“Terribly.”
“I can sew,” said Danny. “What did you have in mind?”
48
Greasy Hands Parsons was about to grab himself a beer when the phone rang. He debated whether to answer it. Generally, the only people who called at this hour were trying to sell something he didn’t want. But he was one of those people who could never stand to let a phone go unanswered, and so he detoured from the refrigerator to the phone.
“Parsons,” he said, his answer conditioned by years in the military.
“Greasy Hands — I wonder if you’d like to start work a few days early,” said Breanna Stockard.
“Hey, boss. Sure. When?”
“Tonight. We have a C-17 coming into Andrews that has to go right out. I was wondering if you could take a look at it.”
“I’m sure those boys will do a fine job for you, Bree.” The Air Force base’s many assignments including caring for Air Force One, and the crews there were second to none, including Dreamland. “But I’d be happy to shoot over for you—”
“Good,” said Breanna. “And just out of curiosity…what are you doing for the next few days? Anything pressing?”
“Pressing?”
“Could you take a trip?”
Greasy Hands mentally reviewed his commitments over the next few days: He had to do laundry, he ought to overhaul the lawn mower, and sooner or later he was going to have to get his car inspected.
And then there was the dentist and the dreaded biannual teeth cleaning.
“Slate is totally free,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“Let’s just say you won’t need your thermal underwear.”
“I’ll be there inside an hour.”
Breanna was confused when she pulled into the driveway and saw that none of the lights were on inside her house. Then she remembered Teri’s recital.
She buried her face in her hands.
“Oh God,” she said, slamming the wheel. Her hand hit the horn by mistake. The sharp blast echoed around the quiet suburban street, jolting a pair of robins that were nesting in the tree in the front yard, as well as the neighbor’s cat.
She leapt out of the car, jogging inside to get her things. Maybe, she thought, there would be time to stop by the school and hear her daughter play for a few minutes. But a glance at the clock in the kitchen told her that was a pipe dream; she was already running late.
There was a note for her on the kitchen table.
“I know, I know,” she muttered, running to the bedroom. She grabbed her overnight bag from the closet, threw a change of clothes inside, then stepped into the bathroom for her toothbrush. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror — it was the face of a woman she only vaguely recognized: a harried, overtired soccer mom.
Not a combat pilot.
Breanna slid some toothpaste, an extra bar of soap, and some toilet paper — you could never be too sure — into her bag. Then she went down the hall to Zen’s office, grabbed a pad from his desk, and went into Teri’s room to write her daughter a note.
“‘Honey,’” she started, speaking aloud as she wrote, “‘something came up—’”
Oh crap, that sounds terrible, Breanna thought, wadding the paper up.
Garbage. And she shouldn’t write
She ripped that note up, too.
That wasn’t much better than the others, but she decided it would have to do. She left it on Teri’s bed and ran back outside, nearly forgetting her keys in the house.
She was about ten minutes from the airport when Zen called her on the cell phone.
“Hey, there, Mrs. Stockard, should we save this front row seat for you or what?”
“Zen — God. I can’t — I’m flying to Ethiopia.”
“It’s a long story. I can’t explain right now — it’s classified.”
“Bree, you better explain a little.”
“We have a problem in Sudan. It’s under control, but one of our people died. I have to make sure his body gets back. And I have to get the people he was with out.”
“But why are
“Because if I don’t, they won’t be picked up for another day. And they have to get out now.”
Zen said nothing for a moment.
Breanna knew she hadn’t really answered the question: Why was
For a moment she felt foolish, realizing she had acted impulsively. Her job wasn’t to fly airplanes, and she wasn’t the twenty-something woman with something to prove.
But she
“You still there?” asked Zen.
“Yes, Senator.”
“Hey, listen, we’ll cope. I know you gotta do what you gotta do,” he added. “I just want to be able to tell Teri something.”
There was a sound in the background: muffled music.
“They’re starting up inside. I oughta get going,” Zen said.
“Bring me in with you,” said Breanna.
“Huh?”
“Bring the cell phone in and let me listen.”
“Good idea.”
By any objective standard, the music was absolutely…trying.
Naturally, the parents who filled the auditorium thought it was incredibly wonderful. So did Breanna, who took her hands off the wheel and applauded when it was done.
“Thank you,” she told Zen. “Tell her I thought she did great, and I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“All right, Bree. Listen, babe — you take damn good care of yourself, all right? I don’t want to be chairing a Senate inquiry over this.”
“Don’t worry, Senator. I intend to.”
Breanna wanted Greasy Hands along on the flight because there would be no air force crew in Ethiopia; in case something went wrong, she needed someone who could get the plane back together in one piece.
“You have an awful lot of faith in me,” said Greasy Hands, looking over the MC-17. As he had suspected, the maintainers at Andrews needed absolutely no encouragement from him, let alone help. But then again, the chief master sergeant they reported to had trained under him a few years back. “I haven’t worked on an MC-17 since Dreamland.”
“Have they changed since then?”
Greasy Hands laughed. “Not all that much.”
