A disgraced former pilot exposes her ex-husband's treasonous plot on a Cold War-era flight.
The next morning, I was released from my temporary confinement, with a stern warning from General Albright to stay off base and out of official business. He still saw me as a liability, but at least I was free to act. My first priority was to find Captain Caldwell. He was the only one on the X-79 who had believed me, the only one who had spoken up for me.
I found Caldwell at the base’s small, generic mess hall, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked exhausted, his uniform rumpled, but his eyes were clear when they met mine.
“Petrova,” he said, offering a small, tired smile. “I heard they let you go. Thought they’d keep you locked up indefinitely.”
“They just want me out of the way,” I replied, sliding into the seat opposite him. “Less chance for me to stir trouble.”
“And you’re going to stir trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, a knowing look in his eyes.
“Julian Croft almost killed us, Captain,” I said, my voice low. “He definitely killed Alexei. I can’t let that stand.”
Caldwell flinched at the mention of Alexei, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I… I believe you. After seeing what happened up there, and that message… it can’t be a coincidence. But how do we fight him? He’s untouchable.”
“Donovan gave me a lead,” I explained, briefly recounting the anonymous tip about financial irregularities and a “research grant” tied to Croft’s past. “It’s thin, but it’s a start. We need proof, Captain. Something that links Julian directly to those funds, something concrete.”
Caldwell chewed on his lip, lost in thought. He took a sip of his coffee. “Financial records… I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Me neither,” I admitted. “Most of those old procurement records are classified, buried deep, or even destroyed by now.”
He paused, then slowly lowered his coffee cup to the table. A flicker of an idea, uncertain and hesitant, crossed his face. “You know, this reminds me of something my Aunt Eleanor used to talk about. Not specifics, but… the way she always complained about how convoluted everything was.”
“Your aunt?” I asked, confused. “How could she help?”
“She worked for the military,” Caldwell explained. “Not as an officer, but as an administrative clerk. Back in the late fifties, early sixties. She was in the procurement office, the one that handled all the paperwork for new aircraft contracts and component acquisitions.”
My breath hitched. “She was there during the X-77 project?”
“Oh, yes,” Caldwell confirmed, a slow realization dawning on his face. “She was actually quite proud of her role, even if it was just shuffling papers. She talked about it constantly at family gatherings. Said she was right in the thick of all the cutting-edge stuff, even if she didn’t understand the engineering.”
“And after the X-77 crash?” I pressed, urgency rising in my voice.
“She was part of the team that handled the fallout,” he recalled, rubbing his chin. “You know, winding down the project, reallocating funds, processing the contract transfers to other companies that took over parts of the development. It was all very hush-hush, of course, but she was meticulous. A real stickler for details.”
“Did she ever mention anything odd?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “Anything that didn’t quite add up?”
Caldwell frowned, trying to recall. “She used to grumble. Not specifics, you understand, just that ‘things weren’t always as they seemed’ with some of those big contracts. Said some of the transitions were ‘messy’ or ‘too fast.’ She even mentioned once or twice about ‘unusual transfers’ that she questioned, but her superiors just brushed her off, told her to just process the paperwork and not to worry her pretty little head about it.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. “Unusual transfers. Messy transitions. Dismissed by superiors.” It perfectly matched Donovan’s vague lead. Eleanor Caldwell, a seemingly insignificant administrative clerk, might have been the last line of defense against Julian Croft’s initial deception.
“She’s old now, in her late seventies,” Caldwell continued, his voice softer. “Lives in a small apartment in Arlington. Her memory isn’t what it used to be. But she was always sharp with numbers, a real whiz with ledgers and invoices. Said she could spot a missing penny from a mile away.”
“She could be our witness, Captain,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. “She handled the paper trail. She might have seen something, documented something, that no one else bothered to look at.”
Caldwell looked skeptical again. “It’s been years, Petrova. More than five. She might not remember a thing. And those records… they would have been shredded, classified, buried.”
“But she might have copies,” I argued. “Or notes. A person who prides herself on being meticulous, who noticed ‘irregularities,’ might keep something. She’d be afraid of being blamed if something went wrong.”
“She was very loyal,” Caldwell mused, a fond look on his face. “But also very principled. If she thought something was wrong, it would bother her.”
“It’s a long shot,” I admitted. “But it’s the only shot we have.”
Caldwell considered this, then nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll give you her address. But be gentle with her, Petrova. She’s frail. And she doesn’t like to talk about ‘government secrets’ anymore. Says it just gives her a headache.”
I scribbled down the address he gave me, a name and a street in a quiet suburb. It was a tangible lead, not just a whisper. A real person, with a real memory, who might hold the key to unlocking Julian’s past.
Leaving the mess hall, I felt a surge of energy I hadn’t realized I was missing. The weight of isolation hadn’t lifted entirely, but it had shifted. I had an ally, however indirect. And a faint, but real, trail to follow. Julian Croft might have buried his secrets deep, but I was about to start digging.
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