six. They built a case for remaining on active duty. Reed-thin – hell, thinner than air. But with favors and pity, they got him a chance.
Better than that. Brad Elliott, the former commander of Dreamland, was under a cloud. But he still had a lot of influence – and he also had an artificial leg. The general helped twist arms and bend ears for Jeff, who had been one of his ‘boys’ before the accident. Elliott managed to find a way to use his dismissal and the resulting confusion at Dreamland to Jeff’s advantage. Technically, the general pointed out, Zen was still on active-duty roster as a test pilot assigned to the Flighthawk program, which was one of the few Dreamland projects besides the F-119 not suspended in the wake of DreamStar. So technically, that’s where he had to report.
Air-thin.
But now, as the helo pushed through the thin desert air en route to its landing. Zen felt something he hadn’t had the luxury of feeling since his accident: fear. He realized he might not be ready to come back – certainly not here.
He slipped the chair backward against the restraining straps as the Super Jolly Green Giant began banking into its final approach. Earlier HH-53 types had been used as rescue choppers during the Vietnam War. More than likely somebody with a broken spine had been sitting where he was sitting, staring at a door, wondering what he was going to do for the next fifty or sixty years, wondering if he was ready.
Wondering was a sucker’s strategy. Zen fixed his eyes on a bolt in the door handle, then but his teeth together. The helicopter settled downward, the T64-GE-413 Turbosharfts throttling back as the craft touched onto the long, smooth run of concrete. Zen kept his eyes pasted ahead as the crew chief kicked open the door; he waited without moving a muscle until the restraints on his wheelchair were removed. As the last belt slipped off, he pushed forward, rolling to the open portal.
There wasn’t a ramp. His choices were to banzai it, or wait for the crew chief and copilot to lift him down.
He waited.
“Here you go, Major,” said the copilot, a paunchy six-footer who strained as he took hold of the side of the chair.
Zen grunted. The sun threw its yellow arms from over the nearby mountains, greeting him. It would soon get warmed, but at the moment it was barely fifty. Zen felt cold despite his thick jacket as they released him onto the tarmac.
Two members of the security detail – specially assigned Air Force Spec Ops troops with rifles ready – stood a few yards away, near the entrance to Hangar One. There had been a few changes in his absence; he thought two of the hangars had been painted. Otherwise, it seemed very familiar.
Different, but familiar.
Zen waited as the crew chief retrieved his briefcase and bag from the helo.
“Sergeant. Put the bags on my la, please.”
The sergeant looked down at him.
Pity. The worse thing.
“The guards wont’ let you past them,” Zen said. “Let’s go.”
“Sir –” The sergeant seemed to lose his voice for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. He placed the bag and briefcase on Zen’s legs, then stood back and snapped off a respectful and well-intentioned salute.
Zen was only vaguely aware of it. He’d turned his attention back to the guards, who had been joined by a third person just emerging from the hangar.
It was his wife.
She knew he’d come early, try to sneak in without any fanfare. He’d been vague on the telephone, and that was a dead giveaway.
Breanna watched Jeff take the bags and wheel his way toward the security men. For a moment she twinged with anger that the crewman hadn’t carried the bags for her husband; then she realized Jeff had probably told him not to.
The Air Force security sergeants snapped to attention before challenging him. She’d stopped to talk to them earlier, warning them that Jeff would arriving soon. She’d brought them coffee, then asked for a favor – treat him no differently than anyone. In fact, If they could be a little surly, that would be better.
He hated people treating him like a cripple. He’d told her that the very first night, when he regained consciousness – used that ugly word, ‘cripple,’ before he even knew he was one.
It hurt to watch him wheel across the open cement. It made her want to cry, but that was the last, the very last thing she could do. it would be kicking him in the face.
Breanna forced her arms to hang down at her sides. She could do this. She had to do this.
“Sir, your orders, sir,” snapped one of the two sergeants, his voice cold enough to chill the heart of a Russian paratrooper.
Zen scowled. The look was so familiar Breanna felt her heart snap. He placed the bag with his clothes and other personal items on the ground next to him. He undid the clasp on his leather attache – and old gift from his mother before she died – and slipped out a small sheaf of paperwork. The routine was, of course, not necessary, since the captain was well known and in any event would soon have his identity checked at the retina scanner at their station inside the hangar. His status and orders, like those of everyone at Dreamland, were recorded on the security computer. But it was a good touch.
The first sergeant inspected the documents while the other sergeant remained watchful. “Sir, I have to ask you if you are armed,” said the man finally, holding the papers in his hand.
Before, Jeff would have smiled wryly and said something like, “The girls all think so.”
Now he stared straight ahead, his words snapping taut in the chilly morning breeze. “My personal weapon is in storage. I am presently unarmed.”
The guard handed him back his orders.
“Your bags, sir. I have to ask that you present them for inspection.”
Zen handed them over.
“If you follow us, Major, we can complete the protocol inside. We require a retina scan. It’s a new procedure.”
The men turned smartly and began striding toward the hangar. One of them gave Breanna the faintest wink.
“Jeff.” The word slipped out faintly as he drew parallel to her. He didn’t answer; she put her hand gently on his upper arm, stopping him.
“I’m okay, Bree.”
“I know that, she said.
She stepped back and watched him wheel into the hangar. An F-15C Eagle – coincidentally the one Mack Smith had been flying when the accident happened – sat at the far end. Jeff kept his head pointed straight ahead, following the two sergeants to the computerized security device.
Breanna held her breath as Greasy Hands – Chief Master Sergeant Clyde Parsons, the senior NCO in charge of the maintenance crews – ambled up with a cup of coffee in his fist.
“Yo, Zen. Good to have you back, Major. About goddamn time.”
Jeff snorted.
“Been a slew of changes around here during your R&R. Flighthawks only got back in the air two months ago. Civilian pilot – nice guy, but not for nothin’ his nickname’s ‘Rock.’ ” Greasy Hands offered Jeff the coffee. “Dab a milk. Alzheimer’s hasn’t caught with me yet.”
She couldn’t see Jeff’s face. He didn’t say anything, but did take the coffee. Jeff and Greasy Hands had gotten along particularly well before the accident, the sergeant looking after the pilot like a doting parent.
Parsons caught her gaze. “Megafortress’ll be ready for you in ten shakes, Captain. Just checked with the crew chief.”
“Thank you, sergeant.”
The old geezer smirked. “Better watch out for Major Cheshire. Hear she’s on the rag today.”
Breanna wasn’t exactly sure how to take that; she was rarely sure exactly how to take anything Parson said. though Dreamland’s excellent work teams were a testimony to the first sergeant’s abilities as an organizer and mother hen, Parsons was old school and very uncomfortable with women being in the military. She thought that he
