Her first destination was Liberty Air Service at Clinton County Airport. The place — indeed, the whole airport — looked like it was deserted. Rebecca found all of her airplanes on the ramp, with a thick layer of snow on them. Why they were out here in the snow instead of in the hangar, she didn’t know. Judging by the amount of snow on them, they hadn’t been anywhere in quite some time. That spelled trouble, and Rebecca knew why: with the aircraft accident at Plattsburgh and with the alert aircraft-generation in full swing, the Air Force would have requested the FAA close down Clinton County Airport, only three miles from the base, for security and air traffic control reasons. A sign on the door of Liberty Air confirmed it: her assistant manager, Adam Parker, had left a sign which said, CLOSED DUE TO AIRPORT RESTRICTION, along with his phone number in case of emergency.
She went inside, turned on a few lights, and spent a few minutes reading messages left for her on the computer and checking the schedule. Flights were being canceled by the dozens. She put in a call to Base Operations at Plattsburgh Air Force Base, requesting permission for her planes to be shuttled out of Clinton County Airport as soon as possible. She had friends in Albany, New York, and Portland, Maine, that would let her stage her flying service from there (for a price, of course) while Clinton County Airport was closed, but she would need permission from the FAA and from the Air Force before she could launch her planes. After leaving a computer message with Parker to organize the transfer of operations, she went out to look over the maintenance shop.
There was a surprise for her in one hangar, and now she knew why her planes weren’t in the hangar: the first of her new million-dollar-plus Cessna Caravan cargo planes had arrived, spiffed up with a great big red ribbon and bow. Obviously it was meant as a surprise for her when she finished Hell Week. It even had LIBERTY AIR SERVICE and her company logo painted on the fuselage, and her name painted in elegant calligraphy below the pilot’s-side window. It had been washed, waxed, and polished to a high luster, and the wheels had even been spray-painted with gloss black paint to make them look showroom new.
This was Ed’s surprise, she thought happily. The bank loan wasn’t supposed to have come in for another three or four days, and delivery of the plane itself wasn’t supposed to be for a week after that. Ed Caldwell must’ve hurried things along for her. Yep, the guy could be a sweetheart sometimes. It was the best thing that could have taken her mind off the incident this morning — and she had Ed Caldwell to thank—personally thank if she could catch him. She returned to her office and put in a call to Ed.
The phone was answered on the other end, but whoever had picked it up was obviously distracted with something — or someone — else. Rebecca heard a few giggles, a lot of heavy breathing and groaning, and an unmistakable rhythmic rustling of sheets and bedsprings. Then, a woman’s voice, flushed and husky, finally answered with, “Satan’s garden of delight, Eve speaking. Satan is having his horn polished, but if you’ll leave your name, your number …”
The phone was snatched away from her mouth, and Rebecca could hear Ed’s voice. “I said, let the machine answer it, baby.”
Rebecca slammed the phone back down in its cradle. Well, so much for thanking the sonofabitch. Somebody else was doing it for her. Rebecca didn’t know whether to cry or throw the phone through her office window. She sat there, simmering, furious that she’d let herself be lulled into thinking she was the only one in Ed’s life. That voice on the other end … she knew it from somewhere. Some stupid bleached blonde who worked at the bank, always purring and meowing whenever Ed was around. At least he could have screwed someone with a brain, or a career, or something. But that bimbo … it was just too insulting to think that was her replacement. That Barbie Doll probably didn’t know the difference between the prime rate and prime rib. Rebecca stared at the phone, finally starting to cool down. Well, it really shouldn’t surprise her. They certainly had no agreement on their living arrangements. Although the way Rebecca was raised, growing up in Vermont, where you gave a commitment to someone that counted for something. At least that’s how she’d always felt. Ed obviously had different ideas. Fine. Screw him. He was no different than some of those active-duty assholes she’d had to put up with over the years. Didn’t men ever change?
The pain in her shoulders from the seat harness was coming back, and the room felt decidedly colder. This had been one hell of a fucked-up couple of days, like a roller coaster out of control. Going home was out of the question now. Ed was smart: he would guess that it was she who called, verify it by calling the squadron, finish snaking Marilyn (he was smart, but he wouldn’t pass up a fast screw, either), then head over to her house to explain himself. They would argue, fight, scream and holler; he would be tender, understanding, apologetic, denying everything while reassuring her that she was the only one for him. She would eventually tell him about the crash and the war, and he would tell her about the loan and the plane, and she would collapse in his arms, from exhaustion or surrender or loneliness or fear. He would offer her a massage, dinner, a drink, and they would be back to being an item once more.
Like hell that was going to happen. Maybe in the past, but not now. Who needed that on top of everything else she’d been through? Christ, she wasn’t a masochist. Besides, there was nothing at home she needed, so she decided to head back to the base and crash at the alert facility. Her clothes were there, her flying gear was there, and she was going to get called in by midmorning anyway to start generating her sortie for alert. She closed up Liberty Air without stepping into the new Caravan’s cockpit — no use in getting too attached to it, since she might have to give it back to the bank if she couldn’t start flying again — then headed back to the base.
Her first stop was the base hospital, where she went to the intensive care ward. Mark Fogelman was awake and alert — yesterday she’d been told he was in a mild coma — but he looked as if he should be unconscious just to spare himself a little discomfort. His face, which had hit the instrument panel glare shield so hard it had broken his visor and helmet, was swollen and purple, like a boxer who had taken a pummeling in the ring. There was a thick bandage over his forehead, and his eyes were black and nearly swollen shut. He wore a neck brace, which only served to make his face look even puffier. His shaved head make him look worse.
“Hey, Yot,” Furness greeted him, using the pilots’ favorite nickname for their F-111 weapons officers, “Yot,” which stood for You Over There, on her weapons officer. “You gotta tell the kitchen not to use so much MSG.” She sat down beside him on the bed, opened up her flight jacket, and handed him a brown paper bag with a copy of Penthouse inside. “I smuggled it in past the nurses. It’s my boyfriend’s. I knew it would drive you crazy — that’s why I brought it.”
“Thanks, Becky,” Fogelman mumbled. A wad of cotton had been stuffed inside his upper lip where he had bitten through it. He accepted the magazine, lifted it out of the bag to check out the cover, then smiled a very painful-looking smile. “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I love it. You’re my very first visitor.”
“I’m honored, then. How do you feel — as if I couldn’t guess.”
“Shitty,” Fogelman replied. “I see stars everywhere, and I’ve had a splitting headache. Just breathing is painful, so you can imagine what going to the bathroom does for me. Otherwise, I’m okay. How about you?”