“The healing and recovery process will only take a few weeks. After that a week of physical therapy. Then, when you’re…comfortable with, uh—”
“With my new hands? My ruined, scarred, hideous hands?”
“—you’ll alternately train on the OEV and participate in some EVA simulations, some simple training blocks on field demolitions. etc. Believe it or not, General, the worst part is over.”
Wentz boomed, “Yeah? Tell that to my wife and kid! I’ll never see them again! My wife’ll hate me! My kid’ll grow up thinking I’m a lying piece of garbage who didn’t love him! Now get out!”
Ashton sullenly left the room.
—
CHAPTER 10
For the next month, about the only sound Wentz remained cognizant of was the tick of the clock. Time.
Time was life.
His quarters, his office, every briefing room and every training cove—there was a general issue Air Force clock on the wall, ticking.
The tick of the clock sounded like dripping blood.
Every night when he slept, the commitment he’d made dug his heart out. He knew he was doing the only thing he
He dreamed of making love to Joyce…
All lost, all ashes.
And then he’d waken, in darkness. He’d bring his hands to his clenched face, but the hands only had three fingers on each. And then he’d hear it.
He’d hear the only thing in the world that never changed: the tick of the clock.
S-4 had a psychiatrist and occupational therapist. Both Ashton and “Jones” urged him to see them—“to adjust to the necessary period of mental and physical refraction,” Jones had said—but Wentz said “Fuck that shit. I don’t need any damn shrinks. I’m a U.S. Air Force Senior Test, I’m not a nut.”
He knew what he’d done, he knew what level his duty had taken him to (and he knew why). So Wentz did what he always had.
He did his job.
He spent a week on Unisys flight simulators, programmed for the OEV. It was cake. Two more days training with demolition-block material, fuses, detcord, blasting caps and primers. Eight hours a day for a week bobbing in a cylindrical water tank for zero-gravity familiarization, then several sessions in the cargo hold of a C-131 nose-diving from 40,000 feet to 5,000 feet (the latter was fun, the former…not so fun). Another cake-walk was the MMU training. An MMU (for Manned Mobility Unit) was NASA’s latest, state-of-the-art “space suit”—over $10,000,000 per suit.
Wentz dug it.
Days lapsed as they always had in the past, a new joyride, a new thrill. Duty, yes, but the adrenalin always made it better. At forty-five years old, Wentz scored higher on the spirometer, the MMPA, the MMU field test, and the technical diagnostic batteries than most of the country’s active astronauts.
“Looks like you’re ready, General,” one of the training tests told him.
“You think?” Wentz had answered. “It might look like it, but this ain’t a lug-wrench in my pants, son.”
No, even a day after the surgery, Wentz never doubted himself. He was going to this job like he’d done every job in his career.
The
His “shit” was “square.”
And on the day before his first live test flight of the OEV, unfazed by the deformity of his hands, General Jack Wentz looked straight in the mirror with a leveled eye and said: “Hardcore. I’m fuckin’ there.”
Yes, that was how the days went. He was the best pilot in the world, and they were great days.
The only thing that bothered him were the nights. When he’d dream and later wake up to the sound of dripping blood…
««—»»
Wentz sat strapped in to the operator’s seat, a modified job by Hughes Aircraft. He wore a visorless helmet and standard Air Force jumpsuit. Ashton wore the same, sitting beside him.
They felt the modest vibration as the platform elevator lifted them up thirteen nuke-proof levels through this underground complex.
When Ashton glanced at his bare, three-fingered hands, he moved them away.
“Don’t be self-conscious, sir. It could debilitate you, it could degrade your performance.”
“I’m not gonna fuck up your goddamn UFO,” he snapped back. He looked at her with a sly grin. “I’m gonna fly this thing better than Farrington ever dreamed.”
“Fine. Don’t talk about it. Do it.”
The elevator droned upward, then shuddered to a stop.
“This is a daylight test flight,” she reminded. “This is strictly familiarization. Fly slow, fly stable. This first run is just for you to get the feel of the OEV. If you fly too fast in daylight, you’ll burn the camouflage paint off the hull, then we could be spotted by the KH-12 and Russian surveillance satellites.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I hear ya.”
The elevator had lifted them up into a hangar-shaped structure, covered with sand. Just another dune.
Then the dune began to open.
Wentz glimpsed the beautiful desert beyond. The hangar door held open like a stretched jaw.
“Go for it, General. Place your hands into the detents…and fly.”
Even after all of the simulations, Wentz froze for a moment. All of his instincts were different now—
“Raise the craft and move forward out of the hangar,” Ashton said.
“I know!”
No stick, no throttle.
“Give me a sec,” he said.
“Let your mind do the work, sir. We can go back down if you’re apprehensive, give it another shot tomorrow.”
And then he let his mind do the work.
Wentz lightened the pressure of his hands into the detents. He
Immediately a dark garnet-tinged light filled the interior, behind a very low sub-octave
“Good. You’re doing it.”
“Charlie-Oscar, this is Jonah One,” Ashton transmitted from her CVC mike. “Request permission for take- off.”
“Roger, Jonah One. Permission granted.”
Wentz eased the OEV fully out of the hangar.
