“As I see my job, Admiral, it’s to develop weapons, not worry about egos that might be bruised because test results make them look bad. If you have a specific worry, maybe you ought to lay it out.”
“Steady there, Colonel. Steady.”
There were once more interrupted by the waiter, who brought out two dishes of fancy salad. Dog now regretted letting Danny leave; courtesy demanded someone keep the admiral company, and he didn’t feel like hanging
around to be harangued on what he considered a minor matter. He was somewhat surprised that Allen himself changed the conversation, turning to a totally neutral topic — the Megafortress.
Allen claimed to have long admired the big bombers, and was impressed by their showing during the recent showdown with China. Politely, Dog offered to put him in a copilot’s seat on an orientation flight.
“Can’t do it, unfortunately,” said the admiral. “Ever since the flare-up, we’ve been going nonstop. I guess you heard the press is calling it the Fatal Terrain affair. Makes good headlines for them, I guess.” He smiled wryly, but then added, “I was sorry about General Elliott.”
“Yes,” said Dog. In a brief but brutal encounter between America and China known to some as the “Fatal Terrain” affair, Elliott had given his life. He’d died successfully preventing an all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and China. He was a bonafide war hero — at least to some people who criticized the maverick general. They didn’t realize how close the communists had come to running over Taiwan — and starting World War III.
“Things are still hot there. Touchy. We’ve got a lot of assets along the coast.”
“You’re probably stretched thin,” said Dog.
“Absolutely,” said Allen. “And contrary to all the talking heads, there’s still no guarantee war won’t break out. I don’t trust the Chinese as far as I can spit, even with our carriers along their coast. And, hell, even the Indians seem to be spoiling for a fight.”
“India?”
“Oh, yes,” said Allen. “Minor incidents so far. Saber-rattling. Frankly, I don’t take them too seriously. But all South Asia’s boiling.”
Dog nodded.
“Admiral Woods is an excellent man,” said Allen. “A little competitive sometimes. Especially if he thinks the Air Force is trying to get ahead of him. Very competitive.”
“How about yourself?” ask Dog.
“Never play tennis with me.”
“I meant, do you think the Air Force is trying to get ahead of you?”
“Piranha is a Navy project, Colonel.”
The accent on
Their lunch arrived. The conversation once more tacked toward more friendly waters. Allen compared the salmon favorably to several dinners he’d had recently in Washington, D.C. — a not too subtle hint that the admiral could muster considerable political muscle if displeased.
“Extend my compliments to the chef,” said Allen as the waiter cleared the plates.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dog, if you run the rest of your ship as well as you run the mess, you’ll do well,” the admiral added.
“I can’t take the credit,” said Dog. “Brad Elliott staffed the kitchen.”
Displeasure or sorrow — it was impossible to tell which — flicked over Allen’s face. “I’d like a copy of the draft report,” he said.
“That can be arranged.” In truth, Colonel Bastian would have forwarded him one as a matter of course, since his command had been involved in the testing and had personnel involved in the development. Had Dog not taken such a dislike to Allen, he might also have noted, for the record, that Dreamland reports focused on the system under study. Personalities, and what orders they might or might not have issued during test exercises, were never included.
But the colonel didn’t see much reason for adding that.
“You have a nice little operation here, Colonel. No reason for us to be enemies,” said Allen as they walked back to the SUV that would take the admiral to his plane, which had returned after being refueled at Edwards.
“I didn’t realize we were,”
Allen only smiled.
Zen pulled his wheelchair toward Hangar A, where the UMB’s control unit was housed. Bree had promised to meet him there for lunch. He was running his standard ten minutes later — the only place he was punctual was in the air — so it was somewhat surprising when she was not standing impatiently outside the door.
Zen breathed a reassuring sigh, since she was sure to get on him for being late. Instead of justifying his tardiness, her absence presented a perfect opportunity for turning the tables on the notoriously punctual captain; he could claim he’d been here the whole time, waiting outside. He stopped a few feet from the doorway and pulled his paperback from the corner of his seat, starting to position himself as if he’d been reading in the shade.
“More Roosevelt!” said Bree behind him.
“More Roosevelt,” he said, closing the biography of the President. “Where you been?”
“I was necking with Chief Parsons around the corner,” she said. Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was in charge of the maintenance team and old enough to be her father — or grandfather.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said.
“Oh, baloney. I saw you come up.”
“Musta been some other pimp in a wheelchair.” Zen smiled at her.
“So which book is this?”
Bree reached down and picked it up; Zen saw the opening and snuck in a kiss.
“Heavy reading,” she said. The book was Geoffrey Ward’s A
“I only get it for the swimsuit issue,” said Zen. His interest in Roosevelt had started by accident during his flight home from Turkey, and now he was truly fascinated by the only man to have been elected President four times — all the time confined to a wheelchair. He’d worked through several FDR volumes, and was now eyeing Kenneth Davis’s five books, the definitive tome on Roosevelt’s life. While he joked that he wanted to see how a “fellow gimp made good,” what truly fascinated Zen was Roosevelt’s ability to get along with so many people.
His charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico — against the Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had treated him like a son.
How did he manage to get on with so many people after polio took his legs? Wasn’t he bitter? Why didn’t bitterness come out in his relationships, which seemed to show no trace of anger or frustration? Zen didn’t fool himself that his own relationships were on nearly so lofty a plain; at least privately, he railed about his condition every day.
“Ready for lunch?” Bree asked.
“Starving.”
“Red Room?”
“Nah, Admiral Allen’s there, and Ax says stay away.”
“Allen? Is that who landed on my runway?”
Zen gave her the gossip he’d heard from Chief Gibbs: Apparently the admiral was on a tear because his people had gotten their fannies waved during the Piranha exercises. One of Allen’s favorite commanders, Admiral Woods, had pulled some strings to alter the parameters of the test in his favor — and still lost. There was justice in the world, Zen concluded. They Navy being so damned concerned about their little egos being crushed that a top admiral had to come and personally try to soothe things over gave Zen immense satisfaction.
It wasn’t until they were at their table with full trays of food that Zen realized Bree was distracted. He made a joke about her choice — salad with a side of yogurt — then one about his — a double helping of homemade meat loaf, with extra gravy. She hardly snickered.
“Bad flight?” he asked.
She shrugged.
