The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Page B

from across the Hudson washed over him. Caesar crossing Rubicon, or moth to flame? Not now, he should get back. He punched up the autopilot and chose Bedford Barracks.
    Approaching the Poconos, his altitude increased and the air smelled cleaner. He’d almost remembered how to enjoy himself, but three quick flashes of red light on the heads-up display put an end to that.
    The wind-dome filled with the ever-smiling face of Fleet Admiral Chris Carson, the Tidal Basin Bombardier. He looked quite strong for a man well past retirement, but a lifetime of commanding attack vessels had drained all the color from his skin and stretched his many orange freckles into long ovals.
    “Did those bastards track you?” Admiral Carson demanded with a wink.
    “Yes, sir, but it was nothing. Routine.”
    “Good. I’d rather you not provoke anything right now. You’re onto something, don’t know what, but it might give you cover to go into Manhattan. Take a look around. A little recon never hurts. I don’t know what those fuckin’ reptiles are thinking with this privatization of the NPF bullshit. That’ll never happen and they know it. I’ll burn that hell-hole to the ground before I let them turn us into The Church Police.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    “I like the direction this is taking. I like you, MacIan. You’re a good man. I’m glad it’s you in the big chair.”
    “I won’t let you down, sir.”
    “You couldn’t let me down if you tried, son. We’re past that.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Who’s the casualty?”
    “Arthur Gager. Lives in Guttenburg.”
    “Doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll ask around.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “What about this Commander Konopasek? Is he going to be a problem?”
    MacIan looked straight into the camera. “Commander Konopasek is an excellent man, sir. He’s just a little . . . odd.”
    “I’ve heard that. What’s the short and skinny?”
    “Missing gamer genius. Levi Tuke. Suits are after him. He’s gone to ground.”
    “The Nobel Prize, nine-time TED speaker, beware the Corporate State Levi Tuke? I’m told he thinks highly of me. Gave me a five. Whatever that is.” Carson let that hang in a boastful silence. “I hear people quoting his Nobel speech all the time, ‘A society free from the oppression of big government and big business.’ He’s the turd in their swimming pool, my boy.”
    “I’m sure he is, sir.”
    “Well done, MacIan. With your instincts and my wishful thinking, we might really be onto something.”
    Boink . . . Carson was gone.

    M acIan returned to the barracks and slept a little better than he had of late, but was glad to see the sunrise.
    Shit. Shower. Shave.
    Knock. Knock. Knock.
    Commander Konopasek looked up hopefully. “Enter!” MacIan entered and began the same formal shuffle as last time, which seemed to annoy the Commander this time. He cut it short with a spastic gesture at the aluminum chair. “Went to New York, did ya?” he said, eager for a dicey tale.
    “No, sir. Guttenburg, New Jersey.”
    The red in the Commander’s cheeks faded to a veiny pink. “Where’s that?”
    “Up on the Hudson River Palisades. A white sandstone bluff that goes straight out and drops into the river right there. New York’s straight across. It’s incredible.”
    “How big is that river? It’s not like these piss-traps around here, is it?”
    “The Hudson is big and I guess the current there, where it goes into the ocean, is fast and strong. It’s even bigger than the rivers in Pittsburgh. I don’t know how big, but it’s big. A mile wide? Maybe more? Very long bridges.”
    The Commander imagined the scene, delighting in MacIan’s enthusiastic telling. “What about the dead body?”
    MacIan plucked a folder from his armpit and slapped it onto the Commander’s desk. “Notified next of kin. A daughter. She signed off. It’s in the folder.” MacIan remained officious.
    The Commander reached, then stopped just short of the folder. “Is there