insignia entered its landing pattern. The palletized loads of weapons, armored patrol vehicles, and other heavy lift had been arriving along with large complements of operating and service personnel for over forty-eight hours, and would continue to arrive right up until the launch later that week.
Petrov found himself wondering how the American populace would react if their government invited a Russian paramilitary force with tremendous surveillance and fighting capabilities into the heart of their nation, imposed fewer practical restraints upon their use of weapons than the average citizen was asked to accept, then allowed them to usurp control of a military policing operation from indigenous army units. Would that not be seen as compromising America’s internal security? As a threat to the very underpinning of its national sovereignty? Would it be tolerated?
He dropped his eyes and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. There could be no greater proof of America’s global hegemony than those planes in the busy sky.
How could he describe how he felt?
He searched his mind for the right word and finally nodded.
Castrated.
That was it. That was perfect.
Damned fortunate for him that his wife had lost interest in sex some years ago. His head bent, his shoulders slightly stooped, Petrov strode toward the small terminal where he would prop himself up to give a gracious, politic reception to the current batch of newcomers from UpLink.
Welcoming them where they very well might be needed, but were most assuredly not wanted.
* * * “—don’t know why you keep coming here to visit, Annie. You aren’t around for someone’s time of dying, it isn’t like missing your train or a dentist’s appointment or the early-bird sale at Wal-Mart. There’s late and there’s late, and if you think that puts a heavy load on your shoulders, think of how it felt for me. ”
Annie is back in Room 377 of the hospital, sitting at the bedside of the man in the carrot-red flight/reentry suit. The man with the Vaseline-smudge face who is and isn’t her husband. The room is dark, the lights off, night outside the window behind her. The only illumination is a soft glow coming from the equipment- she’s gotten used to seeing it change from hospital instruments to a space shuttle console to the front panel indicators of an F-16 with almost every glance — on the far side of his bed.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t know, they said there was time—”
“And you had a training session to conduct, ” he interrupts with a chuckle like the sound of someone stamping down on dry twigs and broken glass. “How convenient. ”
“That isn’t fair,” she says, an imploring note in her voice. “I was going to come back in the morning. You knew I was coming back. You knew. And then they called… they phoned me… ”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through this same old song before. Sudden heart attack, smoke in the cabin, with a heave and a ho, they just had to tell you so. ” He produces another brittle expulsion of laughter that dissolves into a chain of hacking coughs. “Might’ve made it easier for my Annie to digest, you know how the Juiceman says to drink your bromelain before bedtime. But to be honest, there’s not much difference from where I’m lying. There’s late and there’s late and you missed our date—”
She shakes her head. “No, don’t say that again—”
“You can’t stand hearing it, lassie, then why not put on your tweed cap and head on over to Erlsberg Castle? That’s got to be better than this here barn hop, ” he says with a mock Scottish brogue. His hand comes up and points in her direction, the burned, sloughy flesh dangling off his finger like strings of half-dried glue. “Or you can always use the ejection seat. Handle’s right in front of you. ”
And it is. It is. Annie thinks she can remember pulling a plain wooden armchair up to the bed, is sure she can, but it suddenly becomes clear she’s mistaken, she is in a McDonnell Douglas ACES II ejection seat, the same type that launched her out of her burning F-16 over Bosnia. She acknowledges this discovery in the same unstartled way as she does the endlessly transforming instrument panels, and the smeary blotch of grease in front of — Mark’s? — face, making it impossible for her to discern its features. She is in an ejection seat, okay, all right, an ejection seat. Belted into the safety harness, the recovery parachute container above the headrest against the back of her neck, the data recorder mounted on the side of the chair to her left over the emergency oxygen bottle…
The yellow ejection handle in front of her.
“Do it, Annie. Bail!” the voice from the bed says in what almost sounds like a dare. “We both know how it works. Catapult will ignite in, what, three tenths of a second? The rocket sustainer less than a tenth of a second after that. Five secs later you’ll be separated from the seat and floating down nice and soft in your ’chute. ”
“No, ” she replies, her own forcefulness catching her off guard. “I won’t do it.”
“Easy enough for you to say now, but just wait. There’s smoke in the cabin! Smoke all around us. ”
Again, Annie is hardly surprised to find that he is right, has actually gotten used to these snap announcements of his, which have begun to remind her of hearing a video jock on MTV or VH-1 introduce the weekly hit list. He knows what’s cuing up, he’s always on top of the game, and if he tells you that there’s smoke, you better believe you’re about smell it.
Just you wait a second.
At first it is white, vaporous, and odorless as it tapers up from underneath her seat, like the sort of dry-ice smoke produced for theatrical effects. But it rapidly darkens and thickens, rising in dirty gray billows that fill her mouth and nose, threatening to overcome her with its choking stench.
“Go on, Annie, what are you waiting for?” the man in the bed asks in his familiar gibing, goading tone. He props himself up on his pillow, thrusts his seared-to-the-bone finger at her through the smoke, and wags it in front of her face. “Reach for the lever and you’re up and out!”
“No!” Annie is even more forceful, more adamant than she had been a second earlier. “I won‘t, you hear me? I won’t!”
“Cut the crap and reach for it, ” he snarls. “Reach—”
“No!” she again shouts back defiantly, and then pushes herself off the seat against the resistance of her buckled harness straps and does reach out — though not for the eject lever. No, not for the lever, but for his hideously burned, reddened hand, taking it between both of her own with careful tenderness. “We’re in this together, and that’s never changed. Not for me.”
The smoke wells blackly around her now, congealing so Annie can no longer see the bed only inches in front of her, or the man lying under its sheets. But she can still feel him, can still feel his hand in hers. And then she realizes with a jolt of surprise — the first she’s experienced in this latest twist on what some small portion of her sleeping mind realizes has become a recurrent nightmare — that he isn’t pulling it away.
“It’s all on the tape, Annie, ” he says.
His voice now clearly that of her husband, but without the sneering, disdainful quality it has had in each previous version of this scene.
“Mark—”
“On the tape,” he repeats.
Kindly.
Gently.
Oh, so heartbreakingly gently from behind the shroud of smoke, reminding her of how he had been before the cancer, how she had come to love him, how much about him she had loved what seems such a very long time ago.
“You already know everything you need to know,” he says, all at once sounding as if he has moved further away from her.
Then Annie realizes that is exactly what is happening. She feels his hand slipping out from between her fingers — feels it slowly, inevitably slipping into the black. Try as she does, struggle as she does, she can’t seem to hold onto it.
Hold onto him.
