Whiplash

52

Breanna had flown C-17s off and on for years as part of her Reserve Air Force commitment, but there was something different about this flight. In a good way.

Part of it was the plane: She had never flown the longer Stretch version before. More powerful engines and improvements in the wing design not only minimized the impact of the aircraft’s larger payload capability, but subtly improved its handling characteristics when compared to the stock model. The avionics were also cutting edge, a considerable improvement over the 1990s era technology in the C-17s she was used to.

But the largest difference, Breanna realized, was in her own attitude. She felt content in the seat, happy even. She was far more relaxed than she’d been at any time since taking the Offfice of Technology position. There was something about being in the air, and being on a mission, that felt right. Unlike at work, where even at the most intense times her thoughts often strayed in a dozen different directions, here her focus stayed on her instruments and responsibilities.

Her “office” was an all-configurable glass control panel not unlike those she had helped perfect in the EB-52 Megafortress. While a basic configuration was preset to show the instruments and gauges a copilot would typically need in flight, Breanna was free to reconfigure the board just about any way she could imagine. A small world map at the lower left side showed their progress; above that, the Sky News International worldwide cable feed played.

“Mind watching the store while I take a little break, Colonel?” said the pilot, Captain Pete Dominick. Breanna had told everyone to use her Reserve designation; it seemed more professional than “Ms. Stockard.”

“Go right ahead,” she said.

“Just thought I’d take a constitutional,” joked the pilot. “And check to see if Greasy Hands’s coffee has eaten through the pot yet.”

“He does like it strong, doesn’t he?” said Breanna.

“I think when a guy becomes chief, they replace his stomach with a cast-iron wood stove. Nothing harms it.”

Parsons was oblivious, sleeping in his seat directly behind the pilot.

Breanna checked the instruments. They were on course, slightly ahead of schedule.

A few minutes later her satellite phone buzzed in her pocket. Thinking it was the embassy in Ethiopia — they still hadn’t received an approval from the government — she pulled it from her pocket without looking at the screen and flipped it on.

“Stockard.”

“I’ll see your Stockard and raise you a pair.”

“Zen!”

“Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“Oh, same-old, same-old,” said Breanna. “Is something wrong?”

“No — but I do have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

Breanna’s heart jumped. She’d meant to call Teri earlier. It was way past her bedtime — she must not have been able to sleep.

“Mom?”

“Hey, baby, how are you?”

“Dad said you listened to the concert by phone.”

“That’s right. It was wonderful. Now you really should be in—”

“How come you didn’t come?”

“Well, I didn’t — I’m on a mission, actually.”

“Like, a military mission?”

“Something like that.”

“Why couldn’t it just have waited until after my concert?”

“Teri — honey — unfortunately, it doesn’t quite work that way.”

“When are—”

Teri stopped, though the rest of the question was clear: When are you coming home?

Breanna thought of all the times when Zen had to work late. Teri had never objected, not once, that her father wasn’t around.

But the person she was really angry with was Zen, who in her mind had put Teri up to calling and embarrassing her. Even if it wasn’t his idea, she thought, he should have know what would happen and not let her call.

Or maybe, she thought, he resented her working as well.

Not working, just having something important to do.

“Teri, are you there?” Breanna asked.

“She’s a little overwrought right now,” said Zen, who’d taken the phone from their daughter.

“Well of course she is — why did you put her up to this?”

“I didn’t. She told me she wanted a good-night kiss.”

“God, I can’t believe this. I would never do this to you.”

“Listen—”

“Where is she now?”

“Sounds like her bedroom.”

“Zen.”

“Relax, Bree. She’ll get over it. I apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” she said angrily, before clicking off.