Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1, Page 4

  “Black and bold,” he said in anticipation.

  “You got that right,” Cindy joked.

  Kelly chuckled, took a sip, and turned back to where Cindy was busily doing something he couldn't see behind the counter. He stood and chatted with the three employees as he absently watched the deliveryman haul load after load of beer into the cooler.

  “Well, I gotta get back to the barn,” Kelly soon announced.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Cindy said without looking up.

  “See y'all next time. Thanks fer the coffee,” he said with a wave, heading toward the door.

  “Be safe, Officer Mueller,” Jackie called behind him. “See ya next time.”

  Walking out, Kelly took an almost reflexive look over at the Mayflower truck. Somethin’ just ain’t right. A moment later he shook it off. Cindy ain't worried about it, I ain't worried about it.

  He climbed into the cruiser and was almost to the highway when curiosity got the best of him. He circled back around and pulled close to the Mayflower’s trailer, then rolled his window down and inched past as he studied it. He saw nothing unusual, but the hairs standing on the back of his neck just wouldn't allow him to let it go.

  Stopping next to the cab, he climbed out of the car. One thing Kelly hadn't noticed before was a refrigeration unit attached to the trailer. Why would a moving van need to be refrigerated? He was studying the words “Climate Controlled” emblazoned across the unit in gold letters when the driver’s door opened, startling the deputy who instinctively reached for his sidearm.

  The man who stepped down from the cab was dressed in a pair of dark boxer shorts and a gray undershirt. He appeared to be in his fifties, thin, about six feet tall in his bare feet, salt and pepper hair in disarray. His eyes betrayed a need for more sleep. “Is there a problem, Officer? The boss lady inside said it'd be okay for me to park here.”

  This guy must be a light sleeper. Must've woke him up when I yelled at Cindy. Kelly hoped the man hadn't seen him reach for his weapon. He eyed the trucker for a moment and then shook his head. What the heck am I doing? “Naw, it’s okay. I was just takin' a look. I thought I saw a coyote run up under yer truck, that's all,” he lied. “Go on back to sleep, partner. I'm sorry I woke ya up.”

  Kelly took one more sideways glance at the truck and walked back around toward his cruiser.

  “Is everything alright?" A female voice shouted.

  Kelly nearly jumped out of his skin as he again grabbed the butt of his pistol. He didn’t immediately recognize the silhouette in the darkness, but the northern accent was unmistakable once it registered. “Cindy? Is that you? Girl, don't do that! Not to a cop! Especially in the dark! Jeez! You could‘a given me a heart attack, fer cryin' out loud!”

  “I'm sorry,” she said sincerely.

  “I might've shot ya,” he added for effect, though he was far too disciplined with a firearm for that. “What are you doin'?”

  “Well, I saw you come around here and I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

  “Everything's fine,” he said a bit sternly. “Now go on back inside.”

  Rather than follow his instruction, she stood and watched as Kelly climbed back in to his cruiser and drove out on to the highway.

  “That was weird,” Kelly almost shouted to himself. “Why'd she come out there like that?”

  As the patrol car topped a hill, the sun’s rays nearly blinded him as they reflected in his mirrors. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he checked the clock.

  “Six-eighteen," he moaned. "Great! Now I'm gonna be late.” He had things to do.

  * * * * *

  STEPPING OVER TO stand next to Cindy as she watched the taillights of Kelly’s cruiser disappear over a hill, the truck driver asked, “What was that all about?”

  “I’m sure it was nothing,” Cindy replied. “Sometimes he just gets a little suspicious, that’s all. Why? What did he say?”

  The man shook his head. “Said he saw a dog or somethin’ run under the truck. But, he was gettin’ a little too close fer my comfort.”

  “That cop’s getting too nosy for his own good.” A voice called from behind them, startling the two from their conversation.

  Chills rode down Cindy’s spine. Looking back at the shadowy form, she recognized the silhouette of Air Force Sergeant Neil Covington standing next to the truck. Since coming to work at the store, she had seen him occasionally. Every time she did, she got the same sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach. Leaning over to her companion, she whispered, “He’s all yours. That man gives me the skeevies.” With that she waved at the newcomer and headed back to the store.

  “Don’t worry, Covington. He didn’t see nothin’,” the truck driver assured him.

  Covington simply stood there silently for several moments before he reached up and banged on the still-sealed rear doors of the trailer. “Okay guys. Let’s get this thing unloaded before Barney Fife comes back to take a closer look.” He stood there another moment, causing the driver to shift his feet uncomfortably, before he stepped back behind the trailer and out of sight.

  The driver watched to be sure Covington was out of earshot before he mumbled, “Somethin’ just ain’t right ‘bout that guy.”

  * * * * *

  THE SKY WAS CLOUDLESS and pale blue as Major Gregory Mathers leaned against the bumper of his silver Toyota 4 Runner and wiped his brow with a napkin left over from breakfast. It was proving to be a typically steamy morning in central Georgia, and the temperature had quickly risen into the low 90s. He had parked next to the flight line on the easternmost side of the airfield belonging to the 116th Air Control Wing. A squadron of Boeing 707-300 JSTAR aircraft lined the service way to his right where their ground crews dutifully went about the business of maintenance and equipment upgrades for the aging planes.

  On the opposite side of the field, accentuated by the heat shimmering above the tarmac, were the main hangars and maintenance structures of Robins Air Force Base. There, several different types of aircraft—C-130s, C-17s, C-5s, F-15s—were rotated into the structures for varying degrees of maintenance and testing.

  Yeah, I'm a doctor and they send me to a base with sick airplanes. Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes.

  When Greg completed his Air Force training, he had hoped that he would be posted somewhere like Ramstein, Germany, where he could work with soldiers wounded in the war-torn Middle East and eastern Africa. Or to somewhere exotic like Japan or South Korea. He would have even settled for Wright Patterson in Ohio, close to home, family, and friends. But instead, in its infinite wisdom, the Air Force had sent him to Georgia for his first operational assignment. And, to add insult to injury, he was not even practicing medicine. He was nothing more than a go-between, a paper pusher. A supply manager, of all things. An assignment more suited to an enlisted man, not a medical doctor. Greg had been appointed to this duty less than a month earlier, and his main concern thus far was maintaining the project's inventory. The bulk of the wares were food and food prep materials, medical supplies, office equipment, and housekeeping provisions. But it was the other materials that kept him awake at night. If it was on the periodic table or anything associated with laboratory experimentation, it was on his grocery list. From aspirin to zinc, air purifiers to x-ray supplies.

  Brushing those thoughts away, he turned his attention to the non-descript Gulfstream G450 that had landed moments before. The sun glinted brightly off the white and silver fuselage and signature oval windows of the aircraft as it taxied toward him. Greg was waiting to escort the newly elected senator and Vice Chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee to the site of his current assignment, Project Pine Tree.

  Greg was still unsure of just what role he was supposed to play within this project. Oh, he knew the material he was about to present to the senator. The mechanics of it anyway. That was not the problem. The problem was that he was a medical doctor assigned as a supply clerk to a classified, recently acquired civ
ilian project. He had no knowledge of it beyond what was held in the warehouse, and his only point of contact with the project’s personnel, so far, was Dr. Juan Tiong, a veterinarian. There were times, late at night, that the implications of a vet being on the program made Greg more than a little bit uncomfortable. Maybe I don't want to know what's going on inside there.

  Tiong, a mousey little man from the Philippines, diligently inventoried the entire warehouse every Friday from 0800 to 1400 hours. Everything Tiong did was meticulously calculated, right down to the type of pen he used. Greg learned early on to keep a good supply of them on hand. Tiong was notorious for losing them.

  Okay, Greg mentally prepared himself, what kind of questions is this stuffed-shirt Washington type gonna ask me that I won't be able to answer? Twelve years of school and residency at Ohio State and all I know about this thing is what they have in the kitchen for dinner and how many boxes of Biogel surgical gloves are on hand. Just let the contractors do the talking. They’re the ones on the spot here, not me.

  Greg was a rather plain-looking man. Six foot, thin framed, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in a navy blue tee with an unbuttoned white short-sleeve shirt hung loosely over it, tan cargo shorts, and an Ohio State baseball cap. His daily uniform of late.

  Smiling a bit nervously, Greg took a few steps toward the aircraft as it rolled to a stop, waving at the unseen occupants. Glancing back at his SUV, he remembered the two matching sets of Taylor Made golf clubs in the back, their custom bags complete with Air Force colors. Well, there's always golf. Politicians love golf.

  Shielding his eyes from the glare, he turned his attention back to the sleek aircraft. Its high-pitched turbines whined slowly down to an idle as the stairs were lowered, revealing a single passenger. Here we go.

  The man was younger than Greg had expected, perhaps in his mid forties, dark brown hair, clean-shaven face, athletic build. He stood about five foot ten, carried with him a thin brown portfolio, and was dressed casually in penny loafers, blue jeans, and a red and black University of Georgia polo shirt.

  A Bulldog, huh? What a redneck this guy must be. “Senator Kitchens,” Greg said, managing his best warm smile. “I'm Greg Mathers. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Welcome to Georgia. How was your flight?”

  “Short,” Kitchens replied, with just a hint of a southern accent. His brown eyes glinted as he smiled and continued. “I didn't even have time to finish the movie.”

  “What movie was that, sir?” Greg asked.

  Kitchens eyed him closely. “A joke. I'm sorry. My sense of humor loses somethin’ in the translation.”

  Greg gave the senator a quizzical look.

  “Major, isn't it?” Kitchens firmly grasped Greg's hand, smiling broadly. The smile of a politician. “Or, do you prefer Doctor?”

  “Just Greg is fine, Senator. I don't stand too much on formality, sir.” Greg gained a marginal amount of respect for the man, while, at the same time, trying not to look too uncomfortable. At least he knows who I am.

  Kitchens' brow furrowed. “Nonsense. Doctor and Major are both very respectable titles. You've earned everything that comes with 'em. Don't ever let anybody tell you different, especially somebody who lies for a living like a politician.”

  Greg was taken aback slightly by the senator’s candor, but he recovered quickly. “It's best if we maintain protocol and keep a low profile, so just Greg will do please, Senator.” Gesturing toward the car, he asked, “Shall we go?”

  “Lead the way … Greg.” Kitchens walked to the passenger side. “But, if it's gonna be Greg for you, then it's gonna haf'ta be Kevin for me. You know, low profile and everything.” Kitchens winked. He knew the idea of a United States senator trying to maintain a low profile would be rather amusing to most.

  “Yes, sir … Kevin.” The name nearly caught in Greg's throat.

  “Look,” Kitchens said as he placed a hand on the hood and quickly recoiled, scowling at the sun-beaten metal. “I've only had this job for a few months. I haven't even gotten used to the title yet. And I don't much care for pomp and circumstance either.” Climbing in, he noticed the golf bags and added, “You got a date, Greg?”

  “Sir?” Greg's face screwed up at the unexpected question.

  Kitchens nodded toward the back seat. “The clubs. When's tee time?”

  “Oh, those. No, sir. I mean … I don't have a date. The clubs are a gift for you and your wife, sir.” Greg turned his sometimes too-attentive eye to the senator's hand, noting the absence of a wedding ring.

  “A gift?” Kitchens’ confused look spoke volumes.

  “From the base commander, General Stillman,” Greg answered, suddenly interested in the senator’s marital status.

  Kitchens thought for a moment. “A gift from the general.”

  “Yes, sir. What's your handicap?”

  The senator stared at the clubs. “My what?”

  “Your handicap? How's your game?”

  A half smile intruded on Kitchens’ scowl. “I don't play.”

  “A politician who doesn't play golf? That seems unlikely.” Greg winced internally. He had spoken before thinking and immediately wondered if he had offended the senator.

  “Nope,” Kitchens replied without missing a beat. “Do you?”

  Greg sighed, sensing that there was more to this than a simple misunderstanding. “Um, well, yes, sir. I do. As a matter of fact, I was on my high school team. How about your wife? Does she golf?”

  Glancing from the clubs to Greg and back again, Kitchens asked, “Are those nice clubs?”

  Greg couldn't decide if the senator had ignored the question or simply hadn't heard it. Determining that it was best just to let the subject drop, he replied, his smile genuine. “Taylor Made? Yes, sir. I've heard they are very good clubs. And the bags are custom made with Air Force colors. Very nice.”

  “Oh yeah?” Kitchens’ shrug showed his disinterest in the clubs. “Of course, I ain't sure about this. I am new to it all, but those may be just outside the guidelines, as far as the value of 'em. I may not be able to accept 'em.”

  As he climbed behind the wheel, Greg watched the senator’s expression change from consternation to stoicism. So much for light conversation. “Well, I'm sure the general will be disappointed if you don't.” It was all he could think to say. He decided to change the subject. “I'm at your disposal for the duration, sir. Is there anywhere you'd like to do or anything you’d like to see while you're here? I think the air museum just added a few new things.”

  “No, thanks. I didn't come for the grand tour. Let's just get on to the main event.” Kitchens pulled a folder from the portfolio.

  “Yes, sir,” Greg said mechanically, turning onto the service road. “But they're not expecting us until 1200 hours.”

  “Just a short once over before lunch? Well, they may have to adjust their schedule just a bit.” Kitchens grinned at the prospect.

  Greg wasn't able to contain a smile. What a sight this should be. Doctor Tiong, Mister Meticulous, thrown off of his schedule in the middle of his inventory! “Yes, sir.”

  “Kevin,” Kitchens corrected.

  “Kevin,” Greg repeated, a bit more comfortably than the first time.

  As they rode, Kitchens slid some papers and a pair of reading glasses from the folder. Slipping the glasses on, he read aloud, glancing occasionally at the sights as they passed. “Major Gregory,” he began, grinning again as he studied his driver, ''Greg William Mathers, M.D. Princeton High School, class of '96. Wright State College class of '99, where you started out studying to be a nurse and then you transferred to Ohio State where you entered medical school.” Pursing his lips, Kitchens asked, “How'd that happen?”

  Greg's eyes were glued to the road as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Should've expected this. “Well, I always wanted to get into medicine and Wright State has a pretty good nursing program. Then, in the middle of my junior year my great-uncle passed away and left the family some money. My dad had
a friend at Ohio State—”

  “And the rest, as they say, is history,” Kitchens finished for him.

  Smirking, Greg said, “Well, it was that or a Corvette.”

  “Medicine is a noble career field, Doctor,” Kitchens assured him.

  Their eyes met as Greg responded. “Yeah, but have you ever driven a Corvette?”

  Kitchens’ widening smile helped Greg to relax a bit. “You graduated in the top five percent from Ohio State and entered the Air Force this past fall.” A frown replaced his smile. “Ohio has both Army and Navy ROTC programs, right?”

  Chuckling, Greg relaxed even more. “I guess they couldn't make up their minds.”

  “So, why the Air Force?”

  “Well, I started in the Air Force rot-c program at Wright State before I transferred. They helped pay the bills, too. So, I figured I owed them. Besides, I didn't wanna be a grunt or a squid-eatin’ swabbie.”

  “Squid-eatin’ swabbie?” Kitchens’ laugh startled Greg to such a degree that he nearly drove into the curb.

  “Yes, sir.” Greg's tone was almost apologetic.

  Shaking his head in amusement, Kitchens continued. “Okay, so you were assigned to Robins and Project Pine Tree on twenty-four May, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And since then, you've done … what?”

  “Well, other than inventory—”

  “I'm sorry,” Kitchens interrupted. “It was rhetorical.” Flipping through the pages, he added, “I see what you've been doing here. My question is, why are you doing it? You're a doctor, for cryin’ out loud. You should be off someplace”—his right hand swept toward the window—“doctorin' somebody. You ain't a supply sergeant. Why are your talents bein' wasted here?”

  Greg relaxed visibly as he heard a bit of a change in Kitchens' accent. “I have no idea, sir. All I've been doing is shining a chair with my”—pausing, he noted the senator's dubious stare—“pants,” he finished, a bit less crudely than he had originally intended.