“Hi, Dad,” Brad said. They didn’t embrace or shake hands. “How was the flight?”
“A little bumpy already,” Patrick said. “I needed to speak with Colonel Hoffman, and I didn’t hear from you, so I thought I’d bring the air mattress and some goodies for you.”
“Thank you.”
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments, then Patrick asked, “Made a decision yet?”
“I don’t really have much choice, do I?”
“You do, and I’ll support any decision you make.” Brad’s cell phone beeped, and he looked at the display. “You’re being paged?”
“For about the hundredth time this morning,” he said. “Do you need fuel? Should I top it off?”
“Depends—are you going back with me, or staying?”
The cell phone beeped again. Brad looked at the display with a rather concerned expression, then at his father. “I gotta go,” he said. He looked at his father, once, the weariness evident in his face, but he nodded. “I’ll top it off for you.”
“Okay, Brad,” Patrick said. That
On his way there, he saw Brad hurrying out of Tom Hoffman’s office. “I’ll put this stuff in your room, Brad,” he said.
“Thanks, Dad,” Brad said over his shoulder, then quickly disappeared.
Patrick found Hoffman at his computer, with the TV on in a corner. The office was Spartan, with just a desk, two chairs, and a couple bookshelves crammed with technical manuals. The walls were filled with photographs, plaques, and memorabilia from his twenty-six years in the U.S. Air Force. “When are you going to invest in a real office, Tom?” Patrick asked.
“Don’t need one,” Hoffman replied. He nodded at his laptop computer. “My entire life and business is right here.” He glanced up at the television. “What do you make of the Chinese acting up in the South China Sea, General?”
“I don’t find it credible that the Coast Guard helicopter was shot down by mistake,” Patrick said. “If they were recovering pieces of that Poseidon, the crew of that Coast Guard helicopter would have seen them doing it. Downing that helicopter bought them several hours to search for wreckage.”
“So you think China was involved in the P-8 crash too?”
“I don’t have any details, but I don’t believe in coincidences,” Patrick said. “There’s no doubt that China is laying claim to the South China Sea and building up their air and naval forces there quickly. I think we’re going to see many more unexplained occurrences, mistakes, and accidents out there. Beijing thinks as long as there’s no solid trail leading to them that we won’t do anything.”
“Well, we’re
“Zhou was starting to get up there, so I’m not too surprised,” Patrick said. “We’ll see how the new guy does. He’s much younger, just a little older than President Phoenix, and Gao was educated in America. Other than that, I don’t know much about him.”
“I don’t like seeing all these Chinese military units gearing up all of a sudden,” Hoffman commented, “but I guess with a sudden change in leadership and the uncertainty in the country, that’s bound to happen.” He nodded at the packages. “Stuff for Brad?”
“He’s running short of some things, and he moaned about his bed, so I brought an air mattress for him. Mind showing me where his room is?”
“Of course, sir.” Hoffman got up, grabbed the air mattress, and led the way.
A mechanic was just leaving the room carrying a box of airplane parts when Patrick and Hoffman arrived. Patrick looked around. “Brad described it pretty well,” he said.
“Best I could do, General,” Hoffman said.
“No, no, this is okay, Tom,” Patrick said. “Maybe it’ll give him a little incentive to finish his training and get out there to make some money to afford his own place.” He set the box of food and clothing on Brad’s bed, and Hoffman threw the air mattress beside it. “How’s he doing, Tom?” Patrick asked.
“You were right—he’s a good stick, a good student, and a good worker,” Hoffman said. “But I’ll be straight with you, General: I sense an attitude about him.”
“What kind of attitude?”
“An attitude that he’s better than this, like he doesn’t deserve the life he’s leading,” Hoffman said. “I see it in him when he works around here: that he thinks he’s too good for all this.” Patrick said nothing; Hoffman noticed his grim expression and shrugged. “I’m giving it to you straight, General. I’ve led aviators and techs for over thirty years. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I appreciate that,” Patrick said. “Character and attitude matter as much as skill and knowledge—they’re all connected. Brad has to pass muster on all of it. I leave it to you to determine if he’s good enough for your program.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Patrick nodded; then, after a short pause, he said, “Brad seems to think you’re riding him especially hard.”
“Yes, I am,” Hoffman said bluntly.
Patrick blinked. “You are?”
“You bet I am,” Hoffman said. Patrick had to struggle to quash a rising feeling of anger in his chest; Hoffman obviously noticed it right away. “General, you can’t swing a dead cat by the tail around this place without hitting a genuine prima donna. Guys spend millions of dollars on flying toys, and they want me to train them on how to fly them. They don’t want to know anything about the aircraft or its systems—they just want to fly a sharp-looking, hair-on-fire badass jet. Unless they’re completely unsafe, I’ll take their money, train them, and let them fly away. If they’re not interested in learning more about the jets they fly, that’s their business.
“But I have a great opportunity to avoid all that with Bradley,” Hoffman went on. “Frankly, sir, Bradley’s on the very cusp of being a prima donna. He’s a good pilot, but the problem is: he
“What exactly is he doing?”
“Every time I page him and he walks into my office and I tell him to do something, I get the hairy eyeball,” Hoffman explained. “If the order doesn’t involve flying, he gives me the
“Is he disrespectful?”
“No, not outwardly or verbally—you would have gotten a call from me much earlier if he was,” Hoffman said. “He does the same thing with the mechanics and the techs, and they’ve pointed it out to me. And every time he does it, it makes me want to load him up even more with nonflying crap to do.”
“Load him up? Why?” Patrick asked.
“To see if he’ll quit, like he quit the Academy,” Hoffman said. “From what you’ve said, sir, Brad is a tough, athletic, and dedicated young man and student. You know I’m an Academy grad, and I still do liaison and orientation activities, so I know the Academy. With his sports and Civil Air Patrol experience, he should have had the Zoo nailed, even if he was getting hazed pretty badly by upperclassmen who knew who his father was. My opinion is that perhaps he didn’t want the Academy as badly as he thought . . . or, if I may say, sir: as badly as
Patrick choked down a strong twinge of indignation . . . but he knew Hoffman was probably right. “Maybe so, Tom,” Patrick said. “It couldn’t have been harder than he expected because he was getting ready for it for a year— he knew exactly what to expect.”
“My point exactly,” Hoffman said. “Brad busted out during Second Beast—that’s the field portion of summer camp, ten times as hard as First Beast, which is pretty damned intense. He probably had First Beast nailed, but all of a sudden he’s up to his eyeballs in mud and grief and he’s not comfortable, so he got in some upperclassman’s face. I’ve seen it a hundred times.” Patrick said nothing—because he knew Hoffman was probably spot-on. “You want me to stop bugging Bradley and just treat him like a student, sir? I’ve got enough other guys around here to do the busywork, and he
