Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (3 page)

“Sure did,” Heather turned to Billy and cocked her hips to one side like a fashion model. “Would you get it out of the basket, sugarplum? You’re sooo sweeet.”

“No problem, if she’ll let me rub it on,” Billy answered with a big grin. He had matured into a handsome man, no longer the chubby teenager they once knew. He stepped over to where Christina was laying face down on a flat recliner with her top untied.

“
Hey!
Ain’t no way, that’s my job,” Lazer jumped in, snatching the plastic bottle out of Billy’s hand.

Lazer was the old man of the group, all of thirty-three. He was a country boy, tall, good looking and a pilot’s pilot. One of the best fighter pilots around, a true Top Gun, he had gone commercial. It was easy for him to move anywhere Christina wanted to live, because he commuted to Memphis every week and flew the “heavy iron” for Fed Ex. Lazer had only one noticeable shortcoming: the King’s English. After reading about a similar affliction with one of the greatest pilots who had ever lived, Chuck Yeager, Christina had long past quit worrying about it.

So what? He don’t talk so good,
she mused with a chuckle.

The group “greased up,” as Lazer would say, and stretched out on recliners. It was Christina’s two-week vacation before STS-732. She was excited and yet exhausted from the routine of preparation.
Ahhh, so nice to just veg out,
she thought as she dozed in the heat. She hadn’t seen Heather for months, and they had a lot of catching up to do. Heather’s life was like a TV reality show, more like a soap opera loaded with relationships and gossip, always entertaining
.
She’d been through enough guys to man a formidable football team. Heather had a knack for picking losers, and Christina was thrilled she was finally dating a real man, Billy Rogers.

“Hoooney, you ain’t never gonna cease to amaze me,” Lazer said. “Cain’t believe they ‘bout to let you copilot the Endeavor.”

“Hardly believe it myself,” Christina chortled, “but I’ve been training for six years, a solid year for this flight. I could fly this mission in my sleep. There’s a well flattened cushion in the simulator sporting my bun prints.”

“Nice image girl, butt cheeks,” Heather laughed. “Now, how in the world can you fly that big old thing, for God’s sake?” She fanned her gorgeous self, all the southern blonde.

“Actually, as copilot, it’s not that hard. I won’t have to do much. . .window dressing, really. . .great press for NASA. Not just a female copilot, but a female under the age of thirty in the front seat. That’s a first,” she beamed with pride.

“Whut about them letters hun?” A pall came over Lazer’s expression.

“What letters?” Heather asked.

“I’ve been getting some nasty mail with Arab markers. Seems those bad boys in the Middle East don’t much like accomplished women. They usually refer to me as, ‘That pig eating, infidel whore.’”

“Especially women who make history,” Billy added his two cents. “They’ll have a hard time keeping this one from their wives and daughters.” He sat up and dusted the sand off his arms and legs. He cracked open the ice-chest, grabbed two cold beers and tossed one to Lazer.

“Thanks pard.”

“One of these days those A-Rab women are going to get smart and cut those boys off,” Heather said. “Why don’t they anyway? Why don’t they just cut ‘em off? That’s how American women got the vote. Works every time it’s tried.”

“You wanna shout that out a little louder?” Christina cringed as she scanned the people nearby.

“Well, I say let ‘em bunk with their goats for awhile and see how they like it. For God sakes, how can they stand those smelly old desert rats anyway? Billy honey, would you put some sunscreen on my back?”

“Got it.” Billy climbed on the back of her recliner.

Heather turned toward, Christina and said, “Don’t you worry about those letters, honey; it’s all part of being famous. So what are those other kids like, the ones who got in the program with you?”

“They’re okay,” Christina replied. “Let’s see, there’s Charlotte Bensen, she was a Rhodes scholar, PhD in Electrical Engineering. Not a bad pilot either. Cute little brunette and just as sweet as she can be. All business when it comes to flying though. Then there’s Michael Jacobs. I really like him, they call him Twinky ‘cause he’s always eating those nasty things. Michael’s scheduled to fly 7-3-4. Rhani Hussein is the weird one. Keeps to himself. Gotta have one Muslim I guess,” she whispered. “P.C. and all that.”

After initiating the inquiry, Heather quickly lost interest. It was so much like her. She rarely focused on one subject longer than about ten seconds. “Hey, let’s go dancing tonight. I’m sick of playing Uno and Scrabble, let’s have some fun. Christina, do you think we could get these cheapskates to spend some real dough?”

“May as well,” Christina laughed, “gotta get back to JSC tomorrow. Want to take me dancing tonight, big boy?” She batted her eyelids and kicked some sand on Lazer.

“Sho thing, hooney. Do you know how to do the turkey trot?” Lazer gobbled around circles kicking sand. He emptied his can of beer and let out a huge
BURP!

“What do you say?” Christina said as though he was a child.

“Scuuuse me,” he grinned.

It was hot for early fall, but of course, it was always hot in Great Exuma. As the conversation faded, Christina reached behind, hooked her top and rolled over. Watching people along the beach, she leaned back and slowly dozed into a deep sleep. Sometime later she was snoring so loud she woke herself up. She looked at her friends, all red as beets.

“Hey, wake up you idiots! Look like a bunch of freakin’ lobsters. We better get the hell out of here before we all burn to a crisp.”

* * *

Damn, we’re running late!
Christina was anxious. She stood at the entrance of the hotel guarding their suitcases. A little worried about making it to the airstrip on time, she thought, S
urely they won’t leave without me. I’m a friggin’ astronaut for Christ’s sake.

Lazer ran out to the parking lot to get the rental car.

It was a beautiful day in the Bahamas. Just after lunch, the sea-breeze felt good on her face. She could smell the salty air and the aroma of flowers growing naturally there. The richness of the islands contrasted with the poverty of its natives. Most lived in shacks, a puzzling irony to the tourists who vacationed there.
Understandable,
she thought.
Surrounded by such awesome beauty, why would anybody want to work?

She glanced at her watch with a nervous twitch. Across its face came a flash, a brilliant luminance even brighter than the midday sun. She blinked and instinctively turned toward the source.

Baroooooom!
A massive explosion assaulted her ears and knocked her to all fours. In a daze, she could feel a cannon blast of hot air and the sting of her knees scraping across concrete. Lifting her head, she looked toward the parking lot.

A large mass shot fifty feet up in the sky, flipped over twice and crashed to the ground. Fireballs shot a hundred feet high.

Whose car?
she wondered.
My God, there’s someone in it
!

It was a gruesome image of a body in flames, a human torch. Suddenly she recognized the distinctive shape of the Honda CRV. Before her brain began to work, she was pelted with shrapnel from above, car parts and upholstery.
No!
No! It can’t be!
The top of their rental car was gone, vaporized. Lazer, arms flailing in agony and screaming bloody murder, finally slumped forward, silent.

“Lady are you all right? Lady. . .can you hear me?” A man came running.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

People looked like they were yelling at her, but she could only hear mumbles. There were faint sounds like sirens, but she wasn’t sure, her ears buzzed at a high pitch. Fire, brimstone and ash floated down on the scene as she brushed smoking embers off her blouse. Horrible smells filled the air, burning steel, burning rubber and one she didn’t recognize. There was a distinct, pungent odor.

Oh my God,
it hit her like a ton of bricks,
burning flesh!

She wretched and heaved all over the sidewalk. That awful smell, it was the last thing she remembered.

STS-732 would have to be postponed.

Chapter Three

It was al-Qaida.
Christina watched the news in utter disbelief.
But how?

The investigation of STS-732 made it almost as clear as it was to the two-hundred-million people who watched the launch on TV. Two missiles had been fired from the Atlantic, some eight miles off shore from Cape Canaveral. All photographed in vivid detail, it was played over and over on CBN worldwide. The handheld heat-seekers could have been launched from a small submarine, a fishing boat or, for that matter, even a raft. Vapor trials were seen behind the ground-to-air missiles that outran the shuttle at 32,000 feet. With deadly accuracy one pierced the cockpit sending shrapnel through the body of Commander Steve Halif. The other went through the external fuel tank. The investigation was a mere formality as the infamous terrorist organization had already laid claim just hours after it happened.

It was reminiscent of 9–11 as CBN showed pictures at various locations in the Middle East of locals dancing in the street celebrating Allah’s great victory against the West. For some it was a sign from God showing the power of Islam. Allah had once again made his presence known on worldwide television. Zealots fired pistols in the air when a brave newsman put a microphone in front of one who spoke English.

“Those Jewish dogs in America. . .they are doomed. Islam is on the march.
Praise be to Allah!
”

For NASA it was a costly attack. The missile impact and no-gear landing had reduced the Endeavor to a pile of rubbish. The agency was left with only one shuttle, New Hope, and all future missions would have to be reconsidered. It would take a decade to produce another space vehicle for manned flights. Most of the agency’s money was being spent preparing for a return to the Moon, and then Mars.

On the public relations side, another disaster. The issue was clear: inadequate security. All over the world people asked, how could a country as powerful as the United States and an agency like NASA let something like this happen? The threat wasn’t the nuclear arsenal of a great world-power, it was two guys in a johnboat. Once again, America was a laughing stock. Weren’t those waters protected? Wouldn’t something so simple have been anticipated? It was a national embarrassment. Where was NORAD, the Department of Homeland Security, the FBI and the hundreds of billions in taxpayer dollars spent on defense?

The Secretary of Defense, Jake Peterson, and the Director of NASA, Charles Winston Scott, had to face one news conference after another without answers to the simplest questions. The numerous layers of security around the space program were all Top Secret, and neither man could make a reasonable case on the air. The best they could do was stand in front of the cameras and look stupid. Of course, that was nothing new; it’s what politicians always did in a crisis. One common understanding had grown in the American populace, and Christina had to agree,
Leave it to the U. S. Government and you can be damned sure it’ll get fucked up!
The railroads, public housing, social security, education, health-care, all laughing stocks, and now NASA?
Once the jewel of governmental enterprise, the space agency had finally fallen victim to mismanagement and corruption.

Seeing her boss on TV she thought,
What a dumb ass!

Within hours of the attack, Al Jazera released a tape from Osama Bin Laden, or was it his mimic?

Praise Alla, the occupation of Iraq has ended, but the American pigs continue to defy Arabs both in Afghanistan and in the NASA space agency. They put forth a woman in space, a young woman, just to spray insults at Islam. That bacon eating whore, Matthews, she makes our women weep. She makes Muhammad groan. Americans will continue to pay dearly for their allegiance to the Jews and their continuing attacks on the piety of Islam.

The new President, Andrew Gleason, was floundering on an appropriate reprisal. One thing was sure, he didn’t want to make the same mistakes of his predecessors. He struggled to come up with a “measured response,” one that would make sense to the world. Al Quida was scattered everywhere, and a clear target was difficult to identify.

Although there was only one casualty, it was the most dramatic strike since the Twin Towers. It was also impossible for the world to believe that the United States of America would let a small military vessel within range of the shuttle. Those waters were constantly probed.

Only one reasonable explanation,
Christina thought,
inside job.

Over the years al-Qaida had managed to infiltrate the FBI. Strategic detection systems had apparently been disabled, “down for maintenance.” It was well known that all the security agencies had been under great pressure to hire Arab speaking agents after the scrutiny of 9-11. Only one question remained: Who in NASA or the FBI had conspired to allow the attack? All the Arab speaking agents and NASA employees were under suspicion, but the actual perpetrators had not been identified. Al-Qaida was well oiled with hundreds of millions in Arabian oil money, and they were growing stronger by the day.
Did they pay off non-Arabs?