Free The Fall by R. J. Pineiro Page B

no way to keep the general public from seeing the outside of the suit, the high-tech battle dress layer he now wore—considered Manhattan Project–level at the Pentagon—certainly contradicted NASA’s press release about the OSS being just an escape vehicle for emergencies at the International Space Station.
    â€œAIDS,” the driver replied.
    â€œAIDS?” Jack replied.
    â€œDon’t let anybody fool you, son. HIV was created by the government as a biological weapon. A tool for genocide. But the thing got away from them.”
    This guy’s seriously off his rocker, he thought, but in a way, Jack found it refreshingly entertaining given his surreal situation. “Really? Which part of the government’s responsible?”
    â€œWell, the CIA, of course. Them spooks are always up to no good. And not for one second do I believe that the big man in the Oval Office didn’t know about it.” He gave Jack a sideways glance, lowered his voice, and added, “I think he was the brains behind the thing.”
    â€œWhich president are you talking about?” he asked.
    â€œWell, Reagan, of course. He was planning to release the virus on the Soviet Union by contaminating their blood supply if the Politburo didn’t go along with Gorbachev in dissolving the Soviet Union. He was just going to let all of them Commies die off over the course of a year or two. But the thing backfired on us. Ain’t that a son of a bitch?”
    â€œWow,” Jack replied as he stared out the window, finally spotting a road sign that seemed as bizarre as the brain firing inside this guy’s head.
    A chill gripped him as he read the sign again while starting to wonder if perhaps he was the one imagining shit.
    But the sign was for real, right there, on the side of this winding two-lane road.
    SPEED LIMIT
    75
    How could it be seventy-five miles per hour? The speed limit on an interstate in Florida was sixty-five.
    â€œWhat road is this?” he asked.
    â€œForty-Six heading for I-95, son. Why do you ask? You lost?”
    â€œYeah,” he replied. “Was hiking and I think I lost my bearings.”
    â€œYou got lost on a clear night with all them stars up there?”
    Jack tilted his head.
    â€œSome hiker you are.”
    You have no idea, Jack thought, forcing a half-embarrassed shrug.
    â€œBut Reagan’s ancient history,” the Marine veteran added as Jack tried to piece this mystery together. This was a side road that connected Orlando to I-95, and if memory served him well, the speed limit on it was around forty-five or fifty. Certainly not seventy-five.
    â€œThe one that really gets me is the Clinton body count,” the driver continued.
    Really, dude?
    â€œYeah,” Jack finally said, deciding that it was best to keep the guy talking while he did more thinking. “So, how many people did Clinton have killed?”
    â€œOh, son, many more than the ones reported by the American Justice Federation. Many more. Many more, indeed. The man was ruthless, I tell you. Taking out Vince Foster and about sixty more of his close associates from previous business deals. Poor bastards. From suicides and accidental deaths to murders that remain unsolved to this day.”
    And so it went, for the next fifteen minutes, as this nameless driver continued down this dark road while covering Clinton, Obama, Reagan, the two Bush presidents, and then took off in the direction of MLK, JFK, and especially LBJ before diving even deeper into Nixon, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Jimmy Hoffa, and Salvador Allende, who Jack learned was a former president of Chile.
    Finally, after what seemed like a deep and nearly endless discourse, the driver paused, frowned, and thrust an open hand in Jack’s direction. “Look at me. Where have my manners gone? I’m Lou Palmer,” he said, offering a smile of stained teeth adorned with greenish chewing tobacco.
    â€œJack