Zero-G (11 page)

Bob leaned over his desk, opening a colored folder to scan the pages inside.

“I'm assuming you've already read that, Bob. Just say it.”

“Most indicators are good, Tuck. Dr. Bennack states that you've shown the proper journey through grief. Your emotional state is stable and your social interaction indicates good mental healing.”

“You're dumbing this down for me, aren't you?”

“Yeah. I am. The fancy terms won't mean much to you.”

“So if I'm doing so well, then what's stuck in your craw?”

“The dreams. You're still having the night terrors.”

“Nightmares. Let's not exaggerate their intensity or their frequency.”

Bob met Tuck's eyes as if the doctor could read thoughts printed on the gray matter. “When was your last night terror . . . nightmare?”

Lie. Just tell him a lie. You wouldn't be the first astronaut
to fudge the truth about a medical matter.

“Last night.”

“And?”

“And what? It was just a dream. I've had them before and I might have a few more. Dreams are just dreams.”

Bob shook his head. “No, Tuck, they're not just dreams. What you went through would drive most men mad. You're military. You know the effects trauma has on a man. When I did my psych rotation in med school, I met World War II vets still grieving buddies lost in battle.”

“I'm not them.” The words came out hard as bricks.

“No, you're not. You're Commander Benjamin Tucker Junior, Navy jock pilot, three-time veteran of Shuttle missions, and hero to the world. You're also made of flesh and blood; your brain is made the same way as the rest of us.”

“You're washing me out?”

“No. You're still part of the astronaut corps, but I'm taking you off the flight roster.”

Tuck didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened like a clamp. “This is an overreaction, Bob. You know it is.”

“I know no such thing. You know as well as I do —scratch that — you know
better
than I do that space travel is not the same thing as flying a plane. If we were just talking air flight, I'd tell you to keep seeing the psychiatrist until the dreams disappeared, but I'd let you fly. Shuttle missions put you in space for days. You sleep up there. I have to think of the rest of the crew.” He paused. “Of course, it's all academic, really.”

“It's more than that. It's personal.”

“It's not personal, Tuck. It's academic because you've already made three flights. You'd be out of the rotation for a while anyway, maybe for good. Who knows?”

“Then clear me to fly and I'll fight the schedule battle with the suits later.”

“I can't do that, Tuck. I can't clear you just because I like you. I have to make a medical judgment.”

Tuck leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His eyes fixed on the linoleum floor but he saw none of it. He was lost in the vacuum of his mind. Bob's announcement had cored the life out of him. He had walked in a confident pilot and astronaut; now he sat as a shell of a man.

“I take no pleasure in this, Tuck. I didn't sleep a wink last night. I've washed other men out, but this is different. I've always considered you a friend.”

“A friend?” Tuck wanted to say more, something harsh, something that would inflict pain and drown the man in guilt. The best he could do was to move his head from side to side.

“Look, I know you didn't want to hear that and you're not going to like this any better, but I had to consider your family as well.”

“What have they got to do with this?”

“Everything, Tuck. They came close to losing you a year ago. They know the families of those who did die, and every time they see them, they are reminded how close they came to living the rest of their lives without you.”

“You don't know my family that well, Bob.” The comment failed to prevent Penny's words of last night from reverberating through his soul.

“I know them well enough, and to be blunt: you didn't see their faces while we were trying to bring you in. You heard your wife over the com system, but I had to look her in the eyes, then your son, and your daughter. I had a few nightmares about that myself.”

“So that's it. I'm finished.”

“Of course not. The work of NASA isn't confined to a flight deck. We have the new human exploration projects; there's still engineering, still training — ”

“Do you know what Leonardo da Vinci said about flight, Bob?”

“Not really.”

Tuck quoted, “ ‘When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.' ” Tuck rose. “I'm not sure you can understand that, Bob.”

“Why? Because I'm not an astronaut?”

“Exactly.”

“Why do you think I work for NASA? Do you believe it's because of the money? I make a third of what I could in the outside world. I walked away from a lucrative practice so I could participate in the exploration and utilization of space. So don't tell me I don't understand. I'll never get to do what you do. It wasn't in the cards for me. Nonetheless, I plan to do whatever I can to be a part of space exploration so jockeys like you can do what I can't.”

“You can't understand, Bob. You can't. You've never flown in space.”

“To my knowledge, neither did da Vinci.”

A hot sword of regret pierced Tuck. “I'm sorry, Bob. I'm . . . I didn't mean . . .”

“Go home, Tuck.” .

Mark Ganzi felt ill at ease. He had spoken to the man and had done five grand worth of work for him, so why should he be nervous about meeting him at the airport? He had no answer. Not one to speak often of instinct, he knew a private eye wasn't much good without it. His instinct had just found fourth gear, and each minute that passed pressed the accelerator a little closer to the emotional floorboard.

The George Bush Intercontinental Airport buzzed with activity. In the area where non-travelers bided their time waiting for friends, family, or coworkers to arrive, Ganzi tried to blend in. Several people held signs with names prominently displayed. He had been told not to do such an obvious thing. Instead, he had been told to wait near the back wall with his arms folded.

The flat-screen monitor showing departures and arrivals indicated his client's plane had landed on time. Another stream of travelers started down the escalators into the waiting area near the luggage carousels. One slovenly man pushed his way through the crowds chanting, “Sorry. Excuse me. Coming through.” He jostled one man and Ganzi was certain bruises were about to be administered. Nothing came of it. No one wanted to spend more time in the airport than necessary.

At the top of the escalator the figure of a tall man appeared. Even though thirty or more paces separated them, Ganzi could see the man's eyes scanning the crowd. When they made eye contact, Ganzi straightened. The man let his gaze linger for a second, then continued to scan the room. For a moment, Ganzi thought he had set his attention on the wrong man.

He hadn't.

As soon as the escalator deposited him on the lower floor, the man took long strides until he stood before Ganzi. Close up, Ganzi could see the man was not only tall, but also thick across the shoulders. Muscles pressed against the sleeves of his tan sport coat.

“You are Mark Ganzi?”

“That's me. You must be — ”

“Anthony Verducci.”

“Of course. I assume you have luggage.” Ganzi stood several inches under six foot, and standing next to his client made him feel all the shorter.

“One suitcase. I prefer to travel light.”

“A wise decision these days. Luggage pickup is this way.” Ganzi led his charge into the stream of humanity moving to baggage claim. Ganzi expected more waiting, but bags and suitcases were already moving around the metal carousel.

“It's about time.” The voice came loud and harsh. Ganzi turned in time to see the same slovenly man elbowing his way through. “Come on, come on. Let me through. I'm late for a meeting.”

He brushed by Ganzi and his client, and in his haste stepped on the foot of a little girl. She screamed and dropped to the floor.

The brusque traveler stumbled but caught himself. He spun to face the fallen child. “Stupid kid. Watch what you're doing.” He turned to the mother. “Can't you keep your little monkey on a leash? Bad enough I had to hear her yammer all the way from New York.”

The mother reached for the child, tears welling in both their eyes.

Verducci stepped next to Loud Mouth, placed a hand on the man's bicep, and began to squeeze. Ganzi knew what was happening. Verducci had dug his fingers into the space between bicep and triceps, pressing the artery and very sensitive nerve that ran from shoulder to elbow. “Let go of — ”

“You've been rude,” Verducci interrupted.

“I don't have to listen to some foreigner — ” He winced. Strong fingers had moved an inch closer to the upper arm bone.

“Don't you think you should apologize?”

“Okay . . . okay. I'm sorry, little girl.”

“The mother.” Verducci's words were smooth. If he was angry, he didn't let it show.

The man gave her a humble nod and said, “I'm sorry. I behaved badly.”

The mother glared at him and gathered her weeping daughter even closer.

“Get your bag and get out.” The words were so cold Ganzi thought he saw condensation puff from his client's mouth. Verducci dropped his hand, and the man scrambled away.

Verducci squatted next to the little girl. “Hello, child. Are you hurt badly?”

She sniffed. “He stepped on my foot.”

“May I take a look?”

She nodded. “You talk funny.”

Verducci smiled. “I am from Italy. Have you ever been to Italy, little one?”

“No. Where is it?”

He moved the sock on her right foot down to the top of her small sneaker. A small scrape was visible. “It is far across the ocean. It is the most beautiful place on Earth. Maybe someday you can visit my country.”

“That would be fun.”

Ganzi watched Verducci. When subduing the impatient slob Verducci had showed no emotion, but with the child, he flashed a smile and displayed genuine concern.

“Your foot looks fine. There is a scrape and it will sting for a little while. Maybe your mother can put a Band-Aid on it later. Can you stand?”

“I think so.” She wiped the last of the tears from her eyes.

Verducci stood. “Then give me your hand, little one.” She did and Verducci raised her to her feet. She stood on one foot, and then tested the other.

“Thank you,” the mother said.

“Make no mention of it. I am glad to be of help.”

He put a hand on the little girl's head and gave it a pat.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in Ganzi's rental car and moving through the busy streets. Ganzi split his thoughts between the traffic and the man seated next to him. Verducci struck the private investigator as an oxymoron: willing to inflict pain on the sloppily dressed buffoon at the airport, yet eager to help a stricken child.

Hadn't Verducci hired Ganzi to gather information on the most famous astronaut in the country? Ganzi still didn't know why.

“You want a report now?” Ganzi asked.

Verducci shook his head. “At the hotel. I need to think.”

A moment later, Ganzi heard a gentle snoring.

TEN

T
uck wandered through downtown streets then along residential byways. He saw only enough to prevent him from running his car into the back of a truck or into a tree. Normally prone to stretching the restrictions of speed-limit signs, something he referred to as “speed suggestion” signs, this time he kept his foot light on the accelerator, and the Chevy Avalanche pickup seemed grateful for it. The gas pedal in his mind, however, was stuck to the floorboard.

Bob Celtik's words blared like a car alarm, repeating and repeating and repeating. Bob had been as professional and as caring as a man could be, but anger boiled in Tuck. It wasn't Bob's fault. He hadn't made the psych evaluation; he only read it.

He couldn't go home. Not yet. Not with so much venom aching to inflict damage on the nearest clump of flesh and nerves that passed for human.

He had felt blessed his entire life: reared in a great family, guided by fine teachers, graduated the naval academy, given wings in flight school, and inducted into the astronaut corps. Only a handful of men could boast of such things. He was married to a woman he'd marry again in a heartbeat, and his children . . . his children . . . The thought of Penny and Gary drained the fury from Tuck and replaced it with scalding regret. Although he had never said it aloud, he drew an impossible- to-measure sense of satisfaction each time his children said, “My dad is an astronaut.”

“They can still say that.” The voice bubbled up from deep in his brain. At least a part of his gray matter remained connected to reality.