Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“Back on track, Liz,” Summers coaxed.

“From everything that has been dug up so far, I believe that Mr. Curtis is still within the United States, because everybody is looking for him, particularly along the borders and at the airports, commercial and private. He will be too busy staying ahead of the folks with badges to do any more mischief.”

Swanson walked away from the window and filled a cup with coffee. “He’s not done,” Kyle said. “This all started with him, when he put the DSS onto chasing Beth Ledford, and he probably hired the two characters who attacked me before we left for Pakistan.”

“That is correct,” Lizard said. “Because the petty officer’s brother found the bridge in Pakistan, and was murdered there, she wouldn’t leave it alone. As long as she fought the system, the involvement of Undersecretary Curtis and the New Muslim Order was at risk. She is a brave young woman.”

Swanson smiled. “So it is going to have to end with him. He’s not done yet.”

“Which is why our Coastie should have an FBI escort for a while, particularly when she goes out to California with her mother to visit San Diego,” Summers said. “What about you? You want to go to Disney World, too?”

“I will leave Mickey Mouse to our esteemed general. Beth will be fine, because Curtis has bigger problems, like staying alive. I’ll be spending some time running tests on the new Excalibur rifle, so I will be out at 29 Palms in California in the middle of thousands of Marines. Good luck to Curtis on coming after either one of us.”

“Feebs will probably have Curtis soon, but you stay in touch with Coastie and keep your eyes open anyway, Kyle.”

“I always do, sir. Always do.”

AT TEN O’CLOCK ON Saturday morning, Eastern Time, astronaut Buck Gardener and the rest of the support crew rode the elevator up the side of the America . From high up, Florida’s coastline seemed straight out of a picture book of how beaches should look, with long white combers breaking in on brown and white sands. About a half-million people were expected to watch the launch, and tents and mobile homes had formed temporary neighborhoods of spectators who had already begun to party.

The elevator halted at the platform from which a narrow bridge led from the steel support structure to the gleaming spaceship. There were eight members of the support crew, the same as the primary crew that would haul the huge ship into space. Although they were serious about their jobs, there was also an air of foolishness about them today as they went through the White Room. The support crews, since the earliest Vanguard missions, traditionally stashed away pranks that the astronauts on the flight would not discover until they were cruising into the dark void. In the big pockets of their coveralls, each had some unauthorized items, from nude pictures torn from Playgirl magazine to pink jockstraps to a Slinky toy, and those would be stuffed in nooks and crannies throughout the vessel. The jokes always helped break the tension on a flight.

The final vehicle and facility closeouts were a frantic period, with checks being conducted on everything from the flight deck to navigational control software, and Buck had responsibility for final check for loading the power reactant storage and distribution system. It took him less than a minute to peel off the panel and exchange an already installed circuit board with the one he had retrofitted to include a tiny battery, a bit of wiring, and an altitude-sensitive ignition switch. He put the real one in his pocket and closed the panel, studying his work. Nobody would detect anything.

He rejoined the rest of the support crew, and as they finished the day’s tasks, the spaceship was less than a day from launch. The countdown clock stood at T minus twenty-three.

Joke’s on you, my dear Erin, he said to himself as they reboarded the elevator and descended through the open web of the support tower. At T minus three, Buck Gardener and the closeout crew were to return to the rocket for final checks of the crew module and to assist the astronauts into their positions for the launch.

Gardener planned to be long gone by then. After the support crew reached ground level, he reported to the flight surgeon and complained about a mild headache and nausea. His temperature, blood pressure, eyes, and throat were normal, but the doctors would not chance the introduction of flu-like symptoms into the spacecraft. Buck would be replaced for the final closeout by a member of the backup crew, and he was soon on the road out of Merritt Island, heading toward Orlando, only forty-five miles away.

A final meeting and status report, another payday, and then Buck Gardener would board a flight at Orlando International Airport and jump over to the Bahamas, and further destinations unknown.

BETH LEDFORD HAD TO leave her rented town house in Alexandria, Virginia, before dawn, but it still took an hour to get up to Glen Burnie, Maryland, in time to park in the long-term lot, then get through security and aboard the flight from the Baltimore Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport to San Diego. She pulled a blue blanket and a small pillow from the overhead, and just after takeoff she was sound asleep, her head on the pillow against the window.

She awakened an hour later, went to the restroom to freshen up, then got a cup of coffee from the attendant’s station and returned to her seat. An egg-and-cheese croissant that she had made and left in the refrigerator the night before, then put in her bag that morning, had warmed during the flight, and she ate it slowly, enjoying the flavor. That drew a disapproving glance from the man beside her, who was making do with airline food, a combo bag of pretzels and peanuts.

As the sun rose behind the plane, Beth was alone with her thoughts, eagerly anticipating spending a few days with her mother, playing tourist in southern California. See the whale jump, shop in La Jolla, get some quality beach time by the cliffs in Del Mar, enjoy spicy Mexican food, and drive up the coast. After Pakistan, doing nothing but hanging out with Mom sounded pretty good.

The flight crossed the country and several time zones in only four and a half hours, touching down at Lindbergh at 10:50 A.M., Pacific, which was almost two o’clock in the afternoon back on the East Coast. It felt like she had been given three hours to live all over again, and she smiled as she came out into the California sunshine. The iPod stack she had chosen for the long trip was on the Chicago sound track, and while she gathered her suitcase and waited in the cab rank, she jacked up the volume for the incredible jailhouse tango number. How she would have loved to see that on Broadway. Her fingers tapped her luggage in time with the music.

Her private cell phone chirped, and she dug it out of her purse to look at the calling number. Mom. She softened the music and took out a bud so she could press the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom. I just got in. Are you at the hotel?”

“Beth?” Margaret Ledford’s voice trembled, and her mom never got nervous. Something wasn’t right.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Can anyone else hear this conversation?”

“Not really. I’m in line for a cab. What’s up?”

“You have to talk to this man. I’ve been, uh, kidnapped, and he wants to talk to you. I’m OK, Beth…”

Ledford tensed, and had to fight to not to stagger and fall. Kidnapped?

The voice of a man took over, serious and calm. “Petty Officer Ledford, listen carefully to me and your mother will not be harmed. You are unaccompanied, are you not?”