fly, but he gives me menial errands to do instead.”
“Brad, remember our conversation about me working for the board of directors of Sky Masters?” Patrick asked. “Just like the board, Colonel Hoffman is the boss—he can treat you any way he likes and tell you to do anything he wants. He’s providing flying, simulator, and classroom time in exchange for work. If you don’t like the way he treats or teaches you, you’re an adult and you have a vote: you vote with your feet. Just politely quit, pack up your stuff, give me a call, and we depart the fix and go home. I think you’d be squandering a great opportunity, but if you’re truly unhappy here, you should get out before you get fired or start making others just as miserable as you are. I’ll help you figure out what your options are after that.
“Because you’re an adult, I’m not going to tell you what to do, just give you my advice: if you’re going to stay here, you should work to become a team player and a trusted, valued employee. Start acting like a team member and maybe Colonel Hoffman will treat you better.”
Several minutes later, Tom Hoffman came out of the main hangar with a single suitcase. “The wife is infinitely better at packing than I am,” he said. “Brad, Jerry Melton is in charge until I get back. Get with him if you have any questions about the calendar. Sondra will be in charge of your flying, ground school, and test calendar.”
“Yes, sir,” Brad responded. As Hoffman was hurrying past him, Brad caught a glimpse of his father’s expression, and he looked back at Hoffman’s lone bag. It took only a few moments for Brad to catch on. “Don’t you need your laptop on this trip, Colonel?” he asked.
Hoffman shook his head in disgust of his own forgetfulness. “Damn, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed onto my neck,” he said.
“I’ll get it for you,” Brad said. Patrick’s mood brightened considerably. “I’ll grab some bottles of water for you too for the flight back to Battle Mountain. Do you want a Thermos of coffee for the flight, sir?”
“Yeah, coffee sounds good,” Hoffman said distractedly as he searched his pockets for something else he thought he might have forgotten. “The Air Force coffee they serve on the plane is probably crap.”
“Got your wallet, sir?” Brad asked.
Hoffman touched the rear pocket of his slacks where the wallet should have been. “Oh, cripes. It’s probably in the console of my pickup.”
“I’ll get it,” Brad said. “Oh, one thing, sir: the wireless router we’re using on the east side of the main hangar is an older dash-G model.”
“A what?”
“It’s second generation, but the newer ones are much better,” Brad went on. “I can get us a newer WIMAX 4G router for practically nothing. It has better range through the metal walls and much faster speeds. It’ll extend network coverage even out to the parking lot and the ramp.”
“I don’t know about routers—all I want is for my wireless to work,” Hoffman said gruffly. “Tell Rosetta what you just told me, and tell her I want you to fix it by the time I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Brad shot a sly smile at his father, then trotted off.
Hoffman noticed Patrick looking directly at him with a smile. “What are you grinning at, General?” he asked.
“Nothing, you old fart,” Patrick said, his whole day suddenly bright and shiny. “Nothing at all.”
OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEXT MORNING
“Welcome back to the White House, General,” said retired Army general and former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff William Glenbrook, President Phoenix’s national security adviser. “You need to get to Washington more often.” Glenbrook looked to Patrick exactly how he remembered him back six years ago, tall and burly with a powerful handshake and a ready smile, although now he wore tailored suits instead of Army green.
“Thank you, sir,” Patrick said, trying not to grimace as he and Glenbrook shook hands. Patrick had been a special adviser to President Kevin Martindale on new long-range strike technology, and he and Glenbrook rarely saw eye to eye. Patrick had been a strong advocate for the militarization of space; Glenbrook thought the technology was vastly too expensive for its limited capabilities. Profligate spending on unproven, futuristic space technology was one of the reasons stated by critics—and echoed by Glenbrook—for the economic meltdown and the unceremonious end of the Martindale administration.
“Nah, it’s Bill around here, Patrick,” Glenbrook said casually. “Or sometimes it’s ‘Say Again,’ like when I give the president some advice he didn’t expect, which is more often than I care to admit.”
“I know the feeling, Bill,” Patrick said. “I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Thomas Hoffman, Air Force retired, owner of Warbirds Forever Inc., and to Dr. Linus Oglethorpe, chief scientist and engineer at Sky Masters Inc. These two gentlemen are the architects and foundation of the XB-1 project. Gents, William Glenbrook, U.S. Army, retired, the president’s national security adviser.”
“Thanks for the introductions, Patrick,” Glenbrook said as he shook hands. “When we were in President Martindale’s administration I didn’t see Patrick that often, squirreled away down in his office in the White House basement or blasting off to Armstrong Space Station all the time, but I could definitely tell when one of his ideas was put into motion—this place became even more chaotic, and back in the Pentagon I had to scramble to figure out what in hell he did.” He turned to the towheaded, bespectacled, nerdy-looking man standing behind him. “Gentlemen, meet Dr. Gerald Murth, undersecretary of defense for acquisitions. When your proposal was kicked up from the Air Force to the secretary of defense’s office, he was assigned to review it. The secretary of defense was briefed yesterday. Now it’s my turn, and I thought you’d want to be here.” He waved them all to seats, and an aide brought in a tray of coffee, which Hoffman nearly pushed others out of his way to get at. When they were all settled, Glenbrook waved to Murth. “Dr. Murth, proceed.”
“Thank you, General Glenbrook,” Murth said in a high-pitched, rather squeaky voice. “If you’ll allow me, General?” He turned to look directly at Patrick. “Sir, I have to tell you, I’ve followed your exploits over the years with a real sense of . . .” He paused, afraid of offending, then resigning himself to speak his mind: “ . . . astonishment.”
“Interesting choice of words, Undersecretary Murth,” Patrick said.
“You must admit, General, that you have a certain . . . reputation,” Murth said, obviously enjoying a slight pause before uttering the last word in his sentences, especially if they were meant to be direct and not complimentary. He noticed Patrick’s uncomfortable body language and was evidently pleased to have elicited it. “A reputation that leaves senior officials and military commanders I know and respect with a feeling that they have no idea what you will do next, except that whatever it is, it will be . . . bombastic. Globally so.” Patrick said nothing. “I must tell you, sir, that when your proposal reached my desk from the Air Force, I was not prepared to be objective. Your reputation and service record fills me with a great sense of . . . trepidation.”
“Very honest of you to say so, Mr. Undersecretary,” Patrick said. “However, I think we’d all be better served if you left personalities and nonrelevant history out of the evaluation, and let the project stand on its own merits.”
“Dr. Murth is well known in the Pentagon for speaking his mind, Patrick,” Glenbrook said with a wry smile. “Frankly, I think Dr. Murth is the Pentagon’s designated project assassin. But he has the highest recommendation from Secretary Hayes. Proceed.”
“I was directed to examine the proposal, despite my . . . reservations,” Murth went on. “I was directed to report back to Secretary Hayes with my honest assessment of your proposal and a recommendation on whether it merited any more of the Pentagon’s . . . consideration.”
“Let’s get on with it, Murth,” Tom Hoffman said irritably. Murth’s head snapped around, and he looked at Hoffman with undisguised surprise and indignation, obviously not accustomed to be spoken to like that. “We’ve got work to do.” Glenbrook’s only reaction to the outburst was a thinly disguised smile, the index finger of his left hand on his lips—obviously he was going to let the arguments fly from both sides.
“Yes, of . . . course,” Murth said, giving Hoffman an irritated scowl and getting an even deeper, darker one in return. “You are Colonel Thomas Hoffman, the one who will train the air and ground crews? You are the”—Murth
