Operator B

“How’s things in the land of coffee and donuts?” Wentz asked.

“Not bad,” Top replied from behind an immaculate desk. “At least I can eat before I come to work and not worry about blowing chunks when I pull a 6-G.”

“Top, there’s only one thing you pull around here, and that’s my chain. The kid on the line says you need to see me ASAP, so I’m wondering what the hell can Top possibly want to see me about when he knows I’m out of here on Monday?”

Top shrugged, took a sugary french cruller out of a Mr. Donut box. “I just wanted to know how the YF-61 flew.”

“It’s spam in a can. If the Air Force wants to put kids in those things, they better clock ’em five hundred hours of training time first. Otherwise, there’s gonna be a whole lot of tax dollars sitting in the desert along with a whole bunch of kids.”

“I watched you land her. Looked smooth to me,” Top remarked.

“That’s only because I’m the best pilot in the goddamn Air Force—”

“The most modest too—”

“And what’s this all about anyway? You didn’t call me in here to ask me about that hunk of junk.”

Top’s smile drew his jowls up. He slipped a piece of paper off his desk. “Got some orders for ya, Jack.”

Wentz was instantly outraged. This was like a slap in the face. “I’m short and the CO is cutting me orders? Hey, he can send me to Alaska, but three days from now I’ll be signing my retirement papers and turning in this monkey suit for good! I got two hundred grand a year waiting for me flying 777s for United!”

Top closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe a hardcore Air Force driver like you wants to run off to fly those civvie air yachts. Look at all the cool stuff you get to fly for Uncle Sam.”

“Shit on Uncle Sam. That old cracker’s had me bent over his desk for twenty-five years, and he’s never even kissed me. And you want to talk about the ‘cool stuff’ I get to fly? Cool, yeah.” Wentz groaned. “Stuff that would make the Wright Brothers puke. I’m telling you, Top, I’m out of here in three days, and I don’t care where those orders send me. If God Himself cut those orders, I’ll kick His ass up and down Heaven Street. I’ll slam St. Peter’s Gate on His head and bust Him one in the nuts.”

Top winced. “Relax, Jack. They’re promotion orders.”

The office fell silent along with Wentz’s protests. His face felt a yard long staring at Top.

“Guess what?” the First Sergeant continued. “You just made the big one star. Does that mean you’re gonna start bossing me around now? I’m gonna have to start calling you sir?”

Wentz stood speechless.

Top got up from behind the desk and opened a small felt box containing two silver collar stars.

The stars glinted like jewels.

“Don’t just stand there looking like you locked your keys in your car. Try ’em on…”

Wentz gazed longingly at the pair of stars, still unable to give voice.

“Here, allow me,” Top said. He carefully pinned the stars onto Wentz’s fatigue collar, then snapped to attention and saluted.

“Congratulations…General Wentz.”

Wentz, still in a fog, turned to a mirror on the wall. General, the word slipped through his mind. The stars glittered back at him in the reflection.

“Hard-fuckin’-core, man,” Top approved. “You’re a brigadier general now, Jack. That’s serious rank. And you know something else? You’re a first.”

“I’m a…what?” Jack asked, distracted.

“First time in the history of the United States Air Force they gave a general’s star to a guy who’s not an asshole!” Top blared. Then he yanked open his snack fridge, pulled out a bottle of Perier-Jouet champagne, and popped the cork. Foam poured on the floor.

“Shit, Top, thanks—”

Top poured the expensive bubbling wine into a pair of glasses, then passed one to Wentz.

“A toast. Here’s to General Wentz…”

Wentz sipped from his glass. “General Wentz,” he muttered. “You know, Top? I kind of like the sound of that.”

««—»»

The limousine idled at the gate, Department of the Air Force flags waving at its front fenders. Two Marine Corp MPs emerged before red signs in white letters that read:

PENTAGON WEST ENTRANCE.

THIS IS A CONTROLLED ACCESS. DUTY GUARDS HAVE THE RIGHT TO DETAIN ALL ADMITTANTS REGARDLESS OF RANK OR OFFICE. YOU MAY BE ASKED TO BE SEARCHED.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPLIANCE.

The first MP opened the limo door, while the second opened the phone box in the guard shack. General Gerald Cawthorne Rainier got out of the vehicle and dully returned the MP’s crisp salute.

“Good afternoon, sir!” the MP barked.

“This may not be a very good afternoon at all, Sergeant,” Rainier mouthed.

“Yes, sir!”

The line of four stars barely fit on the epaulets of Rainier’s dress uniform. He was fifty-seven years old but right now he felt a hundred. No, this was not a good afternoon at all, not after the call he’d just received from SECPERS.

There might not be any good afternoons ever again, he thought.

His eyes lanced into the MP’s gaze. “Tell security to have Briefing Room One prepped and swept ASAP. And open this goddamn gate.”

“Yes, sir!”

The MP shot a nod at the gate guard. The electric bolt snapped open, then Rainier brushed past, rushing into the west entrance as if trying to evade an augury of doom.

—

CHAPTER 3

In spite of the certainty of his retirement, Wentz felt funny in civilian clothes. He always had, as though high-alt flight suits had become as much a part of him as his skin. He felt funny driving cars, too, cautious to the point of paranoia—like a senior citizen behind the wheel. He remembered when he’d made the initial test flights of the B-2 bomber at Edward’s Palmdale range, how natural it had felt on the stick of a prototype aircraft that cost nearly a billion dollars. But, somehow, driving a $20,000 station wagon felt daunting.

One thing that did feel right today, though, was the fact that his fourteen-year-old son, Pete, sat right next to him. Things would be different now. Now Wentz would actually get to be a father to his son. Today, they were on their way to Camden Yard, Yankees versus the Orioles.

“I couldn’t do math either, Pete,” Wentz was saying. “I hated it—algebra, trig, geometry. But I worked my tail off, hung in there, and made it. You’ve got to get those math grades up—C’s won’t cut it. Not if you want to get into a good—”

“I aced the final, Dad,” Pete told him. “I got a ninety-nine.”

Wentz was taken aback. “You’re kidding me? A ninety-nine?”