by Dean M. Cole
Up until the supporting airport closed in 2002, her dad had owned a small civilian flight school outside Monterey, California. Carmel Valley Vintage Airport, southeast of the city, had been her childhood stomping grounds. She'd been raised as much by her father's small cadre of flight instructors and aircraft mechanics as she had by her parents. While her mother's office-based secretarial job left no one home to watch Sandy, her father's self-directed schedule—coupled with the fact he owned the business—made his hangar a wonder-filled daycare. There, parallel rows of spark plugs became white stallions towing a silver coach in the form of a pitted cone-shaped chrome spinner from an ancient propeller. There, after a hot day of flight training, sweat-stained instructors dutifully sat at her too-small table, drinking tea and eating imaginary crumpets. And, also there, standing on her daddy's toes, she learned to waltz as Neil Diamond's Mr. Bojangles blared from an old car speaker that hung from a rusty nail.
As Sandy exited the highway and turned down a palm-tree lined Las Vegas street, more memories flowed past her mind's eye like an Instagram photo-strip. She always remembered those days with the oddly faded colors of a polaroid picture. Forever frozen in a mental snapshot, Sandy waved excitedly as her father cruised overhead in his Cessna. Its seventies-tastic paint scheme, white with a horizontal two-tone brown stripe running down the side of the fuselage, contrasted starkly against the polaroid-color-shifted blue sky.
Growing up, she'd spent many summers, holidays, and after-school hours in her father's hangar. He and a small collection of polyester-clad and mustachioed instructors trained a never-ending string of mullet-sporting students clad in acid washed jeans. As the years marched past, the eighties and its hair bands were ushered out by Kurt Cobain-loving, grunge clad, Gen-X pilot-wannabes. However, her father and his small cadre of instructors as well as the airplanes never changed their colors … or their style, for that matter.
With names like Tom, Chuck, Bob, and Jim, they had taught her everything she knew about civil aviation. Dad hadn't even left much for the Air Force to teach her. She still remembered laughing like the school girl she was when her father, trying to teach her how to do a strafing run on an unsuspecting herd, inadvertently chased old man Creech's cows through a wood fence.
She loved her mom dearly, but as with most mother-daughter relationships, they had often butted heads, especially in her teenage years.
Pressing a button on her phone brought her father's wise, loving, and wrinkled face to its screen. After only one ring, his cheerful voice filled the car's speakers. "Pumpkin!"
"Daddy!"
***
Stepping through the exit into the evening's humid air, Jake felt his uniform starting to cling to his body. For Washington D.C., it was unusually warm and muggy. He checked his watch, a quarter past seven left forty-five minutes until his meeting with Richard. In spite of the ever-present hustle and bustle, the terminal's passenger pickup area had a dark, lonely feel. The visible portion of the sky was rapidly approaching total nightfall. Harsh bronze light cascaded from noisy overhead fixtures, amplifying the uninviting atmosphere.
Behind Jake, the automatic doors kept opening and closing. A drunk curled up next to the exit tripped its sensor every time he raised a brown-bag-covered bottle nestled in his wizened hands.
Jake flinched as a harsh voice erupted from his right. "Jesus, Olaf! I told you, you can't sit there," an airport police officer said with apparent impatience. Walking toward the vagrant, he pointed at the brown bag. "And, what the hell is in that? If it ain't Perrier, we're going to have a problem."
Jake turned from the drunk's eastern European accented slurring response, returning his gaze to the cars lining the passenger pick-up zone. He noticed a man watching him from another dark Ford Crown Victoria, the same color, make, and model as the one that had followed them to the Las Vegas airport. When Jake's gaze lingered, the driver looked away too quickly.
"Son of a bitch," he swore under his breath. Walking to the head of the taxi line, he opened the waiting cab's rear door. The taxi driver was climbing out, but Jake held up his small suitcase. "Get in, this is my only bag."
Guilt-ridden, angry, and frustrated, Jake felt his blood pressure rising and his face reddening. Last year, he'd watched his best friend get blown out of the sky. Now, Victor was dead. The survivor's guilt was bad enough, but the military's obvious mistrust, evident in the ever-present tail, poured salt, pepper, and acid into a festering wound.
In the side-view mirror, he watched the stranger cast off his guise as a bored ride waiting for an arrival. Discarding the paper he'd feigned reading, the observer started his car as the cab driver dropped into his seat.
"Fuck this shit! I'm tired of these bastards."
Ignoring Jake's rant, the cabby asked, "Where'd ya wanna go, pal?"
"O'Hara's Bar and Grill," Jake growled.
"You got it, bud. That's about ten minutes past the Pentagon on the Three-Ninety-Five."
"OK," he said. Looking over his left shoulder, Jake glared at the sedan. Having been to Washington several times, both as a kid and as a military officer, he had a good feel for the lay of the land. Jake looked at the cab driver's eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. "Go north, first. Then head east, across the river."
"That ain't the right direction," the cabby said.
"Just do it."
"It's your nickel, pal."
As the cab pulled out, Jake watched the sedan in the side-view mirror. Just prior to disappearing behind a corner, he saw it edge away from the curb.
"Once you cross the river, find a place to double back. Then we'll head to O'Hara's. There's a twenty dollar tip in it for you if you can lose that Crown Vic," Jake said, hiking a thumb at the tail.
Spotting the sedan and looking nonplussed, the cabby studied Jake in the rearview mirror. "Look, pal, I don't want no trouble here."
Jake pulled a money clip out of his front pocket. Peeling off two twenties, he leaned forward. "Well, mister … uh," Jake paused, searching the framed driver's permit hanging on the cab's dash. "Mister Skolowski." He laid one of the twenties across the man's shoulder. "Here's twenty now." He held up the other so the driver would see it in the rearview mirror. "And, here's the twenty I'll give when you lose that asshole."
Skolowski grabbed the bill from his shoulder and pocketed it. "Now you're talkin' my language, pal."
"I thought so," Jake muttered. While the driver merged with interstate traffic, Jake checked their rear. He spotted the black Crown Vic about a hundred yards back, hovering behind a yellow 350Z, positioned so the driver could observe the cab yet still blend with the other commuters careening down the Interstate.
"So, why's dis guy following you?"
"Guess he wants to take a poll," Jake said sardonically.
Shaking his head, the cabby moved into the left lane.
Jake spotted the Potomac River bridge ahead. Off to the left, through gaps in the trees lining the highway, he glimpsed DC's night cityscape. Parks and monuments formed the only breaks in the ocean of lights.
As the cab crossed the bridge, Jake glimpsed the sedan indiscreetly following too closely.
Jake was thrown forward in his seat as the cabby braked hard. Their pursuer caught off guard, the gap between the two cars rapidly decreased. Skolowski cut across four lanes at a forty-five-degree angle barely making the exit on the far side of the river.
Impressed by the cabby's dedication to the cause, Jake looked back grinning. Too late to make the exit, the dark sedan careened across the highway. The off-ramp dropped below the level of the Interstate, cutting off Jake's line of sight.
Just as he was sure they'd lost it, the dark sedan shot into view. Leaping the curb, it careened down the side of the embankment.
"Jesus!" Skolowski exclaimed. He stomped on the accelerator. "What in the hell does dis guy want wit you?"
"Even if I could tell you, which I can't, you'd never believe me."
Directly behind them, the Crown Vic struck the bott
om of the embankment, sending up a spray of grass and mud. It bounced over the curb and onto the off-ramp, only two feet behind the cab's rear bumper.
"Son of a Bitch!" screamed the cabby, swerving hard right and shooting down a side road. "Dis is your lucky day, pal. I grew up in dis neighborhood."
Jake viewed the neighborhood wondering where his supposed luck would find him. Abandoned cars, sans wheels and windows, lined both sides of the road. A lone streetlight illuminated the path ahead. Jake caught a brief glimpse of three teenagers kicking a fourth on the ground.
Several consecutive quick turns put some distance between them and their pursuer. Rounding another corner at high speed, the cabby turned off the car's headlights.
Jake tensed. Their speed didn't reduce with the visibility.
Without warning, the cabby spun the wheel hard right, firing the cab into a dark very narrow alley, one Jake would have laid odds couldn't accommodate a subcompact, much less a four-door sedan.
Still, Skolowski refused to slow.
"Had lots of practice losing the cops in dis neighborhood."
Jake gazed through the rear window, watching for the Crown Vic. The wall across from the alley's opening glowed with the lights of the approaching chase car. Long shadows rapidly shortened as the unseen car closed. In a flash of white headlights and red taillights, the car sped past, the glow's quick fade signaling their success.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Jake said, handing the cabby the other twenty.
Skolowski made a turn out of the alley. One turn later, lights on, they were back underway. For a moment, they traveled along the river. The interstate came into view. Skolowski said, "O'Hara's it is."
***
Jake checked his watch, eight o'clock. He handed the cabby two more twenties. "Here you go Skolowski, keep the change. I appreciate your help."
"No problem, pal."
Jake stepped out and closed the door. The cab pulled away. He walked up to the tavern's rustic wood door. Pulling it open, he stepped into the dark interior. Searching for Richard, he spotted a raised hand in the back. Returning the wave, Jake scanned the tavern for more stalkers. An old couple was seated at the brass trimmed oak bar. They were watching the overhead television. Otherwise, the place was empty.
As Jake approached, Richard stood, extending a hand. "You look like you're expecting someone to jump you."
Jake relaxed a bit, smiling at his old wingman. "Today, they'll have to take a number."
Richard gave him an appraising look. After a moment, he nodded. "It's good to see you." Without addressing Jake's comment, he sat and gestured to the opposite chair. "Sit down, buddy."
As Jake sat, Richard grabbed the pitcher and filled a half-thawed frosty mug sitting on a damp pressed-paper coaster. Jake picked up the mug and tilted it toward Richard. "It's good to see you too." After studying the beer for a moment, he set it down. "Listen, Richard, sorry if I'm being too short or direct, but what the hell is going on?"
Richard gave him another appraising look. When Jake opened his mouth to say more, Richard held up a hand. "First, I need to hear your version of what happened yesterday morning."
Confused, Jake leaned back in his chair. "My version? Who else's could there be?"
Richard looked at him for a long moment. "I can't say much." He paused again, then nodded. "This is sensitive shit. I went out on a limb for you yesterday morning."
Remembering the interrogator's words, Jake leaned forward. "You're my friend in high places?"
Richard nodded. "But, before I climb farther out on that limb, I have to know how it all happened, the timing, the location, everything."
After a moment, Jake nodded. Leaning back, he took a draw from his mug. In hushed tones, he related the story. He started with the encounter over Nellis and its effect on Victor's aircraft and ended with the arrest and subsequent interrogation.
When Jake finished, Richard nodded and sat back.
"You don't seem surprised by any of this."
Richard shrugged. "I'm not."
"And?" Jake looked at him with raised eyebrows. "What do you have for me?"
"I can't really tell you anything tonight."
"Damn it, Richard, this is bullshit."
"I think someone already told you this isn't bullshit."
Jake froze, mouth hanging open. He hadn't mentioned the security police sergeant's words.
"Listen, Jake. What you told me matches what we already thought."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "Who's we?"
Richard only shook his head.
"What about Lieutenant Croft?" Jake said. "A good man is dead, and everyone is acting like it didn't happen."
"I promise you, no one has forgotten Victor. Your story checks out. So, by noon tomorrow, things'll be much clearer."
"But—"
As if swearing an oath, Richard raised his right hand. "We didn't bring you all the way here just for steak and beer. Tomorrow friend, tomorrow."
"We?"
"Let's just say, you've stumbled into something bigger than you can imagine. Until you've been fully vetted, you'll be watched and followed."
"Well, that explains that," he said with a chuckle. Grabbing the pitcher of beer, Jake filled their mugs.
"Huh?"
After setting down the empty jug, Jake tipped his mug in a toast. "Guess it's safe to say you'll be hearing from a pissed off agent."
Jake told him about the exciting taxi trip.
Richard laughed. "I can't believe it cost you forty dollars."
"It didn't cost me a thing. I'll be giving you the expense report."
"Yeah, good luck collecting on that one."
"So, what else can you tell me?" Jake asked.
"Like I said, tomorrow."
Jake stared back at him. After a few moments, he lifted both hands. "Okay, I surrender."
CHAPTER FOUR
Captain Jake Giard woke with a start and a feeling of joy. Blinking the sleep from his eyes and looking around the room, he squinted against the glare of a lone sliver of light knifing through the dark air. As he studied the dust motes drifting through the streetlight's phosphorescent casting, Jake felt the elation fade with the dream that birthed it.
Remembering where he was, he slid to the edge of the bed adjacent to the window. No longer blinded by the streetlight's laser-like beam, he looked around the dark musty room. Slowly, it drifted into focus. To Jake's right, an ancient digital clock radio sat atop a bedside table. With an audible click, its dimly lit black metal tabs with white numerals flipped over to reveal 06:00.
With a grunt, Jake sat up. Reaching over, he turned on a small lamp standing next to the clock. He flinched as its harsh rays burned into his sleep-addled brain. As Jake tried to rub the pain from his eyes, the events of the previous night washed across his thoughts, the latter parts a bit fuzzy—they'd shared more than one pitcher of beer.
Light banished the last of the dream. The fog of sleep evaporated, taking the elation with it. While he couldn't remember the details of the dream, he vaguely recalled speaking with Victor. It was a nice notion. However now, sitting in the beam of harsh streetlight falling through the parted curtains, he needed to deal with reality: his wingman was still dead.
"Fuck," Jake croaked through his parched throat.
Flinging the covers back, he stepped from the bed and walked to the window. Sliding the curtains open, Jake studied the few predawn stars that managed to burn through the city's light-pollution. "What happened to you, Vic?"
***
"Please sign in here, sir, and have a—"
Walking quickly, Richard swept into the office. "That won't be necessary. He won't need to sign in. As a matter of fact, he isn't here at all." Gesturing to Jake, he added, "Come with me, Captain Giard."
"Who won't need to sign in, sir? I don't see anyone," said the young army private through a conspiratorial smile.
"Thank you, Betty. Please forward my calls to voicemail." He hiked a thumb at Jake. "The i
nvisible man and I will be out for the rest of the morning."
"Yes, sir," she replied.
Playfully grabbing Jake by the back of the neck, he pushed him toward the door and back into the Pentagon's labyrinth of hallways. Walking down the long sterile corridor, he looked at Jake with an exaggerated grimace. "You look like shit. How's your head this morning?"
Jake grinned. "My head's not too bad, but when I woke up, my liver was on the pillow next to me, crying." Actually, in the two hours since waking, the combined effect of coffee and aspirin, coupled with a surprisingly peaceful cab ride had left Jake feeling much better, physically. "But, enough about me. What's the plan?"
"Patience, grasshopper."
Rounding a corner, they stepped into a dead-end hallway. At the far end stood a very serious looking guard next to a table and an elevator door. Jake didn't see a call button. However, a keypad and some kind of lens sat above its expected location.
As they approached, the Guard nodded to each of them in turn. "Good morning, Captain Allison, Captain Giard."
Jake blinked his surprise at the guard's foreknowledge of his name, his gaze snapping from the apparent camera lens back to the sergeant.
"Good Morning Doug," Richard said as his fingers danced across the keypad. Bending slightly, he looked into the lens. Jake heard a beep and saw a green light illuminate on the keypad's small screen.
"Good morning, Captain Allison," a computer rendered male voice said.
"Good morning, Hal," Richard said, looking at Jake with a crooked grin. Gesturing, he said, "Step over here and look into the lens."
He complied. As soon as Jake looked into the glass eye, a red glow filled his vision, followed by the same beep and computer generated voice. "Good morning, Captain Giard."
Jake looked at Richard. "How does it know me?"
"Don't ask, I could tell you, but I would have to kill you," Richard said with mock seriousness.