Rock Killer (10 page)

Griffin sensed he was pushing his luck with her and moved away, passing back and forth. He looked at the black sky out the bridge dome window. He’d lost three people stealing this ship and if those camel-jockeys didn’t come through it would be for nothing.

“You did a good job on the Moon,” Griffin said to Knecht.

She looked at him and stated, simply, “Thank you.”

“I’ve got them on radar,” Trudeau reported. “At least I hope it’s them.”

“Figure the odds of someone else being here,” Griffin replied.

He hit the intercom button. “Cole, prepare the airlock to dock.”

“Okay,” she answered.

Griffin again hit the intercom button. “Prepare for free-fall, Cole.” He turned to Knecht. “Match that ship up with the
Janes
program.”

Knecht worked efficiently with the computer. “
Janes
says it’s a modified, Russian Federation
Tsiolkovshy
-class, lunar shuttle, versions of which were sold to, among others, Syria, who renamed it the
Athwara Bathy
or something like that.”

“
Ath-Thawra Baathiya
,” Griffin corrected. “It means ‘Baath Revolution.’ Real imaginative, huh?”

“So, is it them?” Knecht asked with some impatience. “It’s the right kind of ship, but,” and she looked out her window. There was a flashing as if someone was pointing a flashlight out a window–low tech but effective.

“There’s the light,” Knecht said. “It’s them all right.”

“Great. Cut the engines,” Griffin ordered. “Let’s see how long it takes them to match velocity.”

It took a great while. The Russian equipment wasn’t up to SRI standards, but Knecht’s training wasn’t enough to allow her to use the
Rock Skipper
’s ability to its full extent. But eventually the two ships were mated. A swarthy fellow pushed over through the airlock.

Griffin greeted the man. “
Marhaban sadiqi
,” he said. Greetings, friend.

The visitor smiled sardonically. “
Marhabtain
.” Two greetings to you.

Griffin smiled also, although he felt the need to scrape the Arab’s sarcasm off his face. “Do you have the missiles,
aqid
?” Sir. He didn’t understand the other’s need to humiliate him.

“Yes,
habibi
.” My love. The Arab’s continued sarcasm was floating thickly in the air.

“And are they fully capable?”

“Of course. How do you plan to mount them?”

“This ship,” Griffin said, “is used to survey asteroids. In order to determine the composition of the asteroid, it fires a missile very much like these. It releases a projectile, like a sabot round, and they do a spectroscopic analysis on the explosion of the impact.” His voice revealed his low opinion of the method. “These missiles should fit in those tubes with very little modification.”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course. We have plenty of time to get to the asteroid belt. We are in no hurry. And we have an ace in the hole.”

The Arab looked as if he didn’t understand the idiom. But he ignored it. “I will send the missiles over.
Ma’salamah
.” God be with you.

“
Ma’salamah
,” Griffin echoed. “We will inform you of our victory.”

“
In sha’allah
.” If God is willing.

***

Charlie Jones took a spaceplane from Tokyo to Washington over the North Polar Region. Most of the trip her intestine seemed to be trying to tie itself into a bowline. This job Mitchel had sent her on, into the fiery furnace of the Gaia Alliance, could get her killed. And she’d be all alone, without Frank, Mitchel, or even Grandma to call on for help.

The spaceplanes didn’t land at National so she had to take a cab from Dulles. She thought about renting a car but it had been ages since she’d driven and she didn’t really have a use for one. Plus her license had probably expired.

With her bag over her shoulder she climbed in one of the taxis lined up outside the front of the terminal.

“FBI building,” she said closing the door.

The driver turned in his seat to look at her. He hesitated long enough to rake his eyes over her. “Do you know where that is?” he asked when he was through leering.

“No,” Charlie replied. “Can’t you punch it up on your computer?”

“No,” the driver said turning around and starting the car.

Must be broken
, Charlie thought.

He pulled away from the curb and thumbed a button on his steering wheel. He had an earphone in one ear and a mic tube extended to near his mouth. “Hey, I got a fare here who wants to go to the FBI Building,” he said. “Do you know where that is...? I don’t know.”

The car picked up speed and they approached the freeway entrance. “Okay, yeah, I got it.”

“Where?” Charlie asked.

“Between the White House and the Capital on Pennsylvania,” he said.

“Good,” Charlie said.

The drive was long at the maximum speed of the taxi.

Charlie had to convert the speedometer reading she could see over the driver’s shoulder to kilometers to realize just how slow 55 was.

It was getting dark when Charlie started recognizing landmarks from pictures. They crossed a bridge and Charlie knew this was the Mall with the Capital at one end and the Washington Monument extending skyward in the middle like some poor, Earthbound, square rocket. Although Charlie considered herself a citizen of space before the U.S.A., she still felt a stirring of pride, if not for what her native land had become, then for what it was before.

The street signs said they were on Constitution Avenue. She was surprised there weren’t more people. T
ourists
, she thought,
should be crowding the mall although it is getting late
.

Then she saw why there were so few people. Military vehicles were patrolling the streets. They were stopping anyone walking, apparently checking identification and directing them away from the mall. Huge concrete barriers blocked off the streets.

“We’re too close to the White House,” the driver said. “You don’t want to be around here after curfew.”

Charlie remembered from high school civics that Pennsylvania Avenue ran from the White House to the Capital. It should be on their left. She was about to say something as the taxi passed behind some Smithsonian museums. She saw a cross-street sign for Pennsylvania Avenue, which cut across Constitution at an oblique angle. The driver kept going, seemingly oblivious to their location.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “That was Pennsylvania.”

The driver looked around. “It was?”

“Didn’t you see the sign?”

“I can’t read.”

“Excuse me?” Charlie exclaimed, noting Pennsylvania was getting farther behind as the discussion proceeded.

“I can’t read,” the driver repeated

“Then what in God’s name are you doing driving a taxi?” Charlie exploded. M
y God
, she thought,
what if he missed an important safety sign
? Maybe the computer wasn’t broken, he just couldn’t use it.

“Just because I’m illiterate don’t mean you can deny me a job. It’s the law.”

“It’s a stupid law,” Charlie said. “Stop the damn car and let me out. I’ll walk.”

“The streets ain’t a good place to be,” the driver advised, pulling the car to the curb. “If you get within the security zone after dark they’ll arrest you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Charlie growled.

She used her computer to pay the fare. She rolled her eyes when the display indicated the tip had been automatically added.

She climbed out of the cab and angrily threw her bag over her shoulder. The taxi moved away and Charlie could smell the ozone from its hydrogen-burning engine.

She started back down Constitution toward Pennsylvania. She had to divert a few blocks towards the capital to get around the security zone, well-marked by armored vehicles and concrete barriers.

Back on Pennsylvania, with the FBI building’s gray slab sides in view, a young man—
a boy really
, Charlie thought—stepped in front of her. He was holding a knife.

“Okay, bitch, give me the bag,” he said in the most menacing voice Charlie ever heard come from someone so young.

“Do you realize you’re about 20 meters from the FBI building?”

“Shut up and give me the bag,” he spat as if he didn’t understand her.

Charlie took the bag from her shoulder and held it out for him. He reached for it. Once he had his hand around the strap, she pulled back hard. The boy was pulled off balance and Charlie grabbed the wrist of his knife-wielding hand and twisted hard.

She was rewarded with a dull, moist pop as she broke the joint.

He howled in pain and dropped the knife. Charlie pushed him away with her other hand.

He turned and ran.

Charlie talked to her computer on her wrist “911.”

There was a short wait.

“You have reached 9-1-1,” another computer said, “all our operators are busy. If you’ll please hold, your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

Charlie was beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.

“Nine-one-one,” a bored human said a few minutes later.

“I was just mugged,” Charlie said.

“If your loss was less than 1,000 dollars I can give you a report number for your insurance.”

“Insurance?” Charlie asked.

“You do have insurance that covers mugging, don’t you?” the emergency operator droned. “To cover your loss.”

“I didn’t have a loss. I fended him off.”

There was a pause. “You attacked the alleged perpetrator?” the voice asked incredulously.

“I defended myself, yes.”

“Wait there,” the voice said. “What is your name?” The computer automatically sent the operator Charlie’s GPS-determined location to the square meter.

Charlie was still giving vital statistics to the operator when a siren howled behind her. She turned to see a police car pull up to the curb and two officers jumped out with their guns drawn.

Charlie smiled. Late help was better than no help.

Then one ordered loudly, “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

Bewildered, Charlie complied.

They loaded her into the back of the police car and drove to the police station. She was treated with less consideration than a bag of sheep dung. They took a mug shot, fingerprinted her, took a dental mold and scraped for DNA samples on her palm.

They pointed her to a pay computer terminal and gave her a dollar. She gave the dollar back and called Mitchel collect. A bored officer questioned her in a white, acoustical tile-lined cubical with a single table and two chairs. Charlie related the details of the attack while he wrote on a tablet. She was informed she would be charged with an “unlawful self-defense.”

Then they left her in the room alone.

“Who the hell are you?” Charlie barked at the handsome, black man that came into the interrogation room four hours later.

Charlie was in a foul mood. It was late at night and she had been left waiting impatiently in the locked room. She couldn’t even go down the hall to the bathroom without permission from the female turnkey. There were even hints she’d be charged with a “bias crime” because, as far as Charlie could surmise, she had told police the “victim” was black and Charlie wasn’t black enough.

“I’m Special Agent Freeman,” the man said, sitting. He was wearing a good but inexpensive suit. “You’re Charlene Jones?”

Charlie looked him over and finally recognized him from the picture Mitchel had shown her. He’d aged since it was taken.

“Yes,” she said.

“It was a good idea to call Mitchel,” Freeman continued. “He called me and told me what happened.”

“Thanks for coming.” Charlie was genuinely grateful.

Freeman shook his head. “It’s against the law to attack a person. You know that, don’t you?”

Charlie stared at the man. “He threatened me with a knife,” she exclaimed. “Is it against the law to defend oneself?”

“Yes,” Freeman retorted, “in the United States, it is.”

“It’s a stupid law,” Charlie said for the second time that day. She had a feeling that as long as she stayed in this country she’d be saying that a lot.

“I agree,” Freeman said.

“Excuse me?”

“I agree,” he repeated. “Listen,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, it’s the law. An act of Congress, signed by the president, and tested before the Supreme Court. Doesn’t make it right; it does make it the law. I talked to the DDA and—”

“Excuse me,” Charlie interrupted, “the what?”

“DDA: Deputy District Attorney for the County and State of Columbia.”

“Wonderful,” Charlie said sardonically.

“Anyway, I talked to the DDA and convinced her you weren’t racially motivated, so they’re dropping the ‘bias crime’ charges. Also, she’s agreed to let you ask for just a fine and probation because this is a first offense and there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Extenuating circumstances? What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let him stab me? I want to press assault charges against him.”

“Okay,” Freeman said leaning back in the old, wooden chair. “You may if he comes forward.”

Charlie had to think for a second. “He hasn’t come forward to press charges against me?”

Freeman shook his head. “In ‘unlawful self-defense’ cases only a witness is necessary. It was felt the victim may be afraid to come forward. And since you confessed to the 911 operator, and the police, that is all that’s necessary.”