Текст книги "Razor's Edge"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Yet it didn’t bother Dog. As a matter of fact, he no longer thought about his career in the Air Force. He even considered—albeit lightly and without focus—what sort of job he might take if he returned to civilian life. Nothing about the future bothered him these days, especially while he was jogging.

The reason waited a few yards ahead, stretching in the chilly morning air.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” said Dog as he approached.

“I had a late night,” said Jennifer Gleason. She paused in her warm-up routine long enough to accept a light peck on the lips, then fell into a slow trot alongside him. “I had to help Ray on some last minute coding for Galatica. The navigation section in the autopilot programs developed some nasty bugs when the spoof lines were imposed and the GPS signal was blocked. Major Cheshire’s supposed to fly it this morning, and we didn’t want her landing in Canada.”

“Spoof lines?”

“Well, the ECM coding in the three-factor section doesn’t interface with the GPS at all, but for some bizarre 64

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reason there was this variable table that was affected. It had to do with the allocation of memory—”

“I think we’re venturing into need-to-know territory,”

said Dog, picking up his pace. “And I don’t need to know.”

“Too technical for you, Colonel?”

“Nah.”

Jennifer tapped at him teasingly. He caught her hand, then folded it into his, her long, slim fingers twining around thumb and pinkie. They ran like that for a few yards, Dog luxuriating in the soft echo of her footsteps next to him.

“I get off here,” he said as they approached the narrow road that led to his quarters.

“You’re not running with me?”

“Hey, I’ve done my time.” Dog slowed to a trot and then a walk. Jennifer let go of his hand, but also slowed, trotting backward to talk a few more moments before saying good-bye.

“Come on, you can do another circuit.”

“Can’t. Chief Gibbs probably has the papers three feet high on my desk already,” said Dog. “Maybe we can meet for dinner?”

“How about lunch?”

“Can’t do lunch. How about off base for dinner?”

“Are you sure Gibbs will let you off base?”

“Ax works for me, not the other way around.”

“Have you checked the organizational chart?”

“No way. He drew it up,” Dog said, laughing.

Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs was the colonel’s right-hand man; the chief tended to the p’s and q’s of the job and at times acted as a substitute mother hen. Ax came from a long line of top-dog sergeants, a chief’s chief who could organize a hurricane into a Sun-day picnic.

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65

“The question is, can you get away?” said Dog.

“You’re the worst workaholic on this base, and that’s saying something.”

Jennifer jogged forward. Her long hair framed a beautiful round face, and even in rumpled sweats her body pulled him toward her.

“I will meet you at the Dolphin port at 1800 hours,” she said a few inches from his face. “Be there or be square.”

Dog laughed, then leaned in to kiss her. As their lips touched, he caught the flash of a blue security light in the distance.

“Now you’ve done it,” said Jennifer. “Chief Gibbs heard you talking about him.”

“I have no doubt,” said Dog. He turned toward the approaching truck, one of the black GMC SUVs used by the base’s elite security force. The Jimmy whipped so close before halting that Dog took two steps off the pavement, nudging Jennifer out of the way as well.

“Colonel, got a message for you,” said the driver. Lieutenant William Ferro, the security duty officer, was out of breath, as if he’d run instead of driven. “You have to, you have a secure call.”

“Relax, Billy,” Dog told him. “Gleason, I’ll see you at 1800.”

“You got it,” Jennifer told him, whirling and breaking into a smooth stride.

“Whiplash,” said Ferro as Dog got into the truck. “I didn’t know if I should say that, in front of the, uh, scientist, sir.”

“That scientist has seen more combat than you have,”

said Dog, who might have added that her clearance was also considerably higher. “But you did okay. When in doubt, don’t.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant stepped on the gas and whipped the truck into a 180, shooting toward Taj, the 66

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main building at the base. Dog’s office and a secure communications bunker known as Dreamland Command were located in the basement.

The colonel ran his hands over his face as they drove, mopping the perspiration. His shirt had a wide, wet V at the chest. He’d change once he knew what was up.

“Do me a favor, Billy,” he said as the lieutenant screeched to a stop in front of the building. “Roust Captain Freah and ask him to meet me up in my office as soon as he can make it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Billy—slow down a bit, all right? This thing’s a truck, not a tank. You’ll get hurt if you hit something.”

THE DOORS TO DREAMLAND’S SECURE COMMAND CENTER

snapped open with a pneumatic hiss. As Dog stalked across the threshold, the automatic lighting system snapped on. He went to the bank of video consoles on the left, hunkering over the keyboard as he pecked in his password. The screen’s blue tint flashed brown; a three-option menu appeared, corresponding to the communication and coded protocols. Dog nudged the F3 key, then retyped both his password and the Whiplash activation code. Then he opened a small drawer beneath the desk and took out a headset.

“Configuration Dog One,” he told the computer that controlled the communications suite. “Allow pending connection.”

The screen popped into a live video from the situation room at the Pentagon. Lieutenant General Magnus, in his shirtsleeves, was conferring with an aide at the side.

“General,” said Dog.

Magnus turned toward him with his familiar scowl.

“Tecumseh. Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping, General. I’d just finished my run.”

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67

“We’re having some problems in Iraq,” said Magnus.

“Very bad problems. You’ll be hearing news reports soon.

We’re getting ready for a press conference upstairs. The executive summary is this—Saddam has shot down three of our planes.”

“What?”

“We recovered one of the pilots and had a quick look at the wreckage. We weren’t able to get a full team out there but we have some of the photos. One of your men happened to be in Europe and was routed out there by coincidence. Mack Smith. He looked at the wreckage.”

Dog nodded. Mack wasn’t a true expert on plane damage—though of course he thought he was. Still, he knew enough to give a lecture on it to terrorism experts and had commanded an investigation in the past.

“What did Mack say?”

“I don’t have the report yet, or the photos,” said Magnus. “This is still developing. Two of the planes are still missing. They’re definitely down.”

Dog felt a surge of anger as the news sank in. He’d flown missions over Iraq, commanded guys in both Southern Watch and Operation Comfort. If there were men down, there was a good chance he knew them.

Iraq should have been taken care of six years ago, steamrolled when they had a chance.

“Retaliatory strikes are under way,” continued Magnus. “We’re stepping up reconnaissance. We have satellite coverage, but we’ve pulled our U-2s until we’re sure they’ll still be okay. We need one if not two Elint aircraft there, and we believe the RC-135s might be vulnerable, at least if they stray close enough to hear what’s going on in Baghdad. It’s a precaution, of course, but until we know precisely what happened, we’d prefer to—”

“I can have a pair of Megafortresses in the air this afternoon,” said Dog.

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“Two?”

“I believe we can have two,” said Dog, thinking of Raven and Quicksilver.

“Two would be optimum. We’ll want a black base, not Incirlik.”

“Okay,” said Dog, realizing that was going to be considerably more difficult than merely sending the Megafortresses.

“You’re not being chopped to CentCom on this, Tecumseh,” said Magnus. “You’re supplying them with information and support, but you remain an independent entity. This is a Whiplash operation. You understand?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.”

“If you can find the radar and the missile sites, take them out,” added Magnus, making the implications of the order explicit. “Don’t bother going through Florida and pussyfooting with the political bullshit. Full orders will follow. Jed Barclay is going to bird-dog you on this, for the President. I’m only tangentially involved.” Magnus turned away from the screen briefly, nodded to someone behind him, then turned back. “Your orders should arrive no later than 1400.”

“The planes will be en route by then, General.”

“Very good.”

The screen went blank.

Dreamland

0603

“WHERE YOU GOIN’, MY BLUE-PAINTED PAIN IN THE YOU-know-what?” twanged Staff Sergeant Louis Garcia, half singing, half cursing at the errant wires in the hard-point assembly he was trying to adjust. Breanna rolled her eyes and took a sip of her Diet Coke, painfully aware that any-

RAZOR’S EDGE

69

thing she said would not only further delay their takeoff but elicit a riff of bad Dylan puns from the man on the portable scaffold.

“How’s it looking?” asked Merce Alou, keeping his voice down.

Breanna shrugged. “Something about the wire har-nesses fouling up the hydraulic fit,” she told Major Alou, Quicksilver’s pilot.

“New antennas in the nose okay?” asked Alou, nodding toward the gray and silvery front section of the plane. Thanks to updates in their electronic intelligence, or Elint, gear, both Raven and Quicksilver had new blunt, almost triangular, noses. The faceted proboscis not only accommodated the latest array of sensors, but would also facilitate a false-echo electronic countermeasure system still being developed and scheduled for installation next fall. The new nose was not yet coated with its radar-deflecting Teflon paint, which took several applications and could ground it for some time.

“Checked and rechecked,” said Breanna. “Least of our problems.”

Alou grunted noncommittally. He’d done much of the work shaking down the new gear in Raven, his usual mount, and he seemed to be remembering those teething problems.

“We only have a clear satellite window for another hour and a half,” he said finally. “We’ll have to scrub if we’re not ready to fire the Hydros in forty-five minutes.

I’m not sure we can even preflight by then.”

Breanna took another sip of her soda. Russian satellites crisscrossed overhead on a predictable schedule. The Megafortress was no longer considered top secret—both Jane’s and Airpower Journal had written articles on the aircraft in the past few months. Many of the details were wrong, but that was undoubtedly the idea of whomever 70

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had leaked them. Newsweek had published a grainy photo following the so-called Nerve Center affair, and Time had run not one, but two artists’ sketches.

The Hydros they were to launch from the bulky hard-point, however, were very secret. From the distance, they looked like sleek red tubes with a slightly swelled rear. In fact, they could easily be confused for water or gas pipes, were it not for their aerodynamic noses and tiny fins at the back. But the thin, titanium-ceramic bodies held a pair of gossamer copper-carbon wings and a large tube of hydrogen. After the Hydros were dropped, the wings were inflated either by remote control, timer, or preset altimeter. The foot-long stubs allowed the tubes to glide back down to earth. While still in its early stages, the Hydros were expected to form the basis of next-generation disposable sensor devices or even bomb kits. And the implications of the technology—airfoils on demand, as one of the scientists put it—were far-reaching.

“Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door,” said Garcia. He stood back triumphantly.

“That mean we’re ready?” Alou asked.

“One more cup of coffee ’fore we go,” sang Garcia, apparently meaning yes.

“Can we mount the Hydros?” asked one of the scientists who stood in front of the knot of ordies and the Hydro.

“Just don’t go mistakin’ heaven for that home across the road.”

“One more song lyric and you’re going to heaven,”

said Breanna, “and it won’t be in an airplane either.”

Thirty minutes and at least a half-dozen song allusions later, Breanna and Alou had the Megafortress on the taxi-way. A black SUV Jimmy sat ahead at the turn into runway one. They trundled toward it then braked; they had to wait for Galatica to land.

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71

“Holding at Heaven’s Gate,” said Alou.

The controller acknowledged. Galatica was on final approach.

Breanna curled her arms in front of her chest, undecided about whether to watch “her” plane land or not. She looked up at the last moment, just in time to see the plane drop into view. Her undercarriage and tail had been severely damaged in the crash landing, but there was no way to tell now; she descended toward the dry lake bed like a dark angel with her wings spread, her Teflon-coated surface smooth and sleek black.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can,” Bree muttered to the aircraft.

“Don’t worry, I’m still saying my prayer too,” said Alou.

Breanna felt her face flush, embarrassed that she had spoken out loud.

“Okay,” said Alou. He held up his thumb, then gave a wave in front of the window to the crewman at the security truck. They removed their brakes and stepped to the line, toeing along the back apron of the runway for a moment before giving Quicksilver the gas. Breanna scanned the glass wall of instruments in front of her; all systems were green as they skipped lightly into the air.

Breanna’s disappointment at not being the first to take Galatica disappeared as soon as her stomach felt the impact of the two g’s or so that Quicksilver pulled getting off the runway. She’d missed that rush of adrenaline these past few weeks. The maneuvers in the simulator had touched eight negative g’s, a fairly hard shove—yet they hadn’t felt as sharp, as nice, as warm as this.

“Preparing to clean gear,” she told Alou.

“Proceed.”

“Computer—raise landing gear,” she said.

“Raise landing gear,” repeated the automated flight as-

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sistant. They worked through their flight plan, bringing the Megafortress to ten thousand feet over the northernmost test area. They reached it about ten minutes ahead of schedule and had to wait for the recovery team to get ready on the ground.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” said Alou as they began a wide orbit around the range. “I saw you pray before takeoff. That happen after the crash?”

Bree grunted, not caring to get into a discussion. She hadn’t actually been praying.

“God had to be watching out for you that day,” said Alou. “Peter, you ready back there?”

Peter Hall, the engineer in charge of the Hydro test, replied that he was. Breanna concentrated on her instruments. She hadn’t thought about what role, if any, a higher power had played in her survival. She rarely if ever thought about God at all. Not that she was an atheist; she and Zen had been married in a church, and after his accident she had often found herself praying. For him, though. Not for herself. And probably more out of habit than any firm conviction.

Lying on the stretcher, waiting for the ambulance to take her to the hospital, she’d thought at first she’d lost her legs. She hadn’t prayed then.

“How’s our altitude?” Alou asked.

“Ten thousand feet precisely,” she said. “Clear skies.

We’re set.”

“Quicksilver is ready when you are, Hydro Team,” said the pilot.

They hit their mark and turned the aircraft over to the computer for the launch. The handles grasping the long pipe snapped open as the plane nosed upward in an alpha maneuver, a shallow dive and recovery that transferred launch momentum to the Hydro. The missile’s nose an-

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73

gled toward the earth at precisely fifty-three degrees once loosened; the angle increased slightly as it fell. The pilots watched the flight with the aid of cameras in Quicksilver and the nose of the Hydro; it wobbled unsteadily as it continued to pick up speed.

“Gonna be a problem when the wings deploy,” said Peter. “Deployment in five, four …”

Breanna watched the screen as the tube seemed to burst apart. The screen showing the feed from the Hydro’s nose whipped into a frenzy.

“Just a spin,” said Peter. “It can deal with that.”

“Coming to our turn,” said Alou, who’d retaken control of Quicksilver from the computer.

By the time they came out of their bank, the onboard controller for Hydro had managed to recover from the spin and turned the craft toward its designated landing area. Breanna and the others watched on their monitors as it skidded into a rough landing about two hundred yards beyond its target line—not great, but not horrible either, especially since they weren’t particularly worried about accuracy. The Hydro’s nose camera showed the recovery crew’s vehicle kicking up dust as it approached.

“Want to take the wheel?” Alou asked.

“Oh, sure, let me drive now that all the fun stuff is done.” Breanna laughed, but then pulled back on the stick abruptly and hit the slider for maximum power, pushing the big plane into a sharp climb.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our pilot is now Captain Breanna ‘Rap’ Stockard,” said Alou over the interphone in his best tour guide voice. “Fasten your seat belts, please.

Remember to keep hands and body fluids inside the car at all times. Things are likely to be hairy. The all-time record for climb to eighty thousand feet is in jeopardy.”

Breanna had in fact started to level off. But a remark 74

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from Garcia about working on a farm—another obscure reference to a Dylan song—did encourage her to add a quick invert to the flight plan.

Dreamland

0845

DOG MET MAJOR CHESHIRE AS SHE CAME DOWN GALA-

tica’s access ramp in the Megafortress bunker.

“Better than new,” Cheshire told him. “I think the tweaks on the engines add ten knots to the top speed—we’ll break the sound barrier in level flight yet.”

“Major, come here a second,” he said as another crewman started down the ladder. They walked a few yards away, where he could tell her about the Whiplash order.

“We’ll need the two Elint planes, Raven and Quicksilver,” he said after giving her a brief overview of the situation. “Assuming Quicksilver can go.”

“She’s fine. The new nose hasn’t been coated because we didn’t want to take her out of service during the Hydro tests, but she can fly fine. The increase in the radar profile won’t make much of a difference.”

Dog nodded. He had already considered that, but wanted to make sure Major Cheshire agreed. The increase in the radar profile compared to a standard Megafortress had been calculated at roughly thirty-five percent, which was still a considerable improvement over a standard B-52. Given that unstealthy planes flew over Iraq all the time, it would not be much of a handicap.

“Major Alou and I will be ready to fly as soon as the planes are serviced,” said Cheshire.

“You’re not going,” said Dog. “Sending you will disrupt too many things. We still need to select a team for the Unmanned Bomber Project, and the congressional in-

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75

spection of the new Megafortresses is set for Tuesday. I need you here.”

Cheshire’s face turned to stone. “With respect, sir, I believe I should be on the mission. I have the most experience of the Megafortress pilots.”

“You’re also project officer for both the Megafortresses and the XB-5 Unmanned Bomber.”

“I’m giving the XB-5 up.”

“We’re going to need someone on duty in the secure center twenty-four hours a day,” said Dog. “You may have to sit in for me there, and help with some of my other duties as well. I want you to take charge of drawing up the deployment plans. I would imagine Major Alou should head the mission. Choose another crew. Danny’s already on his way over.”

Though still unhappy, Cheshire was too good a soldier and knew Bastian too well to argue further. Her sentiments could only be read in the crispness of her “Yes, sir”

before she left to change.

Over Dreamland Test Range C

0930

THEY HAD JUST COME BACK LEVEL WHEN THE CONTROLLER

hailed them.

“Quicksilver, we have a message for Major Alou and Captain Stockard,” said the controller. “You’re needed back at base, stat. Priority Whiplash.”

Alou clicked the mike to answer but Breanna cut him off. “Acknowledged,” she said. “We’re inbound.”

“I have it,” said Alou.

“Sorry,” said Breanna. She concentrated on turning the big plane onto a new course for the runway as Alou cleared the security protocols to allow a coded communi-

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cation with Major Cheshire. The direct link was available on their com sets only.

“We have a deployment situation,” Major Cheshire told them as soon as the line snapped on.

“I’m ready,” Breanna said.

“We both are,” added Alou.

“It’s a Rivet mission over Iraq,” said Cheshire. “Rivet”

was shorthand; it referred to Rivet Joint, top-secret Elint missions they had both flown in RC-135s. Two Megafortresses, Raven and Quicksilver, had been equipped to undertake similar missions, though under considerably more dangerous circumstances.

“Not a problem,” said Alou.

“Major, I’d like to speak to Captain Stockard alone.

Would you clear off the circuit?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Alou, who voided his connection with a verbal command. Bree felt her cheeks flashing red, embarrassed.

“Breanna, do you think you can handle a mission?”

Damn sure, she wanted to say. Let’s go kick some butt.

But instead she answered, “Yes, ma’am. Not a problem.”

“I want you to be honest with me.”

“I try to be. I was out of line the other day.”

“That’s forgotten. I want you to be honest with me.”

“Piece of cake, Major,” said Bree lightly. Then she asked about her plane.

“Engineers and ground crew did a great job,” said Cheshire. “I want you to pilot Quicksilver,” she added, changing the subject. “Do you want Chris with you?”

Chris Ferris was Galatica’s—Breanna’s—copilot.

He’d flown with her on every important mission she’d had at Dreamland.

“Yes. When are we taking off?” Bree asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“You ready?”

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“I’m not going,” said Cheshire. Her words were so flat her disappointment was obvious. “Colonel Bastian wants me here to help monitor things from the command center.

Major Alou will lead the mission in Raven.”

Alou?

Of course Alou. He ranked her, even though she had more combat hours in the Megafortress than anyone, Cheshire included.

Why did that bother her? Because she’d shown him the ropes on his first few orientation flights in the Megafortress? That was three months ago.

“The deployment may last awhile,” Cheshire told her.

“Meet me in my office in the hangar bunker as soon as you land. Both of you.”

Incirlik, Turkey

2100

IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE WIND OR THE STICKINESS OF THE

black vinyl cushions against his face or the thousand thoughts rushing through his head, Mack Smith might have caught a quick nap on the couch in the lounge while waiting for General Elliott. Instead he spent nearly three hours sliding back and forth on the thoroughly uncomfortable chair, kicking against the rail and wedging his head in the crack at the back. When he finally drifted off, the lights flicked on.

“Sorry, General,” he said, rolling upward. But instead of Elliott he saw a tall man in chinos and white shirt.

“Garrison. CIA,” said the man. He frowned, as if Mack were sleeping on his time. Or maybe his couch.

“Smith. USAF,” said Mack, annoyed.

“I’d like to speak to you about what you saw at the crash site.”

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“Yeah, you and the rest of the world,” said Mack. “But I’m not talking to anybody except General Elliott.”

“General Elliott is busy,” said Garrison.

Mack got up slowly, his body kinked from the couch.

At six feet, he was tall for a fighter pilot, but Garrison had at least six inches on him. The spook’s hair was so white and thick it looked like a carpet.

“I’ve already been debriefed. Twice,” said Mack.

“Sometimes details have a way of slipping away.”

“Don’t you have some insurrection to start?” said Mack. He started toward the door, deciding he was hungry.

“Major.” The CIA agent grabbed his sleeve.

Mack spun and stuck his finger in Garrison’s chest.

“These aren’t my clothes, Jack. Don’t rip them.”

Garrison let go so sharply—maybe it was a spook technique, Mack thought—that he nearly fell backward.

“You’re a real jerk, you know that?” Mack said.

“That’s what they say about you.”

Shaking his head, Mack turned toward the door, where he nearly knocked into General Elliott.

“General—”

“Mack, I see you’ve met Agent Garrison.”

“We were just getting introduced,” said Garrison.

“Real personable spy,” said Mack.

“I’d like to hear you describe the wreckage,” Elliott told him. “Agent Garrison should listen too.”

Mack frowned, then began recounting what had happened.

“We don’t need a blow-by-blow of your courageous encounter with the Iraqi army,” said Garrison caustically when Mack began to describe what had happened when the tanks came.

“I just wanted to show that we didn’t have enough time for leisurely inspections,” Mack said.

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“Burn marks?” asked Garrison.

“No,” said Mack.

“The edges of the metal where it sheered off—powdery white?”

Mack shrugged. “Look at the pictures.”

“They’re blurry as hell. You need photography lessons.”

“See how good you are at taking pictures when a tank’s firing at you.”

“Mack, did you see any trace of the missing wing?”

asked the general.

“No,” said Mack. “I didn’t see it in the area, and when all hell broke loose, we had too much else to worry about.

How’s the PJ?”

“He’s fine. They’re a tough breed,” said Elliott.

“This is inconclusive at best,” said Garrison. “I’d still like to get in there.”

“Not possible,” said Elliott.

The frown Garrison had been wearing since waking Mack deepened. He stared at the general for nearly a minute, then walked from the room.

“What the hell’s up his ass, sir?” Mack asked, adding the “sir” belatedly.

“Mr. Garrison and his agency are going to have to defend some rather rash predictions they made,” said Elliott.

“I expect that accounts for a small portion of his hostility.”

“What’s going on, General? Do the Iraqis have a new missile?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Elliott.

“How did they target those planes? The SA-2 radars?

Impossible,” said Mack. “The F-16, sure, okay. The Weasel operator let it slip through and the Iraqis got seriously lucky. But two Eagles? And what got them? I have a hard time believing they could get nailed by flying telephone poles.”

Elliott said nothing.

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“How did they do it?” asked Mack.

“How do you think they did it?” asked Elliott.

Mack had flown over Iraq during the Gulf War and nailed a MiG-29 in air-to-air combat. He’d had several encounters with SA-2s, including one where he had seen a missile sail within five or six hundred feet of his canopy.

But he couldn’t imagine how a pair of Eagle pilots could get shot down in the same engagement, especially with a Weasel flying shotgun; it just shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t happen.

“Honestly, I don’t know what hit the F-16 I saw,” he told Elliott. “Maybe it was a new kind of missile, something like the Russian SA-4 with a proximity fuse and shrapnel, or maybe just a fluke whack that got the wing, shattering it without exploding or at least without a fire.

But I don’t know, operating in a bizarre radar band the jammers didn’t see? And that not even the AWACS could track? I really don’t think it’s possible.”

“Neither do I,” said the general.

Dreamland

1002

DANNY LOOKED AT THE CALLER ID SCREEN, TRYING TO

puzzle out the number. It had a New York City area code but wasn’t Jemma’s apartment or school. It might be Jimmy Ferro, or even Blaze, his buddy from the bad days in Bosnia.

Then again, it probably wasn’t.

He grabbed it just before it would have rolled over into the answering system.

“Danny Freah.”

“Daniel, hello. Jim Stephens.”

Danny couldn’t place him.

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“I used to be Al D’Amato,” said Stephens. It was obviously meant as a joke, but the name still didn’t register for Danny. “I worked for the senator. I was his alter ego. I was talking with your wife Jemma the other day and I told her I’d call.”

Oh yeah—the politico. “Hi,” said Danny.

“Listen, I’d like to sit down some time and talk about your future.”

“My future?”

“I like to think of myself as something of a scout. I have a lot of friends, a lot of people who are interested in giving other people the right kind of start.”

In his junior year of high school Danny had been briefly—very briefly—recruited by two colleges, which offered athletic scholarships for his football skills. That was his first introduction to the wonderful world of unadulterated bullshit. He fought off the flashback.

“I don’t need a start,” he told Stephens.

“No, you’ve actually got it all started already. Headed in the right direction, definitely. Can I talk frankly? There aren’t many people like you in government right now.

Straight-shooters. Honest. Military background.”

“That’s a plus?”

“I checked with some friends in Washington. You have quite an impressive record, Captain.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Long-term, you could make important contributions to your country, very important contributions. There aren’t many of us in important jobs right now,” he added.

“And the Republican party is wide open. Believe me, Captain, you have a real future. An important future. The country needs a wide base of people in government. Congress. There are too many lawyers and milquetoasts there now. We have a duty to straighten it out.”

Stephens sounded sincere; he probably was sincere, 82

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Danny thought. And the duty card, if not the race card, did resonate with him.

But he wasn’t quitting the Air Force, certainly not to become a politico.

Could he stay in here forever? Away from Jemma?

It was important, and it was thrilling, but it was dangerous, very dangerous. And it made it very difficult to raise kids.

Which he did want.

“A job in D.C. helping a committee make the right choices for the military, hop from that into an election inside a year,” Stephens continued. “Fast-track to Congress if we pick the right district. From there, who knows? The sky’s the limit.”