched out his left arm and folded it over her shoulder.
She took advantage of the cover and moved in close. On her own for six months since Lazer had died, she had almost forgotten how good it felt to cozy up to a man. She was happy she had gone to the trouble to sneak out of her private prison.
“Ho ho, you’re a riot, Twinky.” She rested her right hand on his knee. “Don’t you love the ambiance of this place, especially that French bouquet. What is that, Lysol?”
“So what’s with the cloak and dagger, and where’s your entourage?” Michael turned to her puzzled. Obviously trying to look dead serious, a fly landed on his nose and she giggled.
“Shut up Twinky and listen,” she half whispered. “I don’t know who to trust anymore, but something big is going down.”
“Big? Well, you can trust me.” He put out his chest. “Just call me Mister Dependable.”
“Twinky, I need your help.”
“Are you shittin’ me? Christina the Space Warrior actually needs someone?”
She looked deeply into his eyes wondering what he was made of. Could he be counted on when the going got rough? “Yup, that’s right, Twinky. Believe it or not, I need you.”
“No problem. What?”
“I’m gonna break into Rhani Hussein’s apartment.”
“Huh?” His eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. “Are you nuts?”
“It’s a matter of national security,” she replied. “It’s a long, complicated story, Michael. I don’t have time. . .”
His eyes lit up when she called him Michael. “Boy, this must be serious,” he said.
She decided to take a big risk. “7-3-3 wasn’t just a DROID test. We were on a Top Secret mission to rendezvous and destroy an Iranian satellite.” She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “Listen, Michael, this shit is classified, but I gotta tell someone.”
“Okay, I’m all ears.”
“It was supposed to be a weather satellite, but the CIA learned it was designed to guide nukes to targets in the United States.”
“Holy smokes, no way. I hope you’re kidding, Stick. That’s spooky.”
“No joke, Michael. Bad news is the mission failed, and that thing is still up there eyeballing every large city in America. Gleason’s balking on taking it out. We gotta do something!” She almost choked on her words.
“Yeah?” he chuckled. “Like we could save the world? So what does our good man, Rhani, have to do with all this?”
“I’m virtually certain he sabotaged the mission.”
He backed away with a confused look. “Whooa now, Stick. He may be
a little weird, but he’s a United States astronaut. He’s been vetted by every security agency in this country. Anyway, how could one person pull something like that off?”
She knew it sounded paranoid, so she tried her best to explain with a calm tone, “Actually it would be quite easy for someone with knowledge of the design, someone with access to the robot. As a matter of fact he had both. He had two opportunities to fiddle with the optics on EVAs.” She quit talking when the bartender walked over.
“Wha cane ah get ya ma’am?” he asked in a slow, cowboy twang.
Christina groaned. He was a middle aged, overweight slob, practically drooling on her. He wore an apron that looked like it had been used in an autopsy. It barely covered a huge belly swollen from years of guzzling suds. Gees, run for cover, he could burst at any moment, she mused. “Nothing, sir, I won’t be here long. Thanks just the same.”
He lumbered back to the bar with a look of disgust. “Y’all come in here and squak yer hades off an’ don’t buy a fuckin’ thing,” he grumbled.
Michael took a drink of his beer and whispered, “And what makes you think Rhani messed with DROID?”
“For one, we were on our first set of tests, and I saw him disappear behind The Monster for no good reason. He was back there a long time.” She was speaking at a New York City pace.
“Slow down girl, what the hell? The monster?”
“That’s what we called the attack DROID. Apparently the Air Force built about twenty of them to test as an ICBM shield.” She was uncomfortable divulging national secrets, but thought he had the need to know. At least she needed him to know.
“Stick, are you listening to yourself? What could he possibly do to it with a spacesuit on?” Michael wasn’t following her logic.
“All he would have to do is put a piece of Velcro tape over the TV lens. . .we carry Velcro patches in our tool kit. The mission to attack the Iranian satellite was advancing with no problem until it hit Stage III. When it switched over to TV track, the thing went nuts and blew itself up. There’s only one reasonable explanation for that.” She knew there were at least a half-dozen explanations, but she was losing patience, and time was of the essence.
“All right Nancy Drew,” Michael chuckled. “For the moment let’s just say he sabotaged the mission. Motive? Why would he do that? Wouldn’t it mean the Iranians got to him? How so? He’s lived in the U.S. all his life. He must’ve been cleared for any Mid East connections when he was checked out for NASA. I’ve got it, why don’t we go ask Director Scott?”
She cut him off, “No, no, no, my boy. I’m not at all sure that’s a good idea. I think the Director may be involved. Now I know I sound like a whacko, Michael, but think about it. Why is Rhani always hanging in his office, and why was he put on 7-3-3 at the last minute, and why were you replaced on 7-3-4?”
He scratched his head. “All good questions, but it’s impossible to believe the Director of NASA would be in cahoots with the very same people who want to drop nukes over his head. Sorry, Stick, it doesn’t add up.” Michael squinted.
“What if he was paid off? Those jokers are rolling in oily cash. First I want to break in Rhani’s apartment and look for evidence, then we have to figure a way to check out the Director.” She was getting frustrated, wondering if her illegal exposure of Top Secret information was a good idea after all. What if Twinky cracks?
“Breaking and entering. . .theft. . .now you’re talking felony.”
“But if we find something, I’m willing to go to the President. I have access. I need your help, Michael. Not sure I can pull it off by myself.” She decided to appeal to his ego. Men, she thought, they can be such pricks. She squeezed his hand and brushed her lips across his cheek. She whispered as she breathed into his ear, “Michael, I’m saying I need you.”
He pulled back in shock, scratched his ear and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “You need me? Okay, hell yeah, sure, I like the sound of that.”
“I need you, Michael.” She kissed him again.
“Against my better judgment, it sounds kinda like fun. When do we go?”
“Right now. Rhani’s at an all-night training exercise for 7-3-4. Let’s get outta here.”
Christina slid out of the booth and headed for the door. Adrenalin pumped. For the first time in years, outside a spaceship that is, she felt electrified. She waited at the end of the bar as Michael paid the bill. The bartender rolled his eyes in her direction and raised one eyebrow.
Asshole probably thinks I’m a floozy.
* * *
Christina gasped; her heart pounded.
It was a cheap lock, and Michael jimmied the door open with a credit card.
“How did you do that?”
“My dad taught me when I was twelve.”
They were in. It was a tacky little apartment with few furnishings. A portrait of Muhammad hung over the TV and lots of religious paraphernalia were strewn about. She didn’t want to turn on the lights so they maneuvered with flashlights around the two bedroom flat.
She started going through a big stack of mail on a table in the eating area. The kitchen was a mess, open cans and empty containers everywhere, dirty dishes stacked in several piles. Men, she thought, all pigs. How can anyone live like this? Michael disappeared into the front bedroom. Nothing looked particularly unusual, just a pile of bills and credit card offers. Guess they don’t care who they do business with, she thought. One letter looked suspicious. She couldn’t read it but she knew enough to recognize Arabic. Also there was a bank deposit slip. She almost fainted when the bottom line read $20,000. What? That’s twenty-thousand dollars in cash. What’s he doing with that kinda dough?
“Hey Stick, come look at this,” called Michael from the bedroom.
“What?” she asked walking his way.
“I thought Muslims were supposed to be holy. Look at all these porn mags. Gees Louise!” In the dim light of her flashlight, Michael looked like a kid who had just discovered a sex manual under his parent’s bed. He made silly noises as he took his sweet time paging through the material. “Oh my Lord, look at this.” He held something up in her direction.
Christina turned away in disgust and started rifling through drawers. There was the usual stuff one might find in the bedroom of a single man. But in one drawer by the bed she found a small, yellow book. A Bible? she wondered. No, it’s the Quran. She opened it at the bookmark and noticed one passage had been underlined. As she read, horror caught in her throat; a cold icy feeling made her shiver. She could hardly believe such a thing was in the holy book of Islam. And I thought it was supposed to be an instrument of peace.
“Michael, dammit, would you put those down? Come over here and look at this. Rahni has it marked in the Quran. Listen.”
Sura 47:3 This—because the infidels followed vanity, while those who believe, followed the truth from their Lord. . .
When ye encounter the infidels, strike off their heads till ye have made a great slaughter among them, and of the rest make fast the fetters. . .and who so fight for the cause of God, their words He will not suffer to miscarry; He will vouchsafe them guidance, and dispose their hearts aright; and He will bring them into the Paradise, of which He hath told them.
Believers! If ye help God, God will help you, and will set your feet firm: But as for the infidels, let them perish. . .
“It’s the Quran, Stick. Over a thousand years old. Says all kind of weird things. Studied it in college. You can find plenty of that ‘kill the enemy’ crap in the Bible too, if you look hard enough.”
“Sure, but he has it earmarked and underlined. Why do you think he would do that?”
“Okay, okay, it’s a little scary.” He made a spooky face with his flashlight under his chin. “Why don’t we get the hell out of here, right now, before the boogieman returns?”
“Not yet,” she said. “There’s some interesting stuff in his mail, like a twenty-thousand dollar deposit slip.”
“Twenty-thousand?”
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br /> “I’m sure it’s just pocket change,” she said sarcastically. “Let’s go through every drawer and check out that closet. See if you can find anything tying him to Iran.”
“Already did,” he smiled in his flashlight, holding up a photo. “Here’s a picture of Rhani and some other people in front of a monument. Look at the note on the back, Azadi Square, Tehran. Now, can we go?”