Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

The news that Curtis had gone on the run, was wanted for murder, and would not be speaking in behalf of al-Attas had shocked the engineer, who picked at his fingernails as his face twisted in confusion.

“Give me something, Mohammad,” Longstreet nudged, keeping a command edge on his voice. “Think hard about all of the traffic you saw exchanged between Bill Curtis and Commander Kahn. Try to visualize it. Think of where you were when you read it; pretend that you’re there right now, reading those messages you were never supposed to see.”

“I have given you everything I know, sir. Everything. I need rest and sleep, and medication. Let me have a pill to sleep, and maybe I can remember something tomorrow.”

Longstreet slapped his palm on the tabletop, and al-Attas jumped. “There may be no tomorrow for you, Mohammad. There is only now! Tell me about this attack!”

“I will then die as a martyr?” The proud Djinn voice. Crazy eyes. He jerked at the restraints but could not move.

“You will not die at all, boy. You will live a long life in our version of a dungeon. Twenty-three hours a day in a room smaller than this, no computers or books to distract your mind, blistering heat or freezing cold, and surrounded by the worst criminals in America. You are not strong enough for that, and you will go mad within a month. Talk to me.”

Al-Attas squinted his eyes hard, picturing the scrolling screens of communications that he had intercepted and read. “New Muslim Order. Commander Kahn. Undersecretary Curtis. The bridge,” he murmured. “Something about Columbus and America.”

“Whoa.” Longstreet stopped the thought. “Columbus and America? That’s good, Mohammad. You’re doing good. That is new. Think hard now. Keep going.” Christopher Columbus discovering America? That made no sense.

“No. No.” The engineer was trying to find a single piece of information that was itching in his brain. “Not Columbus. Columbia?” A smile creased the sweaty face. “Yes. Something about Columbia and America.”

Longstreet got up and leaned over the table on stiff arms, but trying to look peaceful and put al-Attas at ease. “And Challenger. Did they mention the word ‘Challenger’?”

A long moment passed before al-Attas nodded and spoke almost obediently, as if wanting to please his teacher. “Yes. I think so. Challenger, Columbia, America.”

Both Challenger and Columbia were space shuttles that blew up, one on takeoff, the other on landing. It wasn’t America that was to be attacked, it was THE America, the Mars mission. “Oh, my God,” Longstreet shouted as he bolted from the room, doing the time adjustment in his head: It was about three o’clock in the morning on the East Coast of the United States, T minus four.

The Parramore section of Orlando was a distressed area that was as far as the imagination could reach from the magic of the frolicking Disney characters and the glitter of Universal Studios. Police patrol units cruising the alleys and checking the dark corners were constantly alert, particularly in the wee hours when the night creatures were out and fights, dope, and whores were a normal morning menu.

“Over there,” said Officer Brandi Sharpe, and her partner, Jake Young, yanked the patrol car to the curb where a disheveled man was waving at them at the mouth of an alley on Church Street. Young flicked on the blinking lights, painting the area with flashes of blue and white. Sharpe got out first, followed by Young. “What’s the problem, dude?”

“I found a dead man!” The wrinkled old wino pointed at a Dumpster. “He’s in there.”

As Young pulled his pistol to cover her, Sharpe slid her hands into rubber gloves. She hated Dumpster diving, but if the victim was truly dead, she could leave that for the crime scene techs. Please be dead. She raised up on her toes, hands on the edge of the Dumpster, and gave a low whistle. “Hey, Jake, come take a look.”

The victim was a white man in a dark suit, with two gunshots in his forehead. “I don’t think he’s from around here,” he said, as Brandi called in the apparent homicide. Jake Young told the wino to sit down and stay put.

Technicians hauled the body onto the cracked concrete of the alley, took some pictures, and looked for ID but found no wallet, although an expensive watch was still strapped to the left wrist. Deep in the right front pants pocket, a tech discovered an unusual small gold pin, a star above three columns rising inside a circle, with a name etched on the reverse.

A detective at the scene was connected by phone to the security office at the Kennedy Space Center over at the Cape. “I think we’ve found one of your people over here, dead in a Dumpster,” the detective said, looking at his notebook. “Gunshots to the head. No positive identification yet, but there’s a name on an astronaut lapel pin we found on him. Guy named Buck Gardener. Ring a bell?”

The duty officer in the security office sat up straighter. The alert status was already at the top of the scale because of the threat picked up in Pakistan, and now an astronaut on the closeout crew had left the base the evening before launch and had been murdered? Not just anyone, but Gardener, whose wife was to fly on America within a few hours. Without wasting further time, he set up a conference call with his boss and the America flight director. In five minutes, a hold was put on the launch while officials at the Cape, and in Washington and Houston, were rousted from bed to emergency meetings to decide: Go or no go?

KYLE SWANSON HAD NOT heard from Beth Ledford for twelve hours, which indicated that she had also been taken by Curtis and wasn’t allowed to communicate. That had not particularly bothered him, for it had been anticipated in some form, ever since her mother was captured. Curtis used Margaret as bait to get Beth, and intended to use both of them to get to him. Beth’s job was to stay cool, stay focused, and keep Curtis from doing something in panic.

The silence had allowed Swanson some unexpected time in which to prepare for the unknown, and with the assistance of the Lizard and Sybelle from Washington, the giant Marine base at 29 Palms geared up to offer Gunny Swanson whatever and whoever was needed to take down this new terrorist. A major from the base commandant’s staff, a light colonel from the Marine Special Operations Command, and a master gunnery sergeant had been on deck with him since late afternoon, prepared to expedite matters. Sybelle and the Lizard were ready to work in Washington. All they needed was a time and a place.

“You still awake back there?” he asked the Lizard via the live video hookup, as he took a seat before the laptop computer.

“Yes, of course I am. The signal from Petty Officer Ledford’s sat phone has not moved. It is still in room 310 in the Hacienda Hotel. The tracer button on her belt shows that she is still there, too. This fellow is taking his time.”

“He is waiting on something specific. We’ll know soon.”

KYLE’S SAT PHONE FINALLY buzzed, shortly after two o’clock in the morning, startling everyone. They looked at it as if it were a live thing, and Kyle picked it up. “Swanson.”

“Take down these coordinates,” came the harsh order from a male voice; Curtis.

“Go,” Swanson said, flicking his eyes to meet the others. Bill Curtis read off a string of numbers, then Swanson read them back. “What now?”

“You get in a Humvee and drive down from 29 Palms and arrive at that position at exactly 5:42 A.M. The approach is a narrow road in an ocean of sand, and I will have a perch with a clear view for miles around. Come alone, and stop when I call and tell you to. Then get out of the car, take off your shirt, and walk up the path that you will find marked by flags directly in front of you. It will take you east, up the ridge where the women will be strapped together, wearing dynamite vests, with my finger on the detonator. One suspicious move by you and I press the button. Clear?”