Station Breaker

42 Black Box

I keep moving. The man in the sunglasses reaches out and grabs me by the arm. It's not a forceful touch, but meant to get my attention.

He points to a black SUV parked across the field with a tall whip antenna. There are two others just like it at the other ends of the field.

I'm surrounded on three sides.

The man taps the aluminum bench with his hand, telling me to sit down. I look down and notice a bulge on his ankle where he's wearing a gun.

I get an itchy feeling.

What does my gut say?

I bolt down the bleachers, hop the mini-fence and run straight across the field. People yell at me and surly kids curse with their Texas twangs as I sprint over the dry grass.

I hop the outfield fence and land in the dusty cemetery — praying the SUVs can't reach me here.

Dodging tombstones and concrete crosses, I go as fast as I can up the gradual incline leading to the stone wall at the opposite end of the graveyard.

After hopping that barrier, it's a steeper climb as I scramble up the hill.

I reach the crest and don't look back. Jumping, skidding and sliding, I make my way down, trying not to trip over the clumps of hearty desert brush.

WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

I know the sound, but I try to ignore it.

Just keep running.

WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

Dust flies into the air and I have to cover my face.

WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

I'm trapped in a whirlwind and start to lose my way.

The helicopter ascends and the cloud begins to settle.

The three SUVs are in front of me. The man from the bench climbs out of the one at the end — still holding the newspaper.

For the first time since I took it from the bin, I can see the headline.

SUSPECTED ASTRONAUT-TERRORIST HIJACKS PLANE

"Is this you, David?" asks the man as he walks towards me, the wind rustling the pages.

At first I think he's asking if I'm David Dixon. Then I realize he's asking if this is the real me. Am I what the news is calling me?

"No," I reply, head low, no place to run.

"I didn't think so. Let's go somewhere where you tell me everything that happened." He points towards the helicopter landing on a hillside.

I keep my mouth shut, afraid of saying something that will implicate me.

"We found the Humvee from the air. That's how we knew where to look. In case you were wondering."

I was curious, but not about to ask. It's not really important right now.

Two men in black assault gear holding Heckler & Koch UMPs are standing next to the chopper. Neither one has any identifying patches on the shoulders. Both are wearing sunglasses that make their faces inscrutable.

I climb inside the Black Hawk and realize that nobody has put handcuffs on me. I'd ask about that, but I'm afraid that it's an oversight that will be quickly corrected.

"My name is Vaughn," says the man as we buckle ourselves in. "I'm going to help you clear this up. How does that sound?"

It sounds like a dream come true. But I have to be careful. I know cops like to pretend they're your friends then get you to confess.

I have no idea what rights I have in an instance like this. If the newspapers are calling me a terrorist, then there's a good chance I don't have any.

We fly west over wide open desert and brown-colored cattle ranches — away from civilization. I was expecting us to go towards a city; this is in the middle of nowhere.

Vaughn doesn't ask me any questions. He sits in his seat across from me and works on a laptop. After over an hour of flying, the pilot takes us over a small airstrip with several hangars. One thin road leads from here to a spot on the horizon.

We come to a landing on the tarmac and I spot a shiny new fuel truck parked in one of the open hangars.

In another, there's an all black C-130J cargo plane.

Crap. This is one of those CIA black-ops sites I've heard about. Rumor has it that they do all kinds of legal maneuvering to avoid breaking the law — like deeding land to a friendly government so it technically counts as a foreign embassy.

Once we set foot here, I could be under Qatar jurisdiction and have no rights whatsoever.

It may look like Texas, but my rights came to an abrupt stop once the skids hit the asphalt.

Vaughn pats me on the knee as the helicopter's engines begin to rev down. "Let's go get a beer and sort this out before all hell breaks loose."

I follow him into a hangar. Nobody else is escorting us inside. The guards with the submachine guns head to a different hangar.

Vaughn holds the metal door open for me. I step inside a cavernous interior. Several portable trailers fill up the interior. It's like an RV park set inside a Costco.

As we walk down a row, I spot people through the windows working at computers, having meetings and standing in front of whiteboards with long acronyms written across the top.

It's just another business day for them.

Vaughn climbs up a set of metal stairs and holds the trailer door open for me.

Inside is a conference table and refrigerator.

"Have a seat," says Vaughn as he walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers.

He pops the top and sets one in front of me then takes the opposite seat and places his sunglasses and phone on the table as a flurry of messages fly across the screen.

He takes a long sip. "I like helicopters, but there's something about being in one out in the desert for too long."

I stare at the sweaty bottle in front of me, confused and afraid.

"Go ahead. Drink up." He sees my hesitation. "Don't worry. If I wanted to drug you I'd have strapped you to a gurney and pumped you full of drugs by now. But I don't need to. You're not in trouble. You're not a bad guy. As soon as we can clear this up, I can get you home."

I reach out for the bottle and take a small drink. To be honest, I wasn't even thinking about truth serums until he mentioned it. I was just so full of anxiety I don't think I could even handle alcohol at the moment.

It tastes good. It's relaxing.

Vaughn keeps treating me like an old pal. "I don't know if you had a chance to see the news, but oh, man, David." He shakes his head. "People can't shut up about you."

"Who are you?" I finally ask.

"I'm the guy who finds people."

"What kind of people?"

"Enemy agents. Spies. That kind of thing."

"That's how you found me?"

"You're not a spy, David. You're a victim. No offense, a patsy. You got played. Granted, you took your shitty hand and ran with it. Hand to God. I don't think anyone expected you to get as far as you did. Of course, if Peterson and Bennet's little plot had worked, you never would have been pulled into this."

"Plot?" I reply.

He makes a face. "David, haven't you figured it out? You're an astronaut. Aren't you supposed to be a genius?"

"I chose a line of work where my job is to sit on a million pounds of explosives and press a button to light them. How smart do you think I am?"

"Peterson and Bennet were working with the Chinese. This whole thing was an attempt to steal a Russian decoder. It's espionage that went way out of control." He whistles. "I thought you might have figured that out by now."

He can see the shocked reaction on my face.

Peterson and Bennet, spies? All this time I've been working for the bad guys?