“First time in the history of the United States Air Force they gave a general’s star to a guy who’s not an asshole!” Top blared. Then he yanked open his snack fridge, pulled out a bottle of Perier-Jouet champagne, and popped the cork. Foam poured on the floor.
“Shit, Top, thanks—”
Top poured the expensive bubbling wine into a pair of glasses, then passed one to Wentz.
“A toast. Here’s to General Wentz…”
Wentz sipped from his glass. “General Wentz,” he muttered. “You know, Top? I kind of like the sound of that.”
««—»»
The limousine idled at the gate, Department of the Air Force flags waving at its front fenders. Two Marine Corp MPs emerged before red signs in white letters that read:
PENTAGON WEST ENTRANCE.
THIS IS A CONTROLLED ACCESS. DUTY GUARDS HAVE THE RIGHT TO DETAIN ALL ADMITTANTS REGARDLESS OF RANK OR OFFICE. YOU MAY BE ASKED TO BE SEARCHED.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPLIANCE.
The first MP opened the limo door, while the second opened the phone box in the guard shack. General Gerald Cawthorne Rainier got out of the vehicle and dully returned the MP’s crisp salute.
“Good afternoon, sir!” the MP barked.
“This may not be a very good afternoon at all, Sergeant,” Rainier mouthed.
“Yes, sir!”
The line of four stars barely fit on the epaulets of Rainier’s dress uniform. He was fifty-seven years old but right now he felt a hundred. No, this was not a good afternoon at all, not after the call he’d just received from SECPERS.
There might not be any good afternoons ever again, he thought.
His eyes lanced into the MP’s gaze. “Tell security to have Briefing Room One prepped and swept ASAP. And open this goddamn gate.”
“Yes, sir!”
The MP shot a nod at the gate guard. The electric bolt snapped open, then Rainier brushed past, rushing into the west entrance as if trying to evade an augury of doom.
—
CHAPTER 3
In spite of the certainty of his retirement, Wentz felt funny in civilian clothes. He always had, as though high-alt flight suits had become as much a part of him as his skin. He felt funny driving cars, too, cautious to the point of paranoia—like a senior citizen behind the wheel. He remembered when he’d made the initial test flights of the B-2 bomber at Edward’s Palmdale range, how natural it had felt on the stick of a prototype aircraft that cost nearly a billion dollars. But, somehow, driving a $20,000 station wagon felt daunting.
One thing that did feel right today, though, was the fact that his fourteen-year-old son, Pete, sat right next to him. Things would be different now. Now Wentz would actually get to be a father to his son. Today, they were on their way to Camden Yard, Yankees versus the Orioles.
“I couldn’t do math either, Pete,” Wentz was saying. “I hated it—algebra, trig, geometry. But I worked my tail off, hung in there, and made it. You’ve got to get those math grades up—C’s won’t cut it. Not if you want to get into a good—”
“I aced the final, Dad,” Pete told him. “I got a ninety-nine.”
Wentz was taken aback. “You’re kidding me? A ninety-nine?”
Shit, I never got a ninety-nine on an algebra test in my life!
“Yeah, so I’ll get a B for the course. A’s in everything else.”
Wentz slapped the wheel. That’s my boy! “Hey, that’s great, Pete! Now you’ll make the honor roll! Outstanding! Buddy, we are celebrating this weekend! The Yankees game tonight, King’s Dominion tomorrow, crabbing on the bay all day Sunday, and…you know what? I think maybe we’ll do a little dirt-bike shopping once school lets out for the summer. How’s that sound?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Pete said but it was a glum response, despondent. The boy seemed miles away.
Wentz glanced over. “Hey, partner, what’s wrong? You look like somebody shot your dog…and you don’t even have a dog.”
“Well…Mom said…”
Wentz smirked. “What? What did your mother say?”
“She said you might be bluffing.”
“Bluffing about what?”
Pete shrugged morosely.“About retiring from the Air Force.”
Damn it! Wentz ground his teeth, then pulled the station wagon over to the shoulder and skidded to a stop. He looked right at his son. “Pete, when I told you and Mom that I’m leaving the Air Force, I meant it.”
“Really?”
“Really, Pete. Look, I know it’s been tough on you and your mother. Half the time I wasn’t around—no wonder she divorced me. But we’ve been talking about it for months, and it’s settled. On Monday I retire, your mother and I get back together, and we’ll be a family again.”
“Yeah, but you said that a bunch of times in the past, and then it never happened.”
Shit, Wentz thought. Nothing he could say could make it right. Even the truth was an excuse. “Yeah, but that’s because stuff came up at the last minute that I had to do for the Air Force. You know, stuff I’m not allowed to talk about.”
“Secret stuff.”
“Yeah. That’s why I was never around very much. I had to do it, Pete. When you’re in the service you have to obey orders.”
“I know.”
When Wentz glimpsed his own face in the windshield’s reflection, the basest impulse urged him to punch it, to just put his fist right through the safety glass. In one second he saw all of his regret—and all of his arrogance disguised as service. This is my son, for Christ’s sake, and I’m snow-jobbing him. I’m making excuses. When Pete was four, he’d almost died from pneumonia; Wentz was flying a classified recon op over North Korea. When Pete had hit his first home run in Little League, Wentz was flying at 100,000 feet testing new fuel-tank seals in an SR-71. And when Pete had been sent home from school for fighting, when he’d most needed a father’s counsel and discipline, Wentz had been joyriding a YF-22 Advanced Tactical Fighter over the White Sides Mountain Test Reservation.
Some fucking father, he thought. Always passing the buck to Joyce, always too busy playing Big Bad Top Secret Flyboy.
“I’m telling you, Pete, that stuff in the past—it changes now. Your mother’s giving me one more shot, and it’s no jive this time. We’re patching things up, getting back together, and it’s going to work out.”
For the first time since he’d gotten in the car, Pete looked genuinely enthused.
“And you’ll move back to the house?”
“No, I’m going to pitch a tent in the back yard. Of course I’m moving back to the house! I’ve got my stuff all packed, got the mover lined up. It’s a done deal.”
Pete’s eyes widened on Wentz. “You promise?”
“Roger that, buddy-bro,” Wentz said with no hesitation. “You can count on it.” He pulled the car back onto the road. “And there’s nothing in the world that’ll make me break that promise. Now let’s go watch the Yankees kick some tail.”
««—»»
The office stood dark. Beneath a wan lamp, the folder lay open on the desk.
The leader sheet on the right read:
_______________________________
TOP SECRET
EYES ONLY - RESTRICTED:
OFFICER EVALUATION REPORT (OER)
DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY, MARINE CORP BRANCH.