CHAPTER
2
“Romeo One, this
is Scratch One. Do you read?”
“Five by five,
Scratch One. Go ahead.”
“Request
permission to land by vectored thrust option.”
“Roger, Scratch
One. Land your victor by vectored thrust on designated flight line
and coordinates.”
The plane
dipped out of the sky, plummeting. Six hundred knots dropped to
zero in 15.4 seconds. The engines groaned—not a promising sound—as
the plane hovered as if levitating, then began to lower elegantly
to the aluminum-treated asphalt.
When Colonel
Jack Wentz landed the YF-61 on Runway 4 of Andrew’s Tango-Delta
site, he fully expected to die. It was a mind-set, it was
necessary. The VDU and temp gauges read normal—nevertheless, he
expected to die. In fact, of the thousands of times he’d landed
planes during his career, he expected to die every
time.
That way, he
reasoned, if he did die, he wouldn’t be surprised.
The wheel
springs grated when he set down, then Wentz commenced with the
proper system shut-downs. The Lockheed YF-61, though highly
experimental (its turbines ran on hydrogen rather than conventional
JP-6) looked just like an F-5E. Hence, there was no need to fly it
at a black site.
Colonel Wentz
was sick to death of black test sites.
The turbines
wound down; Wentz popped the plex canopy and waited for Tech
Sergeant Cole to wheel up the ladder.
How do you like that?
Wentz said to himself.
I didn’t die
today.
And he only had
three more days to go.
“How’s she
handle, sir?” Cole asked when he hopped off the
ladder.
Wentz passed
him his CVC helmet and mask. “Like a barge. D-O-D wants to buy two
hundred and fifty of these boat anchors at a hundred and fifty
million a pop? Shit. For a while I thought I was driving a 5-ton
Army truck over cinder blocks.”
Cole edged
close, whispering. “Come on, sir. What did she clock out
at?”
“That’s
classified, Cole. You know better than to ask something like that.”
Wentz zipped down his collar. “But let me ask you something. In
baseball, you get three strikes…and
how many balls?”
Cole looked
briefly puzzled. “Four, but—” Then his eyes shot wide. “You
hit mach f—”
“Shut up, Cole.
I thought we were talking about baseball.” Wentz winked at his line
attendant. “Now put my shit away and get me some coffee.”
A squadron of
F-16s roared overhead, drowning out Cole’s laughter. Up in the
flight tower, the duty controller flipped Wentz a thumbs up. Wentz
waved back to the guy, knowing he’d never see him
again.
“Look,
Colonel,” Cole said. “I know you’re getting out on Monday. I just
wanted to say it’s been an honor to be your LA for these past
couple of weeks.”
“Don’t get
misty on me, Cole, I forgot my hanky.” Wentz shook the man’s hand.
“And call me Jack. You’re the best LA I’ve had in twenty-five
years, so thanks. I’m throwing a retirement bash at my wife’s place
Monday night. If you don’t show up, I’ll have you transferred to
chow-hall duty in Turkey as my last official act as an Air Force
officer.”
“I’ll be there.
Oh, and Top wants to see you in A Wing. ASAP.”
Wentz snapped
his gaze. “Gimme a break. I just unassed that flying coffin after
five straight hours on stick. What’s Top want?
Cole smiled
knowingly. “Wouldn’t know.”
Wentz cast a
suspicious eye. “It ain’t cool to lie to full colonels, kid.
Majors, warrant officers, first lueys—that’s fine.
But not full colonels. So what’s going on?”
“Wouldn’t know,
Jack. Why don’t you go find out?”
“Yeah.” Wentz
walked off the line toward the Dress Unit, sputtering under his
breath.
««—»»
Now in
fatigues, Colonel Wentz approached the door which read A-WING
F.O.D. 1ST SGT. CAUDILL. But everyone here called him “Top,” as in
Top Sergeant. Big, burly, and with a low southern drawl, Top was
the highest-ranking enlisted man on the base. During Desert Storm,
Top had hustled his 250-pound carcass around like a high-school
kid, and ran an attack wing that launched over a hundred sorties a
day without losing a bird. That’s where he and Wentz had
met.
“How’s things
in the land of coffee and donuts?” Wentz asked.
“Not bad,” Top
replied from behind an immaculate desk. “At least I can eat before
I come to work and not worry about blowing chunks when I pull a
6-G.”
“Top, there’s
only one thing you pull around here, and that’s my chain. The kid
on the line says you need to see me ASAP, so I’m wondering what the
hell can Top possibly want to see me about when he knows I’m out of
here on Monday?”
Top shrugged,
took a sugary french cruller out of a Mr. Donut box. “I just wanted
to know how the YF-61 flew.”
“It’s spam in a
can. If the Air Force wants to put kids in those things, they
better clock ’em five hundred hours of training time first.
Otherwise, there’s gonna be a whole lot of tax dollars sitting in
the desert along with a whole bunch of kids.”
“I watched you
land her. Looked smooth to me,” Top remarked.
“That’s only
because I’m the best pilot in the goddamn Air Force—”
“The most
modest too—”
“And what’s
this all about anyway? You didn’t call me in here to ask me about
that hunk of junk.”
Top’s smile
drew his jowls up. He slipped a piece of paper off his desk. “Got
some orders for ya, Jack.”
Wentz was
instantly outraged. This was like a slap in the face. “I’m short
and the CO is cutting me orders?
Hey, he can send me to Alaska, but
three days from now I’ll be signing my retirement papers and
turning in this monkey suit for good! I got two hundred grand a
year waiting for me flying 777s for United!”
Top closed his
eyes, rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe a hardcore Air Force
driver like you wants to run off to fly those civvie air yachts.
Look at all the cool stuff you get to fly for Uncle Sam.”
“Shit on
Uncle Sam. That old cracker’s had me bent over his desk for
twenty-five years, and he’s never even kissed me. And you want to
talk about the ‘cool stuff’ I get to fly? Cool, yeah.” Wentz
groaned. “Stuff that would make the Wright Brothers puke. I’m
telling you, Top, I’m out of here in three days, and I don’t
care where those orders send me. If
God
Himself cut those
orders, I’ll kick His ass up and down Heaven Street. I’ll slam St.
Peter’s Gate on His head and bust Him one in the nuts.”
Top winced.
“Relax, Jack. They’re promotion orders.”
The office fell
silent along with Wentz’s protests. His face felt a yard long
staring at Top.
“Guess what?”
the First Sergeant continued. “You just made the big one star. Does
that mean you’re gonna start bossing me around now? I’m gonna have
to start calling you sir?”
Wentz stood
speechless.
Top got up from
behind the desk and opened a small felt box containing two silver
collar stars.
The stars
glinted like jewels.
“Don’t just
stand there looking like you locked your keys in your car. Try ’em
on…”
Wentz gazed
longingly at the pair of stars, still unable to give
voice.
“Here, allow
me,” Top said. He carefully pinned the stars onto Wentz’s fatigue
collar, then snapped to attention and saluted.
“Congratulations…General Wentz.”
Wentz, still in
a fog, turned to a mirror on the wall.
General, the word slipped through his mind. The stars
glittered back at him in the reflection.
“Hard-fuckin’-core, man,” Top approved. “You’re a
brigadier general
now,
Jack. That’s serious rank. And you
know something else? You’re a first.”
“I’m
a…what?”
Jack asked, distracted.
“First time in
the history of the United States Air Force they gave a general’s
star to a guy who’s not an asshole!” Top blared. Then he yanked
open his snack fridge, pulled out a bottle of Perier-Jouet
champagne, and popped the cork. Foam poured on the
floor.
“Shit, Top,
thanks—”
Top poured the
expensive bubbling wine into a pair of glasses, then passed one to
Wentz.
“A toast.
Here’s to General Wentz…”
Wentz sipped
from his glass. “General Wentz,” he muttered. “You know, Top? I kind of
like the sound of that.”
««—»»
The limousine
idled at the gate, Department of the Air Force flags waving at its
front fenders. Two Marine Corp MPs emerged before red signs in
white letters that read:
PENTAGON WEST ENTRANCE.
THIS IS A CONTROLLED ACCESS. DUTY GUARDS HAVE THE RIGHT TO
DETAIN ALL ADMITTANTS REGARDLESS OF RANK OR OFFICE. YOU MAY BE
ASKED TO BE SEARCHED.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR
COMPLIANCE.
The first MP
opened the limo door, while the second opened the phone box in the
guard shack. General Gerald Cawthorne Rainier got out of the
vehicle and dully returned the MP’s crisp
salute.
“Good
afternoon, sir!” the MP barked.
“This may not
be a very good afternoon at all, Sergeant,” Rainier
mouthed.
“Yes,
sir!”
The line of
four stars barely fit on the epaulets of Rainier’s dress uniform.
He was fifty-seven years old but right now he felt a hundred. No,
this was not a good afternoon at all, not after the call he’d just
received from SECPERS.
There might not be any good afternoons ever
again, he
thought.
His eyes lanced
into the MP’s gaze. “Tell security to have Briefing Room One
prepped and swept ASAP. And open this goddamn gate.”
“Yes,
sir!”
The MP shot a
nod at the gate guard. The electric bolt snapped open, then Rainier
brushed past, rushing into the west entrance as if trying to evade
an augury of doom.