Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  “And what did you say?” The elderly woman was circling the problem, homing in on it.

  “I said, ‘You can smoke dope, sniff coke, knock your girlfriend up, and wreck two cars if you want on your own time. But a can of rocks has got more smarts.’ “

  The secretary’s mouth pulled into a little pout. “Troy has covered all those bases this semester and he is dumber than a June bug. Unfortunately, truth isn’t in high demand these days.” She sighed. “I suppose the lawyer means a lawsuit. If you want, I’ll say you’ve already left. It’s us Christians versus the lions again.”

  Leonard considered the woman’s offer. At least it would give him the weekend. “Well, the early lion always gets the fattest Christian,” Leonard told her.

  “You are a delectable morsel,” she said, trying to give him a little encouragement. John Leonard felt crushed. Over the last few years he had grown pudgy and potato-shaped. His face had lost its lean and hungry look and had become round and soft. At least his dark hair was all intact and only a few wisps of gray were showing at the temples. A look in a mirror would have confirmed what the secretary had said—he looked like choice lion meat.

  He glanced out the open door and to freedom. The old urge to cut and run was back. But he had nevcr run from a confrontation in his life. Then his decision was made. “Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.” He darted out the door.

  Sara Waters stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, carefully appraising her appearance. Waters was not a vain woman or overly concerned about her looks. She just wanted to be sure her new uniform fit properly. Her mother had altered it so the light blue blouse tapered perfectly to her waist and the dark blue skirt hung straight and did not show a panty line. The only concession to vanity was the hemline. It was a little higher than 35-10, the dress regulation, allowed. But it did show off her legs.

  “You look great,” Melissa, her ten-year-old daughter, said. “Much better than those ‘widow’s weeds’ you’ve been wearing.”

  “Widow’s weeds?” It was hard not to be amused by the girl’s comments. “I’ve never worn widow’s weeds, Melissa. Wherever did you hear that term?”

  “I was reading one of Gram’s ‘bodice rippers.’ “

  That made sense. Melissa had a voracious appetite for books and read everything she could get her hands on. It was almost a full-time job for Waters and her mother to monitor Melissa’s reading. Martha Marshall, Sara Waters’ mother, was the only grandmother Melissa had known, and the older woman loved to read historical romances that she laughingly called “bodice rippers.”

  “Have you been going into your Gram’s room uninvited?” Waters asked. She knew her daughter would tell her the truth.

  “Of course not, Mother.” There was a faked exasperation in her voice. “I know the rules,” she proclaimed, the injured party now. She should be an actress, Waters thought. “Gram told me I could read it,” Melissa said, her defense complete. Waters and her mother were both widows and had lived together since Melissa’s birth. Theirs was a comfortable relationship and they had blended their talents to raise the precocious little girl. Sometimes Waters thought they might have been too successful, for Melissa was growing up too fast.

  The girl looked at her mother, doing one of her periodic evaluations, giving her a grade. Sara Waters stood exactly five feet eight inches tall and had an outstanding figure kept young by constant exercise—although the girl thought her breasts were too large, but only slightly so. There was no gray in Waters’ blonde hair and Melissa approved of the way she kept it a shade lighter than natural. Only the little crow’s-feet at the corners of her luminous brown eyes hinted at her forty years. Melissa decided her mother rated at least an A. No, she corrected, Mom’s still an A plus.

  “They don’t deserve you,” Melissa said as she bounced out of the room. Waters only shook her head as she finished packing for the Unit Training Assembly at Whiteman Air Force Base. So far, she had no regrets about joining the Air Force Reserve and picking up the pieces of her old career.

  As Melissa had grown older, Waters had found herself with more and more free time. At first she had volunteered to serve on a number of local charities in Kansas City, but Martha and Melissa had conspired and urged her to join the Air Force Reserve where she could make better use of her talents. Actually, they were hoping she would meet a more “interesting” type of man. Both were convinced that she had been a widow too long and was only meeting “dud dudes,” as Melissa described her mother’s infrequent dates.

  Waters had hesitated at first. Then long-forgotten memories of her days in the Air Force came surging back, demanding her attention. Time had not dimmed or altered them. She remembered the pain as well as the joys.

  Sara Marshall had been a captain assigned to the Pentagon when she met Anthony “Muddy” Waters, an over-the-hill fighter pilot. Their relationship had been slow developing and Muddy had held back, worried about their age difference and haunted with memories of his first wife and child, killed in a car accident years before. She had broken through that barrier by seducing him. In more honest moments, she would admit to herself that she had actually dragged him to bed and then proposed marriage to him. Someday she would have to tell Melissa about their courtship, but she hoped that could be postponed for another ten years.

  Their marriage marked a turning point for Muddy, and in short order he found himself in command of the Forty-fifth Tactical Fighter Wing, a wing made up of young hell-raising jocks and aging F-4E Phantoms. The names had come back, unbidden and strong, vivid personalities that breathed with life. They were all there, including Bill Carroll and Jack Locke. Muddy had been given the job of whipping the wing into shape and turning it into a fighting machine. It had been a torturous process and she had watched her husband age under the responsibility. Her being pregnant with Melissa had helped, and Muddy had never lost his bearings or humanity. She was in her seventh month when Muddy had led his wing into a short, brutal war and then died getting them out.

  It had fallen to Jack Locke to bring the last of the F-4s out of the burning base that consumed her husband. Just before Locke had launched, Muddy had given Locke his call sign and Locke had become the new Wolf leader. In quiet moments, Waters often thought of the phoenix, the giant bird of mythology that was consumed in the fire of its nest only to rise again, born anew. What rubbish, she had scolded herself. Muddy, Jack Locke, and all but Bill Carroll were dead. But the names were back, all of them, not letting her forget.

  Waters had finally called Bill Carroll to ask his advice. He had answered by stopping over in Kansas City and taking her out to dinner. Melissa had approved of him from the first and immediately started working out romantic connections. Waters had to set her straight—Bill Carroll was a happily married man. Melissa was very disappointed. Carroll had told Waters about a number of possibilities, including an executive officer slot that was open with the 303rd Fighter Squadron, a reserve unit at nearby Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. The more she thought about it, the better it sounded. Slowly, the tug of the Air Force drew her back and she joined the reserves. The obligation for service had again established its claims.

  “You do look nice,” Martha Marshall said from the doorway, bringing Waters back to the moment. Martha Marshall was a sixty-three-year-old woman bustling with energy, good health, and common sense. “Your new commander should be impressed.”

  Waters snapped the small suitcase closed. “I imagine he’ll be more impressed if I’m a good executive officer.”

  “First impressions, dear,” Martha replied, “are still very important. Have you heard any names yet?”

  “I haven’t seen anything official. But there’s a rumor that it’s Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Pontowski.”

  “Isn’t he the grandson who gave the eulogy for President Pontowski?” Martha asked. “The one who was on television?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  Martha keyed on the tone in Waters’ voice. “You sound worried.”
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  “I am. He’s the pilot who killed Jack Locke.”

  John Leonard’s nine-year-old clunker groaned as he turned up his driveway. Rust and Kansas City winters had gotten at the subframe and the car was ready for the junkyard. “One more year,” he begged the car, “just one more year and then an honorable burial.” He was surprised that Marcy’s new Jaguar was in the garage. His wife normally didn’t get home on Friday until well after seven. He sat in the car for a few moments, going over the words that would smooth what he needed to say. It doesn’t matter what you say, he thought, she won’t like hearing it.

  He dropped his briefcase in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator for a quick raid. Rhonda, their maid, had scrubbed it clean and thrown out the leftovers, forcing him to settle for a beer. Pulling his tie loose, he wandered toward the stairs. As usual, the restored Victorian house was immaculate, thanks to the attentions of Rhonda. It was a showplace, too pristine for his taste, and he longed for a more livable home with clutter and comfort.

  But it was an old argument he could not win. More and more, he felt like a kept man, the indulgence of his wife, a very successful plastic surgeon. How many tummy tucks did it take to rebuild the foundation? he thought. How many breast implants to remodel the front room? The house was an obsession with Marcy. He heard the clank of the Nautilus from the exercise room upstairs. Marcy was also obsessed with her body. He climbed the stairs and the old weariness was back.

  “I’m almost finished,” Marcy said when she saw him standing in the doorway. “Did you get it?” She was working on her legs, straining at the weights.

  Leonard didn’t answer. He felt the familiar urge in his groin as he watched her exercise. His wife did have a great body, still capable of stirring the old lust in him. Now even that was going. “The subject didn’t come up,” he finally answered. “There’s another problem … some parents came in … they had a lawyer with them.” He told her about Troy Ratloff.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, her exasperation and anger breaking through. “I thought the idea was for you to become head of the English department—not get fired.” Leonard took a long pull at the beer and didn’t answer. “Don’t you want to be the principal? How much longer can that old fart last? Getting the English department is the stepping-stone to …” Her voice trailed off. They had been over the same ground countless times before. “You don’t want the job, do you? You just want to stay in that damn classroom and fly every weekend you can sneak away.”

  “It’s not like that,” he protested.

  “The hell it’s not!” She stood up and stormed into the sauna, pulling her leotard off. “Look, let’s not argue now. I’ve got a seminar this weekend in St. Louis and Michael has offered me a ride over tonight.”

  “In his King Air?”

  “Of course.” She stood in the doorway naked, looking at him. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? It really gets to you that Michael can afford his own plane and use it whenever he wants.”

  Leonard wanted to tell her that Michael didn’t have a clue about how to use an airplane. He had flown with the doctor before and watched him sit in the left seat and play pilot while his professional copilot did all the work. “I just wish he’d quit using my wife,” Leonard said. He was tired of the charades they had been playing.

  “What does that mean?” Marcy snapped, not moving from the doorway.

  “Come off it. You two have been screwing like bunnies. At least have the honesty to own up to it.”

  Marcy looked down at her body and then back to Leonard. “He does nice things to me.” She turned and opened the door to the sauna. Pausing, she looked back at him, more sad than angry. “I think we’ve reached an end, don’t you?” As always, she was in control. “Why don’t you go play in your Warthogs this weekend and we’ll discuss what we’re going to do on Monday.”

  Saturday, January 13

  Whiteman AFB, Missouri

  Early Saturday morning, Pontowski angled his van into the reserved parking spot in front of the headquarters building at Whiteman Air Force Base. He could see a small group of people waiting for him inside the double glass doors. The reception committee, no doubt, he mused to himself as he got out of the car. Sergeant Lori Williams, a tall and willowy twenty-year-old African-American, held the door open and the group filed outside and lined up.

  “Some hunk,” Lori told Sara Waters. “Nice buns. TV didn’t do him justice.”

  “Please try to remember, Lori,” Waters said, her lips barely moving, “that he’s your commanding officer and not a sex object.”

  The squadron’s operations officer, Major Frank Hester, a middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair and pale blue eyes, called them to attention. They saluted in unison when Pontowski reached the top of the stairs. Pontowski returned the salute with an easy motion and the introductions went smoothly. Waters was impressed as he seemed to know the basics of each one’s career. When he was introduced to her, he shook her hand and said, “I understand you spent some time at Fort Fumble in the Watch Center.”

  It caught her off guard. She had expected him to mention Muddy, her late husband, not her tour in the Pentagon. “Yes, sir. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Wasn’t ‘Sundown’ Cunningham chief of staff then? Did you ever brief him?” The crusty old general had a reputation that still lived on after his death.

  He knows the answer, Waters thought. “Yes, sir. He was and I did.”

  “Legend has it that he ate briefers alive.”

  “Only if they hadn’t done their homework,” she answered. And you’ve done yours, she thought. “You never wanted to go in unprepared.” Pontowski nodded and Hester, the ops officer, continued with the introductions before they went inside.

  “Please try to remember,” Lori parroted as they trailed in after him, “that he’s your commanding officer and not a sex object.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Waters snapped. She was positive she had been formally correct, cool, and reserved. Or had she?

  The morning turned into a whirlwind for Waters as she followed Pontowski on a tour of each office in the squadron. After each brief visit, he would rattle off some questions he wanted answered. By eleven o’clock, they were back in his office and she was certain he had sensed the underlying mood of the 303rd. “Captain Waters,” he said, as he settled into his chair for the first time, “how long have you been the executive officer here?”

  “Five months, sir.” She deliberately kept her voice stiff and formal.

  “Lighten up, Captain,” he grinned. “I’m not the beast sent from the Pentagon to devour the innocent.”

  “Well, sir,” she said, not bending in the least, “you did come as a surprise to most of us.” She was certain he got the message.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Captain Waters, how do you see your job as exec?”

  “Oh, well …” She hadn’t expected that response. “My job is to run the administrative end, take care of the paperwork, make sure we meet all our deadlines.”

  “It’s more than that,” he said. “You’re my eyes and ears. You’re the one who should know what our people are thinking and feeling, what their problems are, what’s hurting them.” She didn’t answer. “I want you to come to work full-time.”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “You have a full-time civilian secretary and we’ve always functioned smoothly.”

  “I can’t do this without your help,” he said.

  “I am sorry, sir. I don’t understand. Do what?”

  He looked at her, his face impassive. “The morale of the 303rd is in the dirt. I want to turn it around and I can’t do it without your. help.”

  Waters stifled a sigh. “It’s a combination of many things,” she explained. “Everyone knows we’re going to be deactivated.”

  “And?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. He cuts right to the heart of the matter, she thought. “Well, most of the pilots think the ops officer, Major
Hester, should have gotten the squadron.”

  “I see,” Pontowski said. “Please arrange a commander’s call for fifteen hundred hours this afternoon with the pilots.”

  She started to protest that a commander’s call would disrupt the training schedule. But an inner voice warned her that his decision was not open to discussion. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” She wanted to leave.

  “Schedule it for the squadron lounge,” he told her. “I’d like to keep it informal and casual, a chance to meet the jocks. We’ll get morale turned around,” he reassured her.

  “I don’t want to sound defeatist, but I don’t think you—” she paused for effect, “can turn it around.”

  “I see,” he said. His voice was calm and measured, with no sign of stress or emotion. “I’m part of the problem.”

  “Some would say so, sir.”

  He smiled. “Now you’re doing your job.”

  “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  “No.” She turned to leave. “Captain Waters.” His voice stopped her. “You knew Jack Locke.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, half turning around. “He was with my husband at Ras Assanya.” There, she thought, now it’s on the table. Ras Assanya was the base where her husband had died.

  Again, his voice was cool and composed. “I served under Locke. He was a good man.”

  “One of the best, Colonel.” She forced an iron clamp on her emotions and hurried back to her own office. John Leonard was waiting for her.

  He handed her a form. “Personnel tells me I need the colonel’s endorsement on this.”

  Waters glanced at the form. It was an employment application to work full-time as an Air Reserve Technician, ARTS, the reserve’s version of being on active duty. “I thought you had a full-time teaching job,” she said.

  “I’m resigning,” Leonard told her.

  A warning flickered in her mind. It was little more than a niggling glimmer of trouble. Should she ignore it? “Colonel Pontowski will probably ask why,” she said.