Whiplash

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. Hey? was all it said.

“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.

Ter — I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I’m flying to Africa. Someone died and I’m responsible—

Garbage. And she shouldn’t write Africa. It would sound too dangerous.

She ripped that note up, too.

Honey, I love you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. I’ll explain when I get home in a few days.

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.”

“What?”

“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 you going?”

“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 she going?

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 had to go.

“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.”

“Can you do it?”

“With my eyes closed,” said Greasy Hands.

After walking around the aircraft with Breanna and the pilot, Greasy Hands went inside and looked over the Ospreys. Ostensibly, he was making sure they were secured properly. In reality, he was indulging himself in a little bit of Dreamland nostalgia.

The MV-22/G Ospreys were upgraded versions of the tilt-rotor aircraft used for heavy transport by the Marines and some Air Force units. The M designation alluded to the fact that these Ospreys were designed for special operations and, among other things, included gear for night missions, extra fuel tanks, and armor plating. The aircraft were also outfitted with cannon; missiles and a chain gun could also be mounted on the undercarriage or the forward winglets, which were specific to the G version. Besides these goodies, the G Block models included uprated engines and provisions for autonomous piloting, another Dreamland innovation that allowed them to be flown by only one pilot or, if the situation warranted, completely by remote control. Finally, they were designed specifically for easy transport in the MC-17/DS “Stretch.”

The transport’s nickname alluded to the most obvious of its improvements over the standard airframe — namely, its fuselage had been lengthened to nearly double the cargo bay, bringing it to 140 feet. Its portly belly was also another two feet wider. The changes had been designed specifically to allow the transport to carry two Ospreys or an Osprey and two Werewolf II UAV gunships, along with crew and a combat team. With everyone aboard, the fit could be a bit cozy, but the configuration allowed the U.S. to project considerable power into hot spots with very little notice.

Greasy Hands had worked on the Osprey project for several years, before the arrival of Colonel Bastian and Dreamland’s renaissance. The aircraft and its tilt wings were the bastard children at the facility then, a project no one wanted. Everyone agreed the Osprey had incredible potential; they could land where standard helicopters could, but fly twice as fast and several times as far. Reaching that potential, though, seemed impossible. The planes were expensive, difficult to fly, and an adventure to maintain.

When several were detailed to Dreamland as part of a Defense Department program to help the Osprey “reach its full potential,” Greasy Hands was assigned to the team. He’d tried to duck it at first but within a few weeks was the aircraft’s biggest fanboy. He was responsible for suggesting that weapons be added, and even worked with the engineers on some of the mechanical systems. Then he’d helped Jennifer Gleason refine the computer routines that allowed the complicated aircraft to fly itself, an accomplishment that cinched his promotion to chief.

He thought about Jennifer as he looked at the aircraft. He hadn’t been as close to her as some of the people at Dreamland, but the memory of her still choked him up. He finished looking at the Ospreys, then went back upstairs to the flight deck.

Breanna and the pilot, Captain Luther Underhill, had just finished the preflight checklist.

“Have a seat, Chief,” said Breanna. “We’re about to take off.”

As he walked toward the seat behind the pilot, Greasy Hands’s attention was caught by the zero-gravity coffeemaker in the small galley. It looked suspiciously like the design they had pioneered at Dreamland some twenty years before.

“Mind if I grab a cup of joe?” he asked the crew chief, Gordon Heinz.

“It’s there for the taking.”

Greasy Hands found a cup in the cabinet next to the machine and poured himself a dose.

“Just like old times again, huh, Bree?” he said as he slid into the seat. “Even the coffee’s the same.”