"This will feel invasive. It is invasive." Ms. Blake turns another page in the gargantuan stack and flips it around for him to sign. Each form is highlighted and tabbed, the markings color-coded depending on whether initials or a signature are needed. Since he already promised the Navy his soul and firstborn and spleen the day he signed up, Bradley doesn't bother reading any of it. Initial here, sign here, date here, do it all again. His signature has morphed from decipherable letters to a squiggle. "That does not mean, however, that we won't do our best to minimize the disturbance to your life."
"Uh huh." Bradley scrawls his signature on another page. The speech isn't necessary. This is all just performative bullshit anyways. Someone somewhere did something stupid a long time ago and now everyone needs a babysitter. It's the price of admission.
After he dots the last i and crosses the last t, she fenagles and shuffles the whole pile, along with the mission NDA he signed earlier, into a massive three-ring binder and locks it into the safe behind the desk. An identical binder sits alongside his. Two test pilots for Special Project Trident. Bradley wonders who the other is. It's a small world, but Commander Grayson wouldn't say anything about the assignment until they got past the security rigamarole.
"That said, after a while it does tend to grate on people." Ms. Blake turns back, leaning her forearms on the desk, fingers laced, squaring her gaze with his. She doesn't have a service branch or an academy ring, he notices; nearly everyone around here does, active duty or not. "Some folks end up pushing boundaries, trying to ditch us. Stuff like that. Please know, Lieutenant Bradshaw, that the Department of Defense is understandably protective of this work. My primary mission is the safety and security of the program, not anyone's comfort. If you push those boundaries there will be a disturbance to your life, and if I deem it necessary, you'll be confined to the base for the duration of the project."
That tracks. The Navy's first concern has certainly never been its people. The high school principal act gives him a raw rub, but you gotta play nice with the man. Bradley nods cooperatively. "Yes, ma'am. Roger that."
She studies him for a minute, maybe for effect, maybe trying to figure out if he's taking her seriously. He snaps his gum once, enough to show he's not intimidated but not enough to give the impression he'll be trouble. Bradley likes his life undisturbed.
After a few moments she relaxes back and pulls over an orange envelope sealed with tamper evident tape. "Excellent. This is for you." She tears it open and shakes two small objects into her palm, a keychain and a little round charm, like the kind you'd put on a bracelet. "This one," she holds up the charm before passing it across, "goes on your dog-tags. They and this don't come off. Ever. Even when you shower, even when you sleep. And this one goes on your keys. It's a back-up, but I'd prefer if you keep it with you as much as you can."
The words "what about during a fuck?" nearly trip out of his mouth, but her vibe is business in the front and the back, so he just asks, "What are they?"
"Panic buttons."
"Like if I need pizza in the middle of the night?"
Her smile is perfunctory. "Mmm. You're the third person today to make that exact joke, Lieutenant." Well, alrighty then.
'Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw' was how he introduced himself, but Bradley's fine – or Rooster. She'd introduced herself as Eleanor Blake, full stop, and did not ask him to call her 'Eleanor' when he addressed her as 'Ms. Blake.'
"You gonna inject me with a GPS tracker too?"
"No, those aren't real, or at least not injectable."
He sighs and gives up. "So how does this work exactly? Do I need an audience to take a shit?"
"We prefer not to do that." The implication being that it's a possibility, and the rueful contortion in her expression looks more like memory than irritation.
"Are you serious?"
"I wish I weren't," she says lightly. He chooses not to ponder the circumstances where that's a reality. There's a lose-lose situation. Unless you're into that sort of thing. Ms. Blake carries on, back to business, "Now, I have the day shift. I'll meet you at the base gate each morning at 0700 and hand you off to Mr. Chekera – you'll meet him later – at 1900. He is, for all intents and purposes, your roommate. He'll also be with you on weekends. And unfortunately, you don't get to kick him out when you have company," she gives him a brief but meaningful look, "but the house is solid construction and has bedrooms at opposite ends, and he's discreet."
Oh joy. "What else can't I do?" This whole thing is his mother's wet dream, minus the test pilot part.
"No music festivals. We can accommodate night clubs with a days' notice – that will require extra personnel. Restaurants, errands, that sort of thing fine." Not ideal, but not as bad as he was expecting her to say at this point. She takes off her glasses and hangs them from her t-shirt collar. "Lieutenant, spontaneity is not a luxury this program affords people; however, again, we will do our best to accommodate you." She seems genuine about the last part. And if they're this uptight about the project, it must be worth it. After that mission with Pete, he's come down with a case of professional wanderlust. Training flights without a mission get stale after a while.
"Right on. Thank you, ma'am." He flips a two fingered salute and heads back to the mission center for the good part.
o.O.o
It is worth it. Short of piloting a space shuttle, he will never fly anything this cool again in his life. But.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No." Ms. Blake says curtly. She turns to Chek, already walking backwards towards the house. The completely fine and not on fire house. "Silas, you got this?"
"Yeah, I've got him." Chek claps Bradley's shoulder, unbothered by late hour or the firetrucks or sirens. Bradley's keeps both hands tightly over his ears. Flying is bad enough for his tinnitus.
"Thank you." And then to him, "Lieutenant, I'll bring by some of your things once all this is sorted out." And she's off towards the fire marshal before he can argue more.
"Oh, come the fuck on. It's a gas leak," he yells over the noise, taking one hand off his ear to gesture at the circus outside his house. "All we have to do is open some windows. I have a flight tomorrow." The flight. Which is about to get canceled if he doesn't go to bed in the next half hour. The program managers take crew rest seriously. Billions of dollars, and more importantly years of scientific innovation – my innovation to be specific, as Doc reminds them all daily, cannot be ruined by carelessness.
Chek is sympathetic but uncompromising. "Sorry, friend. I don't think you have a flight tomorrow."
"Fuck." Bradley drops his hands and stares helplessly at the house. "Fuck." Fucking government functionaries so high on their own farts and self-importance. Two black SUVs pull in behind the firetrucks.
Bradley's first orders after joining up were to Kuwait. Even with the reassurance that it was the safest and most boring shithole imaginable, Mom had sobbed when he gave her the news. The worst dangers were sunburn and shitty food, and his first miserable week was spent on or over a toilet. In Iraq and Afghanistan, everyone stays on their toes, alert. Force pro units keep their guns up, and no one fucks with them. Kuwait is different. Force pro are basically mall cops. No one sends their best and brightest to stand in 120-degree heat checking IDs for twelve hours a day where nothing ever happens, and they compensated for it by practically cavity searching everyone coming in and out, all in the vain hope that something might pop. Nothing ever popped and no one appreciated the extra hold up.
Bradley looks around at the out-of-control trainwreck unfolding on his front lawn.
"It was probably just the damn pilot light. I mean seriously." It blows his mind that all his progress – the carefully planned out timeline of a whole program – will be delayed a week all because some Paul-Blart-with-a-clearance needs to feel important –
"Come on, man. Let's get you to a hotel." Chek starts walking towards the suburban parked between the fire trucks.
Bradley stays right where he is. But Chek doesn't slow down, and after two long fuming breaths, Bradley calls after him, "Fine, let me get my keys."
"No, man." If anything, the sympathy – being handled – only adds fuel to the fire. "Your car's gotta be checked out."
Amazing that he can still be surprised at government fuckery. Truly. It's magical. Bradley reluctantly climbs in the passenger seat of an SUV – he hates being driven – and slams the door closed, resolving to talk to the Commander about this BS first thing in the morning.
o.O.o
It's 4 a.m. by the time Ms. Blake drops off two bags filled with clothes and toiletries. He'd almost drifted off when the door rattled open.
"It'll only be another day, two tops." They're moving him out of his house. You can't make this shit up. "It's just across town. The commute will be easier."
Words fail him. Home is a flexible term for anyone in the military, but he's used to his space being his space while he's there. Across town near base is suburbia. He liked being downtown, being near life.
"I understand this is frustrating Lieutenant, and it's just an abundance of caution –"
"It's bullshit is what it is. I mean Jesus fucking Christ, is this what you're going to do if I accidentally leave the door unlocked? Act like the Russians are invading? What happened to minimizing disturbance?"
"– but it's best to play it safe." She pulls a notebook out of her back pocket. "Now I know it's pretty late –"
"At this point it's pretty early." He can see the faint light of dawn around the edges of the black-out curtains.
"– but I have a few questions first before I go if you don't mind."
"I do mind," he snaps. "It's 4 fucking o'clock in the morning." She's not in his command chain and can't give him orders and damned if he's putting up with any more of this shit tonight.
"Of course. We'll discuss it tomorrow." She has a way of phrasing things, like she's being accommodating but it's so obviously a statement rather than a request, and he can't stand the pretense. Ms. Blake gestures to his bags. "Please let me know if I missed anything. I'm happy to pick up anything you need on my way in tomorrow. Have a good evening."
"Yup." At least she's a civilian and he doesn't have to call her 'ma'am.'
Chek does up all the locks behind her when she leaves, even the little door chain, which he hangs a bell on. Bradley realizes he's still fully clothed and that the queen bed next to his hasn't been slept in.
"You seriously think there's a problem?"
Chek shrugs. "I do my job the same either way."
o.O.o
The boom of the plane going supersonic reverberates through his chest. Doc's grinning uncontrollably, lavender hair whipping around her face.
Bradley stands on the tarmac, staring up as it climbs. His jealous awe as the afterburners flare white is more bitter than sweet. The WRX-91 prototype. Trident. You'd think it was the codename for a sub instead of a plane. Maybe that was the point.
"Hey," Doc slaps his shoulder with her clipboard, sympathetic but all smiles. "I heard about last night. I'm really sorry." Her face is still lit up with glee, wrapped up in the excitement of the moment. This is a big day for her. Her dream is coming true. "Buuuut," she wheedles, sing-song, giving him a one-two poke with both forefingers, "I'll let you have the neeeext slooooot."
Providing the mall cops don't fuck things up again. It's nice of her, but there's no fixing his mood today. Instead of delaying the flight, Doc decided Hangman would fly it instead. Got to stay on schedule, and the timeline waits for no one.
"Aw, c'mon, Roosty." There's no poking this time, but he senses her hovering. "Hey," she says again, seriously, "it's not your entire career; it's just a day. One day." Earlier as they stood on the flight line waiting for Jake to take off, Bradley explained in general terms the circumstances surrounding his delay in starting flight school. She hadn't fully understood when he abruptly walked out of the morning stand-up after the news that Jake would be flying in his place. Even with that explanation, it's obvious she still thinks he's overreacting, but then again, no one's fucked with her project.
"Thanks, Doc." She's a good person, the sort that wants the best for everyone.
"He's not even getting the good flight. The next slot'll be funner anyway. He's just taking her up and down, no fancy tricks. You'll get to do the fancy stuff." She leans in conspiratorially, like his aunt when she was sneaking him an extra cookie after Sunday dinner. "Maybe I'll even let you do a barrel roll."
"More fun."
"Hmm?"
"'More fun.' Not funner. Didn't they teach you anything in school?" Bradley manages a teasing smile. He can pretend a little for her.
She purses her lips. "Yes, how to build the over-sized crotch rocket I'm graciously allowing you all to fly. Now do you want the next flight or not?"
"You already said I could. No take-backs."
"No backsies," she confirms and holds out her pinky to seal the deal. Her brows wrinkle. "Unless Hangboy out there crashes and we shut the whole thing down. I do wish you'd been able to have this flight." The cloud over his head does thin a little at that. "Then you'll have to wait for me to build a new plane." Almost as one they look up at the black speck streaking south, her hugging her clipboard and Bradley shielding his eyes against the sun. "I really hope he doesn't do all the stupid shit I told him not to."
"He won't." Grayson would boot them in an instant if they fucked around. Plenty of pilots out there, as Doc's fond of reminding them, only one plane. There's only one of me, Jake always reminds her back. Glad there aren't more, is her rote reply.
"Mmm." She nods, not fully convinced. Jake hasn't really taken kindly to being called Hangboy. "Go home. You look tired."
He knows, academically, that this is kindness, but Bradley can't help but hear the implication of inadequacy in her concern. "Nah, I can study. No reason to let the day go entirely to waste."
o.O.o
"Frankly, the guy's a bit of a dick."
Reilly is an Iowa farm boy who dropped out of college before joining the marines, and Lieutenant Seresin is a navy golden boy with a bloodhound's nose for others' insecurities. This is Reilly's first time as a detail lead. He's a sweet kid, and competent – can put a round up a fly's ass with a pistol at fifty yards – but he's not yet used to the people aspect of the job. Going from being a grunt to giving orders is an adjustment. One he needs to get used to.
"You need me to switch for a day?" Eleanor finds the quickest way to make a protectee more pliable is to switch with someone else for a day. If the temp is enough of a jackass, the protectee will usually be overjoyed – and appropriately and gratefully behaved – when their regular returns.
"No," Reilly sighs heavily. "I'm just…bitching." He desperately wants to prove himself and is not yet desperate enough to ask for help. Eleanor is happy to let him. He'll figure it out and be better for it. "Welp," Reilly flicks a speck of something off his pant leg before slapping both thighs in the Great Midwestern Gesture for Closing a Conversation. "I'll get out of your hair."
"Don't give him a reaction. He'll eventually get bored." Caring about keeping a person alive can become easily muddled with caring about their feelings and opinions. Hazard of the job, but you learn to look out for it.
"Mhmm." He's yessing her and not in the mood for advice. Eleanor lets it pass. Seresin is a bit of a dick. Bradshaw clearly has a chip on his shoulder, but at least he bears his grudges in relative silence. And the advantage of the day shift is that she can spend most of it in her office. As long as he's on the Trident compound there's no need for her to babysit. The space is healthy for both parties.
While they have a job to do, it can cause friction if the threat never visibly rears its head. Like the unsolved gas-leak. The fire marshal's investigation was "inconclusive" as to whether the leak was a result of foul play or aged piping. Personally, ma'am, between you and me there was some bad blood between the landlord and former tenant. Real bad blood. The team went over Bradshaw's new rental with a fine-toothed comb. If something hinky comes up, she won't have to wonder how it came about. This was supposed to be a cush assignment, and Eleanor has bigger concerns.
Reilly closes the office door behind him, and Eleanor pulls up the tab she was reading before he dropped by to complain. She scrolls down the page. Echoing Cave, Fleetwood, Foxglove. She comes to the Gs and slows, reading more carefully. Gaelic Bard, Gallstone (who the hell names a project gallstone?), Gestalt, Ghost.
Ghost. Ironic, on so many levels. She clicks on Ghost.
Status: Active.
A stab of anxious anticipation makes her shaky and giddy all at once. Old anger, blunted by the years but never gone, boils up. After everything they've kept the program going. The human capacity for arrogant stupidity knows no bounds. Well, no one ever accused the government of caring about its people. Eleanor flexes both hands, shaking out the nerves. That this gamble is finally starting to pay off gives her the looming feeling of a shoe about to drop.
The page isn't detailed, just a listing of the project manager and lead researchers and their contact info. No project description, no location. But then she doesn't need that. She's here for a name, which she finds halfway down the page.
PORTER, AMY. Still there. Still alive. A slew of memories flood into the moment, and Eleanor sits, waiting for the adrenaline-wobble of her stomach to go away. Finally. It's been what, eight years? After so much time it almost doesn't seem real. Welp, doesn't serve to get sloppy at this stage in the game.
Eleanor closes the browser quickly, dumps her coffee on the keyboard right above the hard drive, and lets it sit for a bit. IT hates everyone, so may as well play to expectations. They'll grumble, she'll give them a doe-eyed apologetic look, Whoopsie, I'm so clumsy, and they'll chuck the whole thing in the trash along with all evidence that she was poking around in the places she shouldn't.