had, when he was a young fighter jock on top of the world.
The jock eventually grew up. Ravena hadn’t.
Breanna had, though.
It was his fault he hadn’t been there. No one else’s but his.
Dog folded his arms around his chest, eyes straining to see the disappearing shadow in the distance. She was a damn good pilot; he should be proud.
He was. He was also worried about her, an anxious father who’d just sent his daughter off on her first date.
If only it were that, he thought, finally losing track of the plane in the vast, overwhelming sky.
Dreamland
22 October, 0600
“What do you call a cripple trying to cross a road?”
The two airmen looked at each other as if they’d just caught their parents in a foursome in Times Square.
“Roadkill,” Zen said. “What do you call a one-legged bank robber?”
The airman on the left shrugged. The other laughed nervously. “What, Captain?” he asked.
“Misunderstood.”
The roar of the helicopter approaching the Nellis landing pad made it possible for the two airmen to escape. The Dolphin shuttle – a French-made Aerospatiale SA.366 Dauphin adapted by the Air Force as a transport and occasional SAR craft – whipped in as if dropping into a hot LZ. The men bolted for it as it touched down a few yards away. A ground crewman pushed forward the access ramp that had been specially built for Zen. Stockard wheeled slowly, methodically building momentum as he sidled and bumped through the wide side door. Because of its SAR function, this Dolphin had a large open bay in the rear; it was easier to get in and out of than the other, which was a dedicated ferry generally reserved for – and preferred by – officers.
“Morning, Captain,” said the copilot, trotting back as Zen wheeled himself into the bird. “You in for this week’s football pool?” He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“I ought to get cripple’s odds,” Zen said, taking the sheet.
“Man, you’re in a strange mood this morning, sir,” said one of the airmen he’d been tormenting with his jokes.
“I’m just a strange guy, I guess,” said Zen, reaching around to strap his chair to the helicopter’s restraints. Greasy Hands had had someone install the quick-release hookup, making it easy for him to secure himself. Maybe next week they’d put in a special window.
“All aboard what’s coming aboard,” yelled the copilot out the rear door before pulling it shut. There was, of course, no one else waiting in the off-limits and well-guarded shuttle area. The pilot whipped the engine into a fury and the helicopter shot upward.
He was in a strange mood, Zen conceded to himself. Maybe it was because he thought he’d made a mistake with Bree last night.
He still knew he was right, that they had to end their marriage. But his stomach hurt, and it wasn’t just because of the heavy meal.
They’d sat there for an hour or more after he told her. neither one of them spoke. Then she got up to go to the bathroom. He flipped on the TV.
Someone from Dreamland called her in. Bree left without explaining what was up. He assumed there was some sort of problem with the Megafortress; she had that kind of look on her face. He could tell.
At least he thought he could.
He glanced at the list of football games on the pool sheet, but the light was dim and he didn’t really feel like going through it now. He folded it into his pocket.
Jeff had spent quite a lot of time last night thinking about using the Megafortress as the Flighthawk mother ship. He thought it might just be possible to save the project by tying the U/MFs to the JSF. The Flighthawks would be perfect escorts over hostile territory.
The JSF was a joke, so what the hell. Might as well get something useful out of the program.
Stockard mulled how to best present the idea to his father-in-law during the short flight to Dreamland. He was still thinking about it a he made his way over to Cafeteria Four for breakfast.
“Ham ‘n’ Swiss bagel,” he told Maggie, the counter-person, as he took his customary bottle of water.
“A bagel today?” My, oh, my. Living on the edge, aren’t we, Captain?” said Maggie.
“Cripples have to,” Zen told her.
“Don’t you ever use that word in front of me,” she said, nearly throwing herself over the steam tray that separated them “My son is in a wheelchair. He ain’t no cripple.”
“I didn’t mean anything. I, uh …” Zen held out his hands apologetically. “I mean, shit, look at me.”
“Well, you ain’t cripple.” Her face was red and her voice was shaking. “That damn chair doesn’t give you the right to make fun of nobody.”
“I’m not making fun of anyone. I didn’t know about your son. I’m sorry.”
She flipped the bagel together and plopped it on a plate with a harsh slap.
“I’m sorry,” Zen said. “Really.”
