Warm air swept past Tina’s face. Her gaze drifted back to the strange compound. “This is one off-the-wall place,” she commented. Then she remembered her “client’s” hands. Once she serviced a Russian demolition expert who’d defected with blueprints for a SAGGER IV firing-trigger. His hands had been all but blown away. She wondered how he jerked off.
Tina knew she’d receive no answer but she asked the driver anyway, “What’s wrong with that guy? He get burned or something?”
The driver stonily returned her bottle of wine. “Ma’am, I’m not authorized to disclose any information about your client, even if I was apprised of any such information, which I am not.”
Tina almost laughed. These guys were all stock-in-trade, military automatons.
But a final thought slipped back to the nameless man whose suite she’d just left, the easiest trick of her life.
“He seems so sad,” she said. “He seems afraid of something, terrified but trying to cover it up.”
The driver did not respond. He showed her into the van and closed the door and moments later was driving away from this secret place back to the world of normal people.
««—»»
Yes, one more object remained in the dresser drawer. Not a medal, not a commendation or combat pin.
Just a gun. Just an old Colt .45.
General Farrington stared into the mirror for the rest of the night, peering more at his life than his reflection. He saw it all, all that he’d been and all that he’d become.
Was it worth it?
Then he raised his black-mittened hands. He drew open each zipper in grueling slowness.
Was duty really worth this?
Every night now for nearly a month he’d put the pistol to his head, determined to end it all. And every night, he lost his nerve.
How would he fare tonight?
Unzipped now, he let the leather mittens fall to the floor. He raised his hands to the mirror in front of his face. The hands—
The hands deformed into things that no longer even appeared human. The hands laced with hundreds of intricate surgical scars and shiny with healed scar tissue.
Each of Farrington’s hands possessed only two fingers and a thumb.
He stared at them, and at his face beyond…
“Semper Fi,” he whispered to himself. “Ooo-rah.”
Then he picked up the gun.
—
CHAPTER 2
“Romeo One, this is Scratch One. Do you read?”
“Five by five, Scratch One. Go ahead.”
“Request permission to land by vectored thrust option.”
“Roger, Scratch One. Land your victor by vectored thrust on designated flight line and coordinates.”
The plane dipped out of the sky, plummeting. Six hundred knots dropped to zero in 15.4 seconds. The engines groaned—not a promising sound—as the plane hovered as if levitating, then began to lower elegantly to the aluminum-treated asphalt.
When Colonel Jack Wentz landed the YF-61 on Runway 4 of Andrew’s Tango-Delta site, he fully expected to die. It was a mind-set, it was necessary. The VDU and temp gauges read normal—nevertheless, he expected to die. In fact, of the thousands of times he’d landed planes during his career, he expected to die every time.
That way, he reasoned, if he
The wheel springs grated when he set down, then Wentz commenced with the proper system shut-downs. The Lockheed YF-61, though highly experimental (its turbines ran on hydrogen rather than conventional JP-6) looked just like an F-5E. Hence, there was no need to fly it at a black site.
Colonel Wentz was sick to death of black test sites.
The turbines wound down; Wentz popped the plex canopy and waited for Tech Sergeant Cole to wheel up the ladder.
And he only had three more days to go.
“How’s she handle, sir?” Cole asked when he hopped off the ladder.
Wentz passed him his CVC helmet and mask. “Like a barge. D-O-D wants to buy two hundred and fifty of these boat anchors at a hundred and fifty million a pop? Shit. For a while I thought I was driving a 5-ton Army truck over cinder blocks.”
Cole edged close, whispering. “Come on, sir. What did she clock out at?”
“That’s classified, Cole. You know better than to ask something like that.” Wentz zipped down his collar. “But let me ask you something. In baseball, you get three strikes…and
Cole looked briefly puzzled. “Four, but—” Then his eyes shot wide. “You hit
“Shut up, Cole. I thought we were talking about baseball.” Wentz winked at his line attendant. “Now put my shit away and get me some coffee.”
A squadron of F-16s roared overhead, drowning out Cole’s laughter. Up in the flight tower, the duty controller flipped Wentz a thumbs up. Wentz waved back to the guy, knowing he’d never see him again.
“Look, Colonel,” Cole said. “I know you’re getting out on Monday. I just wanted to say it’s been an honor to be your LA for these past couple of weeks.”
“Don’t get misty on me, Cole, I forgot my hanky.” Wentz shook the man’s hand. “And call me Jack. You’re the best LA I’ve had in twenty-five years, so thanks. I’m throwing a retirement bash at my wife’s place Monday night. If you don’t show up, I’ll have you transferred to chow-hall duty in Turkey as my last official act as an Air Force officer.”
“I’ll be there. Oh, and Top wants to see you in A Wing. ASAP.”
Wentz snapped his gaze. “Gimme a break. I just unassed that flying coffin after five straight hours on stick. What’s Top want?
Cole smiled knowingly. “Wouldn’t know.”
Wentz cast a suspicious eye. “It ain’t cool to lie to full colonels, kid. Majors, warrant officers, first lueys— that’s fine. But
“Wouldn’t know, Jack. Why don’t you go find out?”
“Yeah.” Wentz walked off the line toward the Dress Unit, sputtering under his breath.
««—»»
Now in fatigues, Colonel Wentz approached the door which read A-WING F.O.D. 1ST SGT. CAUDILL. But everyone here called him “Top,” as in Top Sergeant. Big, burly, and with a low southern drawl, Top was the highest-ranking enlisted man on the base. During Desert Storm, Top had hustled his 250-pound carcass around like a high-school kid, and ran an attack wing that launched over a hundred sorties a day without losing a bird. That’s where he and Wentz had met.
