With luck, he was back on schedule and marching forward nicely to completion. No use in letting a few Americans get in the way.
Coronado, California
His son’s eyes lit up like on Christmas morning as Patrick pulled the suit from its hanging bag. The overhead lights made the stars on the shoulders and the wings on the left breast pocket sparkle. “Woo-oo,” Brad said. “You got a nice suit there, Daddy.”
“Thanks, big guy,” Patrick said.
He pointed at the command navigator wings, a pair of Air Force silver eagle’s wings with the rampart crest in the center shield and a wreathed star on top. “You going fly-ning?” Bradley asked.
“They’re going to fly me to Washington.”
“You going to meetings? You going to give a bree-fling?” Bradley didn’t wait for the answer, having decided that when Daddy brought the blue suit instead of the green, that it was going to be meetings and briefings. He grabbed one of Patrick’s Corfrarn shoes and pretended it was an airplane, zooming it up and down the uniform and across the Rollaboard suitcase Patrick was packing. “Time to give a bree-fling again!”
“What are you going to do while I’m in Washington?” Patrick asked. “What are your standing orders while I’m gone?”
“Take care of Mommy, do as Mommy says, be a good boy, and … and …”
“One more. And think—”
“And think about Daddy!” Bradley said triumphantly. “Very good, big guy,” Patrick said. “High five.” Patrick held up a hand, and Bradley slapped it.
The little boy dropped the shoe he had been playing with onto his father’s left foot and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s leg. “I love you, Daddy,” he said, except it sounded more like, “I wuv you, Daddy.”
Patrick picked up his son and hugged him tightly — he knew exactly what he had said. “And Daddy loves you, son,” he replied.
“You do good in Wash-ton,” Bradley said, punctuating his suggestion with an upraised index finger.
Patrick tried to sound upbeat. He smiled and said, “I’ll do good, big guy.”
Bradley wriggled out of his dad’s arms, picked up the shoe, then rubbed his eye with his free hand and gave the shoe to Patrick. “I’m really tired,” he said, leading the way to his bedroom. “Maybe it’s time for bed.”
“Good idea, tiger.” Patrick followed his son into his bedroom and watched as his son lowered his pull-up diapers so he could check to see if they were wet, climbed up on the stool next to the sink for a drink of water, then carried his stool over to the bed so he could climb in. Patrick tried to put him under the covers without his tattered old blanket, but his son automatically curled up atop the covers with his blanket underneath him and his butt in the air.
He pushed away from the bed long enough to give his father a kiss good-night, then plopped back down. “You do good tomorrow, Daddy,” Bradley said. “And turn out the light, please.”
“Good night, big guy.” Bradley peeked at his father over the safety rail to his bed, then smiled and giggled as his father turned back and gave his son a thumbs-up just before he shut off the lights.
Do good tomorrow, Daddy, he said. Yeah, right, Patrick thought.
Patrick joined Wendy in the living room of their high-rise condo overlooking the city of San Diego. Wendy Tork McLanahan had dimmed the lights so that the only illumination in the room was from the city lights filtering through a thin marine layer that had crept over San Diego Bay. She had poured two glasses of Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon and had loosened her wavy brunette hair and let it cascade over one of his Sacramento Kings basketball team jerseys — Patrick noticed with a grin that the jersey and a smile was all she wore. He went to her, handed her a glass, and sat beside her. Their glasses touched, and then their lips.
“Bradley blows me away with how much he seems to know and realize,” Patrick said. “I think he’s psychic sometimes.”
“He’s our son — what did you expect?” Wendy said with a warm smile. She had been a civilian electronic warfare engineer when she’d met Patrick McLanahan at Dreamland, and since that day their lives had been tightly intertwined — with each other, and with the top-secret research facility in the Nevada desert. If predicted that Bradley would someday be the next Edison or Bill Gates, most folks who knew Bradley’s parents would not disagree. “The little monster actually sent an e-mail to your mother the other day.”
“He what?”
“He sent an e-mail,” Wendy said. “No kidding. I know he’s watched me send messages and reports to Jon on the computer a thousand times, but I thought he was only waiting until he could play ‘Freddie Fish’ or ‘Pajama Sam’ or some other game. He absorbed all he needed to know and sent your mother a page of gibberish — with a ‘Classified’ cover page on it.”
“That’s my boy,” Patrick said proudly. He took a sip, of wine and tried to relax.
“Did you talk with Dr. Canfield today?” she asked.
“Yes — twice,” Patrick said. Colonel Bruce Canfield was the Director of Aviation Neuropsychology at Brooks Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas, the center in charge of evaluating David Luger following his incident at Dreamland. “David is still undergoing tests, but he thinks it’s a case of something called delayed adjustment disorder. David’s memory of past incidents while in the Soviet Union — probably first activated by the Ukrainian crews we’ve been working with, then cued up again by Samson telling him he might be unbalanced and needing psychological help-activated a stress defense mechanism in his mind. He was able to shut off all external sensory inputs to free him from physical, emotional, and psychological damage.”
“My God, it sounds horrible. Does he think he’ll be all right?”
“Too early to say,” Patrick said. “Adjustment disorder is usually treated by medication at first, which disqualifies Dave from flying and laboratory work. But he also said that adjustment disorders are one of the few conditions that don’t automatically keep a person from resuming his duties once the treatment has concluded, and that includes flying. It’s a relatively common condition, especially among the military, and Canfield says counseling and treatment are usually very successful. Patients have an excellent chance of recovery.”
“That’s good news.” Wendy kept silent for a few long moments, then leaned back against him and wrapped his arm around her body. “I did some checking — there’s room on that flight for me and Brad,” Wendy said.
“I just put him to bed, sweetheart.”
“Bradley would be overjoyed to fly along with you no matter what time it was,” Wendy reminded him. “The Sky Masters apartment in Crystal City is available, too. I’m ready to go. What do you say?”
“Sweetheart, this thing could either be over in a day, or it’ll have just begun, in which case I’ll be right back home,” Patrick said. “There’s no use dragging you away from work and Brad away from preschool to spend two entire days on a plane. Let me meet with the Area Defense Counsel, do the preliminaries, and find out where I stand.”
“Jon called again and offered his entire legal staff to help you,” Wendy added. “I’m sure the chief Area Defense Counsel of the Air Force is good, but Jon can have a dozen of the best litigators and legal researchers at your side with one phone call. Why not at least talk to them?”