He saw a brief flash of the woman he had once known. It was a moment of recognition in her face. He didn’t know if her eyes were wistful… or pleading. He knew full well, though, that heady politics had vaulted her into a new circle that, perhaps, she had been gunning for all along. Or maybe she was operating in a realm for which she was unprepared. Either way, she had broken off the engagement four months earlier and had become aloof. Not fully understanding what had happened between them hurt the most. The moment was an awkward one — the vice president between them. Matt felt the pluck of a banjo string in his heart and then did the only thing he could do. He turned and walked up the steps.
He ducked as he entered the small airplane and nodded to the two Air Force officers who would fly him to Fort Bragg. One was blond with blue eyes and looked like he had just graduated from the academy the day before. He wore lieutenant’s bars. The other was a bit older, more ethnic-looking, and with eyes staring at his cockpit instruments, focused on his preflight routine. He was a captain, and Matt presumed, in charge of the flight. He noticed a cell phone sitting in the pilot’s lap and a Bluetooth headset in his ear like some Star Trek device.
As Matt turned into the small, eight-seat cabin, he was greeted with another surprise.
“How’s the arm, slugger?”
“I’ll live,” Matt said with a shrug, standing next to Peyton’s seat, duffel in hand.
“The vice president asked me to accompany you. I couldn’t get out of it.”
Matt surmised that she didn’t seem too disappointed.
“Well, name’s Matt Garrett,” he said, sticking a large hand out and giving hers a quick shake. “Don’t think I ever formally introduced myself.”
She looked at him briefly and squeezed his hand. “Peyton O’Hara.”
“Nice grip,” he said, offering her a polite smile.
He walked to the back of the small airplane, sat down, put his duffel in the seat next to him, patted the weapon beneath his jacket, leaned back, and shut his eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Matt had fallen asleep during takeoff. He was awakened by what he thought was turbulence but was actually Peyton O’Hara dumping his feet off of the facing leather chair so that she could sit down across from him.
“While I’ve flown helicopters before, I get bored stiff riding in the back of these things, so let’s talk,” she said.
“Helicopters?” he asked, motioning to the seat across from his.
She stared at him as the Air Force flight attendant offered them drinks. Peyton chose apple juice. Matt asked for scotch.
“Previous life. Army Blackhawk pilot,” she said. “Flew with the 101st Airborne, got bored after Iraq version 1.0, and decided to work in DC.”
He held up his Jack and Coke. Doing quick mental calculations, Matt decided Peyton was in her early thirties — his age. “Thanks for your service.”
He tipped his glass in her direction, and she gave hers a perfunctory wiggle that passed as a toast.
“Something’s up with those Predators, Matt. We really need to figure this one out.”
“Well, if they’re in Canada with Ballantine, then things are already serious. That puts Boston and New York within range.”
“But how would they get the satellite capability to monitor and steer the Predator?” she asked.
“I’m sure they’ve got it. That was part of the campaign-cash-for-technology swap that went on a few years ago.”
“How do you know?” Peyton asked.
“I just know,” he said quietly, staring at her. Changing the subject, he said, “So, what’s your story? Blackhawk pilot. Ducati Street Fighter.”
“I went to Harvard undergrad, and then, after my pilot stint in the Army, Georgetown for graduate school. I was president of my class. I come from an old Irish family, complete with the politics and the temperament,” she warned.
“Right,” he said. “That explains the helicopters and motorcycles.”
Peyton shrugged. “They require no more explanation than the armament you have in your go bag.”
Matt shrugged back at her and remained silent.
The plane carved its way above the snowcapped Blue Ridge Mountains, hurtling south toward Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
He put his empty drink down and ordered another as the military flight attendant moved past them. When the drink arrived, Matt studied the stewardess. She was attractive in a rural sort of way. Her blue Air Force uniform was a bit too tight in some areas, making it obvious that she worked out. She was average height but looked as if she might make a good second baseman on a softball team. Probably from somewhere in the Midwest.
“Thank you,” Matt said to the orderly. He took a sip of his drink, and lifting his eyes over his cup, saw Peyton examining him closely. “What?”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Maybe something on the television?” Peyton asked.
“Not likely.” Matt studied Peyton. She was wearing a white silk shirt that blended with her porcelain skin. Her strawberry-blond hair was disheveled in an intentional manner, and a constellation of freckles jumbled up either side of her nose. “So tell me, what was all that stuff Hellerman was saying about Rostow and secular spiritual stagnation?”
“Fine. Quid pro quo. I tell you about Hellerman’s Rebuild America program, and you tell me about the Philippines.”
Matt shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to go down this road. Not now, not with a stranger, he thought to himself.
“You are the famous Matt Garrett that got into a big fight in the Philippines, right?”
Matt nodded. “Perhaps. Hard to tell who anyone is nowadays.”
“I’ll ignore the philosophy and just dive right in. Hellerman created a special, compartmentalized task force called Rebuild America. He actually got the idea for the name before Nine-eleven. He had been working on the concept for a while.”
“What’s Rostow got to do with that? His sixth stage?”
“Exactly.” Peyton pointed a finger at Matt as if to award him a gold star. “Rostow, as you seem to know, studied societal development and labeled his stages, starting with the traditional society. You know… the primitive, tribal, subsistence-farmer types. Then there is preconditions for takeoff, takeoff, drive to maturity, and high mass consumption.”
Matt looked at Peyton’s pearl necklace. “Sounds like he got the last one right, anyway. So?”
Peyton ignored the comment and continued ticking the list off, using her fingers.
“So, he spoke primarily in economic terms. His thesis basically argued that we had moved over a couple of centuries from farmers to industrialized mass producers and consumers. His point, at the end, was that he couldn’t see the future, but since we were in the high mass consumption stage, where people could buy and spend at will, he predicted a people that felt less beholden to society and their government yet deeply selfish. Rostow argued, and Hellerman agrees, that our wealth would insulate us from the sacrifices of those who have gone before us. The principles that have made the United States great — freedom, liberty, and capitalism — could ultimately create a cocoon for those not involved in the tough, day-to-day fight to preserve those very principles. What do I care what’s happening overseas, for example, as long as I can buy my Xbox? Combine that with an all-volunteer military, and there’s no shared sacrifice. The people simply live in oblivion while our troops get after it. In the sixth stage, the nation’s spirit diminishes. The flame flickers.”
“No argument here. What’s Hellerman doing with all that?”