Hogan absently pulled on the bill of his fatigue cap. "I would sure appreciate it if you could tell me what this is all about, sir."
The colonel chomped down on his stogie. "All I know is that I was told to grab my top Stinger instructor, put him on this here Starlifter with the RPV team, tie a pretty ribbon around it all, and kiss 'em adids—and to keep my mouth shut. I suggest you do the same."
The Stinger was a hand-held, heat-seeking surface-to-air missile; the RPVs, or remotely piloted vehicles, were training targets; and Hogan was an instructor at the Air Defense Artillery School at Fort Bliss.
The crew chief of the C-141 yelled down from the cargo bay, "We're all secure up here. Let's move."
Hogan popped to attention, saluted smartly, and yelled over the growing engine noise, "Yes, sir. I'm just hoping this aircraft doesn't divert to Nicaragua. Or Cuba."
The colonel returned the salute. "That's what we're paid for, Mr. Hogan."
The warrant officer sighed. "Yes, sir," he said, and walked up into the cargo bay.
Even before the ramp had closed, the Starlifter was taxiing toward the runway.
Lydia Strand was exhausted. She'd spent the last three hours probing around Kapuscinski's BOQ room and didn't care much for the exercise. She found it as distasteful as it was frustrating.
Distasteful because she didn't like to violate someone's privacy, and frustrating because she hadn't found so much as a glimmer of a clue.
Strand was a handicapped person. But it was an invisible handicap. She possessed a brilliant mind (the University of North Carolina does not pass out summa degrees in physics without good reason), but her intellect was wrapped in a package of stunning beauty — long dark hair, cool gray eyes, and a figure that was 9.8 on the Richter scale (although her flying career had caused her breasts to sag a little from pulling g's in F-16's). As she tried to do her job, too many people — men and women-failed to look past the pretty exterior. The women would often be envious, while the men would either fixate on her looks or try to prove they were God's gift to the female order. Not everyone was fair-minded like Whittenberg, Lamborghini, or Kelly. There were plenty of people in SPACECOM who simply refused to take her seriously. She had to prove herself every day, and that caused her to remember why she loved flying, in a dogfight there was a winner and a loser. Period. She had deflated many a macho fighter jock in her time, and that was what kept her going. Proving she wasn't just another pretty face.
But times like now got to her. She'd been given a heavy responsibility and wanted to produce. But she was tired and at a dead end. She slammed the metal desk drawer.
Strand had found Iceberg lived an austere existence. In the two-room BOQ suite there was some government-issue furniture, a closet full of uniforms and a single civilian suit, a bookshelf of flight manuals, and an issue of Flying magazine on the coffee table. The small desk revealed nothing except a file of paid bills, some NASA and Air Force records, bank statements, and a box containing medals and citations. The odd thing about it all was what she didn't find. There were no pictures on the wall of fighter planes or spacecraft or family. No beer in the small refrigerator. No Holy Bible on the bookshelf. No issues of Playboy lying around. No love letters in the desk drawer from girlfriends — or boyfriends. No fishing rods or skis in the closet. It was as if all the humanity had been purged from the rooms, and the remaining artifacts were government issue. After going through his effects, all that Strand could piece together about Iceberg was that he was a colonel in the Air Force, had won a lot of medals, had $33,428.22 in a Mountainview Savings & Loan account, used Crest toothpaste, and paid his bills on time. The bills were ordinary, too. Exxon and American Express were about it. Nothing flashy. The only thing left was a series of paid invoices to a self-storage warehouse in Chicago.
Since the BOQ was a big washout, all Strand could think to do was go to Chicago and track down his old home addresses. Maybe somebody who knew him — or his parents — would still be around and could shed some light on the guy… She shivered. "Iceberg" was the right call sign for the man. Picking up the phone, she dialed Chief Master Seigeant Kelly back at her office.
"So how was Katy?" she asked.
"Worried," Kelly responded. "I only told her there appeared to be a problem on the Intrepid, but couldn't talk about it because it was classified. I asked her if Frank seemed okay before he left. She said he was thrilled to be copilot on the Intrepid and was happy as a clam. She pressed me for more information, and I decided to back off. Told her to call me if she had any problems."
"Good. Heard anything from Walt?"
"Just that he'd left for Houston."
"Okay, I need you to do something for me. When Walt calls in, tell him I'll need one of those search warrants for" — she flipped through the paid bills—"the U-Stow-It warehouse at 1731 Grindell Street in Chicago. I've drawn a big zero here, and I'm going to Chicago to see if I can rustle up something from the old homestead… I'm starting to feel like a fool on this."
Kelly comforted her. "You're tired, Major. Go get some sack time. There's nothing you can do in Chicago until the morning, anyway. I'll keep the chief of staff informed."
"Thanks, Tim," she said wearily. "Have you heard from the Colonel?"
"Yeah," replied Kelly. "He and the CinC were getting some sleep before they flew back in their T-38. They're probably sawing the logs right now."
"Think I will, too. If you would, please make some arrangements for my transport to Chicago tomorrow. I'd like to depart here at zero-six-thirty. That'll put me in there early enough to get some work done."
"You've got it, Major." "Thanks, Tim," she mumbled, and hung up. She dropped the invoices into her briefcase, walked out, and locked the door behind her. She'd give Noah his bath, kiss her husband, and crash.
The hickory stick came down on young Julian's shin with a terrible whack, eliciting a terrified scream from the eleven-year-old boy.
The adolescent thug who wielded the stick put his face close to his victim and snarled, "You fucking little Polack. We don't want your kind around here. Do you understand that?"
Julian struggled against the other two bullies who were pinning his arms to the ground, but the thirteen-year-olds were bigger and stronger than he.
Whack! Another scream.
The stick wielder shoved his weapon in Julian's face. "You get your scum shit Polack ass out of our neighborhood. My old man says your kind of filth doesn't belong in America. Go back where you came from. You understand, Polack?"
Julian cried.
Whack!
Another scream. "Ye… Yes! I understand!" he wailed.
One of the bullies looked down the road and sounded an alarm. "Davey! Somebody's coming." The three young hoodlums quickly released their victim and fled from the vacant lot, which was behind a construction site. The tall grass had provided them with ample concealment.
Once free, little Julian rubbed his shins, then ran home crying- /
His mother was there, as always, and he fell sobbing into her arms. She kissed away his tears and rocked him back and forth in a soothing motion.
"They… they said we weren't… real Americans," he cried. "They… told me to leave… Oh, Momma, I want to go away from here. I hate them… They hurt me."
Victoria Kapuscinski held her son tightly, then dried his tears and led him to the sofa. The time was now, she felt. Yes. The time was now. She rose and dramatically closed the drapes to darken their modest living room, then she returned to the sofa and held him close. "Do you trust your mother, Julian?" she asked softly.