Subject: FARRINGTON, WILLARD, E.
Grade: 0-7/DOB 13 FEB 48. SERVICE #220-76-1455
Spouse: (DECEASED)
Children: ONE (F/ADOPTED)
Other Living Relatives: NONE
DE: DETACHMENT 4,
UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
AERIAL INTELLIGENCE COMMAND
FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA.
DUPLICATION OF THE ENCLOSED IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH VIA AIR FORCE REGULATION 200-2 AND U.S.C. 797 OF THE INTERNAL SECURITY ACT.
TOP SECRET
_______________________________
A personnel photograph was fastened to the left side of the folder, and staring up from its glossy surface was the face of General Willard Farrington.
A hand closed the folder. A sputter was heard. Bold typeface on the folder’s manila cover read:
OPERATOR “A”
It was General Rainier’s hand which closed the MILPERS folder, and it was his voice which muttered, “God damn,” a moment later.
Another officer—a major—sat in the room, submerged in darkness. He was a Tekna/Byman liaison field agent; hence his name was classified.
“Jesus,” Rainier said. “Who would’ve thought something like this would happen?”
“It all went so well for so long, sir,” the Major responded. “Perhaps we took the circumstances for granted.”
Rainier looked up testily. “Yeah, I guess we did. The guy’s been doing it for more than ten years without a hitch.”
“Yes, sir, but remember the retrieval time table. We don’t have another ten years. We don’t even have ten months.”
“And you’re telling me there’s no alternate?”
A slight crack in the Major’s voice betrayed his nervousness. “N-no, sir. Given the highly critical criterion, not to mention the most recent Presidential amendments to AR 200-2, it was deemed too sensitive a risk to have a fully briefed and fully trained alternate on line.”
Rainier strummed his fingers on the desk. “I’ve never heard anything so reckless and ill-advised in my life. Matters like this should never be disclosed to these ludicrous temporary occupants of the White House.”
“You can be sure, though, sir, that the President hasn’t been briefed on the QSR4 data.”
“Thank God.”
It was just a figure of speech, of course. General Rainier didn’t actually believe in God. From where he sat, the lone desk lamp projected the shadow of Rainier’s head onto the wall. It looked like a halo, and here was Rainier, the angel with no God. Instead his shrine was the Pentagon, and his church the most restricted warrens of the NSA. Technology—and death—were the only gods he could trust. He was probably the most powerful man in the United States’ military, but it was all unofficiaclass="underline" an angel of might but with no wings. Only the jaded halo.
“And we do have a contingency, sir,” the Major added as if to offer some consolation. “No one prepared, but at least—”
“You have someone in mind is what you’re saying.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
The chair creaked when Rainier leaned back. He spoke with his eyes closed, struggling against a headache. “He’s the best we’ve got?”
The Major stepped forward into the smudge of light and picked up the MILPERS folder labeled OPERATOR “A”. He inserted it into the feed slot of a Gressen automatic paper-pulverizer.
“He is now, sir.”
The machine whined for a split instant, then disgorged its powder into a burn bag.
Presto—gone, Rainier thought. He wondered how many real lives he’d disposed of just as efficiently.
Next, the Major set down a second folder, this one labeled:
OPERATOR “B”
General Rainier opened the folder to glance down at a personnel photo of a lean-faced, hard-eyed white male in his forties.
“The candidate’s name is Jack Wentz,” the Major augmented. “He was promoted to general O-7 two days ago. He’s been Top Secret/SI with eleven suffixes for more than twenty years, and he’s our senior restricted test pilot. He’s also got more black flying hours than any man in the world.”
Rainier appraised the face in the photo as if calculating an ancient arcana. His fingers continued to strum the desk, and he wondered how angels felt when they struck down innocents with their swords in the name of God.
“Get him,” Rainier said.
—
CHAPTER 4
Something scrabbled in the box, a chittering noise. There was something alive inside.
“Careful,” Wentz warned. “Once they grab you, they don’t let go.”
Pete stared fascinated into the styrofoam box. “I didn’t even know they got this big, Dad.”
Wentz pulled the station wagon into the driveway. “See, Pete, your old man’s not as dumb as he looks. I know a guy in the Coast Guard who had to chart part of the Chesapeake for the government a few years ago, and they have this thing called thermal sonar. That’s why we went to the West River estuary, ‘cos this friend of mine, see, his sonar picked up thousands of really big crabs out there. No one knows about the place except me and him.”
“Cool,” Pete enthused. “Thermal sonar.”
“Come on. Your mother’ll never believe it.”
Wentz grabbed the crab traps while Pete brought the box. Wentz felt strange walking up the driveway of the quaint Alexandria colonial, a house he’d bought a decade ago and had soon thereafter moved out of when Joyce divorced him for familial negligence. Wentz deserved it, of course. He’d promised her three times he was retiring—then canceled his retirement papers. He’d scheduled vacations with her and Pete, then simply didn’t show up. The last straw had been the time he’d promised her he was getting Christmas week off on leave time, then turned around to volunteer for special duty when he’d heard Test Command was looking for sign-ups for a variable-wing mini-fighter.
What a tubesteak I was, he thought now, lugging the gear into the garage. War was one thing, but joyriding was no reason to snowjob your family. In truth, Wentz didn’t want some other stick-jockey to fly something that he hadn’t. He’d been jealous, so he’d abandoned his family.
Yeah, what a dick…
The out-processing counselor had made some pertinent points. Coming off twenty-five years of military service might mean some serious adjustments. And Wentz knew that he’d have to put any former bitterness aside or this simply wouldn’t work. It was Joyce who’d agreed to give him this last chance. The rest lay with Wentz. First thing on the To-Do List is stop being an asshole, he thought.
That’s why he hadn’t said anything to her on Friday when he and Pete got home from the baseball game. He was pissed off royally when he’d learned that Joyce had told Pete he was bluffing about his retirement. But then he remembered what the counselor had said, about compromise, about making an effort to see the past from Joyce’s viewpoint. What right do I have to be pissed off about anything? he realized. She’s the one giving me the chance. What did I ever do except let her down for ten years? Nothin’.
So he’d said nothing about it.
“Damn it, Pete,” Wentz said. “What’s all this garbage in the garage? You know, you could do a better job keeping this place clean.”