Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

by Ward, Steve

  “Oh sure. Where have I heard that one before?” she said with inflection. “I don’t even know you. Why should I tell you anything?” Now she was looking around. There was a dark form walking down the sidewalk in their direction. . .it was an old lady and a dog. They both went silent until she passed. As the forms disappeared into the darkness Christina sighed, “Frankly, General Wallace, I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “Listen Miss Matthews, your life is in jeopardy, not just from the terrorists but from people you know. Keep your head on a swivel, you can’t trust anyone. No one, of course, but me.”

  “Of course, and how am I supposed to know you’re all right?”

  “Your dad is a close friend of mine. Pat Matthews and I worked together on the supersonic transport X-99. Just give him a call and ask if Weenie can be trusted. Okay, yeah, it sounds silly, but that was my call name, Weenie. Then you can verify my real name, Air Force General Cogburn Wallace. Don’t tell him what it’s about. Just say you’re working with me on the DROID program, and you want to know if I can be trusted. The fewer people who know about this thing the better.”

  “What thing?” She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  “We have hard intelligence that the Iranians are planning a strike within the next few months, could be weeks. ‘The ultimate Jihad,’ they call it. They are going to attempt a nuclear attack on major cities in the U.S. with ICBMs. Crude as they are, with satellite assistance one or two might actually get through. Even worse, there’s a conspiracy here in the U.S. at the highest levels which is compromising our defense.”

  “You gotta be kidding! I thought we had a missile shield that would take on anything, at least that’s what the American people have been led to believe.”

  “It’s a farce.” He looked down and shook his head. “That perception was created to put off our enemies and keep Americans happy. The actual effectiveness of Patriot III against ICBMs is only about fifty percent. We might have a better chance with a shield of DROIDs in orbit, but that’ll take time.”

  “But surely the Iranians know if we take a blow like that, they would be obliterated.” Christina had never really worried about nuclear war, because the nukes themselves had always been the biggest deterrent.

  “Well yes, but that response requires a President willing to pull the trigger, and it only works on rational enemies, those who place some value on human life. These bastards, the Shiites and the Sunnis, they see it all different than the Russians in the Cold War. They don’t give a shit about life on earth. If they could kill a few million infidels, they truly believe they would fly right into the Garden of Eden. Virgins, fruit and cool waters, all that crap. Have you read the Quran?”

  “Yes, I have, and it’s scary as hell!” She had even memorized a few lines which she repeated, “When ye encounter the infidels, strike off their heads till ye have made a great slaughter among them, . . .and who so fight for the cause of God. . . he will bring them into the Paradise. . . Believers! If ye help God, God will help you, and will set your feet firm: But as for the infidels, let them perish.”

  “Very good. My oh my, you are an impressive young lady. So now that you understand the threat, won’t you help me?” Wallace peered into her eyes with a look of desperation.

  “I’ve already been to the President. What else can I do?”

  “Well, my girl, I’m afraid that was a mistake.” There was a long pause as he looked around again. His head looked left and right, then left and right again as though he were about to cross an intersection. He whispered, “That’s exactly why I am here.”

  “What?” Her voice caught in her throat.

  “You can’t trust the President,” he said so quietly she could hardly hear.

  “What? Speak up.”

  He said a little louder, “You can’t trust the President.”

  “No way, no how, can’t be,” she didn’t want to believe it.

  “Haven’t you wondered why he wasn’t very interested in the information you gathered? Did it cross your mind that our country was attacked on worldwide TV, and he has done absolutely nothing?” Wallace’s voice rose in an emotional declaration, “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Look, I can’t quite process all that right now. I mean if you can’t trust the President of the United States. . .”

  “Call your dad and check me out. Listen, time is short. I can tell you who not to trust: Gleason, Scott and Hussein. Now go on and meet with your friend. I’ll be in contact soon. I’ll try to cook up some official meeting on DROID. We want your patent on the system, but you’ll have to sign off on that. I’ll use it for an excuse to meet with you privately in the Judge Advocate’s office at Fort McPherson in Atlanta. In the meantime, keep your head low. We know that Michael Jacobs went with you to Washington, but don’t talk to anyone else. Got it?” Wallace squeezed her arm as though he really cared, got up and walked off into the darkness.

  Christina sat stunned and stared at his disappearing frame. For once in her life she didn’t know what to do. Finally, she got up on wobbly knees and headed for the tavern. She took out her cell phone and called her dad.

  * * *

  Michael was on his third beer. Usually cool and collected, he was starting to fidget. This time she had promised to be on time. Why is our relationship such a mess? he wondered. Why can’t we date like anybody else? He knew the answer, but he loved feeling sorry for himself. He looked once again at the large clock hanging over the jukebox. His favorite Willie Nelson was playing for the fourth time, Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground. Not sure why, it always reminded him of Christina. She’s no angel, he thought, nothin’ but trouble. The clock showed 9:25 and no sign of her. All kinds of scary thoughts raced through his mind. Caught by security? No, she would’ve called. Maybe she got nabbed by someone else. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe she’s been taken hostage. With her, absolutely nothing could be eliminated.

  “Would you just cut the crap and quit playin’ that mudder-humpin’ song?” A bag-lady complained from the end of the bar. She yelled in a drunken slur, “Willie sucks!”

  “He’s a payin’ customer, lady. He can play anything he likes.” The bartender took up for him. “Who do you think you are, anyway?”

  Michael nodded his appreciation and looked back at the door. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone in that sleazy joint. Thoughts returned to Christina. Where the hell is she?

  There was a good looking blonde in another booth across the room who kept turning her head to give him the eye. But she was clearly a working girl, the kind who made her living on her back. Michael didn’t consider himself much of a lady’s man, but he did know a thing or two. I know a working girl when I see one. He tried to avoid making eye contact. Finally, the little hottie got up and wiggled her luscious body into the Lady’s room. Lord help me, he thought.

  About the time he started to panic the front door came open, and there she was. My God! She took his breath away. Christina was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in a tight sweater and faded jeans. Everything about her carried an aura of excitement. As she walked toward him, every man in the bar turned to look. Down boys. She’s mine you jackals!

  “Michael, you’re not going to believe this.” She slid in beside him and put her hand on his knee.

  Well that’s progress, he thought. “What? You fell asleep?”

  “No, I just had a very interesting conversation in the park.”

  “So you’re talking to bums now?”

  “No, it was General Wallace,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The DROID briefing? I told you about him. He’s the one who laid out the mission to destroy the Iranian satellite,” she whispered in his ear, then kissed him gently there.

  He was starting to feel better. “Since when do Generals hang out in parks at night? That’s creepy.”

  “They know all about us, Michael, everything we’ve said and done in the last two weeks. He knew I wo
uld be walking through that park to meet you.”

  “Yikes, we’re in deep do do. Let’s see, how many laws have we broken so far?”

  “We’re not in trouble Michael. They want our help. Apparently we can’t even trust the President, according to Wallace. Says Gleason’s so caught up in the diplomacy thing, he won’t even consider Pentagon plans to attack preemptively. He refuses to shoot down that feakin’ satellite. Can you believe that?”

  “And, how do you know to believe him?”

  “Don’t, but he sounds credible. Knows my dad. I called daddy and he said Wallace was a good guy. That’s all I know.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  She looked to make sure no one was in the adjacent booths. “Loose lips sink ships,” she whispered. “They have hard evidence. We’re going to be attacked, and soon. Gleason won’t listen to the military. Claims our intelligence is always wrong.”

  “Well, you have to give him that Christina; they don’t have a very good track record. Remember those weapons of mass destruction?”

  Christina scanned the bar again and seemed to recognize someone across the room; the girl coming out of the bathroom. Michael was baffled when she got up and walked over to the hooker. The blonde smiled and gave her the hug of a long lost friend. Christina grabbed her hand and dragged her his way.

  What in the hell?

  “Michael hon, this is my very best friend in the whole world, Heather Daniels.” She turned to her friend and said, “Heather. . .Michael Jacobs.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Heather. Let’s see.” He turned to Christina. “Your very best friend just happened to be in this no name, piece of shit bar on a Tuesday night?” He looked at the girl again. She was decked out in a halter top and a micro-mini. Wow, what a babe!

  “No silly, I asked her to meet us here. She knows all about what we’re doing, and she’s gonna help.”

  Holy shit! This whole nightmare is out of control. Michael wondered why Christina would make such a decision without talking to him first. Alarms went off all over his brain. With her nothing was ever simple or predictable. He just hoped he could make it through without landing in jail, or dead. “Heather are you sure you want to get involved? This could be dangerous.”

  “Listen honey, for God’s sake, don’t look so worried. I know all about dangerous. You can count on me, sweetie. Christina and I are like blood-sisters. We’ve been to hell and back together; she saved my life more than once. If she needs me, I’m in, don’t care what it is. Sounds like somebody’s got to save the planet. May as well be little ole me.”

  Save it from what? he thought as he tried not to stare at her heaving breasts. He wasn’t feeling much better when he turned to Christina. “So Nancy Drew, what do you have planned for Miss Heather, and why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Easy Michael. Because of my security restrictions, I needed someone to get to Director Scott. I understand he has a soft spot, or maybe I should say a hard spot for young ladies. I do think Heather has all the necessary credentials to get in his knickers. Billy Rogers, another best friend, will be her backup. We need some evidence he’s involved in this conspiracy with Rhani. As long as he keeps rearranging shuttle missions, our country is at serious risk. Most everyone knows Scott goes trolling every Friday night at that big C&W place in Houston. What’s it called, the Triple-R-Bar? You know, it’s one of those huge dance bars with a mechanical bull.”

  Heather squealed like a little girl, “I’ve always wanted to go to that place. This Friday night I’ll be there looking for my sugar-daddy. With a little luck, I might even end up in his mansion. Can’t wait to meet his wife,” she chuckled.

  “From what I hear, she’s never there,” said Christina. She turned toward Michael. “If she can get access and slip him a mickie, we can get in there and look around, undetected.”

  “Uhh, Friday night you say? Hummm, that’s right, errrr, oh yeah, got to do my laundry that night,” Michael tried not to sound the coward by joking around. “You’re serious? We’re going to break into Director Scott’s mansion? Holy smokes!”

  Christina looked all around the bar and gave him a stern look. “Hold it down, loudmouth. Look Michael, we’ll get in and get out. He won’t know what hit him.”

  “And I thought being an astronaut would be exciting,” he said staring into her eyes.

  She batted her big eyelids as she reached up and brushed his hair to one side. Turning to Heather she said, “Isn’t he cute?”

  “Sure is honey. Nice butt too. So how long has this been going on?” Heather probed.

  “What?” Christina giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “You didn’t tell me you two were sleeping together,” Heather said a little too loudly.

  Michael could feel himself flush bright red. He only wished they were sleeping together.

  “Oh you!” Christina poked her on the arm. “We’re just friends, that’s all.”

  The wind dumped out of Michael’s sail. He hated that feeling of rejection. “We’re more than good friends, dammit. It’s just that Nancy Drew here wants to move slowly. So far my feelings for her remain unrequited. If we survive all this bullshit, I’d like to marry her.”

  Heather looked shocked. “Did you say marry?” She turned to Christina. “So what the hell are you waiting for, girl?” Heather rolled her eyes. She looked him up and down and said, “Besides, he looks good enough to eat.”

  Christina jumped in to change the subject. “Okay, Heather, here’s the deal. You’re going to be wearing a panic button in case you run into trouble. If you can get him home and put to sleep, we’ll be just outside the property. After you call and say, ‘Geronimo,’ give us three minutes and we’ll be at the front door. Billy’s going to be nearby the whole time, so if you need him, just scream and do what you can to get away. No telling what Scott might do if he gets suspicious.”

  “I do think I know how to handle a man, bi-atch,” Heather said in her sexy southern drawl. “As long as he’s straight, he doesn’t stand a chance. Just leave it to little ole me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Heather could feel the beat. It was Friday night and the Triple R Bar was rockin’. The Kilgore Cowgirls, one of the hottest CW bands around, had hundreds on the dance floor doing the Cotton Eyed Joe. Heather wasn’t much of a country music fan, but she took a small table near the front where she could see people paying the cover and ordered the house white. She tried not to draw attention, but hiding her in a room full of men was like trying to hide an elephant in a Volkswagen. She wore high-heeled boots, skintight denims and a low-cut blouse that left little to the imagination. Her blonde hair was done up western style in big cowgirl curls.

  The waitress came back with her wine and said, “The gentleman at the bar, the one in the black hat, would like to buy you a drink.”

  She hated drugstore cowboys, and from a distance the guy looked like he had just gotten off the plane from New York and went straight to Tony Lamas. What a fake, she thought. “Please tell the gentleman that I’m waiting for my husband. . .that’s my husband, Killer? He’s one of those cage-fighters.”

  “Gotcha.” The waitress wandered off to report the bad news.

  Heather hardly got a sip of her wine when another cowboy--this one looked real--came over and asked her to dance. He was real all right; he had cow dung on his boots. The boy looked like he needed a new pair of Levis. She told him the same story, but he was persistent.

  “But maaa’am, I surely wud like ta daince if yud do me tha honor.”

  “What do I have to do?” she shouted over the music. “Put up a sign? NOT AVAILABLE!”

  The bowlegged fellow looked dejected and sauntered away. Her cell phone went off, and it was Christina letting her know her mark was in the parking lot approaching the establishment. Scott came in, paid his cover and walked right toward her. She decided not to waste any time.

  “Hey big guy, don’t I know you?”

  He stopped in his tracks, eyes
lit up like a jack-o-lantern. “I certainly hope so. Mind if I join you?”

  “Well, I was waiting for my girlfriend, but she just called and said she isn’t coming. So I guess I could use some company. I swear I’ve met you before; your face is so familiar.”

  “Probably saw me on TV,” he said sitting up straight.

  “That’s it! You’re that weatherman aren’t you?” She made it up. “Knew I’d seen you.”

  “You’re pretty sharp,” he lied. “Yeah, I do the local weather on Channel 47. My name is. . .” he frowned as though he was a bit confused, “my name is Tom Foley.”