“Like a doctor.”
Maura picked up her knitting, her lecturing done. “And I’d kick Patrick Flannery Shaw all the way back to California.”
Maddy smiled. Maura O’Keith was her moral gyroscope, always upright and true. “Yes, Mother.”
Brian Turner rubbed his close-cropped hair and tried to make sense out of the biology book in front of him. It wasn’t going to happen. “Hey, Maggot,” he whispered to Little Matt, “do you really understand this shit?”
Little Matt looked nervously around the library. The rules of the Toles Learning Center were strictly enforced and he didn’t want any more demerits. They had just finished walking ten punishment tours for the fight. “Yeah. It’s a snap.” Another quick look around. “I’ll help you when we go back to the room.”
Temporarily satisfied, Brian pushed back his chair and wandered into the book stacks. They still had ten minutes to go on the first half of night study hall and, at eight-fifteen, they would have five minutes to return to their room for another seventy minutes of enforced study. He hated it and promised himself for perhaps the five hundredth time he would escape NMMI at the first opportunity. He started a mental countdown to Family Weekend at the end of September. He rounded a book stack in a back corner and stopped when he heard a rustle of clothes in the next aisle. He chanced a peek. It was Zeth Trogger and a First Classman locked in a passionate embrace. He beat a quick retreat back to the table. “Hey, Maggot,” he muttered. “Check that out.” He nodded in the direction of the book stacks. Rick Pelton, the regimental XO and second-highest-ranking cadet at NMMI, was walking out of the book stacks. A few moments later, Zeth emerged from another aisle.
“So?” Little Matt replied.
“They were sucking tongues big time.”
“Pelton making it with the Trog? No way. He can have anyone he wants. PDA gets you what? Eight Ds?” PDA was public display of affection and worth eight demerits. “Who’s gonna risk eight tours for kissing the Trog? Besides, his buddies will dump on him big time.”
“I’m telling you he was doing it with the Trog.” It was time to go and they gathered up their books to make the quick march back to Hagerman Barracks. An ever-present Secret Service agent trailed along, out of sight and unobtrusive. “Hey,” Brian said, “maybe he likes her.”
“Sure, he does,” Little Matt said, mustering up a fourteen-year-old’s worldly cynicism.
“They’re screwin’,” Brian announced.
“Gimme a break.”
“Everyone fucks, Maggot. Even your parents.”
“Obviously. We’re here, aren’t we? Read your biology book.”
“Not my mom, not anymore.”
Little Matt conceded the point. “Being president is different. My dad had a girlfriend, Sam Darnell, who lived with us. I really liked her and kinda hoped they’d get married.”
“Was she good-looking?”
“She’s beautiful.” For a moment Little Matt was on the edge of tears.
“Do you remember your mom?”
“Kinda. I was only seven when it happened.”
“I’d just turned twelve,” Brian told him. He paused, trying to remember his father. But the image was out of focus and gray. “But it’s getting hard to remember.” Another pause. “Do you think your dad will ever get married again?” Little Matt shrugged an answer. “Is your dad really a fighter pilot?” A nod answered him. “Did he ever shoot down another airplane?”
“Yeah, four of ’em. But he doesn’t talk about it.”
“No shit? That’s really neat.” Brian recalled the time he had met Little Matt’s father in McMasters’s office. The image was sharp and clear. Little Matt’s father looked like a fighter pilot, lean and cool. They climbed the steps together and walked along the stoop to their room.
Rick Pelton was waiting for them. “Inside,” he ordered. The two rats hurried inside and came to attention beside their bunks. Pelton stalked around the room, giving it a quick inspection. He stood in front of Brian, their noses almost touching. He exhaled loudly. “Do I have bad breath, Dirtbag?” No answer. “Smart. Keep your mouth shut and you’ll stay out of trouble.”
Brian wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t even think about it. I got real muscle down in the TLA’s office.”
Pelton’s eyes drew into narrow slits. The Secret Service monitored Brian from the Tactical Leadership Advisor’s office. “Fuckin’ Secret Service. You start talking and I’ll dog your rat buddy over there night and day. He’ll love chairing. All because you can’t keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Got it?”
“I got it”—a long pause—“sir.”
Pelton gave Brian a hard look, spun around, and marched out of the room. “Oh, shit,” Little Matt moaned. “They saw you. What’s chairing?”
“Beats me,” Brian replied. “But I think you got problems.”
The lawyer seemed out of breath from the short walk to the Marchetti. “I’ve never flown in a little airplane,” she said, her breath coming in short gasps. Pontowski fitted the parachute to her, careful not to touch her in any way that might offend. He showed her how to tighten the leg straps. “Can you tuck them in?” she asked. Pontowski did as she asked, all too aware of her bare midriff, abbreviated T-shirt, and tight jeans. He had to admit that Kate Winston was much more human when away from Jonathan Slater, her senior associate at Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.
Pontowski waited until the FAA inspector had finished fitting Slater’s chute and was helping the lawyer into the cockpit of their Marchetti before motioning Kate onto the wing. He helped her climb over the rail into the seat. Her breasts brushed lightly against his shoulder as he helped her fit and tighten her safety harness. “I’m really looking forward to this,” she murmured. He walked around to the other side and climbed in. The cockpit of the Marchetti was a tight fit for two people and he was having second thoughts about the two lawyers coming along when they reenacted the accident. Her perfume tantalized him with a soft citrus scent.
As briefed, they started engines together and taxied to the runway. From the control tower, the little red planes looked like ants as they moved into takeoff position. “This is gonna happen real fast,” Pontowski warned her. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the controls.” She nodded, her eyes wide. The FAA inspector gave the signal and they were rolling, exactly as Pontowski had done at the air show. The moment his gear was up, he made the tactical split, again pulling four Gs. Immediately, he said, “Fight’s on,” and turned back into the lead ship. The FAA inspector pulled up exactly as Johar had and Pontowski fell into the saddle for the shot. “Gun, guns, guns,” he radioed.
“Knock it off,” the inspector replied. Then, “My boy isn’t doing too well.”
“What’s the matter?” Kate asked, disappointed that the flight might be over.
“Slater’s probably sick and about ready to toss his cookies,” Pontowski answered.
“From that? That was fun. Do we have to land?”
Pontowski keyed his radio. “Jim, let’s go out to the training area and do the rest at altitude. We can set five thou as the floor.” The FAA inspector agreed and they climbed out in tight formation, switching lead and wingman twice. “He’s good,” Pontowski said, taking the measure of the inspector. “We’ll use five thousand feet as the floor for maneuvering and never go below it,” he explained.
“Does that mean five thousand feet represents the ground?” Kate asked.
“You got it,” he replied, impressed with her quick understanding.
She wiggled in the seat, distracting him. “Wouldn’t it be more realistic if we did it lower, closer to the ground like you did in the air show?”