Free Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning by Steve Ward

Iranians got to him? How so? He’s lived in the U.S. all his life. He must’ve been cleared for any Mid East connections when he was checked out for NASA. I’ve got it, why don’t we go ask Director Scott?”
     
    She cut him off, “No, no, no, my boy. I’m not at all sure that’s a good idea. I think the Director may be involved. Now I know I sound like a whacko, Michael, but think about it. Why is Rhani always hanging in his office, and why was he put on 7-3-3 at the last minute, and why were you replaced on 7-3-4?”
     
    He scratched his head. “All good questions, but it’s impossible to believe the Director of NASA would be in cahoots with the very same people who want to drop nukes over his head. Sorry, Stick, it doesn’t add up.” Michael squinted.
     
    “What if he was paid off? Those jokers are rolling in oily cash. First I want to break in Rhani’s apartment and look for evidence, then we have to figure a way to check out the Director.” She was getting frustrated, wondering if her illegal exposure of Top Secret information was a good idea after all. What if Twinky cracks?
     
    “Breaking and entering. . .theft. . .now you’re talking felony.”
     
    “But if we find something, I’m willing to go to the President. I have access. I need your help, Michael. Not sure I can pull it off by myself.” She decided to appeal to his ego. Men, she thought, they can be such pricks. She squeezed his hand and brushed her lips across his cheek. She whispered as she breathed into his ear, “Michael, I’m saying I need you.”
     
    He pulled back in shock, scratched his ear and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “ You need me? Okay, hell yeah, sure, I like the sound of that.”
     
    “I need you, Michael.” She kissed him again.
     
    “Against my better judgment, it sounds kinda like fun. When do we go?”
     
    “Right now. Rhani’s at an all-night training exercise for 7-3-4. Let’s get outta here.”
     
    Christina slid out of the booth and headed for the door. Adrenalin pumped. For the first time in years, outside a spaceship that is, she felt electrified. She waited at the end of the bar as Michael paid the bill. The bartender rolled his eyes in her direction and raised one eyebrow.
     
    Asshole probably thinks I’m a floozy.
     
    * * *
     
    Christina gasped; her heart pounded.
     
    It was a cheap lock, and Michael jimmied the door open with a credit card.
     
    “How did you do that?”
     
    “My dad taught me when I was twelve.”
     
    They were in. It was a tacky little apartment with few furnishings. A portrait of Muhammad hung over the TV and lots of religious paraphernalia were strewn about. She didn’t want to turn on the lights so they maneuvered with flashlights around the two bedroom flat.
     
    She started going through a big stack of mail on a table in the eating area. The kitchen was a mess, open cans and empty containers everywhere, dirty dishes stacked in several piles. Men, she thought, all pigs. How can anyone live like this? Michael disappeared into the front bedroom. Nothing looked particularly unusual, just a pile of bills and credit card offers. Guess they don’t care who they do business with, she thought. One letter looked suspicious. She couldn’t read it but she knew enough to recognize Arabic. Also there was a bank deposit slip. She almost fainted when the bottom line read $20,000. What? That’s twenty-thousand dollars in cash. What’s he doing with that kinda dough?
     
    “Hey Stick, come look at this,” called Michael from the bedroom.
     
    “What?” she asked walking his way.
     
    “I thought Muslims were supposed to be holy. Look at all these porn mags. Gees Louise!” In the dim light of her flashlight, Michael looked like a kid who had just discovered a sex manual under his parent’s bed. He made silly noises as he took his sweet time paging through the material. “Oh my Lord, look at this.” He held something up in her