Station Breaker

44 Examination

I'm being played by an expert. I have to watch myself. I could end up in a steel drum buried in the desert. This whole facility is some kind of clandestine, non-existent operation that probably disappears people all the time.

Maybe he's genuine and they only rendition people who speak Arabic.

Maybe not.

The best way to avoid questions is to be the one asking them.

"Who are you?"

"I thought I made that clear. I'm the guy that finds people."

"Great, so does a bloodhound. That doesn't give it authority to do anything. Who do you work for?"

"The US government. Who else can afford all these toys?"

"Are you CIA, NSA, Pentagon? Or are you some private contractor working between the law. Are we even on US soil?"

He holds his hands up. "Okay, settle down, David. I understand that a little bit of paranoia has kept you alive. No, I'm not a private contractor or a freelancer. I work for an agency with a three-letter acronym."

"DIA?"

He taps the side of his nose. "Winner-winner."

The Defense Intelligence Agency is an under-the-radar intelligence organization that focuses on the tactical capabilities of our enemies. Its illustrious founder was Robert McNamara, architect of the War in Vietnam under Kennedy and Johnson.

One of the chief differences with the CIA is the degree that they provide combat support. These guys are usually in the shit — if not starting it.

When I graduated from college I got letters of interest from a variety of three letter agencies. I don't recall the DIA trying to recruit me, but I seriously considered the NRO, another shadowy organization that handles satellite espionage and was known to have a few pilots and astronauts on staff. But what good was going into space if you couldn't tell anyone about it?

I'm in a difficult position. Capricorn — whom I also don't trust — told me that some highly placed individual in the US government would try to catch me and kill me for the square.

And now here I am, sitting in front of a highly-placed individual in the US government that I don't trust.

Vaughn is a cocky son-of-a-bitch who's used to doing whatever the hell he wants. I have no problem with covert ops and the occasional dirty job, if necessary, but I'm also a big believer in checks and balances. Is anyone checking this guy?

"I want to speak to your supervisor," I reply.

"What? Is the beer too warm? You want to file a complaint?"

"I was told not to trust anyone."

"Good advice. Who told you that?"

Crap, I already said too much. Right now he has no idea about Capricorn or the sat phone — which is still on me. I'm kind of surprised he didn't have me frisked. Maybe that was part of his trust-building exercise?

"I'm not comfortable talking to just you."

"Want me to bring Cardwell back in here?"

"I mean here. This is all a bit… scary."

"Dude, you should only be scared if your name is Muhammed and you've decided to pack some C4 up your ass. You have nothing to be afraid of from me. I'm the guy who's going to clear this up."

"Okay… so why are we in a Black Site in the middle of nowhere?"

"Land is cheap. And don't believe everything you see in movies. This is just a remote airbase. If I flew you into Austin I would have FBI, CIA, DHS, USPS and everyone else in our faces trying to slap bracelets on you. And I don't know if you're familiar with the way they treat spies, but you'd be talking to your attorneys through a tin can with no string."

"Okay. Let me talk to your boss."

"He's busy in the Oval Office dealing with the international uproar you caused."

"I mean the head of the DIA."

"Oh, Bruce? He knows you're here."

"Could I meet with him?"

"David, you're hurting my feelings. You have to understand, he's one of the people yelling at me to arrest you. I take you into his office and you'll leave under arrest." Vaughn lifts up his phone to show me a list of voicemail and text messages, making a dramatic point.

I notice something on his screen I don't think he intended for me to see.

It's a Russian area code, specifically the number for Moscow Oblast, where the Russian space agency is based.

And how the hell would I know this? Because for two years while I was doing launch assist for all the other lucky jerks who got to ride the Unicorn before me, my job was to call Roscosmos and tell them six hours before a launch what our window was.

I'd speak to some Russian bureaucrat on the other end who would say, "Dah," repeat the time back to me, then hang up.

The purpose was to keep from bumping our rockets into each other and starting World War III. No big deal.

But I had their switchboard burned into my brain. And right now, that same number is on Vaughn's phone.

While I can understand him talking to people in Russia; operatives, colleagues, obstetricians, that number seems peculiar.

"How do I know you're not talking to the Russians?"

He's fast. Real fast. He glances at his phone. "Oh, the area code? I've got a friend in the Federal Security Service I'm trying to convince to settle things down a notch."

"Even though he knows you're after this wafer-thing?"

"He doesn't need to know that we recovered it. So can I see it?"

I shrug. "I don't even know what it looks like. I never saw anything."

His words are slow and measured. "And that's your official story?"

He just switched gears from frat pal to intense in a flash.

"Yeah…" I say hesitantly.

Vaughn closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Dumb ass. Now we have to do it the hard way. Well, hard for you."

He knocks on the table three times and two men in black armor with machine guns step into the room and point their muzzles at my head.

Another man grabs my wrist and a woman in doctor's scrubs enters and jabs a needle in my arm.

Everything goes dark.