Orbital

Five Debrief

A man comes in, shakes my hand and tells me I’m the bravest person he ever met, then leaves. I think it was the President. I said something meek, avoided eye contact, then sat back at the conference room table to go through the notes.

“You got all the points?” asks Kevin Flavor, assistant to the Director of the CIA — which I found out is a totally different position than Assistant Director of the CIA.

The little “a’s” seem to actually run things while the big “A’s” wait for a seat to open up.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“The press isn’t going to drill very hard. They know you’re a special operative and can’t elaborate on much. Just be sure to mention the professionalism of our Russian colleagues and how sad you are for the those killed in name of protecting global security.”

So this is how it is: One big lie.

I’m a “Special Operative.” Ten days ago I was pretty sure I was committing an act of treason and was going to be a wanted man in at least four countries. Now, I’m going to be presented on television as a “Special Operative” who worked hand-in-hand with US and Russian authorities to stop an act of war by a renegade Russian official.

This is the half-truth they’ve all agreed upon. If the Russians had their way, this would all have been pinned on me and the renegade director of the Russian space program who plotted this would have died of sudden natural causes and the world would never know how close we came to having to knock rocks together to start fires and use smoke signals to communicate — at least the part of the world that would have been affected by the EMP from the nuclear bomb.

Fortunately, not wanting to let an international crisis go to waste, our President jumped in and had his staff craft a whole narrative about this being one carefully planned operation with us and the Russians working lock-step.

Sure, it made Russian President Radin look weak, but the alternative was nearly letting World War III start on his watch.

Fine, they get a lie they can all agree upon. But the real problem is that nobody wants to talk about the real problem: The only reason things got as out of control as they did is because we have a leak in the highest reaches of the US intelligence community. Named Silverback, he or she, is the reason the two astronauts who initially went up to the Russian space station with me are dead. They’re the real heroes.

I was just taking up space.

On the closed-circuit TV monitor the White House Press Secretary steps behind the podium and starts making some friendly banter with the press before we go live.

“Any questions?”

“Why do I have to do this? Aren’t special operatives supposed to be kept, um, special?”

Flavor laughs. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or his polite way of acknowledging that I said something I thought was amusing. “David, your face has been on every television screen on the planet for the past ten days. Most people still think you’re a fugitive.”

“Isn’t there still a warrant for my arrest in Brazil?”

“We’re fixing that. And the French airline isn’t going to sue.”

Yeah, I almost forgot, I parked a 777 in the desert and took out the border fence.

It’d be an amusing story if it wasn’t for the fact that four Mexican soldiers were killed by a renegade Defense Intelligence Agency unit working for Silverback.

“Look, David, what you want is video of you shaking hands with the President of the United States and the Russian Federation everywhere.”

“You mean that’s what you want…”

“It helps us all. We show people that we’re working together and you get to be a hero. Isn’t that why you became an astronaut?”

“I became an astronaut so I could go into space. What are the chances of that happening again?”

“You have to talk to your boss at iCosmos about that.”

I test him, “You think NASA would take me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you could pull a few strings?”

“I wouldn’t know which ones.”

“Right.”

A woman steps in the doorway and says that I’m about to be introduced.

“Oh, David, I almost forgot.” Flavor slides a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and pushes it in front of me with a pen. “Just sign this.”

I stare down at the real tiny type. “What is it?”

“Just a general release. That’s all.”

The word “felony” pops out. I pick the sheet up to read more closely.

“One minute,” the woman announces, holding the door open.

“Just sign it, David,” says Flavor.

“I’d like to have my attorney check this.”

“There’s no time. We have to get you out there.”

“Then I’ll read it after.”

“No, you have to sign it before we let you go on television with the President.”

I push the document back across the table at him. Ten days ago, there’s no way in hell I’d have done that. Today is different. I can still feel where the bullet went through me. “Give him my regards.”

“Time to go,” says the woman at the door.

I cross my arms and sit still, calling their bluff.

“David, this is unprofessional,” says Flavor.

I keep my words calm and measured and channel Bennet, the man who taught me how to be an astronaut and gave his life in space for the mission. “No. Unprofessional is springing this bullshit on me right before I’m supposed to go on.” I nod to the woman at the door. “Is this how you work it as a tag team?”

She looks away.

“You’re lucky you didn’t end up in a hole somewhere,” says Flavor.

“A couple of your people tried that. How’d that turn out for them?”

“Those were rogue agents from a different agency.”

“When people start making threats, you all look the same.”

The President steps out to the podium and starts making his opening remarks. Flavor sits across the table from me, glaring.

There’s a commotion from the hallway and two Secret Service agents step into the room followed by a short man with piercing blue eyes.

“There he is!” Russian President Radin booms as he strides over to me. “The man I owe everything to.”

He clasps his hands on my shoulders and kisses me on both cheeks. “My prayers are with your friends we lost.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Are you ready to go out there and put on this charade?” he asks with a wink.

“Mr. Dixon will not be appearing on camera,” says Flavor.

“No? I thought the whole purpose of me coming here was for this?” says Radin, glaring at Flavor.

“There’s been a technicality. He refuses to sign a standard document we request all our operatives to agree to before making public appearances.”

Before Flavor can stop him, Radin whips the sheet off the table and quickly scans it. He looks at me. “This, I would not sign.”

“Well, he can’t go on TV then,” says Flavor.

Radin rips the paper in half and lets it fall to the floor. “Mr. Dixon, why don’t you come to Moscow and appear on Russian TV then? If you are free to go, my plane is waiting.”

Out of the corner of my vision I spy Flavor about to lose his shit as he’s about to be the epicenter of an international incident. “That’s not necessary…if I can have Mr. Dixon’s word that he won’t expose any state secrets, the form won’t be necessary.”

Part of me wants to just flip him the bird and march on out with Radin and fly back to Russia downing vodka and eating caviar. But I know it’s all a show.

If Radin had his way originally, I’d be a dead man. He’s a calculating statesman that’s risen to the top in the most backstabbing political environment there is. His last opponent literally tried to use a nuclear bomb to get him out of office.

I don’t know if Flavor is being a dick because he wants to, or if it’s his job to do all the dick things his boss doesn’t want to be associated with. Either way, I get the value of having the President slap my back and call me a hero. Even if it is a complete fraud.

I won’t give Flavor his promise, but I manage a compromise. “I’ll play nice.”