Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

His current assignment was as a member of the support crew for the Mars shot, which was the backup for the backup crew and did the scut work for the real astronauts who were assigned to fly. This was his third time on a support crew, and would be his last, for three strikes meant you had been passed over, for reasons that were never explained. Worse, Buck knew that his wife was screwing around with Colonel Dan Merrill, the mission commander. During their continuing domestic arguments, Erin had recently told Buck she would file for divorce as soon as she got back to earth. He thought about pulling out the .38 revolver and shooting her right there and then, then driving over to Colonel Merrill’s house and blowing him away, too, but that would just send Buck to prison for the rest of his life. There had to be a better way.

Maybe he had gotten drunk one time too many, complained in public once too often, and gone too far outside the program for sympathy and understanding, because his sour attitude had drawn attention. NASA told him to get his shit together, or he would be canned. There was a mission to fly, he was told.

The United States space program had always been a target for intelligence agencies from other nations, because of the technical innovations that were constantly being developed. Even during the International Space Station years, spies hung around the Cape and Houston as thick as flies at a cookout. A nice-looking woman named Linda had found him and become very friendly, and they pillow-talked long into the nights.

In turn, she introduced Buck to another new friend, a man who said he had gone through something similar. He was from the Middle East, where women were not allowed to treat a man so shabbily; his own wife had an affair, and he had killed them both, and nothing was done about it, for it was proper. Just because Erin Tyne-Gardener was now a celebrity, she should not be allowed to make a fool of Buck. Suppose, the man said, just suppose that you could get rid of her and her lover without leaving a trace, get away with it, have the sympathy of a grateful nation—and earn five million dollars, to boot?

Buck thought it over for a couple of days and decided, why not? A rich future was much better than having to spend another minute with Erin.

THEY WERE LATE, AND she was early. After making her telephone call, Beth Ledford had ducked into a Washington Metro station, swiped her card through the turnstile, descended the smooth escalator, and reached the platform just as a Blue Line train whooshed to a stop. The doors slid open; a crowd got out, a sea of determined faces, important people hurrying to government offices. Another crowd with faces set with equal firmness got on, and the train eased forward and accelerated. No one spoke; a long tube filled with VIP strangers. In minutes, Beth got off at the Crystal City stop in Arlington.

She linked to Google on her iPhone, typed in the restaurant name, and received explicit directions through the busy and stylish underground grid of shops that lay below the glassy towers of government offices, apartment buildings, and private corporate headquarters. The pub was about half filled with customers, since it was after the lunch hour rush, so there was no waiting. The rusty decorations gave it the look of a working-class saloon in Pittsburgh rather than a trendy spot in the power orbits of Washington. She took a stool at the far end of the bar, facing the frosted glass door, and ordered an iced tea. A Washington Post had been left on the next chair, so she paged through it. The flooding and relief work in Pakistan had already fallen off the front page, and there was no mention of the murdered international relief workers. She sighed with sorrow and bit her lip in silent anger.

They came in like a pair of cats, haughty and unapproachable, totally aware of their surroundings but not seeming to care. Beth had not even realized they were inside until the door closed behind them and they were walking her way. She immediately recognized Sybelle Summers: dark hair styled collar-length short, faded jeans over low-heeled soft black boots, and a dark blue summer top, with minimal makeup because she did not need much. Summers had made it big in the men’s club of special operations but retained her femininity. Beth Ledford raised her hand and gave a little wave. That’s what I want to be when I grow up. If she can do it, so can I.

She did not recognize the man only a step behind Summers. He moved with athletic smoothness, but was not really very big, about five foot ten and 175. The clothes looked expensive, a lightweight linen jacket over dark trousers with sharp creases. He was clean-shaven, with sun-bleached brown hair worn slightly long. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth for no apparent reason. As they approached, she could see him better and was gripped by the greenish, no-nonsense eyes. She judged Summers’s bodyguard to be a stone killer. Sundown eyes : the last thing an enemy would see as life blacked out. Those eyes would seldom laugh or hold joy for more than a few seconds.

“Beth! Hello, girl!” Sybelle increased her pace over the last few steps and put her hands on Beth Ledford’s shoulders, pulling her close for an air kiss. She whispered, “Make this look normal.” Then she pushed away with a big smile and slid onto the stool between Beth and the paneled wall.

“Sybelle! I’m so glad you could make it. I didn’t want to leave Washington without saying hello.” She had turned to face Summers, and when she turned back, the man was already seated to her left, elbows on the bar, looking at her. “Who is this?”

“A guy who specializes in the kind of thing you mentioned, so I brought him along to pay the taxi fare.” Summers kept the smile playing on her face.

Beth studied the man for a moment. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

He shook his head. “No.” A silent, one-word conversation.

The bartender came down and rolled her eyes when they ordered only a tonic with a slice of lime, and a glass of water. “Can you afford all that?” she joked. “I mean, along with this lady’s iced tea, the bill is going to be horrendous. Maybe four bucks.”

Sybelle reacted first. One sure way to draw attention is to be too cheap. Bartenders remember slights. “Bring us a couple of menus, too. We just want to catch up on some things before we order.” The bartender drifted away, happier.

“Really,” Beth continued. “You look familiar.”

The man cleared his throat. “Get to business. Why are we here?”

Beth Ledford looked over at Sybelle. “Is this Kyle Swanson?”

“Damn,” said Swanson.

“Told you she was sharp,” said Summers. “Pay up.”

Swanson laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

“Wow,” Beth said. “Summers and Swanson both. The A-List. Pleased to meet you, Gunny. You’re a legend in the community. I’ve seen your picture several times, including when you got the Medal of Honor.” As she shook his hand, the drinks and menus arrived.

Summers spoke, the voice dropping to a lower tone that would not go beyond the three of them. “Beth, I heard about what happened to your brother. It was horrible. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. My mom is all torn up about it. Joey was special to all of us, and the closed-coffin funeral was difficult. I’ve seen what bullets can do to a human body, and my imagination ran wild.” Softer, she said, “He was my brother!”

Kyle Swanson leaned closer. “I’m sorry he got killed, too, Ledford. But just to be clear, he should not have been running around a war zone with just a box of Band-Aids.”

Beth Ledford felt as if she had just been slapped. In the three weeks since Joey had been killed, nobody had said such a thing to her, although it had been implied. Anger surged through her, and she turned to Swanson, their faces no more than eighteen inches apart. “You can go to hell, Swanson. I don’t care who you are.”