That leaves the filing cabinets, with their built in combination locks and thick metal bars across the front. I could take them with me, though they wouldn't fit in my backpack, but that would tell the colonel that someone was here. The light has another idea. It wants me to try the locks.
I look at the labels, and slap myself silly for not starting there. One entire cabinet is labeled MFM, written in a black marker, with the words Project Kryptonian underneath written over. I spin the lock to clear it, and then gently turn it to the left.
How fucking ridiculous are these fog people? I can't see through paper, yet my hands are sensitive enough to feel the tumblers click on the lock? 38. The first number is 38. Then I spin it gently to the right, going past 38, and feel the second click at 22. Then back to the left to 34. I am going home, going to sleep, and ripping Fog Dude a new one.
The top drawer is full of files. I risk the flashlight, trying to keep the light inside the drawer only. They are day by day surveillance reports of my ineptitude. Broken windows in six states. The building I unintentionally remodeled. I think he can keep these. A quick survey though confirms: no sightings in Hawai'i.
The second drawer is more of the same, also clear of Hawai'i. I feel like I should slip a little note in here and see how long it takes him to find it, but my brain ends that idea quickly. The third drawer is science reports. Estimates of my physical strength, endurance, speed, and the like. All, I am quite sure, ridiculously inaccurate.
The bottom drawer is a gold mine. There are a dozen three ring binders, blue, printed on the front with the title: Project Kryptonian Summary. Discovery to Death. I spend just long enough to determine that they are all identical, stuff one of them in my backpack, close the drawer, spin the dial, confirm the drawers are locked tight, and head for the window.
The light tells me to wait. I can hear the voices below, though I can't make out what they are saying. Note to self: yell at Fog Dude for lack of super hearing. It feels like two hours, but I'd bet really 20 minutes before they are gone, and then I am gone.
Fifteen minutes later I am on the roof of my hotel and then jogging down the stairs. I got two room keys when I checked in and hid one of them on top of the chandelier in the elevator lobby, probably 12 feet off the floor. Not a problem for him, we jump, scoop it off the crystal, and wander down the hall.
I grab the big comfy chair in my room, sit back, and start to read.
Chapter 14
The first is a summary of how I was spotted on radar, then tracked manually by a spotter on a roof. It details that I am difficult to follow by satellite, because I move quickly, always at night, and often wearing black, therefore was assigned a squadron of four drones of my very own, one downtown and one in Hesperia with a reserve, then the fourth assigned to the apartment building and finally the Hesperia drone moved to Anaheim.
They believe that my human shape makes my radar signature variable, not that I am actually stealthy and it's my clothes that reflect the waves. Score one for the dumbass.
The second Chapter is my fabulous record of trashing downtown buildings, breaking windows from here to Denver, and then suddenly improving, with lots of speculation about why it went down that way. None of it correct.
It also contains my more or less successful efforts, such as Chile, North Korea, and East Heights drug interdiction. They do not connect the meth lab and it's dead occupants to me, nor suggest that I was in any hotel rooms in the Marquis, nor connect me to the firefight at the Mountain Pacific Air building, nor anything in Hawai'i.
They have retrieved the pages and envelopes they gave me, which had tracking devices in both the envelopes and clip, plus Celeste's card, from the apartment building, but it was negative for fingerprints or DNA. The helicopter blades and debris were similarly clean.
Chapter 3 is full of estimates of what I can do. Not accurate, I'm sure, but now I feel the need to run some more tests myself and see how far they are from the truth. Based on my supposed muscular strength, they estimate what it would take to crush me, and how big a bomb it would take to do it. They seem utterly convinced that their giant sized bunker buster bombs would do it, or simply a fully loaded B-52 dropping all its ordinance. The light finds those concepts funny.
And I do as well, if the estimates of the weight of rock that was on top of me in China are correct. Given that I had no trouble supporting that much rock, a bunker buster wouldn't scratch me, based on the numbers in their conveniently placed Table 3.32.a.
Chapter 4 is a dozen pages of what they think they know about me (height, weight, age, hair, eyes, ethnicity, that I live in east Orange County, that I work normal business hours, that my days off are during the week and/or that I have some flex time, as in I might be a salesperson who does not sit in an office, etc.). Mostly wrong.
Chapter 5 is a summary of their recruitment of Celeste Nortin, who it turns out was somewhat reluctant, the multidirectional plan to get me to do Internet searches on specific targets and people, and some of what they thought I might be able to do for them as part of Project Kryptonian. Confirms my earlier statement: bastards. There is also an analysis of the death of an Iranian nuclear expert who died in a car crash. He was on the list they gave me, which explains the ‘good job' comment.
Chapter 6 is summaries of interviews, from Celeste, to people at the car crash site, people in Chile, people who were on the Superman ride at Magic Mountain when I was there, and so on. Very thorough, interesting to me, not very useful for them. Appendix on my sex with Celeste, both the colonel's perspective as a Peeping Tom and Celeste's. Apparently a full body experience unlike anything else, and during which her brain is so short circuited by pleasure she can only think about salami. I should save that quote in case I ever need to try on-line dating.
Chapter 7 is their analysis of what happened in China, concluding that they would have killed me if they had put the explosives inside the tunnel not outside the walls, speculation on when the Chinese will try to get their hands on my remains, and whether or not the military should do something about it.
The eighth and final Chapter is a summary suggesting that I will soon be urban legend not someone who actually lived to most people, that they should do everything they can to get a hold of my DNA, and that a unit of the Air Force should always be equipped with the proper weapons just in case another like me shows up that needs to be dealt with. All told, a little over 200 pages, mostly crap.
It's after midnight when I finish reading it, after three when I finish the second go round. I turn back into me and go stand on the balcony, letting the cold night air wash over me, thinking. It's somewhat ironic that every time I look up, I'm looking at the colonel's balcony.
At six, I am outside, running down the Strip. I spend the time thinking about whether or not to chance searching the colonel's home, but conclude it is not a good idea. Unlikely that he would have anything there, it being classified, and likely that he has a security system, possibly including a camera.
I am supposed to stay the night and go home tomorrow, but I want to see Perez and get her opinion. So I pack my shit and his shit, use the remote control on the TV to check both of us out, hop into Starbuck and head for home. I have lunch at the FreshBurger in Hesperia and text Perez while I'm there to see if she's free for dinner. She texts back that she'll bring food to my place at six.
I visit the Copies and More store on Central, breaking I'm sure a whole raft of federal laws by copying top secret documents on their self-service machines. I even make a color copy of Table 3.32.a, which I might have forgotten to mention is a graph of many colors. I walked in with one binder full, I walk out with three.
Home by four, I am working on my third reading of the document when there's a knock, and I go let Perez in. She walks into the kitchen to get set up while I clear the binder and copies off the kitchen table.
We end up eating on the floor, food and documents spread all over the place, my life as a dumbass laid bare. Perez' first suggestion is that I write up my adventure in the Ralph's parking lot, and my recent adventure with the plastic bag underwear, and send them in to the colonel to add some life to the story. I impolitely decline.
It's getting late, she talks me in to coming to work tomorrow, though I am technically off, so we can talk some more after she's had the chance to think. She grabs a binder, says good night, and is gone. I become him, and think the night away.
We hardly have a chance to breathe all day Thursday, running from problem to problem in our terminal. At her
tia's
later, she tells me that Monday is a big day, that the informant says that not only are drugs coming in that morning, but something else which should tie the shipments directly to the Columbian supplier. Neither Perez or I actually believe it, but the FBI and DEA seem sure.
I offer to cancel my flight and come in, but Perez reminds me they haven't needed me on any of the busts yet, and didn't need me before I became a dumbass. I remind her that I was a dumbass long before we ever met.
Monday morning I spend time with Taylor at dispatch, and we make plans for a lunch on Wednesday after I'm back. Perez is not at the terminal, which is as expected, the Dallas flight is due in two hours, and there's a lot of preparation before then.
The informant claims that, to sneak drugs through, there will be more than one package on this flight, the easy to find one having only enough heroin to attract the dogs, with the hope that the rest of the cargo, including the documents that will provide the real evidence, will be ignored once the first brick is found. In truth, it probably would have worked if he hadn't told us, considering that they only searched one container off of each flight after the other discoveries.
The walk around before my flight is normal, though something is bothering me, and this time it's not the neighboring flight. I can't put my finger on it. I join Ken in the cockpit, and I'm extra thorough in making sure every switch is right, so much so that he notices. It gives him the wrong idea.
"You don't have to try so hard." I look at him. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but you were the highest ranked first officer, you didn't get the captain's job because they were afraid it would look like your dad juiced you in. I heard Amos argued for you, but the others on the panel decided to go another direction. You'll get the next one, it's already agreed to."
I don't say anything to him. I'm not sure what I should say. So I push the radio button, and say,
"Mountain 4-6-1, ready to taxi."
Ken turns around and gets back to business.
"Mountain 4-6-1, LA ground, taxi to Quebec, then Bravo to 2-4 right, follow the American triple seven." I repeat that back. Normal on a crowded morning, backtracking because the line is so long, but something is still bothering me.
It's "position and hold," then "cleared for takeoff." I have the feeling that I need to be here for something, but there's nothing I can do about it. We clear the low morning clouds, and the feeling disappears.
We land in Kona and I turn on my phone as we walk to the terminal. Ken is not only not complaining about that, he's doing the same. No text from Perez. They must still be busy. We all go snorkeling, then to dinner.
Afterwards, I do something I have not done in quite a few weeks. I put my swim trunks on, go down to the water, slip into the surf and swim away until I am sure that I can't be seen, then I remove my trunks, grab the light, say a magic word, and dive. North past the airport, I head to shore and hide my trunks in a spot where no one is likely to find them.
Back under water, I put a mile or so between me and the shore, then punch the molecules, rise a couple hundred feet, and head north. The freedom and joy of flying is indescribable. I kick myself for not doing this for so long. The risk is small, the reward is huge. Clears my head far better than running these days, and produces clear lines of thought.
I stay out the whole night, managing to get back to the hotel just at sunrise, where the crew is coming down for breakfast. I join them, running off at the last minute to shower and pack so we can leave on time. In the shower it becomes obvious that the light is keeping something from me. Something important. Never felt like this before.
I can't shake the feeling all the way out to Keahole, but I put it aside as we go through preflight, and head off into the air. I am doing the flying, and as we touch down in the dark on 2-4 left, I know something is terribly wrong, and my life is once again about to change.
Chapter 15
I look at my phone for the first time since we got in to Kona yesterday, there's a voice mail. It's from my dad. He's crying.
"She's OK, or at least we think she will be. She's in Cedars-Sinai. Not conscious yet. I got her parents on a flight and we're picking them up at the gate. Call me. Love you."
She. Only one she it could be. Fuck me. Fuck the light, it knew.
I start running down the terminal. Didn't say a word to the crew, explain later. Think for a second about going to Main and finding out details, but that only lasts a second. Need Starbuck. Need to get to her.
