Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (9 page)

“Shit!” Christina laughed nervously as she stood up. She clicked her light back on about the same time Michael did.

Michael looked frustrated. “That was close; let’s get the hell out of here.
”

“All right, we’ll take this stuff, get copies then return and put it back.” She threw everything in a large bag and headed for the door. Michael followed her like a puppy dog. In the dark she felt his hand grab her gently by one arm and spin her around. After a millisecond of hesitation, he kissed her on the lips.

At first she was shocked, but his kiss was soft, wet and inviting. Feelings stirred, feelings that had been dormant for months. He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her again, this time with more passion as his tongue played at her lips. She couldn’t help herself, her response automatic, the result of thousands of years of evolution. She ran her free hand up his neck and into his hair. His embrace was strong and manly as she pressed her body into his. She could feel every curve and the hardness of his body. Her knees buckled, and she kissed him back, tongues dancing with excitement. She hadn’t had time to think it through, but it felt good, oh so good.
Partners in crime,
she thought.
What the hell.

Christina had completely lost her senses when suddenly he pulled back and spoke to her like a friend. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” he gasped for breath. “Stick, I love you.”

It took all her strength to regain some measure of control. “Michael, thank you for helping, but you know I’m not ready for this. You’re a wonderful guy. . .I. . .I’m just not ready, that’s all.” As she reined in her panting, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of Rhani’s apartment. “Tell you what; I won’t call you Twinky anymore, if you’ll quit calling me Stick.”

“Okay, Stick, uh, I mean. . .what the hell is your name anyway? Oh yeah, okay Christina
.
Or is it Nancy Drew?

* * *

In Houston it was 9:00 a.m., 10:00 in Washington, and Christina was having a hard time getting through the White House switchboard.
Talk about the run around,
she wondered if Gleason had given her the number as a joke. After being passed back and forth like a hot potato, she finally convinced the operator to connect her to the office of Ben Roberts, Chief of Staff. She was shocked when he actually picked up the phone.

“Roberts.”

“Uhh. . .hello, my name is Christina Matthews, that’s
astronaut
Matthews? I’d like to speak with President Gleason please, right away,” she said, unable to hide her annoyance.

“Well my name is Ben Roberts, that’s
Chief of Staff
Roberts, and President Gleason is a very busy man. At the moment he’s meeting with Muztata al-Bolani, the new President of Iran. Don’t you watch CBN?”

She almost choked when she heard
Iran
. “Yeah, I know, and that’s why I’m calling, This is urgent.”

“Well oil prices are urgent too; have you seen the price of gas lately? Of course, the taxpayers buy your goddam gas by the billions,” his tone got nasty, like many others who thought the Space program was a waste of money. “President Gleason is asking the Iranians to crank up production, and I think he’s making some progress.”

“But the President said I could call any time, and he would speak with me. It’s a matter of national security,” Christina said.

“I’m sure it is my dear, isn’t everything?” As Chief of Staff you can speak to me, and I’ll pass it on.”

“No, I need to speak directly with the President. It has to do with the DROID program. I think it was sabotaged. . .that’s all I’m saying. I have evidence.”

“Well then, why don’t you go to your boss, Director Scott, uh. . .through channels so to speak?”

“I don’t trust
anyone
with this information. No, I must insist on speaking with President Gleason.”

“Hold on,” his tone shifted as if someone walked in the room. He sounded a little more civil. “I’ll check.”

She could hear him talking with his hand over the phone, but she couldn’t make out who he was talking to or what was said. She was afraid she’d never get through. After what seemed like an eternity, Roberts returned.

NASA astronauts were required to fly their jet trainers a minimum of ten hours a month to maintain proficiency, but they had a good deal of liberty where to go. They often flew to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas to get the air time and have some fun. It was also a way Christina could get away from her bodyguards. She was supposed to plan ahead for security at her destination, but this time she would conveniently forget.

Michael seemed more than happy to fly with her, and his jaw hit the floor when he learned he was going to meet the President.

* * *

Muztata al-Bolani climbed in the limo across from Jawad al-Masri, his second in command. They were on their way to Dulles International Airport where an Iranian jet awaited their arrival. In just a few hours they would be back in Tehran. The limo was of the luxury class, reserved by the State Department for heads of state. It had plush, leather seating, a fully stocked bar and a communications center. Al-Bolani took it as an insult. Most Muslims were God-fearing people. They didn’t drink any kind of alcohol and avoided appearances of luxury. Although many were rolling in cash, opulence was looked upon as a mortal sin.

“Praise Allah.” Al-Bolani gave his usual greeting. It was important to keep God in every conversation and every transaction. God was more than a figurehead to fundamentalists; Allah was a constant companion. No gray areas when it came to religion, the end game was crystal clear. Every Jihadist knew by heart the lines of the Quran describing heaven for the martyr and Hades for the infidel. Martyrs for Allah would recline with virgins, and infidels would boil in their own blood.

Sura 38:49
This is a monition and verily, the pious shall have a goodly retreat: Gardens of Eden, whose portals shall stand open to them: Therein reclining, they shall there call for many a fruit and drink: And with them shall be virgins of their own age, with modest retiring glances:

“
This is what ye were promised at the Day of Reckoning:

Even so. But for the evil doers is a wretched home--Hell--wherein they shall be burned.”

“Allah is good,” answered al-Masri. “How did the meeting go?”

“This Gleason is a
fool!”
al-Bolani snorted. “He thinks we don’t know about the attack on Jihad-1. He is willing to give concessions if we increase production. Think about that,” he laughed. “We take more money from them, and in return, they give us more money. Allah has treated us kindly in this oil business. They are so desperate for oil he will compromise all his values, that is, of course, if he had any in the first place. These infidel politicians are dirty pigs.”

“But what about the sanctions?”

“If we increase by one-million barrels a day, he will put a stop to all the UN sanctions. Then we can sell many Iranian goods in the U.S. and our economy will be even stronger. We will be able to buy all the arms we need from any country. Let’s see, at $200 a barrel that will put another $7 billion in our annual budget. I wonder if he would be willing to convert to Islam for one-million a day? Stupid me, I should have demanded it. Faith means so little to these people.”

“And Jihad-1?”

“Ah yes, even harder to believe, this one. He said if we need to launch another weather satellite, he would get the NASA to put it in orbit for us. . .
hah!
Only the supreme power of Allah could suppress my joy in the humor. It was almost impossible not to laugh in his face.” Al-Bolani chuckled while he twisted his beard and stared out the window into the unknown.

Al-Masri sucked down a bottle of water through his great beard like a camel at an oasis. Then he threw the bottle on the floor, “Aaah, it will be a great victory my brother, a great victory for Islam.”

“A great victory indeed.”

* * *

Christina nibbled at one of her nails. She and Michael sat in the Blue Room admiring the art. The room had both the feel and smell of two-hundred years of history. They fidgeted like a couple of kids waiting in the principal’s office. She held an envelope containing copies of information they had collected from Rhani’s apartment. The situation rolled over and over in her head, and she struggled for the best way to review it with President Gleason. There was so much to tell. She had no clue how he would react to the fact that the evidence involved illicit actions on her part.
What will he do?

The main entrance banged open, and Roberts stomped in. “Got to keep it short, kids. We have to get dressed for a State dinner in five minutes.”

The President walked in behind his Chief of Staff and grabbed Christina’s hand. He looked her right in the eyes and said, “Miss Mathews, it’s such a pleasure. Now what’s this all about? Sounds serious.”

She found herself talking too fast, “I’m concerned the DROID mission was sabotaged. . .what if there’s an attack on the United States, an attack from. . . well you know.”

“Ben says you have evidence. Let me remind you that mission was classified, Top Secret, and Mr. Jacobs here isn’t cleared.” Gleason had a stern look. He glanced at Michael and then back at her with a nervous twitch.

She knew she was on shaky ground, but it was too late now. “Yes I know that, sir, but I had to have help to obtain this valuable information,” she held up the envelope. “Astronaut Jacobs is the only person in NASA I know to trust.”

“Okay let’s get to it, not much time, what exactly do you have?”

Her tongue flew at lightning speed, “We have bank deposit slips, photos, letters and other pieces that tie astronaut Rhani Hussein to people in Iran. He was on that mission, assigned by Director Scott at the last minute. We worked together on one EVA, and he was alone with the attack vehicle on another. I observed him messing around with the DROID on two occasions while we were in orbit. It would take so little to sabotage the TV guidance, just a little bit of tape in the right place. When we returned, I decided to check him out. Surely, his background check should have indicated his ties to Iran, yes?” She showed the President the picture from Tehran. “Why then, would he be sent on a mission to attack an Iranian satellite?”

“My, my young lady, you
are
the private-eye. I wonder why the FBI doesn’t know this? Maybe they do. I’ll check into it. Now we have to go,” he started to walk away.

“But. . .but. . .”

“He said we’ll check it out,” Roberts butted in, giving her a look that could kill. “This is all more complicated than you know Miss Matthews. If we mess with the Iranians, we’re eyeballing $400 a barrel.”

“And if we don’t?” Christina shuddered. Everyone in the room knew the answer.
Why isn’t Gleason more concerned

“I suggest you give that bag to Mr. Roberts before someone catches you with illegal evidence,” stated Gleason as he looked back from the doorway. “We’ll give it a good go over and get back with you. In the meantime for the sake of our country do not mention this matter to anyone. . .anyone else that is.” He gave Michael a hard stare.

The two men left the room, and she looked at Michael in shock. He spread his hands and shook his head. She had expected the President to be dismayed by the revelation. She had envisioned him picking up the phone and calling his security council or the Joint Chiefs of Staff. At the very least, she thought he would want to sit down and talk about it. With that satellite in place, America was a sitting duck. She wanted to scream,
The sky is falling! The sky is falling!
but it seemed no one gave a shit.

Finally Michael tried to drag her back to reality. “So, Nancy Drew, what do we do now? You better destroy your copy of that stuff. It’ll be very difficult to get to Mars from a jail cell.”

“I don’t know, Michael; I don’t understand. All I can say is, God help America!”

Chapter Seven

Once again Christina slinked out of her condo after dark and headed in the direction of the
Here’s To Ya Tavern
to meet Michael. It was a cold, damp October evening, and her mind lingered on Lazer. The void left by his tragic death often churned in her gut. In recent months she had learned the true meaning of lonely, and she was beginning to have guilt laden thoughts about Michael.