Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

by Ward, Steve

  “I’m with ya, honey, hang in there,” an obvious breach of protocol.

  “You got it, Christina, hang on, you can do it,” Udahl screwed up too. Protocol be damned.

  “ETA four minutes. We’re under the sound barrier at 60,000 feet.” The strain in her voice eased a bit. “We’re smoothing out some.”

  “Yeah we heard it, sonic boom. Right on target girl. Screw the computer, do it your way.”

  “Ninety seconds, 12,000 feet dropping like a stone, but on the beam.”

  “Roger, Commander. Lift your nose 3 degrees. You’re a little low.”

  “Got it. Thirty seconds, 1,800 feet, flaring the nose, gear down, three green, 300 knots. . .220, nose up, wheels down, parachute deployed. . .Holy mother of God, we’re home!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The planet Christina returned to would never be the same. President Gleason made sure the entire world knew exactly what had happened. Top Secret intelligence, mission video and radar imagery was released to the delight of the press but to the chagrin of military advisers. The result was dramatic. In a matter of hours every civilized nation turned against Iran and Russia with cries of condemnation. An angry mob corralled the higher ups in the Iranian government, dragged them into the central mall in Tehran and beheaded them on camera. Many didn’t even know what the attack was about. All they knew was their sports center in Sari had been destroyed along with the lives of a few hundred technicians. The real culprits, the President of Iran and a handful of terrorists were nowhere to be found.

  A pro-American Coup d’etat took control of the Iranian government with the help of the CIA and issued a public apology. The new regime made it good by inviting U.S. inspectors to take part in the total dismantling of Iran’s nuclear weapon capability. Without a market for their oil, Iran would have died a slow death. Never again, they claimed, would the Republic be an aggressive nation. An appeal went to the U.N. to lift the embargoes. The new leaders had no choice, they were willing to sign any agreement that would get the oil flowing again. They even offered the Americans a large embassy in Tehran, the one that had been built for the Russians. Diplomatic ties to Russia were slashed.

  The Russians were a different story. President Bolotov neither apologized nor admitted the ICBMs had ever been launched. But Gleason had a plethora of data and imagery at his disposal and put it in front of a worldwide jury. Bolotov still wouldn’t confess. He claimed the attack was the work of a few lunatic Communists, not the policy of the Soviet government. To keep the Chinese pacified, Gleason called an emergency meeting of the United Nations. Videos from New Hope, satellite imagery and radar telemetry showed Hong Kong and Beijing as the intended targets. The Security Council was briefed privately. The UN voted unanimously, not only to sanction Russia, but to boot the world menace out of the peace keeping body altogether. The veto of the Russian ambassador was simply ignored. Russian ambassadors were rounded up and escorted to New York’s LaGuardia airport for a one-way flight home.

  Gleason also sought to rescue NASA. He released the human interest story of astronaut, Christina Matthews, how she had been tortured by terrorists, how she commanded a mission in space to fight a nuclear war, and how her own robotic technology had decimated two Russian ICBMs. It was great PR and, suddenly, Congress seemed more willing to fund NASA programs. Military funding was initiated for a new Star Wars DROID fleet which NASA would launch for defense.

  The terrorist cell responsible for her capture was rounded up and imprisoned at a secret location. For the first time in a long while, she was not only free and safe, but she was heralded as a national hero. She and Michael were hustled up to New York by Vice President Tom Bolten to keep the PR wheels turning. There was an old fashioned ticker tape parade, similar to the ones for the original astronauts like Alan Sheperd and John Glen some fifty years prior. The country hadn’t seen such an icon in decades, and Christina was swamped by press. Suffering her own demons of mental anguish along with pure exhaustion, she tried her best to take it all in stride. She realized it was a historic moment for the United States, and the country needed its heroes. Or would that be heroines? She put up a good front, but her insides were churning with nightmares, panic attacks, insomnia, depression and tinnitus. The truth was, she was barely able to function. Her capture by al Quida had taken its toll. Only Michael knew of her mental state, and he stood by her on both good days and bad.

  Bolten wound up their PR tour at the White House where she was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor in the first space war ever fought by the United States. Gleason stood behind a bevy of microphones with a speech to inspire the nation. It was a bold challenge.

  “Within the next ten years we will put a human being on Mars. It will be expensive, but history teaches that the technology from NASA fueled virtually all our advancements in computers, materials, microelectronics and defensive weapons. All those technologies that have made our nation great have now successfully defended against our enemies. If we are to maintain our destiny as a world power, it is imperative that we reach for the stars and continue to explore the outer reaches of space. I challenge every American to get behind your congressman and pass the legislation necessary to achieve this noble cause. With your help, America will fly to Mars.”

  Christina sat there dumbfounded. She had no idea he was going to make such an announcement. Exactly what this country needs, she thought. The Mars mission had been her dream since childhood. As the news began to settle, Gleason dropped another bomb.

  “I’m also announcing today, that because of her service to the country and her lifelong dream, Miss Christian Matthews will be trained over the next six years to Command the first mission to Mars. She will be the first human being, an American female, to step on the surface of that red planet.”

  Hooraah! Cheers rang out to a roaring crescendo.

  She almost fell out of her chair. What? All she could do was smile and wave as the crowd sounded its approval. It was unexpected, and her tattered mind didn’t quite know how to react. Guess they forgot to ask me, she mumbled.

  “Holy shit, Christina!” Michael couldn’t help himself as he put his arm around her. “Maybe you should bend over and show ‘em your tattoo.”

  By all appearances it seemed her life had been charmed, one achievement after another fell into place like a long string of dominoes. After setting her goal as a teenager to be the first person on Mars, destiny seemed to take control. On the other hand, her teenage mind didn’t have a clue about the physics of the matter. Now that she understood the astronomy and the sacrifices necessary for such space travel, she knew it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Best case, a Mars mission meant 9 months there and 20 months back, all within the confines of a vehicle no bigger than an SUV. Panic gripped her throat as a flash of claustrophobia made her shiver. Dark demons of mental anguish battled the elation of opportunity. It was a great courtroom clash within the head of the young, ambitious astronaut, and the jury never returned a verdict.

  * * *

  Deep in the jungles of Somalia, in a highly fortified, underground bunker, the Jihad leaders were on their knees for afternoon prayers. When they were done, they sat in a great circle of warriors. Vatamir Golastiv stood off to one side deep in thought. Those “flies in the ointment” he had warned al-Bolani about had turned into “chickens come to roost.” The news was horrifying. Billions of dollars in nuclear assets laid waste along with ground control systems and hundreds of support personnel. It was a huge setback for both Islam and Communism, and it would take decades to recover. The reports that a new government had taken control in Iran were disturbing, and he also heard that Russia was roiled in protests. Further, it was not at all clear he was safe to return. What will I do? he mused.

  Muztata al-Bolani walked in the room and stood in front of the group with the eyes of a wild man. After seeing the reports, it was clear their technology would never equal that of the United States, and his ultimate Jihad had been reduced to a fumbling, bu
mbling joke. It was a humiliation impossible to fathom. He spoke in a mournful tone.

  “My brothers, I hope you have been faithful to Allah in your prayers. We have failed both our Prophet and our people in the worst way. Good intentions, but our efforts fell short of our Lord’s expectation, and it is a sad day for Islam. Allah only knows why we have been sent down this path of destruction. We must stick together to serve Him and lay vengeance upon those who compromised our mission. I want all of you including the Russian to come stand beside me in a gesture of loyalty.”

  Golastiv winced. It was an odd request, and there was a rumbling of confusion, but every man stood up like preprogrammed robots and moved slowly forward. He grumbled, “What for?” Nervous at what the Muslims might do, he knew better than to cross a room full of trained killers. These animals would slash my throat just to watch me die. He moved forward also.

  As the men grouped together Al-Bolani opened his long, white tunic extending his arms in a gesture of crucifixion, like Jesus Christ on the cross. It was a dramatic moment, and each man voiced applause for the awesome image of martyrdom. Eyes glaring like a lunatic, al-Bolani’s entire body was covered with explosives, enough to take down a large building. The men looked at him jabbering in stupefaction, but no one moved. They were either frozen with fear or under the impression the show was symbolic. Al Bolani raised his right hand to show every man the red wire leading to his folded palm.

  Golastiv choked with a surge of panic.

  “One of us here has betrayed Islam by leaking intelligence. There is only one way to pay our debt and recover our place in paradise!” al-Bolani screamed like a madman. “Praise be to Allah!”

  “Praise. . .” they were cut off.

  Golastiv shoved away from the pack and ran for the door, but it was too late. Al-Bolani’s thumb came down and a sudden flash turned seventeen Islamic warriors and one slightly overweight Russian into a burning cloud of carbon.

  Suddenly, the world was a better place.

  * * *

  Christina and her friends strolled at their leisure through Houston International airport about to depart for the islands. About time for some R&R, she thought. It had been and incredible two weeks, and she was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than a few days on the beach. Heather and Billy had walked down the hall looking for something to read when Christina got a call on her cell. She eyeballed her phone but didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, Christina Matthews?”

  “Yep, that’s me. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Sophia Lawrence at Boeing.”

  No! The word, Boeing, ran a chill right through her spine. Oh God no! Her heart raced and breathing came in short gasps. For some fifteen years she had feared a call from Boeing, a thing of nightmares. There was only one reason for such a call, the grim reaper come to collect her dad.

  “Miss, Mathews, I’m afraid. . .”

  “Don’t say it!” Time froze while her mind began to shut down. It was like the lonely Army wife in World War II when a big, black limo pulled up in front of the house. She didn’t want to hear the words, but there was nowhere to run.

  “I’m afraid your father’s been in an accident flying the DX-1 prototype.”

  Christina had always dreaded this moment. Whenever she was having a great time or on an emotional high, she would think of her dad and his risky profession. Elation would leave her like the air out of a popped balloon. She was well aware of the dangers he faced every single day as a test pilot. But now the call had come, and it took her breath away. She was unable to speak.

  “Miss Matthews. . .Miss Matthews are you there?”

  “Unnngh. . .is he. . .is he alive?”

  “Yes, but he’s in critical condition at the burn unit at Northeast Hospital in Seattle. You’d better get here soon. He may only make it a couple of days.”

  “Oh God!” she dropped the phone. She turned to Michael with tears running down her cheeks. She pulled away and sobbed into her hands.

  Michael’s eyes widened in fear wrapping his arms around her. “Christina, what is it, hon?” He picked the phone up off the floor.

  “My dad. . .accident. . .gotta get to Seattle. . .now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dying. . .cracked up the DX-1,” she whimpered.

  She had had enough trouble trying to recover from all the stress since her captivity. The timing was horrible. She grabbed Michael around the neck and bawled. Through a flood of tears she saw Heather and Billy coming down the hall, both laughing with hilarity. When they saw her, they went silent and rushed to her side.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Michael said, “we’ll get there tonight.” He turned to their friends, “Her dad was in an accident. We have to get to Seattle right away. You two go on ahead.”

  “Christina, I’m sooo sorry.” Heather knew her father well. “What shape is he in?”

  Christina tried to compose herself. “Badly burned, only expected to live a couple of days.”

  “Oh God nooo, my dear.” Heather threw her arms around her. “What can we do?”

  “Not a thing,” she answered, sniffing back a runny nose. “I want you two to go down there and have a good time. Have a couple of Mai Tais for me too, will you?”

  Michael jumped in, “Christina, sit here with Heather. I’m going to the desk and get our tickets changed.”

  It was late that night when they finally arrived in Seattle. They grabbed a cab and went directly to the hospital. It looked like every other hospital in America, white on the outside and grey inside. Christina hated hospitals and the putrid smells of alcohol, Lysol and antiseptic. Or was it, more correctly, the smell of suffering and death? When she got to her dad’s private room, she found a nurse sitting by his side, holding his hand. His body was covered with a tent, his face darkened. Eyes closed, he looked peaceful enough.

  God, don’t let him suffer, she prayed. “I’m his daughter. This is my friend, Michael. Can I talk to him?”

  “Hello, I’m Dianna, you must be Christina. He’s been asking for you. Drifting in and out, several shots of morphine. Be careful not to touch; his skin is covered in a special gauze. Mr. Matthews! Mr. Matthews can you wake up now? Your daughter’s here.”

  Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews slowly parted swollen eyelids and turned his head in her direction. Eyelashes fluttered and then opened slightly. “Christina? Christina?” It looked like he was trying to focus, but his eyes were dilated.

  “It’s me, Dad; I’m right here.”

  “Finally. . .” he coughed, as if trying to clear his throat. The smallest movement made him wince in pain. “Arrrgh.”

  “Don’t say anything, Dad, don’t move. I’ll just sit here.” She took his hand from the nurse.

  He struggled with a whisper speaking only a few words between breaths. “Yup. . .looks like. . . I bought the farm. . .this time. Wing came off. . .at high G. . .flat spin. . .caught fire, ‘chute hung. Too long. . .to get out.”

  She started crying, and Michael put his arm around her.

  He spoke again, “So is this. . .the guy? What’s. . .your name?”

  “Michael, sir.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes sir,” he replied. “Michael Jacobs. Honored to finally make your acquaintance. I’m very much in love with your daughter, sir. Wish it could be better circumstances.”

  “Dad,” Christina said, “we were on our way to the islands when we heard. Don’t give up. I just know you’re gonna make it.”

  “You shudda. . .kept going.” He nodded off.

  “Dad?”

  He forced his eyelids open. “Want ya ta know. . .how much I love you. . .how proud I am. Wish your mom. . .cudda seen that parade.” His eyes closed, and he went very still.

  “Hang on! Dad! Don’t give up!” She grabbed his face and shook it side to side.

  He opened his eyes again and looked at Michael. “Take care of her. . .buddy boy. Thinks she’s invincible. .
.but she’s not. No different. . .than any other woman. Needs a good, strong man.”

  “Yes sir, I will. You got my word.”

  His eyes shifted back to Christina, and he spoke softly, “Don’t wanna be cremated. . .put me in a box. . .pine. . .next to your mom. . .at Edwards. I can listen. . .to the planes go over.”