The Moon and the Desert, page 12
Security. Maybe wait a few more minutes, she thought.
It was another forty-five miles to the town of Waimea. At Shepard’s current speed, he’d be there in an hour, but he’d also be climbing more than two thousand feet in elevation. She had little hope of passing two security vehicles, his chase car and Shepard himself. Not to mention, he was going about as fast as the vehicular traffic. On the other hand, if she took the Hawaii Belt Road to Kawaihae and turned east to Waimea, she could just barely make it in front of the convoy.
The ExtremeIron checkpoint in Waimea was at the elementary school; there, competitors changed to low-gear mountain bikes for the climb up the steep and winding Kohala Mountain Road. She should be able to get in position to watch the changeover—or at worst, arrive during the brief break built into the ExtremeIron course.
She arrived at the Parker Ranch Center next door to the elementary school and got out her binoculars. The tan SUV was waiting in the school parking lot. Shepard arrived a few minutes later. This was her first chance to get a look at the man up close. He was above average height; her practiced eye put him at just short of six feet. He was . . . not stocky, but . . . solid. Certainly not the lean, greyhound look of many athletes and astronauts—on the other hand, with his good looks, he could have been a poster boy for the astronaut corps. His hair was short, in a buzz cut, and she could see that the nape of the neck was uneven and there were a few tufts of longer hair. He cuts it himself, she thought. What she could see of hair color was black flecked with gray on the right side, and solid black on the left side.
Jen checked her watch. Forty-two miles an hour? Uphill? How could he maintain that speed? It had been almost two hours already, and he was showing no sign of slowing.
She watched as Shepard spoke to someone in the SUV, then switched out his road bike for one with a thick sturdy frame and knobby tires. He slapped the side of the vehicle, mounted the bike, and rode way.
The next waypoint was in the town of Hawi. It was only twenty-five miles away, and Jen was uncertain whether she could get there in time. On the other hand, traffic was quite light, and she would . . . push it a little. She made it to Hawi in what she hoped was enough time; a black SUV was leaving town just as she arrived. She parked in front of a shop advertising ice cream, coffee, and homemade fudge to wait for any sign of Shepard and his support.
Not five minutes later, the tan SUV pulled up and parked, and a short man got out. He had slightly wavy hair that was shaved on the sides, but worn longer—and wilder—up top. His dark skin and stubble gave him a Middle Eastern or East Asian look. He had extremely broad shoulders, but was slim in the waist, like a weight lifter. His legs were straight, but he bent slightly above the waist, causing him to be slightly stooped and walk awkwardly. Her reporter instinct suggested he’d suffered a back injury.
Is this another injured astronaut? Or perhaps a fellow patient?
The man pulled a small backpack out of the back seat, followed by several water bottles glistening with condensation. He put four bottles in the pack, keeping two out.
Jen now recognized the man from the same news article about the rescue of the woman and children. That made her a bit unsure; should she attempt to contact Shepard directly or try to talk to this man first?
Given the speed at which Shepard had been traveling, she was unsurprised to see him appear less than five minutes later. He stopped next to the SUV and dismounted to change bikes. The racing bike looked like a rocket scientist had been given free rein to redesign a bicycle. It was long and low—the cyclist practically lay over the solid, disk-like wheels behind a motorcycle-like windshield. She stayed just long enough to watch the two men trade backpacks, and for Shepard to drink an entire bottle of water and reach for another. Before they completed the handover, she pulled her car out of its parking spot to head back to Kona.
Traffic on the road had been running between fifty and fifty-five miles per hour. Auto-drive cars were not common in Hawaii, and many tourists came just for the experience of being able to stop at roadside stands and scenic lookouts and enjoy the relaxed experience the locals called “island time.” To this point, Shepard had been maintaining a speed—on level ground—not much slower than the cars. He would be even faster on this bike; if Jen wanted to get back to Kona ahead of him, she needed to stay ahead of him on the return route.
She was back on Ali’i Drive in Kona an hour later, sitting casually on a low stone wall in front of the Kona Wave Café, eating a “shave ice” and getting sweet syrup on her hand. Across the street was a kiosk selling ExtremeIron souvenirs. If Shepard was going to attempt the ultramarathon run today, the changeover should happen right here.
Sure enough, the tan SUV pulled up five minutes later. This time the man got out, pulled a pair of crutches out of the back along with a duffel bag. He came over and sat about five feet away from Jen on the same rock wall.
Was—was he suspicious?
Nik pulled up to the street in front of the Kailua Pier. There were traffic cones reserving his parking spot, courtesy of General Boatright’s advance security team. He’d laughed at the thought of them running around in their black SUVs and black suits in the tropical sun, but they’d surprised him by blending in fairly well in tailored Hawaiian shirts, looking like every other resort employee in the area. They were efficient, and he was glad of their efforts in clearing the way, given the heavy vehicular traffic in the tourist town.
There was a woman across the street, brown skin—not as dark as his own, but darker than Shep. Brown hair, worn shoulder length, slight figure, she probably had to exercise a lot to keep it, too. He’d seen her before, and the “suits” reported that she’d been seen at several of the waypoints along the race course.
Before getting out of the vehicle, Nik took a picture with his wristcomm and sent it to General Boatright for an I.D. The answer came back almost immediately: Jennifer Butler. Reporter. Low threat level; no need to drive her off—yet. Be cautious for now and call me as soon as you’re back on the road—Boatright.
He grabbed a duffel bag and went over to sit on the rock wall a few feet away from the woman. It was another fifteen minutes before Shep arrived. By Nik’s timing, it was right around four hours since he’d left this exact point on his first bike. Total time since starting the ExtremeIron course was a bit over six hours.
Shep stopped his bike midway between Nik and the reporter. Nik tried to motion him closer, but Shep didn’t pick up on the signal. He was preoccupied with getting disengaged from the aerodynamic shell of the speed-bike and wasn’t paying too much attention—to Nik or the woman. He finally got off the bike and leaned it against the wall as he took the duffel from Nik and sat down to change into running shoes. “That looks like hard work,” the woman said to Shep. “Hey, I’ve got an extra bottle of water here. It’s cold, do you want one?”
Shepard eyed her uncertainly. “No problem. I’m good,” he said. Nik waved his own bottle of cold water at his friend and gave her a sharp look.
Once Shep had drunk Nik’s water and eaten a protein bar, he handed the bike off, and started running back the way he’d come.
As Nik started to walk the bike across to the SUV, he turned to look at the reporter. “He’ll be back in about two and a half hours. Will we see you then, Ms. Butler?”
Busted.
CHAPTER 13:
Catch of the Day
Simon Q @TheExtremeIronMan
WooHoo! Personal Best. Just got the final official time rankings for ExtremeIron2041. I smoked *everyone* with a combined time of fourteen hours, forty-nine minutes. That’s a record that will stand forever!
USSF Office of Scientific Integration
@OSIGenBoatright
Records are meant to be broken. Stay tuned for results of the latest trials of bionic prosthetics for athletes. —Major General Richard Boatwright, USSF/OSI
Simon Q @TheExtremeIronMan
@OSIGenBoatright, no fair, man! That’s cheating!
ChirpChat, April 2042
True to the prediction, Shepard was back in less than two and a half hours. Jen was amazed. He’d been averaging over forty miles per hour—even with the steep uphill climb of the Kohala Mountain Road—while cycling, and then almost fifty miles per hour on the speed run. The ultramarathon pace had to be over twenty miles per hour. It made her wonder what his swim time was. Either the run or cycling pace would be miraculous for a normal person, but six and a half hours to cover two hundred miles on foot and bike was still impossible even for the most elite of athletes. Perhaps, someday, an unaugmented human might manage to break one record—but certainly not both in the same day.
Jen had learned that Shepard was anything but a normal human. She’d called her editor, despite it being the middle of the night in Richmond, and he’d sent her everything that had been made public in the aftermath of the incident last year. He told her that if she could get the rest of the story, he’d get The Powers That Be to greenlight the interview.
She’d decided that it would be best to be honest, since the reports made him out to be a man who considered honor to be the most important character trait. She was sitting in her same spot when the SUV pulled up in advance of Shepard’s return. This time the man—her editor identified him as Doctor Nikhil Pillarisetty—pulled out a small black bag and white coat before coming over to sit next to her.
He smiled, but didn’t say a word before Shepard came running up. Much to her own surprise, she remained silent herself, and didn’t try to pump the man for information.
“Are you following me?” Shepard asked her, not even panting.
“Yes, Colonel. I noticed your private competition and would like to talk with you about it.”
“I guess that would mean you’re a reporter. I don’t talk to reporters.”
“Colonel Shepard, it’s true that I’m an investigative reporter, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I am intrigued about why you were out here running your own ExtremeIron triathlon.”
Before Shepard could answer or Jen could make another comment, Pillarisetty interrupted. He’d put on his white coat and was holding a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. “Okay buddy, give me your arm. Let’s see how you’re doing here.”
Pillarisetty put the cuff on Shepard’s right bicep, pumped it up, held the stethoscope to the inside of the elbow below the cuff, and looked at his watch. After a minute he pulled the stethoscope away, deflated the cuff and nodded in satisfaction. “Okay, shirt off, let’s have a listen.” He put the stethoscope against Shepard’s chest—Jen noted several fine scars, at the left shoulder and down the midline. The doctor paused a moment, then moved around to the back. “Heart sounds good.” He repeated the process by placing a palm-sized electronic device against chest and back. “LVAD’s within spec, too. Okay, put your shirt back on, I don’t need to see your pasty-pale skin.”
Jen stifled a laugh. Shepard was anything but pale, even if he wasn’t as dark as herself or Pillarisetty.
“Here, put this on.” Nik handed Shepard a small sensor and instructed him to place it on the index finger of the right hand. Once again, he nodded. “This looks good, Shep. I wouldn’t think that you had been exercising at all.”
“You could’ve gotten all of that from the embedded sensors. For that matter, my wristcomm logged it all as well. You don’t have to go all Dr. Welby on me, Nik.” He stole a glance toward Jen. “Besides, we have an audience.”
“It’s okay, I called Marty and the home office while you were doing your Superman impression. The chase cars got her ident and called into OSI. General Boatright said it’s been long enough; Ms. Butler has a decent reputation and it’s okay for you to talk to her. Just remember, low profile.”
“Colonel Shepard, does that mean an interview?” Jen asked tentatively.
“I’ll think about it. What I seriously need right now is a shower and to change. Then, I’m probably going to clean out a buffet somewhere. That or just order three or four entrees for supper.” Shepard paused for a moment. “Tell you what, there’s a little place down the road—about three quarters of a mile—just past the seawall. It’s called Humpy’s and it’s a nice little bar with good pub food. Give me . . . oh, ninety minutes, and I’ll meet you there. We’ll talk but I gotta warn you, it’s not going to be private. Nik’s my friend, but I suspect he’s got instructions to watch me like a mother hen.”
“Mind your manners, Shep.”
“Yes, Mother. Anyway, it’s not just a formality. He will be there too.”
“Yeah, someone’s got to charm the wait staff and reassure them that he’s not just a mindless eating machine!” Pillarisetty said.
“That’s okay by me. I am not trying to do a hit piece. I think there’s much more to your story than anyone realizes. Wouldn’t you like the world to know who the real Glenn Shepard is?”
“Lady? I’m not sure I know, myself.” Shepard grabbed the rest of his gear, nodded to Pillarisetty, and crossed the street to the SUV.
“Oh, I can tell you stories, ma’am,” Pillarisetty replied with a laugh.
“Do not let him get started!” Shepard called back without turning around. “If you want to know my story, well . . . I can tell you a few things, but to be honest with you, I don’t have a whole lot of trust to spare. Earn that, and then we’ll see.”
“See you in three hours, Ms. Butler! Better bring your wallet, just in case he sticks you with the bill!” Pillarisetty laughed.
“Wait, he said ninety minutes!”
“Yes, he did.” Pillarisetty called back over his shoulder. “But I’m going to force him to slow down and maybe even take a nap. If that changes, I’ll comm you.”
“Um, how do you have my comm code?”
Pillarisetty turned, winked at her, then turned back and followed his friend.
Humpy’s was a nice little shorefront place and like the earlier restaurant, had an indoor bar on the lower level and open-air dining on the upper level. It also offered a great selection of beers, including several local brews. Several people she’d consulted also recommended the pub’s food, particularly the kalua pork nachos and the fish and chips. The latter was often made with “catch of the day” and the fries were golden brown and crispy-hot. Jennifer decided she would go with an order of the nachos and a Fire Rock Pale Ale while waiting for Shepard to show up.
She was somewhat surprised to see that instead of coming up the main stairway from the dining room the two came across a walkway that spanned two neighboring buildings. She cocked an eyebrow, and Glenn replied, “Laverne’s has an elevator. Better that than stairs.” His companion was walking with paired canes rather than the crutches she’d seen earlier.
There’s more than one story here, she thought to herself. Best not get ahead of myself, though.
Jen stood and held out her hand as the two approached her table. “Colonel Shepard, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Jennifer Butler. I suspect you already know that I write for the Richmond Times, but I assure you that I am not tailing you, nor am I here on an assignment. Actually, I’m supposed to be on vacation. My editor told me to get out of town and lay low.”
Shepard’s expression was neutral, as was his handshake. Doctor Pillarisetty, on the other hand, had a friendly face and enthusiastic greeting. He set one of the canes aside to grasp and pump her hand—such a contrast to his reserved companion.
Shepard motioned for her to sit, and then surprised her by moving to get her chair. The three spoke of inconsequential things—the weather, the menu, Kona vs. Big Island beer, kalua pork vs. kalbi ribs—until orders were placed. Not surprisingly, Shepard ordered appetizers and two entrées, commenting to the server that he might be ordering more.
Soon the drinks and nachos were delivered, so Jen decided to dive right in. “Colonel Shepard—or do you prefer Doctor Shepard?”
“Actually, I’m retired. No longer a colonel, and not presently licensed to practice. Just call me Shepard, or Glenn.”
“And I’m Nik—just a k, no c—or Vin, or Vindaloo, ‘The Swarthy Menace,’ or just Doc, since the flyboy here is bad at the social niceties.”
“Vindaloo?” Jen was a bit confused by Nik’s comments.
“It started as a joke and kinda stuck,” Glenn responded in a deadpan manner. “Nik’s pretty irreverent.”
“No, I’m the comic relief,” Nik corrected.
“Ah. Okay. Well, Glenn, I will get right to it. I’m not on assignment, I’m not recording this, I’m just trying to satisfy my curiosity. I saw you come out of the water and get on your bike. A while back, I did a profile on a lawyer who was a triathlete, so I recognized the ExtremeIron course. Then I realized where I’d seen you before—the rescue a year ago. I looked you up, and couldn’t find out much about you. That’s what piqued my interest. It seems that no one ever told your story. I promise not to do a hit piece. I really don’t do that kind of thing.”
“I rather think you do. Considering that the reason you’re here is the piece you did on the corruption in Councilman Garner’s office,” Glenn said with a hint of challenge in his voice.
“I usually write profiles—at least for Richmond. They started me off with Sunday supplements, then science pieces. Then I got assignments to cover the releases of biographies of Admirals, Generals, business leaders and the like. I stay away from celebrities; they don’t need my help to blow their own horns. That’s what I was trying to do with Garner, but some things didn’t add up. I didn’t look for trouble, but it sure found me—or him, to be exact.”
“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” growled Nik. “I’ve met a few of the . . . victims . . . of his type of ‘community engagement.’ I used to do pro bono work for an inner-city free clinic.” He cocked his head toward Glenn. “I’m Shep’s head shrinker now. I’m not sure which is worse.”
