Ridley Pearson - Killer View

Walt had met other wannabes: private security employees who feigned authority, wishing their threats meant something. This guy wanted to play the fed when in fact he was merely contracted to Semper, which, in turn, was contracted to the government. He wasn’t powerless-far from it-but Walt’s position trumped his, and both men knew it.

He and Fiona had been separated immediately, put into separate cars and driven out to a nondescript, one-story cinder-block building that carried an American flag out front. It was part of a small cluster of buildings surrounded by a vast expanse of desert. Other buildings looked like parking garages. They might have been entrances to underground tunnels, or storage facilities, or served any number of other purposes. Nuclear testing was a world Walt knew nothing about.

“I believe we call that pilot error,” Walt said, taking a look around the briefing room. Acoustical ceiling. Video surveillance in two corners. A vinyl-topped table that held a cassette recorder.

“I don’t know much about gliders, Sheriff, except that while they’re dependent on wind and air currents to maintain altitude, the wind does not determine direction of flight.”

“We were blown off course,” Walt said. “At right about ten thousand feet, we were caught up in winds out of the north that drove us into your airspace. You must have had me on radar. Check my flight pattern. I was beating upwind ever since, trying to work my way back to the highway.” He paused, searching the man’s eyes to see if he’d checked the radar. “When you fly a sailplane, Mr. Amish, you like having a strip of pavement in sight. Despite the beautiful view your restricted airspace offers, I’ll take the safety net of a flat stretch of pavement under me any day.”

“You were or were not on official business?”

“Was not. I’m out of uniform, Mr. Amish. I’m coming out of a marriage, which I’m sure you’re able to confirm, and,” he said, lowering his voice, “I was trying to get into something new, if you catch my meaning. I was going for the wow factor: Top Gun meets National Geographic . If I hadn’t made her sick, if you guys hadn’t interfered, I might have had a chance.”

“I doubt it,” said Amish. “Not your chances but the story.” He shifted some papers. Guys like him did that just as a matter of habit. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Fleming.”

“Not so far as the crow flies.”

“Your towplane pilot reports you requested a release over Craters of the Moon. You strayed quite far from that release point.”

“Have you ever seen the park from the air? The huge flows of lava, like somebody spilled black ink and it froze in place. You want to impress a woman, Mr. Amish, show her Craters at sunset. Land in Arco. Buy her a steak at the Mel-O-Dee and have the towplane waiting to fly you home. Knocks their socks off, and, if you’re lucky, other pieces of clothing as well.”

Amish fought back a grin. For a moment, Walt allowed himself to believe he was regaining some credibility. But it was a grin of satisfaction, as it turned out, not one of agreement.

“Ms. Kenshaw is your department’s contracted photographer, Sheriff. She boarded your romantic escapade with two camera bodies, five lenses, a light meter, and a variety of filters. And, oh… infrared capability. You flew into our airspace and stayed off com for twenty-seven minutes before being forced down by the Air National Guard. The only photographs on her camera are of what appears to be an assault-a young woman, badly beaten, and some colorful clothing. A prom? A wedding? They’re dated less than a week ago. So what you’re telling me is you brought her up on this ‘date’ to photograph the sunset and she got, what, so caught up in your smooth talking that she forgot to shoot any photographs?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“We are.”

Walt wondered if she could possibly hold up under the scrutiny and realized he should have created a story for them both to stick to. Amish likely knew of his attempts to reach the director by phone. Even so, proof was proof. No matter what Amish believed, he could not prove intent. “The glider’s not much different than a parasail. You’ve never had parasailers over your airspace?”

“We’d rather work with you than against you,” Amish said. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t want me calling the vice president about it,” Walt said.

“I’m aware of your relationship with Vice President Shaler. I’m aware of your service record. You’re something of a hero, Sheriff. I get that. Doesn’t make my job any easier.”

“You’re retired military,” Walt said. “That’s a burn wound on your neck-chemical, maybe. Desert Storm, I’m guessing. There were compounds used in that war that few of us ever heard about, weren’t there? You don’t strike me as military intelligence, Mr. Amish. You have field experience, I’m pretty sure. Marines, maybe.” There was a flicker in the man’s eyes that was his tell: an ever-so-slight lifting of the eyelids that Walt guessed he’d worked hard to control. “Your boss worked under George the First when he headed up Langley. Your boss’s boss I’m talking about: Roger Hillabrand. He was a Marine, wasn’t he? A big player in Desert Storm. Hired his men to work for him, once he entered the private sector, and formed the Semper Group. So you’re long on loyalty, short on questions. We can spend three or four hours in here and all I’m going to do is lose my chance at Ms. Kenshaw. These are tricky waters because your boss’s boss has a personal relationship with Ms. Kenshaw-and if he had anything to do with our grounding, if any phone calls were exchanged, this is going to look personal. Mixing business with pleasure. Using his power… to derail any attempt at a date. I thought I could take off the uniform, fly her up over Craters, and make a good impression. Maybe score a few points. But maybe Hillabrand thought different. This could be embarrassing. You called in the Air National Guard, Mr. Amish. Over a woman. Why don’t you release us and let me try to salvage what I can of an evening gone horribly wrong and we’ll both forget all about this?”

“Your glider will be impounded until further notice. Our people will take it apart-piece by piece, if we have to-in order to determine there were no cameras hidden in it. I can only assume you think you’re doing good, Sheriff. But we both know that do-gooders typically do more harm than good.”

“I was out on a date. I was trying for some romance. You want to arrest me for that? Guilty as charged.”

Amish’s eyelids flared again. His jaw clenched, as he fought to keep his mouth shut. But Walt egged him on with a shit-eating grin intended to make the man feel as small as possible. Interrogations could go both directions.

“This facility is under constant surveillance,” Amish said proudly. “We are watched”-he pointed to the two cameras in the room-

“recorded, scrutinized, and investigated. We are held accountable to six different federal departments. We report to the NRC, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. I know it’s easy to see a place like the INL as a conspiracy in progress, given the materials we work with and the secretive nature of the research conducted here. On-site protests and demonstrations remind us of this on a regular basis. We offer up a fine target for the Greens. But this lab lit the first city in the world with atomic-powered light. The nuclear submarine engine was developed and tested at this facility. Critical situations like Three Mile Island were successfully resolved because we had a working facility in which to simulate repairs. This place matters. And if you work here, you can’t pick your nose without a Senate subcommittee hearing about it. We are not a rogue facility. No matter what people like Sheriff Walt Fleming think. There is nothing here that’s going to help you with this murder investigation of yours.” He answered Walt’s expression: “Read the pages, Sheriff.”