Stephen Mertz - The Korean Intercept

Galt felt acute embarrassment. "Uh, sir-"

"Ah, let me finish, Trev. So I'm lying there, with bullets flying all around, and the rest of the guys are pinned down under heavy fire. In my mind there's no damn doubt whatsoever that I'm about to become a dead man. But I'm lucid enough to hear Galt yelling at the other guys to give him cover fire, that he's going to pull me in. About then I start to notice that I'm the only one who wasn't fast enough on his feet, or lucky enough. So I start shouting, or trying to shout, ordering Galt to stay put." A hint of humor touched the president's eyes. "Uh, I forget, Trev, what was it you yelled to me that time when I gave you that direct order?"

Outside the limo, aides and staffers waited for the president and his party to emerge.

"Uh, I'd rather not say, sir."

The president chortled mildly. "Galt's response," he told Fleming, "was, and I quote: 'Fuck you, sir!'-whereupon he proceeded to make the crab-crawl out from under cover and pull me back out of the line of incoming fire." The president studied Galt. "You sustained a wound that day that put you out of action for eight weeks."

Galt brought his attention back to the man across from him. "I was out eight weeks. You were six months on the mend, sir. And some orders are easier to follow than others."

Fleming now regarded Galt as though through a new set of eyes. "You saved the president's life in combat? But your name doesn't appear in any of the files on the president's service. I mean everyone knows what happened to you, sir. I never knew that it was Galt who-"

The corners of the president's eyes crinkled. "Sort of explains why I take so much crap from him, doesn't it?" Then he became serious again. "Trev, I believe you were disobeying orders that day because you had a vested interest in keeping me alive, namely that forty bucks. Well, you've got a vested interest with Liberty. You want to go over there and tear apart that countryside, looking for Kate. And because you're our top covert ops man, you've got the means to do it. But my direct order to you is this: don't. I don't need a wild card in this mix, screwing things up and maybe getting Kate and any other crew survivors killed in the process."

Galt nodded glumly. "Sir, that consideration is the only thing keeping me out of it. Damn it, sir, they've got Kate! I've got to do something about that!"

The president sent Galt a small, grim smile. "And I've got something for you to do. I've been saving the best for last. The FBI in Houston has detained a man. His name… uh, what's his name, Wil?"

Fleming piped up promptly, "Fraley, sir. Eliot Fraley." He added for Galt's benefit, "A scientist at Mission Control. Someone got to him. They used a woman. Got him to reprogram the computers, and that's what brought down the shuttle."

Galt's eyes narrowed. "Who got to him?"

The president muttered a very unpolitician-like curse. "That's still a blind alley. The woman says she took orders from, and got paid by, a contact that she never met and knew nothing about. She says the contact passed her the data that Fraley programmed into the computer to alter the shuttle's course. That contact has not as yet been traced."

Galt tugged an earlobe. "What about Fraley?"

The president sighed. "So far, our people on the scene-that is, the FBI-have not been able to get Fraley to confess to anything. We've got them both. We're keeping them separated, of course, but as long as he keeps mum, she can clam up while her contact wipes out the trail."

"She's a pro," Fleming told Galt. "She's copped only to what she knows we've got on her. If we can get Fraley to crack, he'll give us the leverage to use, and we'll trace this contact."

The president glanced up at the towering edifice of the White House beyond the limo's tinted windows. "You see where we're going with this, right, Trev? You've just been given your job: make Fraley talk."

"A jet will have me to Houston inside the hour," replied Galt.

"Break Fraley." The president's statement was as cold as ice. "Get him to tell us everything he knows. This is top priority on the home front, Trev. And the job is yours alone. See that it gets done."

"Yes, sir."

Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas

Galt stood amid a cluster of FBI personnel outside the nine-by-ten room, observing Fraley's interrogation through one-way glass. The bombardment of questions from the pair of interrogators was drawing repeated, robotic denials.

Fraley's bow tie was askew. His physique was diminutive, but his expression was defiant. He sat on a metal chair at a metal table, the only pieces of furniture in the room that was walled on one side by the pane of glass.

"There's no way you can make me confess to anything," he told the FBI agents who were questioning him. "I see no reason to implicate my wife. You know very well that she's an invalid in need of constant care. I have placed her in an assisted living facility that will provide her with the best treatment." Fraley smiled smugly. "You gentlemen might as well give up."

Galt had arrived minutes earlier, attired in sharply-pressed army green fatigues and spit-shined combat boots. He was armed with the 9mm Beretta pistol in an unconcealed shoulder holster. He broke away from the cluster of agents in the hallway, and stormed into the interrogation room.

The men in the room wheeled around in surprise. Galt knew the agents, but they didn't know him. Leaving the door open behind him, he said, "Mr. Fraley, the FBI giving up is not an option."

The agent named Jackson strode over to stand toe-to-toe with Galt, radiating displeasure. He was Galt's height and size, every ounce of it solid black muscle.

"And who the hell might you be?"

The other agent, Chalmers, patted his partner on the shoulder. "Slow down, Claude. We've been trying to crack this nut for hours. Let's give someone else a chance."

Galt returned Jackson's stare without blinking. "I'm cleared. Check with your supervisor. I'm taking custody of this man." Galt turned to Fraley. "On your feet. We're out of here."

Fraley became animated, leaping up out of his chair. "About fucking time." He did not sound at all like a space scientist. He sounded like a snide little man.

A four-lane highway, designated NASA Road 1, links the space center to Interstate 45 and a twenty-five-mile drive to downtown Houston. Road 1 is lined with strip malls, condominium developments, car dealerships, fast food outlets, motels, even a dog track. Beyond this, unbridled suburban sprawl stretches south to the Gulf of Mexico.

Galt drove wordlessly, both of his hands on the steering wheel, eyes staring straight ahead as he piloted the Jeep Cherokee through moderate traffic. He kept to the slow lane, holding the speed steady at five miles over the posted limit.

Fraley rode beside him. The cherubic face, beneath the balding thatch of untamed curls, shone with agitation. Though he wore a seat belt, Fraley had positioned himself sideways in his bucket seat, the better to observe Galt through his thick, rimless glasses.

"I don't know who you are, but thank you for coming to get me out of there."

Galt didn't take his eyes off the road. When he saw what he was looking for, he began braking the Jeep.

"Don't thank me, little man."

"I, uh, don't believe I caught your name."

"I didn't give it. It doesn't matter."

The Cherokee turned off the main road, onto and following a gravel road to behind a strip mall, where the ground dropped slightly beneath a row of Dumpsters, removing them from sight of anyone in the strip mall stores or behind the mall, and from sight of the traffic passing by on the busy interstate.

Fraley stammered briefly, then said, "Uh, I don't mean to be unappreciative or anything but, uh, would you mind if I asked to see some identification?"