“One moment please,” Jason replied, laughing.
“It’s not fucking funny, Jason. Hurry up, shit for brains.”
About a minute went by as quirky jazz music played while he was on hold. This music is awful, Mark said under his breath.
“Hello, Mark? Is that you with that ruckus of music in the background?” Calvin said to Mark, then covered the phone with his hand. “Jason, is this freaking call secure?”
“Yes, sir!” Jason answered loudly from the outer office.
“Hello, Mr. Burns, Mark Savona here. Yes, it’s me. I’ve been drinking, so be warned. I’m on a cruise ship. Caribbean.”
“Don’t worry, Mark, I know where you are. I’ve also had a few drinks in my day as well, too. Look, Mark, I really hate to do this, but I need to get you back here. Right away.”
Mark looked out at the white Royal Caribbean shuttle boat that was ferrying ship passengers between the island and his ship. All sorts of overweight passengers with bellies hanging over their swimsuits were spotted. Some had horrible sunburns. “No, I’m on vacation with my girlfriend. I’m out at sea.” He looked out at the island at all the new water slides.
“Yes, I understand, but sorry, Mark. I need you back here. You’ll be docked tomorrow morning, in, let me see here… in Nassau. I’ll send the jet down to get you at, let me see here on the paperwork…” The deputy shuffled around the folders on his desk.
Mark rolled his eyes, then closed them, letting out a sigh.
“Jason arranged for you to fly home from the Lynden Pindling International Airport. It’s the Nassau Airport. An Andrews jet, a C-20, a Gulfstream III. I have your itinerary.”
Years ago, Deputy Burns recognized Mark for his superb talent and recruited him to DIA. Mark may have read the ads in Foreign Affairs, but Calvin was the one who sealed the deal. Calvin knew Mark was the opposite of a yes-man and respected his antiestablishment attitude. He talked back to anyone, and Calvin thought Mark was the definition of peculiar, but in a good way. The deputy treasured the way he looked at problems and valued his diversity — both diversity of thought and action. Once in entertainment, and now in intelligence, Mark was the expert on Chinese aircraft.
“Sir… for real? What’s so important that I need to fly back from paradise for? Did I mention I’m out on a cruise ship? Dancing? I have a young, tanned girl in a bikini waiting for me about two hundred feet away in a hot tub. Can’t this wait?”
“No, Mark, something has turned up. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Not coming. No. Not coming,” Mark told him. Mark was fired up and wasn’t shy about engaging the number-two man of the agency.
“Mark. I need you.”
“Warm breezes. Bikinis. Red drinks. No,” Mark replied.
“Mark.”
“Nope, not an option. Not even thinking about it and not calling you back,” Mark said as calmly as he could, and hung up.
PART 2
ROUTINE
Established in 1932, Rushmore Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 1273 on Main Street in Rapid City was open to the public and made available to support veterans in the community. The hall, usually reserved for special dinners, weddings, and banquets, was complete with a kitchen, bar, and billiard tables, and the perfect spot for tonight’s squadron party.
Most of the aircrew from the B-1 flying squadron attached to the 28th Bomb Wing were present. Ellsworth Air Force Base, which was home to the largest B-1 Bomber combat wing in the US Air Force, had rented the hall tonight for their annual Kangaroo Court ceremony and party. While the wing had a total of twenty-seven aircraft and more than 3,800 military and civilian members, tonight’s squadron aircrew was much smaller in size, and they were acting more like a fraternity at a college tonight than a robust group of professional pilots, navigators, and weapons-systems officers. There were also some visiting aircrew who flew in for the festivities.
Tonight’s Kangaroo Court consisted of fifty-four aircrew, drinking heavily, partying hard, and carrying on with billiards, crud tournaments (full-contact pushing and shoving billiards without cue sticks), and beer pong. The Kangaroo Court was an unstructured and humorous ceremony, somewhat steeped in folklore and secretive ceremony, and was used to give new aircrew their permanent nicknames known as call signs. Some call signs could be related to unique last names, some were based upon dingy looks, while others could be based upon something silly that they did inside or outside the cockpit.
Call signs stuck with pilots for nearly all of their careers, even into general and flag officer rank. One of the worst things a guy or gal could do was complain about theirs, or ask that it be changed, because you never knew what it could become. The court could also decide that your new name was worse than the one you currently had. Rule of thumb was to be happy with whatever name you earned. Scab, Redneck, Toad, Ugly, Dirt Ball, Puke, or Virus — just be happy with your name.
Over the public address system in the hall was someone clearing his throat, then a non-professional-sounding announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? Time to take your seats. Sit down. The court will begin soon,” announced one of the young lieutenants, laughing.
The pilots were standing around, talking and drinking, in addition to playing darts and other games, and eventually made their way over to some bar and banquet tables to have a seat. The tables all faced a small, elevated stage that held a rectangular table with seats.
“Oh, this is gonna be good,” said Padre, a visiting Marine Corps pilot from Camp Pendleton.
“Yeah, Padre. Maybe we’ll give you a new call sign, like Nail-Polish, Hairspray, or even Glamour. Maybe Legwarmers. You take too long to shower and get ready. Like a girl,” replied Lefty, chuckling, a fellow marine pilot.
“Lefty, listen to me, you rookie. I dare you to attempt changing it. Remember, payback is a bitch. You attempt to change mine and you can guarantee you new call sign is going to be… Catfish.”
“Stop it. That’s stupid. What kind of name is that?” asked Lefty.
Padre smiled. “Bottom Feeder.”
Lefty kept his mouth shut and nodded.
Without a warning, the lights went out in the room. Near total blackness for a moment, then a spotlight normally used to illuminate a bride and groom entering the banquet hall came on and focused on the entrance to the room. The PA speaker system came alive again, and you could hear guys fumbling around with the microphone. The crowd started to really come alive.
On the right side of the room along the wall of light switches, one of the lieutenants pressed play on his smartphone, held it up to the microphone, and out of the banquet hall’s speakers came a song usually reserved for boxing matches. The crowd immediately jumped up and started yelling, whistling, catcalling, and standing on chairs. It went from a low roar to near chaos in a nanosecond. Someone overturned a table, and everything on it shot across the room. Others were throwing beer cans and cups at the stage. Someone else threw a chair across the dance floor, and it made a loud crash sound when it slammed into the wall. The laughing and noise were uncontrollable. The party had indeed started.
The spotlight still moved about the room now, then stopped at the main doorway for a moment, and back around wildly. After a few more moments, the light stopped at the doorway, and in walked four pilots from the squadron wearing dark business suits and sunglasses, playfully looking and acting like “Secret Service agents.” They escorted someone, but it was difficult to detect who it was at first glance. Aircrew strained to see who it was, while others stood up on chairs and tables attempting to see.