Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

  “You going to make him wear your coat?” said Danny.

  Nuri went back to the laptop they were using as a video screen and called up an image showing Tarid’s clothes. He wore a jacket that featured large buttons. Nuri zeroed in on one and magnified it.

  “You see anything unusual about these buttons?” he asked Hera.

  “No. They’re black. They have four holes.”

  “Right. Do we have anything like them?”

  Though the button was a simple, basic design, it didn’t match anything anyone was wearing.

  Hera waited until no one else said anything.

  “We can get one from the bazaar in the morning,” she suggested. “The stalls for women, the practical ones, will be open very early, right after morning prayers.”

  “How do you get the bug into the button?” asked Danny.

  “Look how thin this is,” said Nuri, showing it to him. “It sits on the other side, like a holder — you see? The computer figures out how to focus through the holes in the material and the plastic.”

  “I think it could work,” said Hera. “But how do we get his jacket?”

  “That’s easy,” said Nuri. “The problem is getting the button on real fast. How well do you sew?”

  “Terribly.”

  “I can sew,” said Danny. “What did you have in mind?”

  48

  Washington suburbs

  Greasy Hands Parsons was about to grab himself a beer when the phone rang. He debated whether to answer it. Generally, the only people who called at this hour were trying to sell something he didn’t want. But he was one of those people who could never stand to let a phone go unanswered, and so he detoured from the refrigerator to the phone.

  “Parsons,” he said, his answer conditioned by years in the military.

  “Greasy Hands — I wonder if you’d like to start work a few days early,” said Breanna Stockard.

  “Hey, boss. Sure. When?”

  “Tonight. We have a C-17 coming into Andrews that has to go right out. I was wondering if you could take a look at it.”

  “I’m sure those boys will do a fine job for you, Bree.” The Air Force base’s many assignments including caring for Air Force One, and the crews there were second to none, including Dreamland. “But I’d be happy to shoot over for you—”

  “Good,” said Breanna. “And just out of curiosity…what are you doing for the next few days? Anything pressing?”

  “Pressing?”

  “Could you take a trip?”

  Greasy Hands mentally reviewed his commitments over the next few days: He had to do laundry, he ought to overhaul the lawn mower, and sooner or later he was going to have to get his car inspected.

  And then there was the dentist and the dreaded biannual teeth cleaning.

  “Slate is totally free,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  “Let’s just say you won’t need your thermal underwear.”

  “I’ll be there inside an hour.”

  * * *

  Breanna was confused when she pulled into the driveway and saw that none of the lights were on inside her house. Then she remembered Teri’s recital.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “Oh God,” she said, slamming the wheel. Her hand hit the horn by mistake. The sharp blast echoed around the quiet suburban street, jolting a pair of robins that were nesting in the tree in the front yard, as well as the neighbor’s cat.

  She leapt out of the car, jogging inside to get her things. Maybe, she thought, there would be time to stop by the school and hear her daughter play for a few minutes. But a glance at the clock in the kitchen told her that was a pipe dream; she was already running late.

  There was a note for her on the kitchen table. Hey? was all it said.

  “I know, I know,” she muttered, running to the bedroom. She grabbed her overnight bag from the closet, threw a change of clothes inside, then stepped into the bathroom for her toothbrush. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror — it was the face of a woman she only vaguely recognized: a harried, overtired soccer mom.

  Not a combat pilot.

  Breanna slid some toothpaste, an extra bar of soap, and some toilet paper — you could never be too sure — into her bag. Then she went down the hall to Zen’s office, grabbed a pad from his desk, and went into Teri’s room to write her daughter a note.

  “‘Honey,’” she started, speaking aloud as she wrote, “‘something came up—’”

  Oh crap, that sounds terrible, Breanna thought, wadding the paper up.

  Ter — I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I’m flying to Africa. Someone died and I’m responsible—

  Garbage. And she shouldn’t write Africa. It would sound too dangerous.

  She ripped that note up, too.

  Honey, I love you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. I’ll explain when I get home in a few days.

  That wasn’t much better than the others, but she decided it would have to do. She left it on Teri’s bed and ran back outside, nearly forgetting her keys in the house.

  She was about ten minutes from the airport when Zen called her on the cell phone.

  “Hey, there, Mrs. Stockard, should we save this front row seat for you or what?”

  “Zen — God. I can’t — I’m flying to Ethiopia.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story. I can’t explain right now — it’s classified.”

  “Bree, you better explain a little.”

  “We have a problem in Sudan. It’s under control, but one of our people died. I have to make sure his body gets back. And I have to get the people he was with out.”

  “But why are you going?”

  “Because if I don’t, they won’t be picked up for another day. And they have to get out now.”

  Zen said nothing for a moment.

  Breanna knew she hadn’t really answered the question: Why was she going?

  For a moment she felt foolish, realizing she had acted impulsively. Her job wasn’t to fly airplanes, and she wasn’t the twenty-something woman with something to prove.

  But she had to go.

  “You still there?” asked Zen.

  “Yes, Senator.”

  “Hey, listen, we’ll cope. I know you gotta do what you gotta do,” he added. “I just want to be able to tell Teri something.”

  There was a sound in the background: muffled music.

  “They’re starting up inside. I oughta get going,” Zen said.

  “Bring me in with you,” said Breanna.

  “Huh?”

  “Bring the cell phone in and let me listen.”

  “Good idea.”

  By any objective standard, the music was absolutely…trying.

  Naturally, the parents who filled the auditorium thought it was incredibly wonderful. So did Breanna, who took her hands off the wheel and applauded when it was done.

  “Thank you,” she told Zen. “Tell her I thought she did great, and I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  “All right, Bree. Listen, babe — you take damn good care of yourself, all right? I don’t want to be chairing a Senate inquiry over this.”

  “Don’t worry, Senator. I intend to.”

  * * *

  Breanna wanted Greasy Hands along on the flight because there would be no air force crew in Ethiopia; in case something went wrong, she needed someone who could get the plane back together in one piece.

  “You have an awful lot of faith in me,” said Greasy Hands, looking over the MC-17. As he had suspected, the maintainers at Andrews needed absolutely no encouragement from him, let alone help. But then again, the chief master sergeant they reported to had trained under him a few years back. “I haven’t worked on an MC-17 since Dreamland.”

  “Have they changed since then?”

  Greasy Hands laughed. “Not all that much.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “With my eyes closed,” said Greasy Hands.

  After
walking around the aircraft with Breanna and the pilot, Greasy Hands went inside and looked over the Ospreys. Ostensibly, he was making sure they were secured properly. In reality, he was indulging himself in a little bit of Dreamland nostalgia.

  The MV-22/G Ospreys were upgraded versions of the tilt-rotor aircraft used for heavy transport by the Marines and some Air Force units. The M designation alluded to the fact that these Ospreys were designed for special operations and, among other things, included gear for night missions, extra fuel tanks, and armor plating. The aircraft were also outfitted with cannon; missiles and a chain gun could also be mounted on the undercarriage or the forward winglets, which were specific to the G version. Besides these goodies, the G Block models included uprated engines and provisions for autonomous piloting, another Dreamland innovation that allowed them to be flown by only one pilot or, if the situation warranted, completely by remote control. Finally, they were designed specifically for easy transport in the MC-17/DS “Stretch.”

  The transport’s nickname alluded to the most obvious of its improvements over the standard airframe — namely, its fuselage had been lengthened to nearly double the cargo bay, bringing it to 140 feet. Its portly belly was also another two feet wider. The changes had been designed specifically to allow the transport to carry two Ospreys or an Osprey and two Werewolf II UAV gunships, along with crew and a combat team. With everyone aboard, the fit could be a bit cozy, but the configuration allowed the U.S. to project considerable power into hot spots with very little notice.

  Greasy Hands had worked on the Osprey project for several years, before the arrival of Colonel Bastian and Dreamland’s renaissance. The aircraft and its tilt wings were the bastard children at the facility then, a project no one wanted. Everyone agreed the Osprey had incredible potential; they could land where standard helicopters could, but fly twice as fast and several times as far. Reaching that potential, though, seemed impossible. The planes were expensive, difficult to fly, and an adventure to maintain.

  When several were detailed to Dreamland as part of a Defense Department program to help the Osprey “reach its full potential,” Greasy Hands was assigned to the team. He’d tried to duck it at first but within a few weeks was the aircraft’s biggest fanboy. He was responsible for suggesting that weapons be added, and even worked with the engineers on some of the mechanical systems. Then he’d helped Jennifer Gleason refine the computer routines that allowed the complicated aircraft to fly itself, an accomplishment that cinched his promotion to chief.

  He thought about Jennifer as he looked at the aircraft. He hadn’t been as close to her as some of the people at Dreamland, but the memory of her still choked him up. He finished looking at the Ospreys, then went back upstairs to the flight deck.

  Breanna and the pilot, Captain Luther Underhill, had just finished the preflight checklist.

  “Have a seat, Chief,” said Breanna. “We’re about to take off.”

  As he walked toward the seat behind the pilot, Greasy Hands’s attention was caught by the zero-gravity coffeemaker in the small galley. It looked suspiciously like the design they had pioneered at Dreamland some twenty years before.

  “Mind if I grab a cup of joe?” he asked the crew chief, Gordon Heinz.

  “It’s there for the taking.”

  Greasy Hands found a cup in the cabinet next to the machine and poured himself a dose.

  “Just like old times again, huh, Bree?” he said as he slid into the seat. “Even the coffee’s the same.”

  49

  Tehran

  As Tarid had feared, he did not sleep at all after the call from Aberhadji. He tossed and turned, then finally gave up all pretense of resting several hours before morning prayer.

  With the meeting set for 1:00 P.M., he knew he had a long, torturous wait. Karaj was located a little over a half hour outside of Tehran, and it would be senseless to get there too early. He needed something to do.

  Had it not been for Aberhadji’s tone, he might have spent the time in the lobby, where the wait would have been quite enjoyable. Simin was working in the office, but her father, not used to the late night, had slept in. Aberhadji’s stern voice lingered in his ears. Clearly, his boss had spies in the capital. Perhaps the hotel owner was one of them — it would not have surprised Tarid at this point — and so he had to be on his best behavior.

  “I am going across for some breakfast,” he told the girl. “If anyone is looking for me.”

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No one in particular.”

  * * *

  Danny lingered in the aisle of the bazaar, watching as Hera looked through the basket of buttons in the nearby stall. The bazaar was the Middle Eastern equivalent of an American shopping mall, covered and divided into dozens of alleys, each lined with shops. Most weren’t open yet, but as Hera had predicted, a good number that catered to household necessities were.

  She looked at the black buttons, turning each over before tossing it back into the basket. Just pick one, he wanted to shout, we’re running out of time. But Hera kept looking, trying for a perfect match to Tarid’s jacket.

  She selected a half dozen, all very similar, all subtly different. She turned and looked at the material, ignoring Danny’s exasperated glances, before showing the buttons to the woman who ran the stall.

  “Is that your husband?” asked the woman.

  “No,” said Hera. “Just a friend.”

  “Hmmmph,” said the woman.

  Hera wasn’t sure whether she disapproved because they weren’t married or whether the fact that he was black bothered her. There weren’t many black faces in Tehran.

  The woman told her the price. Hera opened her mouth to object — generally, it would be considered odd for a native not to at least attempt to haggle — but the woman told her there would be no negotiating. She frowned, then took out a note large enough to pay for half the entire basket.

  The vendor rolled her eyes.

  “I can’t change this,” she said. “Something smaller.”

  Hera turned to Danny and told him, in Farsi, that she needed change.

  The Voice translated. Danny dug into his pocket and handed over a few coins. The woman who owned the booth gave him a smirk. Hera counted out the money, then waited while the woman found a small paper bag for the buttons.

  “Come on, come on,” hissed Danny under his breath. He started walking for the exit.

  “We’re supposed to be shopping,” said Hera, catching up. “Relax.”

  “The hell with that. Tarid just went to breakfast.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What was I supposed to do, use ESP?”

  “Everyone on the team should be hooked into the Voice,” said Hera. “It would make things much more coordinated.”

  “They don’t have enough units.”

  Hera thought that was bull — in her opinion, Reid and Stockard simply didn’t trust everyone — but kept her mouth shut.

  As they neared the exit, Danny spotted a stall selling tools. Among the items on display was an engraving tool. He veered toward it, looked at the box, then discovered a small Roto-Zip knockoff nearby that came with some grinding tips. He took it and a clamp he could use as a small vise, gave them to the merchant, then reached for his wallet and the two million rial the tags indicated.

  “Hold on,” said Hera in Farsi just as the shop owner was about to grab for the money. “How much are you paying?”

  “Uh—”

  “A hundred thousand rial,” Hera told the owner.

  It was a ridiculously low price, and the man made a face. He looked at Danny, wondering who wore the pants in the family. Then he started to put the items back where Danny had gotten them.

  Danny gestured at Hera.

  “Two hundred thousand,” she said.

  The man ignored her.

  “Two fifty,” she said.

  Again the shopkeeper ignored her, contenting himself with straightening the display. She co
uld have offered a billion rial and he would not have accepted the deal.

  Danny didn’t want to arouse any more suspicions by speaking English. Angry at Hera, he turned and started away.

  “A million and a half rial. It is a very fair price,” said the shop owner behind him.

  Danny turned around and took out his wallet, glaring at Hera to keep her quiet. As far as the shop owner was concerned, the price was more than fair, given the merchandise. He felt the discount was well worth it to teach the overbearing wife a lesson. It was no surprise that she was wearing a colorful scarf, and a shirt that seemed far too modern.

  “Let that be a lesson,” the man told Danny. “You don’t need a shrew to run your life.”

  “Thank you,” managed Danny.

  “Screw him,” said Hera as they walked outside.

  “Why did you do that?” he said. “We have a time limit here.”

  “I had to stay in cover.”

  “Get some common sense, damn it. We’re running late.”

  “What if someone gets suspicious and follows us?”

  “Just use common sense.”

  Danny pushed one of the earphones into his ear and heard Nuri say that Tarid was now taking a table.

  “We’re on our way,” Danny told him, starting to run.

  * * *

  Nuri originally wanted to steal a waiter’s uniform for Flash, but the waiters at the small restaurants worked in regular street clothes. And then Tarid made the job even harder by wearing his jacket to the table rather than hanging it up near the door.

  “Wait outside,” Nuri told Flash. “When Danny comes, go and rent the car.”

  “And back you up if something goes wrong, right?”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

  Flash shrugged. In his experience, Murphy’s Law accompanied every operation. He walked down to the end of the block, looking for Danny and Hera.

  Nuri, meanwhile, went inside, hoping for a table next to Tarid — right behind him would be perfect — but they were all taken. He allowed himself to be steered to a place near the window, biding his time until Danny and Hera were ready.

  “We’re in the alley,” said Danny breathlessly a minute later.