Orbital Decay by A. G. Claymore

Wild Geese
    Humboldt Park, Chicago
    B en pulled into his parking spot, easing ahead until the chain-link wall of his storage unit moved. He killed the ignition just as his favorite talk-radio program was being interrupted with an announcement. Must be another ‘wash your hands’ advisory, he thought. He opened the door, just clearing the concrete column, and stepped out with his case files in hand. He sighed. Even a year after the breakup, his loft was still the last place he wanted to be.
    He stood there, frowning down at his files. It hadn’t been a very productive afternoon, but there was a lot of that going around lately. Dr. Mortensen’s death was fast turning into a dead end. Turning into – but it had been a mess of contradictions from the start.
    His stomach grumbled. He ignored the elevator, heading instead for the fire exit stairs at the back of the subterranean parking structure. He had an empty refrigerator and a massive craving for pollo chon .He jogged up the stairs, shoving the door open with a grin. None of the residents complained about the alarm being broken because it was too convenient.
    It had also seemed a little convenient that he had been pulled off the Mortensen case. He had started with a decent list of subjects to interview but had only managed to speak to the first one before the rest began to disappear. It was as if they were dropping off the face of the earth entirely.
    He had been sitting at his desk, scratching his head when Captain Walker suddenly dropped into the seat in front of him.
    “FBI’s got their shorts in a knot.” The captain belched, holding a fist to his upper chest with a grimace.
    “So, tell them to switch to thongs,” Ben said irritably, regretting it almost immediately. It wasn’t Walker’s fault that Ben had spent three days chasing ghosts and he certainly wasn’t responsible for the FBI. He grabbed a bottle of antacids from his desk and offered it to his captain.
    “So let me guess.” Ben spoke into the silence as Walker downed a couple of tablets. “They’ve got a high-priority op going on and they need us to provide foot soldiers, no questions asked and no back-talk?”
    “Ooh…” A few taps to the chest, before Walker snagged Ben’s coffee mug and washed the taste out of his mouth. “Something like that.” He set the mug down and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Our unit got tasked and I’m making you our point man.”
    “Cap, I’m in the middle of the case from hell,” Ben said, looking over at the case board, “and Garcia just cleared that floater they pulled out of the lake…”
    “Garcia never worked for the NSA,” Walker cut him off calmly. “The bureau always holds their ‘need to know’ bullshit over our heads and I want our guy to be someone with a stronger background than theirs.” He stifled another belch, smaller this time. “They say an NSA decryption indicated a terrorist cell operating in Chicago.”
    “I haven’t kept up with anyone from Fort Meade.” Ben had been let go for looking into intercepts from the Caribbean. Codename stuff, but a codename nobody had ever heard of. It was mundane – resupply requisitions, mostly. The simple fact that the transmissions had even been picked up in the first place was an embarrassment to the government. Ben had ignored orders to file it and leave it alone. Now he was a cop with a sword hanging permanently over his head.
    “Doesn’t matter. Don’t even mention your past.” Walker shrugged. “They’re bound to research whoever I give them. Hell, they’ll expect you already. If you go in bragging about your past, they’ll figure you for a bullshitter.” He chuckled. “If you keep quiet about it and insist you have no current connection with the NSA, they’re bound to wonder if you’re keeping tabs on them for someone.”
    “So you’re putting me on this just to mess with them?” Ben aimed an exaggerated glance at the case board. “Like I said, Garcia’s free