Shock Diamonds Read online

  I swung out of bed, peeled off the stupid Johnny, and began getting dressed right in front of her, hoping to invoke some reaction of embarrassment. She glanced up, gave an expression of disinterest, and went back to writing.

  “You’ll need to see me in two weeks, Mr. Tarn. Your blood tests will all be in by then. We should be able to close this out.”

  “Two weeks. Sure thing. We’ll call you.”

  Dr. Adara clipped her pen to the clipboard, turned, and headed for the door. She stopped and looked back. “It’s your medical certificate, by the way. The FAA temporarily suspends them in these situations until the attending physician signs off the waiver.”

  I stopped dressing and turned to face her. “Medical certificate? My pilot’s medical certificate?”

  “Yes. Obviously they do not allow you to fly anything until a physician has verified 'no restrictions' from the accident. It’s a single page document. It needs my signature in three places. You’ll need to make your X mark on it also.”

  R.J. blurted out a high-pitched laugh but again cut it off abruptly and tried an insincere look of sympathy.

  She finished with a flat, professional smile and disappeared around the corner. I stood holding the Broncos T-shirt R.J. had brought me, wondering how many points I had just lost on my man-card. I looked over at R.J. He raised his eyebrow, wondering if he was in trouble.

  “I need a half gallon of coffee and maybe steak and eggs, something manly enough to mentally put her in her place.”

  “Lagoons on US 1. Johnny and Sue have the strongest coffee, and the servers will make you feel like a man.”

  And there we went, bruised pride and all.

  Chapter 2

  Back home in my section of hex-plex, I pulled the cold beer from the fridge, handed one to R.J., and plopped down on the couch. R.J. chomped on his unlit pipe. He sat back in my puffy, overstuffed recliner, his beat-up brown work shoes proudly pointed upward, his baggy jeans slightly soiled with grease from his restored Corvair, his blue collared work shirt buttoned to the top. He patted at his short reddish-brown beard, then tilted his Ben Franklin spectacles down to give me that Einstein look as I popped the top on my bottle and watched it fly across the room.

  “You know you have a certain obligation that requires flying coming due soon, right?”

  “I am aware of the gravity of the situation.”

  “Very funny. Would you please remind me again how you came to own the fastest little starship on Earth? So fast in fact, the geniuses in Washington are still struggling to understand the stellar drives?”

  “We lost Erin Duan to those engines, by the way. She’s now the lead scientist on that retro-tech chaos. We won’t get her flying again.”

  “Well, I am sorry to hear that. She was something to look at. But, as I said, I still can’t understand how that spacecraft came into your possession.”

  “What are you talking about? You were there. Seems to me I remember you spilling your coffee when poor Bernard Porre handed me the keys.”

  “Yes, I saw it happen. I still just don’t believe it.”

  “It’s easy. The Nasebian race is too advanced for us to understand. We did the Nadir mission for them. It made them happy. They transferred the ship to me. Other questions?”

  “Doesn’t it seem like a little bit of an overpayment to you? Wouldn’t it be logical to think they might have something up their sleeves?”

  “They wear those long glittery gowns with big drooping sleeves. You can’t hide anything up those kinds of sleeves.”

  “Yet another skillful quip? The good doctor must really have gotten to you. All kidding aside…”

  “Why question a good thing? The Nasebians said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to.”

  “But you did promise to take that ship to the HAT system’s planet Enuro to have artificial gravity installed. Next month is the deadline.”

  “Looking forward to it. Full designation is HAT-P-11, by the way. In the Cygnus constellation.”

  “You’ll need another pilot. You got one?”

  “Are you kidding? Danica Donoro would hunt me down and torch me if I didn’t invite her along.”

  “How about Shelly Savoie?”

  “Oh yeah, would you believe she’s in the Air Force One starship group, flying diplomats to intersystem research junkets? She stepped off the Griffin and the White House reps dragged her away almost immediately. Fame has its perks.”

  “So you, and doll-faced kick boxer Danica, and I on a two-week float to Enuro?”

  “A mere 120 light-year cruise, or 700 trillion miles give or take a few. Add Mr. Wilson Mirtos to the flight crew, though.”

  “I thought he was fully engaged?”

  “Apparently he needs a pressing obligation to cool that off.”

  “Has he agreed then to never, ever use the phrase, 'Now I don’t want any trouble,' ever again?”

  “No, he has not.”

  “In that case, I shall pack my mouth guard for this trip.”

  “You have a mouth guard?”

  “I’ll purchase one.”

  “I’m not expecting any trouble on Enuro.”

  “Custer wasn’t really expecting any either.”

  “Touché.”

  “So the four of us float to Enuro next month, and then ride home in gravity, except for one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You must first ask Dr. Catherine Adara to sign you off for flight status.”

  “Arrrrrgh!”

  On Tuesday, Dr. A-damn-her’s service informed me that she would be in attendance at the Jess Parrish outpatient clinic all morning. I consoled myself with the thought that the least I could do was show up without an appointment. In the auditorium-sized waiting area at Jess Parrish, I sat and poked at a tablet, developing my flight plan to Enuro. Nearby, a gracious older lady in a light pink ballroom gown played a beautiful golden harp strategically positioned next to a flowing fountain. It was a pleasant forty-five minute wait. The bothersome tremor still persisted in my right hand. In the treatment room, I tucked both hands in my jean pockets when the bad Doctor entered.

  “Your scans and blood work came back negative. I can sign you off, for good.”

  “Ole'.”

  “The sign-off goes into the system immediately. You are cleared to fly as soon as you walk out that door.”

  “Then I will depart in haste and not look back.”

  “Did you pull up in that black Corvette?”

  “Fully restored, ’95. ZR-1 package.”

  “You have a thing for fast cars?”

  “Since they mandated the bio-fuel conversion, it will snap your head off. Why?”

  “We seem to have a healthy dislike for one another. In certain cases, that can be fun.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I’m on staff to NASCAR as one of their emergency surgeons.”

  “So I’ve heard. The drivers must really fear injury these days.”

  “Ever heard of the NASCAR Racing Experience?”

  “You get to do a few laps with a certified driver.”

  “My family owns a team. They claim floaters will never be any good for pro track racing. Too wild in the restarts. They say there will always be wheels on the ground, and the two-hundred-mile-per-hour restriction will always be the limit.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “All things being what they are, and because their lives sometimes depend on me, the NASCAR crowd allows me a lot of special privileges. I can grab a NASCAR Racing Experience car whenever the track’s not being used. They just throw me the keys, you might say. Only requirement is, I pay for any damage to the cars and a usage rate on the tires.”

  “Did you say cars, as in more than one?”

  “I can bring someone along if I care to.”

  “Where exactly are you going with this?”

  “I get you on the track, I can embarrass the hell out of you.”

  “Don’t count on it.”


  “They give amateurs these little glass-blown trophies to mark the experience. I’d treasure ours forevermore.”

  “Bring it on. Expect disappointment.”

  “I can meet you in Daytona tomorrow morning.”

  “Count on it.”

  Men tend to forget all good sense when certain opportunities present themselves. I made Daytona early the next morning in time for breakfast. I sat in Friendly's, trying to stop the concentric circles from forming in my coffee from the tremor in my right hand, staring across the street at the Speedway, plotting my moves against the queen-of-mean. There was no doubt she had something up her sleeve and intended to set me up. The offer was designed to be something most men could just not resist, which it was. That was the trap. Somehow, just showing up would spring it.

  I do not walk into traps very easily. Too many scars here and there have left me and my 6-foot-2-inch frame with heightened self-preservation instincts, especially where women are concerned. She had something up the sleeve of her lab coat. Maybe she would just be a no-show and laugh it off at that. Maybe a professional substitute driver would be there to take her place. Maybe it was something else.

  I have not survived this long without breaking a few rules and storing away tricks of my own. What Doctor Gestapo did not know was that I had a history with racing, a sincere love for the sport so great that had it not been for an equally primeval instinct for flight, racing would have been my chosen career. A close friend used to run short-track, and by helping sponsor him, I was able to cash in on some track time. In fact, back then, anytime I found myself ground-bound for one reason or another, I was in his garage or on the track.

  Along with the sloppy scratching of map she had given me, there was a Speedway badge. I found Williamson Boulevard without any trouble, and the entrance to Gate 40 was hard to miss. It was an off day, but to my surprise, quite a few cars were lined up in the parking lot. A guard in the center island started to step out as I approached, but the badge put him at ease. After a few wrong parking lot turns, the road to the tunnel came in view. There was a second guard waiting under canopy-covered street dividers, but he too retreated at the sight of my badge. It began to bother me that Dr. Pain had so casually been able to give me a badge that seemed enchanted with power. The dive into the tunnel brought me out to a maze of roadways confusing enough that I ended up driving half the length of Lake Lloyd before I found a left-hand turn toward the garage area. Creeping along like a typical male unwilling to ask for directions, I finally spotted two mechanic types in heavily endorsed coveralls, sipping coffee from paper cups and talking as they crossed the parking lot. One of them noticed me and stopped in recognition. He said something to his associate and came over to the car.

  “Commander Tarn, it’s an honor to meet someone who travels faster than we do.”

  “Thanks. There’s almost no place I’d rather be.”

  “You’re here to take on the iron maiden, I hear.”

  “Iron maiden?”

  “Yeah, Catherine the Great. I guess I should warn you, it’s attracting a bit of a crowd.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “If you pull over there by that side entrance, we’ll take you into the garage area. She’s already been on the track, by the way.”

  I swung around and parked, grabbed my gear bag, and locked the Vette. As I climbed out, the mechanic introduced himself as Matt Bean. He gestured toward his associate, “This is my best friend off the track, and my worst enemy on it, Bret Marks.”

  I nodded respectfully.

  “That’s a nice ZR you got there, man,” said Marks.

  “Fully restored from the ground up.”

  “Looks it. What’d you bring in the travel bag?”

  “Fire suit, boots, gloves.”

  “You got your own fire suit, Commander?”

  “Yeah, I’ve done some short track.”

  “Nice. You’ll need to get it approved by the NRE rep, but it shouldn’t be a problem. The crew chief is gonna be real glad to hear you’ve got some track time.”

  They led me to a side entrance in the network of garage space and down a cold, shadowy cement corridor lined with colorful racing posters. The air had the permanent smell of racing tires and oil.

  “So, will Adara really show up?” I asked with appropriate sarcasm.

  “Are you kidding us?”

  “Why? What did I say?”

  “You know her family owns half this business, right?”

  “So you’re saying she really is going to drive?”

  The two men stopped in the hallway and turned to me. Bean spoke. “Listen, I never said any of this, okay? I was really glad when you said you had some driving experience. Most guys she brings here, she usually laps them by lap six. I’ve seen grown men leave here wanting their mommy when she’s through with them. I’ve seen ‘em pull in after ten laps and claim there was somethin’ wrong with the car when there wasn’t. I‘m just telling you this 'cause if there’s any chance you could put her in her place just once, you’d be doin’ the rest of us a big favor.”

  It shut me up. In my mind, I quickly began erasing all the trick gimmicks I thought might be a part of her game. The walk down this historic hallway of racing suddenly became the green mile of manhood lost. Suddenly there was a feeling that maybe this corridor led to the Roman Coliseum where a lion awaited fresh Christian meat. For the first time, I had concern. Self-confidence had become self-doubt. There was a crowd forming, he had said. This was to be a public execution. The great Commander Adrian Tarn, slayer of dragons, rescuer of shapely women, able to leap tall buildings with a single aircraft, now scheduled for humiliation by a merciless, 5-foot-8-inch ball of female fire, and I had walked right into it.

  Where had I gone wrong? It is the question most men ask themselves on the way to the gallows. It was the vanity, the same answer most men finally admit on the way there. I had just assumed that Dr. Gestapo was not a real driver. Clearly, it was beginning to appear that was not the case. What a wonderful setup. She probably knew I would not find out in time. And, she had been completely honest. If she could get me on the track, she could embarrass the hell out of me, as she put it.

  Oh, boy.

  A heavy steel door pushed open to the garage. The bay doors were open, but the air inside was blowing cool. A dozen brightly painted race cars were backed up against the far wall. A red, white, and blue one sat in the center of the garage. A mechanic was leaning in the driver’s window, with another man standing behind him watching. Bean stopped next to me, waved to them, and pointed at me. The man watching the work came over and held out a hand.

  “A pleasure, Commander Tarn,” he said as we shook. “Are you sure you really want to do this?”

  “I may have underestimated my opponent.”

  “I can guarantee that.”

  Bean leaned over and coaxed my bag from my hand and held it out to him. “Fire suit, gloves, boots, Max.”

  Max raised an eyebrow, took the bag and smiled. “Well, that’s a good sign. I’m Max Manning, Mr. Tarn. So you’ve driven some, then?”

  “Short track. A fair amount.”

  Max turned to his associate still working on the car. “Paul, would you run these upstairs to the office?”

  His associate quickly finished with a cable in the car, came and took the bag, and disappeared out the door.

  “He’ll be right back. The NRE rep has to sign off on your gear. You’ll need to use one of our helmets. Radio and air are set up for them. The boys will take your car out to pit row, and we’ll suit you up, then cart you out there. The iron maiden is already out there running warm-up laps.”

  They dressed me up like a sacrifice to a Gorgon, then we loaded into a golf cart and drove out to pit row. The mood was so somber I was surprised there was not a priest with holy water standing by. Even though I had been warned, it surprised me to look up at the stands and see twenty or thirty people pressed against the fence and another half dozen in seats above and behi
nd them. There were two race cars parked on pit row, and only two. His and hers. She was already strapped, in waiting, helmet on, fiery eyes staring. They wasted no time ushering me in through the driver’s window. Once I was comfortable and helmeted, Max plugged me in and spoke with the cool constraint of the professional he was. “Show me the gears, Commander.”

  I pushed the gear shift through its pattern.

  “Okay when you start, hold it at two thousand. When you pull out, keep it at two thousand until you’re on the track. I don’t have to tell you about the red lines on your gauges. We usually have a lead car in front of you that you are not allowed to pass, but you-know-who won’t allow that, so you’re on your own. All I can say is be careful to keep it off the wall, and you probably know it’ll want to dive left coming out of the turns. Catherine is on your intercom along with a spotter and some other interested observers so watch what you say. Gentleman, you may start your engine.”

  At the first roar from under my hood, Dr. Gestapo came on the radio. “Good morning, Mr. Tarn. Welcome to my world.”

  I chose not to answer.

  “Mr. Tarn, did I mention to you that my stepfather was Dave Rand?”

  “The Dave Rand, I suppose, Doctor.”

  “I’m not your doctor here, Commander. I am your intimidator, your very own Earnhart. Yes, that Dave Rand. NASCAR points leader three years in a row. I’ll give you a few-warm up laps. I don’t need any. Try not to hit me when you come around to the flag stand.”

  Max had an earpiece and microphone and had heard it all. He nodded to me and gave the go signal. I dropped it into first and with that familiar, lovely roar pulled around the iron maiden, down pit road, and onto the track.

  The Gs a driver pulls in the turns are of no consequence to me. They are such a smooth, comfortable, positive down-force they don’t hold a candle to the wild positive-negative swings you get in a stunt plane, and the car’s rotation in the steep bank is actually identical to the banking of an aircraft. You would think all that carefully designed down-force would give you enough weight in the turn that unlimited speed would be possible, but instead, ghost force tries to push you up into the wall. That, combined with the sudden unresponsive steering, pumps in new adrenaline and makes your right foot back off the pedal. You could call it Newton’s revenge.