“Morning, Captain,” said the copilot, trotting back as Zen wheeled himself into the bird. “You in for this week’s football pool?” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“I ought to get cripple’s odds,” Zen said, taking the sheet.
“Man, you’re in a strange mood this morning, sir,” said one of the airmen he’d been tormenting with his jokes.
“I’m just a strange guy, I guess,” said Zen, reaching around to strap his chair to the helicopter’s restraints. Greasy Hands had had someone install the quick-release hookup, making it easy for him to secure himself. Maybe next week they’d put in a special window.
“All aboard what’s coming aboard,” yelled the copilot out the rear door before pulling it shut. There was, of course, no one else waiting in the off-limits and well-guarded shuttle area. The pilot whipped the engine into a fury and the helicopter shot upward.
He was in a strange mood, Zen conceded to himself. Maybe it was because he thought he’d made a mistake with Bree last night.
He still knew he was right, that they had to end their marriage. But his stomach hurt, and it wasn’t just because of the heavy meal.
They’d sat there for an hour or more after he told her. Neither one of them spoke. Then she got up to go to the bathroom. He flipped on the TV.
Someone from Dreamland called her in. Bree left without explaining what was up. He assumed there was some sort of problem with the Megafortress; she had that kind of look on her face. He could tell.
At least he thought he could.
He glanced at the list of football games on the pool sheet, but the light was dim and he didn’t really feel like going through it now. He folded it into his pocket.
Jeff had spent quite a lot of time last night thinking about using the Megafortress as the Flighthawk mother ship. He thought it might just be possible to save the project by tying the UM/Fs to the KC configuration, which itself was hitching a ride on the JSF. The Flighthawks would be perfect escorts over hostile territory.
The JSF was a joke, so what the hell. Might as well get something useful out of the program.
Stockard mulled how to best present the idea to his father-in-law during the short flight to Dreamland. He was still thinking about it as he made his way over to Cafeteria Four for breakfast.
“Ham ‘n’ Swiss bagel,” he told Maggie, the counter-person, as he took his customary bottle of water.
“A bagel today? My, oh, my. Living on the edge, aren’t we, Captain?” said Maggie.
“Cripples have to,” Zen told her.
“Don’t you ever use that word in front of me,” she said, nearly throwing herself over the steam tray that separated them. “My son is in a wheelchair. He ain’t no cripple.”
“I didn’t mean anything. I, uh …” Zen held out his hands apologetically. “I mean, shit, look at me.”
“Well, you ain’t no cripple.” Her face was red and her voice was shaking. “That damn chair doesn’t give you the right to make fun of nobody.”
“I’m not making fun of anyone. I didn’t know about your son. I’m sorry.”
She flipped the bagel together and plopped it on a plate with a harsh slap.
“I’m sorry,” Zen said. “Really.”
“Yeah,” she said. Maggie pushed her lips together; finally, she nodded slowly.
He wanted to say something else, but all he could manage was another “sorry.” Maggie turned quickly to greet a newcomer. Zen took the tray and wheeled himself out into the nearly empty room.
Nancy Cheshire was sitting at a table a short distance from the doorway. She waved at him to come over; he moved toward her slowly, the coffee lapping at the top of the cup on his precariously balanced tray.
“Hey, Jeff. Sorry if I woke you up last night,” she said as he slid his tray in.
“No, I was up,” he told her. He sipped his coffee, thinking how he could make it up to Maggie. She’d always been one of the few people who’d treated him like a regular person.
“Ought to be nearly there by now,” said Cheshire.
“There where?”
“You haven’t heard what’s going on?”
“No. Where’s Bree? You called her last night?” he added, finally catching up to what she’d been saying.
“Two planes got shot down in Somalia,” Cheshire told him. “They’re putting together an operation to rescue the pilots. Madcap Magician has an operation under way. They’ve called in Whiplash, one of our Spec Op security units. Danny Freah packed up the team in Fort Two and took off for Africa a few hours ago.”
“In a Megafortress?”
Cheshire nodded. “We’re sending Raven out as soon as the control systems are tested. We’re carrying Fort Two’s crew members, and some more weapons. I should be sleeping,” she added, shrugging.
“Weapons?”
“If they’re needed.”
“I’m coming with you,” Zen told her. “With the Flighthawks.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Raven’s already set up for us. We can load the computer gear back in on the pallets and be ready to rock in an hour,” he told her. “It won’t take a half hour.”
“Jeff, the Flighthawks aren’t ready for combat.”
“And Raven is?”
Cheshire shook her head. “The Megafortress has already seen action.”
“Raven hasn’t. And the Flighthawks have been flying for as long as Fort Two has.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“We can provide escort and act as scouts,” said Jeff.
“We’ve only done two airdrops.”
“That’s in the past week and a half. We did maybe a million before my accident.”
She frowned, not even bothering to refute his exaggeration. Jeff kept talking, convinced he was right—convinced that not only would the Flighthawks do a great job, but that they would prove their worth to everyone and the project would live on.
He would live on. Or fly on.
“Raven and Fort Two are too valuable to risk anyplace where somebody else got shot down. The Flighthawks can take chances you can’t.”
“Maybe five years from now. Three years if we’re lucky,” said Cheshire. “After a hell of a lot more work and practice.”
“You think the pilots who got shot down are going to be alive in three years?”
“I didn’t think you cared that much for Mack Smith after, uh, the accident,” she said.
“Smith was one of the pilots?”
Cheshire nodded.
“Yeah, well, I’m still going.”
SHAVING, COLONEL BASTIAN CONSIDERED WHETHER HE might just escape for a few hours—pull the phone out of the wall, or better yet, steal away to a Vegas hotel and sleep for twenty-four hours.
Wouldn’t that go over big with the F-119 junta?
But hiding wasn’t exactly his style. And besides, he needed to stay available in case O’Day wanted his input on Somalia. So he fortified himself with a quick, very hot shower, and headed back to the Taj.
By now Bastian had learned it was much faster to avoid the elevator’s security systems and go down the stairways, which “merely” required a second retina scan, magnetic strip card, and a nod to the security detail at each floor. He had just burst out into the hallway down from his office when Major Stockard yelled to him from the elevator area.
“Colonel, just the man I was looking for,” said Jeff, wheeling his chair at breakneck speed. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Sure, Zen,” said Bastian, pushing open the door to his outer office. The room was jammed with a dozen other people waiting to see him. Dog gave the room a quick glance, though he could tell from the chaos that Ax was temporarily AWOL. “Sergeant Gibbs will be with you all shortly,” he said, waving off any interruptions as he plunged into his personal office. He held the door open as Stockard wheeled through, then closed it quickly.