Jeff knew the
day had been going too well. He'd actually been able to leave work early
for once. Neither public nor private sides of N-Tek had any crises requiring
his attention. Most of his agents were training or on very routine missions.
And Team Steel, who could turn even a routine mission into a global threat,
was on two-week light duty following its last assignment. He'd thought
it was a perfect opportunity to have dinner with his son, whom he rarely
saw outside of work anymore. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, he'd found
the answer to that. Or more specifically, JOSH had found it-- Jeff's college
yearbook. Currently the younger man was flipping through the pages, occasionally
laughing or making some comment about the state of the world in 1972.
Suddenly Josh's
eyebrows shot up. "Wow, Dad... I can't believe it. You had HAIR!" Flipping
the book around, he indicated a picture of Jeff with a full Afro. Jeff
buried his face in his hands.
"Yes, well,
just remember where the stress that resulted in LOSING it came from," he
shot back, a small smile playing around his lips. Josh just laughed and
continued to page through the book. Then he stopped, frowning slightly.
"You and Jim
were roommates in college?" he asked, looking up. "I never knew that."
For a moment,
Jeff was speechless. Dear Lord... have I really told him so little about
his father? With an internal wince, Jeff saw that was the case. He'd
never liked talking about Jim... even now, sixteen years later, the wounds
hurt too much. Josh had been perceptive even as a child, and Jeff realized
now that his son had never asked.
Everything
he knows about Jim, he learned from Marshak. Jeff shook his head. Josh
deserved better than that, especially from him. Taking the yearbook from
Josh, Jeff paged through it, eyes far away. Then, shutting the book, he
sat back in his chair.
"I first met
Jim McGrath in September of 1971. It was my freshman year of college, at
Del Oro University..."
*****
Jefferson Smith
pushed open the door to his dorm room and stopped dead. His roommate had
obviously moved in before him, that much was certain. Fully one half of
the room was covered in sports equipment and memorabilia, from football
pads to baseball gear. There was a basketball peeking out from under one
of the desks, roller skates hanging from a bedpost, and Jeff was pretty
certain he could see a tennis racket leaning in one of the corners. For
a long moment, Jeff simply stared at the scene before him.
Great. I'm
rooming with a jock. This is going to be a very long year. With a sigh,
Jeff began to unpack.
It didn't take
very long for Jeff to get all his possessions stored, and he noted with
some amusement that his still-absent roommate had claimed exactly half
of the room with his own possessions. The precision surprised him. Not
that his roommate seemed sloppy, though. All of the sports gear seemed
fairly organized. There was simply so much of it that it took up all the
available space. The delineation between the two sides was obvious, and
Jeff hoped that wasn't an omen.
A commotion
in the hall caught Jeff's attention, and he looked up just in time to see
a stranger enter the room. He was white, though it was hard to tell under
all the mud and grime coating him. About six feet tall, he was somewhat
lanky, though he had a fair amount of muscle. Jeff could well believe this
man played all the sports indicated by the equipment in his room. From
beneath the layer of dirt, intelligent dark eyes sized up Jeff, his clothing,
and the small second-hand library on his desk.
"Name's Jim
McGrath," the newcomer announced. "I'm assuming you're my new roommate?
I'd shake your hand, but..." Jim indicated his state of cleanliness with
a grimace.
Jeff nodded.
"That's fine. Yeah, if this is your room, I'm your roommate. Jefferson
Smith."
"Nice to meet
you," Jim replied, crossing to pick up the football pads that rested on
the bed. Suddenly a much larger, but equally filthy, man stuck his head
in the door.
"Come on, McGrath,
get your pads and let's go! The Coach is gonna have our asses if we're
late!"
"Yeah, yeah,
keep your shirt on, I'm coming." Tipping a salute at Jeff, he dashed out
the door. Jeff watched him go, shaking his head.
Yeah, this
is DEFINITELY going to be a long year, Jeff sighed. Picking up a book,
he collapsed onto his bed.
The book in front
of him was suddenly slammed shut, causing Jeff's head to snap up as he
blinked in startlement. "What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded,
glaring at his roommate.
"Put the book
up, Smith," Jim drawled, leaning against Jeff's desk. "We're going out."
"Look, I don't
care what you do, but I have a test tomorrow, which means I have to STUDY.
Some of us are here on MERIT scholarships, which means we have to keep
our grades."
Jim made a hurt
face. "First of all, I do have to keep my grades up, even with a football
scholarship. Second of all, you're not studying. You've been staring at
the same page for almost an hour now. You've been studying all week, and
you're not going to do yourself any more good by cramming until you can't
see straight. Trust me, I know."
Sighing, Jeff
regarded the book lying in front of him. The words WERE all starting to
blur together, he had to admit... and relaxing sounded pretty good right
about now. He cocked his head to one side as he regarded his roommate.
"What do you have in mind?"
"There's this
bar I know," Jim replied. "Lot of the guys on the team go there. They do
check for ID, so we'll have to get pop, but it's a good place to go, relax,
listen to music. Sound good?"
"Sounds great."
Without giving himself time to think further, Jeff pushed the book across
his desk and stood up, snagging his wallet as he did so. He needed some
time to relax if he was going to be able to think straight for the test
tomorrow. And it was a weeknight, so the bar should be pretty quiet. What
could go wrong?
"I am never going
anywhere with you again," Jeff grumbled, fumbling for his room keys. From
his current position, leaning heavily against the hallway wall, Jim McGrath
grinned.
"Admit it, you
had fun," the smaller man teased.
Jeff shook his
head, pushing the door open. "I did, up until the bar fight. What
on earth possessed you to pick a fight with THREE men twice your size?"
With a shrug,
Jim pushed himself away from the wall, threading an arm around Jeff's neck
for support as he limped into the room. "I don't like bigots," he said
simply. "Never have."
That remark
left Jeff silent as he gently set Jim down on his bed, careful not to jar
the other man's sore ribs. Stepping back, he regarded his roommate critically,
then shook his head.
"You're gonna
look like a sunset, McGrath. Hold on." Opening one of his desk drawers,
Jeff rummaged around for a few minutes, finally pulling out a bottle of
dark liquid and a washcloth.
Jim cast a sideways
glance at the liquid, which Jeff was pouring onto the washcloth. "WHAT
is that?" he demanded, edging away.
Shaking his
head, Jeff chuckled. "Trust me, you don't want to know. It's my grandmother's
secret concoction. She's been using it for years on all the scrapes and
bruises that her children and grandchildren get into. If twenty-some Smiths
swear by it, I figure it should work for you. It'll make the bruises feel
better, trust me."
"Aw, why not?"
Jim decided, carefully shucking off his shirt as he accepted the washcloth
gingerly. He rubbed himself down with the cloth, wincing as the liquid
burned in some of the open scratches. When he had finished, however, he
was noticeably less hunched over.
"Hey, that stuff
really works," he commented, handing Jeff the washcloth back. Jeff grinned.
"Smith family
recipe works every time." Tossing the washcloth back in its drawer, Jeff
regarded his book, then shook his head and flopped down on his bed. Jim
lay back as well, flipping off the light.
In the darkness,
Jeff's voice was unusually soft. "Hey, Jim... thanks."
Jim grinned,
a flash of white in the dim room. "Don't mention it. You've got a pretty
good right hook yourself, Smith... not to mention being handy with a beer
bottle."
"Don't remind
me... if my mother ever finds out I broke a beer bottle over that man's
head..."
That got a laugh
from Jim. "Go to sleep," he ordered. "You've got a test tomorrow." And
with that, he was out cold, oblivious to Jeff's good-natured grumbling
from the other side of the room.
"You would think,
after three years rooming with you, I'd have built up some type of defense
against those damn eyes of yours," Jeff grumbled, following Jim to the
auditorium. His roommate laughed.
"No one escapes
the McGrath Puppy Eyes, Smith. They're genetic. My dad used to use them
to get out of trouble. You never had a chance."
Jeff shook his
head. "God help us all if you ever breed."
"Come on, Jeff.
It's one little speech, extra credit for my business course. I just want
some company; these things can get SO boring."
"Even if you
did choose something by the CEO of the local sports equipment company,"
Jeff teased.
His friend shrugged.
"Hey, had to do SOMETHING to make it interesting. N-Tek Sports donates
huge amounts of money to the college, and in return they let Nathanson
ramble on at the students. Sounds fair to me."
As the two men
entered the auditorium, Jim's gaze suddenly fell on a man dressed in maintenance
clothes, carrying a black leather tool case. He didn't look any different
from the hundred maintenance workers who generally haunted the campus,
but something about the way he moved rang false. He seemed a touch too
smooth, a bit too nonchalant. As the man ducked up the stairs that led
to the balcony, Jim's eyebrows shot up.
"Hey, Jeff?
Isn't the balcony closed for renovations?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, what's
a maintenance man doing going up there alone, during a speech? Nobody in
their right mind would be doing renovation work when somebody's trying
to talk."
Jeff sighed.
"I dunno, maybe he's just seeing what needs to be done. Jim, where are
you going?" This last was demanded as his friend headed for the stairs.
"I'm going to
check this out. Something's not right here."
Casting a look
at the ceiling, Jeff silently demanded to know WHAT he had done to deserve
the headache known as Jim McGrath. Then he sighed once more.
"Hold on, I'm
coming with you."
The two men
slipped up the stairs like wraiths, almost unconsciously trying to hide
any sign of their approach. Jeff found that he had caught Jim's unease,
and he didn't want whoever was up there to have any warning they were coming.
The logical part of his brain was scoffing at his "cops and robbers" fantasies,
but something stronger in the back of his mind was insisting that something
very dangerous was going on.
Pausing at the
edge of the darkened balcony, Jim had to squint to make out any shapes
in the gloom. Once he had, however, he saw the maintenance man kneeling
at the front of the balcony, busily screwing together something from the
black canvas bag. Beside him, Jim heard Jeff's indrawn breath.
"Bet that's
not a vacuum cleaner," Smith whispered.
"You'd win that
bet." Jim's father had been a Green Beret, and even after settling down
to farm had never completely left the Army behind. As a result, he knew
a sniper rifle when he saw one. A quick check confirmed that the balcony
offered a perfect shot at the podium where Nathanson would be delivering
his speech momentarily.
Pulling Jeff
back into the stairwell, Jim addressed his friend in low, urgent tones.
"Look, you need to get down there and warn security that they've got a
nut in the balcony. Get Nathanson out of the line of fire if you can."
Jeff regarded
him in astonishment. "And what are YOU going to do?"
"What I do best."
Jim flashed him a brilliant white smile. "Improvise."
"You..." Jeff
sighed. "Just get yourself back in one piece, okay?"
Jim's smile
widened. "Hey, trust me."
After that,
Jeff wanted to leave even less, but he reluctantly turned and headed down
the stairs.
Left alone,
Jim took a deep breath to clear his head, sizing up the situation. He needed
some sort of weapon, not to mention an advantage. His gaze fell on a fire
extinguisher attached to the nearby wall and he smiled. Reaching out, he
hefted it, pleased to find it nearly full and very heavy. Then he tiptoed
towards the man who was still busily assembling his rifle.
"Excuse me."
At the sudden voice, no more than a foot from his own ear, the sniper jerked
and reflexively turned to face the speaker. Instead, he got a face-full
of fire-suppressant foam, quickly followed up with a blow from the canister
itself. Dropping the rifle, he staggered backwards, clawing at his eyes.
He managed
to clear his vision just in time to see Jim's next punch headed directly
at his face. Deftly, he deflected the blow and followed up with one of
his own. Jim knocked the sniper's fist aside, following up with a knee
strike to the man's gut. Twisting with the blow, the other man managed
to avoid the worst of it, using the time to snatch a Bowie knife from a
leg sheath.
The blade flickered
in the lights from the stage, all the warning Jim had before it darted
like lightning for his throat. But his dad hadn't neglected this aspect
of his education, either, and Jim faded back out of reach of the strike.
The two men circled each other warily, hampered by the lack of open space
in the balcony. It was only a matter of time before somebody moved in the
wrong direction, and then the fight would be over.
Meanwhile, Jeff
was running into his own problems; namely, Chief Sturges, the extremely
skeptical head of the Campus Police. "A nut in the balcony with a gun,"
Sturges echoed. "Okay, Smith, what kind of prank is McGrath playing, and
how'd he talk you into it?"
Jeff growled. "This is NOT a joke! There is a man in that balcony
with a sniper rifle, with a lovely shot at your guest speaker. Send somebody
up there to check it out!"
Before Sturges
could make another comment and possibly have Jeff rearrange his teeth,
however, a mild, lightly accented voice broke into the conversation.
"Now, now, what
seems to be the problem here?" The speaker was a tall man in an expensive
suit, with dark brown hair and a light, possibly British accent. He regarded
Jeff and Sturges both with inquisitive eyes.
"Nothing to
worry about, Mr. Nathanson," Sturges replied, shooting a warning glance
at Jeff. "Just a college prank, that's all."
"The hell it
is," Jeff snarled, but before he could say more, there was a scream. All
three men turned to see the sniper leap from the low balcony down into
the aisle. Even as he landed, he was pulling a handgun from behind his
back. Grabbing Nathanson, Jeff pulled the man to the ground even as Sturges
fumbled for the sidearm he wore.
Suddenly a red
fire extinguisher canister bounced off the sniper's head, stunning him
and causing him to drop the gun. Instantly, the Campus Police swarmed the
would-be assassin.
Looking up into
the balcony, Jeff saw Jim leaning against the balcony giving him a weary
thumbs-up.
"Good heavens,"
Nathanson remarked, sitting up gingerly. "Your friend has phenomenal aim."
"He plays a
lot of football," Jeff explained, too relieved to care how inane that sounded.
Nathanson nodded.
"Ah. In any case, it seems I owe the two of you my life. Tell me- do you
have any student loans?"
With a sigh,
Jeff flopped onto the couch. "I don't believe it. We finally graduated."
The clinking
of glass heralded Jim's emergence from the kitchen of their small apartment,
carrying two bottles of beer. "Four years is not exactly 'finally,' Jeff,"
the other man replied, handing his friend a bottle. "And I don't know how
glad I am about it. Now that we're out of college, we have to get JOBS."
"Don't remind
me," the older man groaned. "At least we're starting off with a clean slate."
In gratitude for saving his life, Marco Nathanson had paid off all of Jim
and Jeff's student loans, plus taking care of their tuition for the remainder
of their stay in college. The cushion was a godsend for both men, neither
of whom came from wealthy families.
"Speaking of
our benefactor, he called while you were out. He says he has jobs to offer
both of us... interested?"
Jeff peered
out from under the arm he had flung over his face. "Not like we've got
any other prospects... but I wonder what we could do at a sports equipment
manufacturer?"
Jim shrugged.
"Don't know until we ask... meeting's at ten o'clock tomorrow. Better iron
your suit." He ducked as Jeff hurled a pillow at his head.
"Can you believe
this place has its own ISLAND?" Jim whispered, as he and Jeff entered the
N-Tek Corporate Headquarters. "They must really be raking in the dough."
Jeff's only
response was an absent nod. He was a bit more preoccupied with the unobtrusive
security he could see all around them. It was a ridiculous amount of security
for a sports equipment manufacturer, even a highly successful one. His
spine was itching; something was a bit off here. One glance at Jim told
him that his friend sensed it as well.
The receptionist
quickly checked their names in her book, then smiled and waved them towards
the elevators, telling them that Nathanson's office was on the seventh
floor. As the two men boarded the elevators, they caught a glimpse of lobby
security. From the way they stood, Jeff would have bet money they were
carrying weapons.
"Last chance
to go back down, leave, and never look back," Jeff remarked, once the door
slid closed. "I think we may be getting in over our heads here."
"Are you kidding?
I want to know what's going on here," Jim replied. "We can't leave yet."
Jeff sighed.
"I was afraid you'd say that. Your curiosity is going to get us both killed
someday."
His friend's
only response was a wide smile.
Nathanson's
office was large, well-furnished, and to Jeff's relief, held a noticeable
absence of armed men. As the secretary showed the two young men in, the
CEO looked up from the report he was reading and smiled.
"Ah, Mr. McGrath,
Mr. Smith, thank you for coming. Miss Colson, would you bring our guests
some coffee?" Nathanson asked, standing.
"Of course,
Mr. Nathanson," the secretary smiled. "How do you gentlemen prefer your
coffee?"
"Sugar and cream,
please," Jeff replied.
"Black, thank
you," was Jim's response. The dark-haired woman made a face, but left.
A few minutes
later, she returned with three steaming mugs of coffee. Handing one to
her boss, she passed the other two to Jim and Jeff, then excused herself.
Jim took a sip of the contents of his mug, and his eyes closed as he let
out a pleased rumble.
"THAT is good
coffee," he declared. Nathanson looked gratified.
"A rare Brazilian
blend that a friend sent to me. Are you a connoisseur of coffee, Mr. McGrath?"
Jeff snorted,
leading Jim to elbow him in the side. "Not a connoisseur, exactly, but
I know a good cup of coffee when I drink it."
"Mainly because
he's had so many BAD ones from the school cafeteria," Jeff replied, taking
a sip of his own. Jim was right, it WAS good, though he wasn't so much
of an addict as his friend.
Nathanson smiled.
"A man who can appreciate a good cup of coffee is a jewel beyond price,"
the older man mused. "However, I think perhaps it's time we discussed the
reason I asked you both to come today. A year and a half ago, the two of
you saved my life from a would-be assassin. I am, of course, grateful,
but more to the point, I realized you were both intelligent, courageous,
and capable of thinking on your feet. In short, you are exactly the type
of men I need here at N-Tek."
"At a sports
equipment company?" Jeff's tone was wary.
"Not... exactly.
The sports equipment is only a façade, though of course, it is a
fully functional business. The true purpose of N-Tek is somewhat different."
The older man
looked grave. "You remember, of course, the situation at the Olympic games
three years ago?"
Jim made a face.
"I think everybody remembers that. Terrorists taking athletes hostage--
probably one of the biggest tragedies of our time."
"Exactly." Nathanson's
nod was sharp. "The world is changing, in some ways for the better, in
some ways for the worse. Terrorism, rather than war, is rapidly becoming
the preferred means of securing power, wealth, and territory. Technological
advances are making it a much more efficient choice. If our society is
to survive this period, we must rise to meet the terrorist threat, with
a specially tailored force to combat it. For this reason, I founded N-Tek.
"We are chartered
by the United Nations, rather than any particular government. This eliminates
any political elements to what we do. We stop terrorists-- no more complicated
than that. And I think both of you would be excellent N-Tek operatives.
"Of course,
N-Tek operates in secret-- no one knows exactly what we do. Should you
accept, both of you will be given cover jobs with N-Tek's public side.
Mr. McGrath, we'd probably have you in product testing, and I think something
in marketing for Mr. Smith. Those would, of course, simply be cover jobs...
though you might be asked to actually fill in occasionally. If you decide
you don't wish to join N-Tek as agents, the jobs in the public sector ARE
still open. And if you choose to walk away completely, I only ask that
you not breathe a word of what you have learned here today." Nathanson
fell silent then, regarding Jim and Jeff expectantly.
Jeff couldn't
believe what he was hearing. Secret agents, terrorists; it was ridiculous,
like something out of a kid's cartoon. Even if it WAS real, and he had
to admit it looked like it was, it would be an insane risk. There was no
way he was going to do this. Then he looked over at Jim.
His friend was sitting on the edge of his seat, vibrating with
a barely suppressed energy. Jim's dark eyes sparkled, and he wore a half-smile,
the same damn smile he'd worn just before going mud-sledding down the largest
hill on campus on a tray stolen from the cafeteria. Jeff sighed.
"All right,
Mr. Nathanson," Smith agreed, "it looks like you've got a deal."
*****
"And so Jim and
I became field agents, partners. We worked together for four years. Then
I got promoted and Jim got married... five years after that was--"
"The explosion,"
Josh finished. That much of the past, at least, he knew.
Jeff settled
back in his chair, gaze thoughtful. "You know, I haven't thought about
any of this in years. Never wanted to push at the wounds and find out they
hadn't healed after all."
"I know this
wasn't easy for you, Dad. But... thanks."
"Any time, son.
Any time."
Be on the lookout for the conclusion to Bookends, coming soon.