Chapter 16

"Brother, do you ever know when to take a vacation." Jerry closed up the bag he used to bring reading material and snacks to the control room.

"I heard there were some fireworks," said Bob.

"Fireworks? They practically burned the place down," said Jerry.

"So ... what happened?" asked Bob, somehow feeling that if he let on that he already knew what happened, it would be the wrong thing to do. He was right.

"Not sure, except that somebody used assets without authorization or something. Place filled up with suits asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Nothing about any missions I did," said Jerry. "And that's the funny thing. They cleaned house in upper management, but not a single analyst like you or me got fired. It was weird. From the people I've talked to, nobody ever asked them anything about an actual assignment. It was like some high up types got caught with hookers in their offices or something. One day everything was fine, and the next Jim Humphrey and the old man were just gone. Wham! Just like that. Did they track you down and talk to you while you were on vacation?"

"No. I didn't even know anything happened until I got back."

"Well, don't be surprised if some schmoozer in a suit shows up and wants to talk to you."

"I got nothing to hide," said Bob. "Bring 'em on."

"Don't say that. They sweated Steve Campinelli for like an hour. He looked like he'd been put through the wringer when he came out."

"What'd he say about it?" asked Bob.

"Not a damn word. Said he'd been told to keep his mouth shut. But he must not have done anything wrong, because he's still on the duty roster."

"Well, like I said, I've got nothing to hide. Go get some rest. I'll see you in eight."

His first shift back went slowly, partly because he had a light load, but mostly because when he wasn't actually working on something, all he could think about was Riley and Curtis. Riley, mostly. He missed her, and there was, quite literally, nothing he could do about it for a long time. He had more vacation. Having his two week trip subtracted from his vacation account had only put a minor dent in it. But he couldn't turn around and take vacation again right away.

To make matters worse, when he was relieved, and fired up his laptop, there was nothing there from her. He knew she was probably busy, that he had taken up way too much of her work time while he was there, but still, he imagined what he was feeling was what a crack addict felt sometimes. Academically he knew it wasn't that bad. Not really. But his heart felt like it was.

Idly, he clicked on Skype, and was delighted to find a voice mail from her.

Bob. I miss you. I've been working almost nonstop since you left, because that's the only thing that keeps me from going crazy thinking about you. But I can't work all the time, so I stopped to lay out for a while. Except I know you can't watch me that way anymore, and it's too cold to lay out out, so I had to lay out inside, on my bed. And because I was inside, that meant I got to lay out naked. All the way naked. In fact, I'm doing that right now. I'm on my bed, stark naked. I'm also touching myself, Bob. Because you're not here to touch me, I have to do it myself. It's not nearly as good as when you do it, Bob. Mmmmm. I just put two fingers inside me. They felt good, but not as good as you. And I'm not talking about your fingers. I miss you so much.

That was all there was. No "goodbye" or "see you later" or "call me."

Just enough information to require him to beat off twice before he could go to sleep.

Bob's job made it seem like Colorado was simply a dream he'd had while he took a long sleep. He knew it was real, but the tedious normalcy of his job made it difficult to believe that his girlfriend was real, or that he'd ever get to see her again.

Not that they didn't email and Skype. They did that regularly, spending hours talking. That contact was a double edged sword. He craved seeing what she'd written, and even more seeing her image on the screen of his laptop. Especially when she treated him to views of her pale, white body, the body he remembered stroking and tasting so well.

It was frustrating.

And that frustration played a key role in what would eventually transpire, one night, when Bob walked into the control room to work his next eight hour shift. He was relieving Steve Campinelli, who had just worked the four to midnight shift. There was nothing to suggest that this shift would be particularly difficult. The job sheet had six missions on it, but none of them would take longer than half an hour.

He went about programming a satellite on the other side of the planet to do his first job. That took ten minutes. He had just pushed the button to start the program running when a light high up and to the right on the console started blinking. The light was inside a red, jeweled, faceted crystal housing, which threw the light under it like a mirrored ball throws spots of light in a ballroom.

Bob had worked at the agency for almost thirteen years, and had seen that light come on only three times. He didn't have to get up and peer at the little plastic label glued to the console beneath that light. He knew what it said.

It said "Emerald City" on it, some forgotten technician's self-proclaimed joke about who could make that light come on.

The Emerald City light had a more formal name, but the sticker covered that up, and none of the analysts who worked there these days had worked there long enough to remember what that name was.

But they all knew who could turn that light on. Only the office of the President of the United States, or the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence had the authority to deliver a tasking with the priority that light gave it.

Bob knew what to do, and did it automatically. He lifted a phone that was rarely used, also on the right side of the console, and punched buttons until he heard a mechanical voice say, "This line is now secure." He clicked an icon on his main screen, and the words "You have one emergency message" came up. He was able to choose between "View Now" and "Ignore." He'd forgotten how silly that screen was, because he hadn't seen it in over two years. "Emergency Messages" that weren't delivered by a supervisor were exceedingly rare. Without thinking about it, he punched a button that would alert the duty supervisor that something hot was going on.

He clicked on "View Now" and a phone number appeared. He dialed that on the secure phone. It was picked up immediately.

"This is Senator Nelson of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. My clearance code is Kilo Foxtrot Seven Nine Five Five Three Mike. I will stand by while you verify."

Bob almost panicked as he tried to remember where the book was that had various people's names and clearance codes in it. He put the phone down and searched. Then he remembered it was chained to the console next to the wall. He pulled it out of its hiding place and opened it to the page marked "SSCI." He found Nelson's name and matching code. He also found the counter questions. He picked up the phone.

"Place your mother was buried?" he asked the phone.

"My mother was cremated and her ashes spread on the Great Salt Lake," said the male voice.

"Pet's middle name?"

"What?"

"What is your pet's middle name?" asked Bob. "I cannot proceed unless you answer that question correctly.

"Fuck!" came the exasperated shout on the other end. "The fucking cat died two years ago. I can't remember its fucking middle name!"

"State your first car was licensed in?" asked Bob, smoothly, moving to the next question.

"Alabama!" yelled the voice.

"What is the mission?" asked Bob.

"There's a car!" gasped Senator Nelson. "We need it tracked. It contains an ... um ... sensitive government asset that is under threat. We need the satellites to track this car and determine where it goes. You will report to me ... I mean us ... so that we know where it is at all times."