by Josh Lanyon
Justin was starting to think he was wasting his time, when a question caught his ear. “Mr. Pietras, why aren’t Ideodax’s CEO or president here today?”
At the time Justin had thought that was a good question. But the answer had seemed plausible enough. On the recording, Pietras ran his hand through his red hair, avoiding eye contact with the reporters as he answered, “Alan Moroney had an emergency appendectomy on Thursday night and wasn’t cleared to travel, and Preston Brickman had a family emergency that required him to be in Seattle. They wanted to be here, but it wasn’t possible.”
Cabo Barnes added, “We’re thrilled that Ideodax has enough faith in us and SkyCatcher to entrust us with their first payload.”
Someone else asked another question about rocket specs. Justin sighed. There didn’t seem to be anything on the video that could hint at Roy Shaw’s scoop. But the man had been anxious about something.
At eleven thirty, Justin closed his front door behind him and checked the sky. Cloudless blue, probably in the upper 80s, not a breath of breeze. Perfect launch weather.
He drove north on A1A to the Sands Space History Center, then parked on the grass and went inside, where he showed his driver’s license to the officials. They checked his name off the list and handed him the sheet of printed paper that served as his pass. Once all the reporters were lined up, they activated the flashers on their cars and were escorted in a line through the South Gate of Cape Canaveral Air Force Station to the ITL Causeway, their designated viewing spot for Canaveral launches.
When everyone was out of their cars at the causeway, the other reporters began chattering among themselves. Christie Osborne, brand new to the space beat and the only female reporter in the group, called out to him. “Hey, Justin! Heard anything about the payload?”
“Nope. What about it?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. We know it belongs to Ideodax, right? But no word has leaked out about what it might be.”
Justin shrugged. “Ideodax has enough confidence in Skyose to send up a payload with ’em. That’s the only story they want out there, apparently.”
“Yeah, but if someone could find out… What a story, huh?”
“Yup.” What a story. Could Roy Shaw have planned to tell him something about the payload?
Even so, it was moot now. And Justin wasn’t inclined to tell the others about his missed appointment. That bit of information might prove valuable later.
The other reporters scurried around, taking selfies with the launch pad in the background and rehashing recent space news. Justin joined in the selfie parade but not the conversation. He felt unsettled, and he wasn’t sure why. A combination of early awakening and aggravation at Roy Shaw’s actions, he supposed.
And uncertainty about what he would write. So far, this launch was proceeding entirely to plan. Nominal, in the terminology of space flight.
The countdown reached sixty seconds. The reporters arranged themselves so that each had a clear view of the pad. Even though they all had cameras posted within 150 feet of the launch pad, they readied their phones on tripods to record video.
The Launch Vehicle Officer intoned, “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. We have ignition. Four. Three. Two. One. And we have liftoff of the first SkyCatcher rocket.”
Justin sucked in a breath as the sleek rocket climbed from its pad. The sight of a spacecraft lifting off never ceased to thrill him. He trusted his phone to capture the video, and watched as the rocket cleared the tower and soared ever faster into the sky…
Then disintegrated in a massive fireball.
Chapter Two
Greg Marcotte baited his hook with a chunk of shrimp and cast his line into the Indian River toward an underwater clump of grass. In the bow of the boat, his friend and occasional fuck buddy, Ryan Utley, pulled his third Dos Equis from the cooler. “Dude. You’re just feedin’ the fish.”
“Somebody’s got to.”
Ryan swatted at a mosquito, which was attempting to penetrate the layer of insect repellent on his skin. “How soon is this launch gonna happen?”
Greg picked up his phone and increased the volume of the launch director’s loop. The Launch Vehicle Officer’s voice stated, “T minus two minutes and counting.”
A pair of Jet Skis screamed past, creating a wake that rocked the skiff. Greg’s phone slid from the console, but he managed to catch it before it hit the deck. “Assholes.”
“Want me to arrest ’em for you?”
Greg snorted. “Yeah, I can imagine the news report: ‘A Lake County sheriff’s deputy was charged with BUI this morning when he attempted to apprehend a pair of obnoxious Jet Skiers. The arrest was made when the deputy was found to be more intoxicated than the Jet Skiers.’ Channel 6 would love that.”
Ryan grinned. “You know how at the start of every episode of Hill Street Blues, the sarge would say, ‘Be careful out there?’ My sheriff says, ‘Stay the fuck off the news.’”
“Excellent advice.”
From Greg’s phone, the LVO’s voice said, “Thirty seconds and counting.”
“Ooh, ooh.” Ryan twisted in his seat so he was facing north. “Here we go.”
“It’s just an unmanned rocket, Utley.”
“Unmanned rockets are all we’ve got these days. Besides, you never know when one of ’em is gonna blow.”
The LVO said, “Twenty seconds and counting.”
Greg threw a shrimp at Ryan. “You’re like a fuckin’ NASCAR fan. Just waiting for a wreck.”
Ryan brushed the shrimp from his chest. “Hey! This is my good T-shirt.”
Greg laughed. “You dressed up for me, huh?”
Ryan wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe I’ll undress for you later. If you’re lucky.”
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. We have ignition. Four. Three. Two. One. And we have liftoff of the first SkyCatcher rocket.”
They watched as the rocket ignited and rose into the sky. The launch director said, “SkyCatcher is pitching downrange.”
Then the rocket blew apart in an enormous ball of fire.
Ryan gasped. “Shit! I didn’t mean it!”
Greg groaned. “Aw, fuck me…”
“You’re fucked, all right. You’ve gotta go to work, I assume?”
“Yeah. Dammit. We’ll be flagging debris for the next week…” Greg looked at his watch. “Wait for it.”
“What?”
“When I say so, plug your ears.”
“Oh. Right.” Ryan held up his forefingers.
“Now.” Greg dropped the phone onto the console and wedged his fingers into his ear canals.
Even so, the roar from the explosion was nearly overwhelming. They crouched as the concussive blast rolled around and through them, rocking the boat. When it subsided, Ryan stared at Greg, his eyes wide. “Whoa.”
Greg’s phone was lighting up with text messages. Most of them said the same thing.
HOLY SHIT, did you SEE THAT?
The only one he responded to, though, was his boss—Col. Ward Vernon, Detachment Commander, Air Force Office of Special Investigations, 45th Space Wing, Patrick Air Force Base.
Report to base.
AFOSI’s Special Agent Greg Marcotte typed: Yes, sir. On my way.
***
An hour and a half later, Greg pulled his F-150 up to the South Gate at Patrick and showed his badge to the guard, who waved him through. He passed the golf course and the runways, entered the main complex of the base, and parked behind the nondescript building that housed the AFOSI offices. He swiped his ID, then pressed his thumb to the biometric lock and pulled the door open.
The rest of the team—Special Agents Zach Wells, Mindy Leonard, and Tom Santos—were arrayed around the conference-room table. From the head of the table, Vernon raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Glad you could make it, Special Agent Marcotte.”
Zach and Mindy smirked. Tom, who had no discernible sense of humor, frowned.
Greg said, “Sorry, sir. I was north of Pineda Ca
useway in the boat when you texted.”
Vernon shook his head slightly, but Greg knew he wasn’t seriously peeved. “As I was saying, a two-mile perimeter has been established around SLC-14. Several brush fires were ignited, and fire crews are on scene. There are no reports of casualties on the ground. The 0083s are removing nonessential personnel from the area.”
An 0083 was the federal equivalent of a beat cop. In the Army or Marines, they’d be called MPs. Cape Canaveral Air Force Station had its own 0083s, but the ones from Patrick would be called in for this search as well.
Vernon continued. “I don’t have to tell you, this is a sensitive forensic operation. Our task is to make sure that every fragment in that debris field is flagged, mapped, and collected. The FAA investigators are already on the way.” The Federal Aviation Administration was the investigative body for commercial space transportation mishaps.
“Debris will be taken to a hangar at Canaveral. Once the FAA is on site, the investigation of the explosion belongs to them. If they ask for assistance, we will provide it. Questions?”
The four agents spoke in unison. “No, sir.”
“All right. Let’s move.”
Greg and Mindy hurried to the office they shared. Mindy said, “I already stocked our cases.”
“Thanks.” Greg retrieved a two-frequency GPS receiver from a desk drawer. “Where were you?”
“Playalinda.” The beach, part of the Canaveral National Seashore, was just north of the Kennedy Space Center. “Can you believe it? The concussion blast nearly blew me off my feet.”
“Tell me about it. We were a good twelve miles away, and the blast rocked the boat.”
Mindy poked him in the shoulder. “We?”
“Ryan came over.” Mindy was one of the few people in Greg’s professional orbit who knew for certain he was gay. But he didn’t particularly want to discuss Ryan with Mindy right now. “Why did they launch from 14?”
Space Launch Complex 14 was the pad from which John Glenn first flew into orbit. It had been decommissioned, then restored in the late 1990s, but hadn’t been used for a launch since the 1960s.
Mindy shrugged. “It’s been designated as Skyose’s pad.” The parent company of the SkyCatcher rocket, and one of the corporate entities they’d be dealing with. “Don’t know why they picked it. Why are you taking extra ammo?”
Greg tucked two extra clips for his SIG SAUER into his bag. “Snakes? Gators? Wild boar? Panthers? Rabid seagulls? Y’all’s critters down here are as crazy as your people.”
Mindy snickered. Unlike Greg, she was a Florida native, entirely unfazed by its lethal flora and fauna. “I’m sure you had snakes in North Carolina.”
“Yeah, and they knew their place.” Greg grinned at her. “Let’s go.”
***
Greg and Mindy tossed their bags and boxes of equipment into the back of Greg’s truck, then formed up in a convoy behind Col. Vernon in his car, and Zach and Tom in Zach’s SUV. They exited Patrick onto A1A and turned north, passing base housing on the left and the ocean on their right. They maneuvered through Cocoa Beach—traffic was terrible, thanks to all the lookie-loos who’d gathered for the launch—then passed the Preacher Bar on the left. Mindy gazed at it longingly. “As soon as we’re done…”
“Oh, hell yeah.”
“Unless Ryan will be waiting for you at home.”
Greg snorted. “He won’t.”
Mindy gave him a sideways look over the top of her sunglasses. “How is Ryan?”
“Just dandy. Right now he’s at my house, sobering up while he hoses down the boat. He’ll probably eat one of my steaks, then head back to Clermont.”
“You need a real boyfriend.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t have time for a real boyfriend. What guy in his right mind would put up with the hours we keep?”
“Jack does.”
Greg returned Mindy’s sideways look. “Right. Will Jack be waiting for you at home?”
“Pfft. Hardly. He’s working this weekend.” Mindy’s boyfriend, Jack Clauson, was a DEA agent in South Florida.
Mindy said, “I’ll see Jack next weekend. When are you gonna see Ryan again?”
Greg sighed. “I don’t know. Look, Ryan is not relationship material. He’s still trying to convince himself he’s bi, not gay. He’ll end up marrying some poor girl just to keep the rednecks in the Lake County Sheriff’s Department from speculating about him.”
“But he’ll still come fishing with his good buddy Greg, I bet.”
“Maybe. Forget about Ryan, okay?”
Mindy grinned at him. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Shut up.”
She laughed.
Greg turned onto State Road 401, passed the Port Canaveral cruise terminals, and pulled up to the South Gate of Cape Canaveral Air Force Station behind Col. Vernon and Zach. He noted that the security presence at the gate was seriously enhanced. They were allowed through, and followed the others to the staging area, which was the infield of a running track at the edge of the cluster of buildings that constituted the operations of the station. In the distance Greg could see clumps of firefighters, still mopping up hotspots in the brush.
Vernon exited his car and began a conversation with a uniformed colonel, whom Greg recognized as the commander responsible for Canaveral. Greg and Mindy hauled their equipment from the truck and joined Zach and Tom at the edge of the gathered crowd of military law-enforcement personnel.
The commander handed Vernon a bullhorn, and he switched it on. “All right, people, we’ve divided the search area into four sectors.” He outlined the boundaries. “Also, be aware that we have a report of a missing Skyose employee. He drove through South Gate at 5:15 a.m. today and never left, and is currently unaccounted for. Male, 5’10, dark hair, last seen wearing khaki slacks and a blue button-down shirt. Keep your eyes open for anything that might relate to his whereabouts.”
Greg called his assigned team together and led them to the border of their quadrant, about 2000 feet from the buildings, and spoke as he handed out contamination suits and latex gloves. “All right, folks, we’re going to walk our sector in a line behind the guys with the sniffers.” The sniffer techs would be testing the air for toxic chemicals. “Suit up, then grab a bundle of marker flags. When you see something, plant the marker, take photos of the item in place, then record the GPS coordinates. If you have a question, get my attention. I’ll walk in the center of the line.” He arranged the mixture of 0083s and airmen in a long row. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir!”
A half hour later, there was a small forest of marker flags planted in Greg’s sector. Greg was taking the coordinates of a large chunk of metal, when one of his search team waved at him. “Sir? Over here.”
A circle of four, three men and a woman, were staring at a flagged item on the ground. At Greg’s approach, they parted. The woman, an 0083 Greg recognized from Patrick, pointed. “Check it out, sir.”
Greg stared at the object on the ground. “What. The. Fuck?”
Lying at his feet was what appeared to be the rearview mirror from an automobile.
The woman said, “Exactly, sir.”
“Have you photographed and marked GPS?”
“Yes, sir.”
He picked it up and turned it over. The mirror was oblong and looked old. The glass was cracked, but otherwise the mirror was in decent shape.
One of the others said, “It must have already been out here. Right, sir?”
“The problem with that theory, Airman, is that it’s not rusted. So wherever it came from, it hasn’t been here long.” Greg set the mirror back beside its flag. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything else that shouldn’t be out here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greg had just reached his previous location when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen; it was Tom Santos.
“Hey, Tom.”
“Um…Special Agent Marcotte? This is Airman First Class Fleshman. Sir.”
“Hello, A
irman Fleshman. Why are you using Agent Santos’s phone?”
“He asked me to call you, sir.”
“Okay…where is Agent Santos?”
Airman Fleshman’s tone was buoyantly cheerful. “He’s puking on the crime scene, sir.”
“Crime scene?”
Greg’s yelp attracted the attention of several people around him, who stopped and stared. Airman Fleshman said, “Yes, sir. It’s… Agent Santos said you’d better come over here.”
“All right. Send me your coordinates, and then do me a favor and call Col. Vernon on Agent Santos’s phone. Tell him the same thing you told me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Greg turned to the kid next to him, who looked like he was about twelve. Since Greg had turned forty last year, it suddenly seemed as if the United States Air Force was populated primarily with teenagers. “Staff Sergeant…Collins. You’re an 0083, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Outstanding. You’re in charge. Keep the team moving. I’ll be back. Possibly.”
Collins grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Greg’s phone beeped with the coordinates. He set his satnav and started walking.
A mile away, he located Tom Santos, who was pale and sweating. “Greg. Thanks for coming. I didn’t know…” His voice faded, and he simply pointed.
Greg turned his gaze in the same direction the rest of Tom’s team was staring and groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
About twenty yards away, on the riverbank, a massive gator crouched under a clump of palmettos. Greg figured it was at least nine feet long. And clenched in its jaws was what matched the description of the missing Skyose employee.
Tom said, “I’ve never…”
“Me either.” Greg frowned at the offending gator, who didn’t seem to be in a rush to go anywhere or do anything. “How close did you get?”
“Close enough. I nearly stepped on its tail.”
“You’re sure the guy’s dead?”
Tom gulped and nodded. “I’m sure.”
Airman Fleshman, who was eyeing Tom warily, asked, “Should we kill the gator, sir?”