Return to Honor

by Doug Beason

  Andrews Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.

  Colonel Joseph McGirney tapped the checklist on the back of the seat and whistled to himself. The flight line at Andrews was just visible through the cockpit. The taxiway and concrete apron were in front of him, as were the guards and barricades that separated the base from the governmental fleet of planes. Most people mistook this plane for the Air Force One when, in fact, any of the 777s on the concrete bearing the United States seal could serve as the President’s official transport.

  But it was for this plane that the President had a special affection. The “Enchilada Air Force’s flagship,” serial number 0014, was the President’s favorite. Montoya had even had a special ceramic vat installed on board ought-ought-one-four to cook everything from Indian bread to fried ice cream. Chimayo blankets, turquoise stones embedded in the ashtrays, and paintings of yuccas and impossibly blue canyon skies decorated the interior. Inside, it was a piece of the President’s home.

  Even the specially scrambled phone ironically reminded the President of Los Alamos, the weapons hamlet not thirty miles away from Santa Fe that had birthed the first atomic bomb: In the infinitesimal chance of a nuclear attack, the phone would connect him directly to the National Emergency Command Center and the STRATCOM generals charged with deploying and launching nuclear weapons.

  McGirney whistled to himself and turned from the cockpit. The plane checked out fine. Once it was certified airworthy, the Secret Service would make a final sweep of the plane and seal it up until time for the Russian trip, two days from now. International flights required a little more planning than the intracountry jaunts he’d been handling lately. He looked forward to the flight; there was a woman he wanted to look up once he hit Ramstein. Her husband and he were best friends, and when her husband happened to be gone on TDY, he and his best friend’s wife didn’t do too badly either.

  As McGirney stepped from the cockpit into the cabin he nodded at the stewards just arriving. “Gentlemen.”

  “Good afternoon, Colonel. How are you today?”

  McGirney glanced at the name tag. Yoli Aquinaldo—one of the Filipino stewards. And Ramis Sicat, the other, was also Filipino. Damn, these beaks were good.…bend over backward for you, and as friendly as can be. He had a sudden memory of R and R at the Manila Intercontinental.…a young, brown-skinned dancer … she could smoke a cigarette in the damnedest way.…

  “Afternoon, Mr. Aquinaldo, Mr. Sicat. I’m fine. Are you gentlemen going on the flight?”

  “Oh, no, sir. We are only the backup crew; we have to double-check what the primary stewards have done. We will just freshen up a bit before they bolt the plane up.”

  “Fine.” McGirney slapped Aquinaldo on the shoulder. “Too bad you couldn’t make this trip; it’s going to be a dandy. See you men later.”

  “Yes, sir.” As he left he heard faint sounds of Tagalog drift from the hatch. McGirney started to get up for the trip. He made plans to take his wife out tonight, buy her a nice dinner, and the day after tomorrow the fifty-mile rule would go into effect: fifty miles from home and nobody is married. He was humming as he saluted the guard standing by the barricades.

  Camp Pendleton, California

  “I wish you’d spend more time with the children.”

  “Uh?”

  Maureen Krandel paused before repeating herself. “I said, I wish you’d spend more time with the children.”

  Bill Krandel put down the pamphlet he was reading and looked at his wife. She was dressed in her nightclothes—in the short baby-doll nightie he liked—but he hadn’t noticed her joining him in bed. He rolled onto his side and pulled off his reading glasses. “I spend time with them, hon. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about coming to see Julie’s ballet recital, or visiting Justin’s school with me. You can’t just keep bouncing them on your knee and sending them off; you’ve got to get more involved in their lives.”

  “What do you mean, sending them off? I try to pay attention to them whenever I can.”

  “I don’t want you to try, I’d like you to do.”

  Krandel said, “I’m just so damned busy with this job, I can’t afford to go traipsing off with them every time they have a recital or something.”

  “They don’t have recitals every day. It’s not too much to ask.”

  “I’m getting paid for this job, you know—not for watching the kids. Besides, what does it matter if I’m not at every little thing they do? They don’t notice.”

  Maureen was silent for a very long time. Krandel reached over and held her chin with his hand. Her face was soft. Tiny crow’s feet had just started to frame her eyes. How long was it since he’d really looked at her? “Look, I’m sorry—but I told you I took a second wife with the corps when I graduated from Annapolis. Tell you what. I promise to spend some time with the kids this weekend. We’ll go to the beach and make a picnic out of it, okay?”

  She didn’t say anything, only nodded. Krandel patted her bottom and went back to his reading.

  Edwards Air Force Base, California

  “This is worse than Strategic Air Command ever was. Back in the old days, at least those mofos had friggin’ conjugal visits. And now that they’ve gutted the bomber force, STRATCOM crews don’t even pull alert anymore, unlike us. And to top it off, they never had to put up with a one-week-in-three rotation. My pecker will fall off from inactivity if this keeps up.”

  “Stow it, Gould. Do you want Delores to hear you?”

  “That wouldn’t be such a damned bad idea. I could go for a little you-know-what right about now.” Gould peeked around the corner and grinned, lowering his voice. “In fact, that sounds pretty damned nice. I’d even use the pool table if you guys would promise to leave us alone. You know what they say: It’s what made the preacher dance and the choir sing—” Gould was interrupted as Delores walked briskly into the ready room. Her orange flight suit seemed to glow as she entered.

  The room grew quiet. A cough punctuated the silence, causing Delores to swing her eyes away from the Notams she was reading to the three TAV pilots sprawled on the alert shack furniture. An unwatched late-night movie played quietly in the background on the large screen TV.

  “Don’t stop on my account, boys.”

  Gould put his hands behind his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Delores. You might say there was just a, uh, pregnant pause in the conversation. Yes, sir … a pregnant pause. Wouldn’t you say, Jim?”

  The TAV pilot shook his head in disgust. “Right, Gould. Anything you say.” The pilot stood and strode toward the exit. He directed his remarks to the third pilot. “How about a set of one-on-one crud? We could play it on the pool table, if it’s free.”

  “Gotcha.” The two pilots left for the back room, leaving Gould and Delores alone. They sat in awkward silence for a moment before Delores spoke.

  “Okay, hotshot. What gives? What was that all about?”

  Gould spread his hands. “Nothin’—honest. Just slingin’ the stuff, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet.” She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “Jeez, Bob. Can’t you grow up? We’ve been here two days, and we have another five days to go cooped up in this pen. Try to keep your glands from popping all over the place, would you?”

  “I can’t help it if I’m a likable guy.”

  She snorted. “Well I tell you what, you’re coming off like a jerk.” She moved to the cold drink machine in the corner and punched the button on the dispenser, and a fruit juice popped out. Peeling off the top, she sipped through a tiny straw that came with the box.

  She rummaged through a stack of old National Geographic and Airmen magazines. “So this is what it’s like to pull alert.”

  “I warned you it would be so exciting you wouldn’t be able to wait for the next time.”

  “And I’ll probably be lucky enough to draw it with you again, no doubt.”

  Gould straightened. “Hey, I’m not the flight scheduler. If you’ve got a g
ripe, see Colonel Zabrewski. He’s the one who rotates the pilots. There are sixteen other TAV drivers you can get hooked up with if you’ve got a complaint.”

  “All right, all right. Settle down, hotshot.” Delores took another sip of juice and walked over to the couch where Gould was sprawled. She hesitated, then sat on the armrest. Gould remained on the couch, keeping silent.

  Silence persisted for seconds longer, then: “Look … Bob.”

  “Uh.”

  Delores played with the straw, ducking it in and out of the juice and keeping her eyes off Gould. After a moment she stood and pushed back her hair; her voice sounded shaky. “Okay, we’re crewmates, but you’re not making it easy. Especially when you come off like the world’s biggest jerk.”

  “Oh, come on.…”

  “Give me a break! Sexual innuendos … pointed suggestions … you’re acting like you’re in junior high. And what’s worse, you’re not the first jerk I’ve had to put up with.”

  Gould stopped. “I, I didn’t know.…” He surprised himself with his concern. “Like…?”

  Delores’ ears grew red. “Like my IP at Del Rio threatened to fail me on a check if I didn’t put out for him.”

  “He actually tried.…”

  She shook her head. “No, not explicitly. It wasn’t a threat.…but the invitation was there, and the consequences were as plain as day.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked away. “It’s hard to break in sometimes, being a woman and working in what used to be a men’s career field.” There was silence for several moments.

  Gould struggled upright on the couch. This was weird. It wasn’t half as bad as the guilt trip that nympho he’d met at Nellis had tried to lay on him, but still.…

  He managed to say, “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure. And … and I’m sorry.”

  She smiled at him. Gould felt as though he should reach out and hug her, or just say something nice to comfort her, but the moment seemed too unreal.

  The spell was broken when the other two pilots strode into the room laughing. They stopped abruptly when they noticed the silence in the room. “Everything all right? We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Gould didn’t even bother to wave him away. “Forget it. We’re just watching the tube.” He straightened and turned up the sound on the big screen TV, forgetting about their curious looks and losing himself in the mindless chatter of the television.

  Washington, D.C.

  The apartment was well-lit, but the furniture was sparse. The decor made the apartment look nicer inside than outside. To Aquinaldo and Sicat, it was much better than the barracks. They laughed shrilly as they snorted the last line of cocaine Hujr had carefully laid out with a razor blade.

  Aquinaldo leaned back on the couch and chattered, answering a question thrown at him by Hujr. They spoke in Tagalog, which was incomprehensible to anyone who might have been listening.

  “Sure, but when the President calls, he does not mind if you barge on in. Or at least, that is what they say. We have never been on a real crew—our background clearances haven’t come in.”

  Hujr seemed to pale at this. He shot a glance at his companion. “When will the clearances come through, so you can accompany the President?”

  “Any day now, I suspect. Foreign nationals are looked at very closely, you know.”

  Hujr leaned forward and nodded at the traces of white powder remaining on the hand mirror. “And you’re not worried about this? What if they found out you were using drugs?”

  Aquinaldo covered his mouth and giggled. The whole question seemed, well … so absurd! “Of course I am not worried. In my barrio you can buy anything if you are old enough to hold the money up to the sari-sari counter. And nobody talks about it. It is the same way here. There is no way they will find out. Was it not like that in your barrio?”

  Hujr spread his mouth and showed white teeth. “Not on Mindanao. But what is the difference? I am enjoying so much the stories of your job.” He paused. “So you think you will have a chance to fly with the President soon?”

  They broke out in another giggling fit. Dimly, through all the euphoria, a fleeting thought crossed Aquinaldo’s mind—why weren’t Hujr and his companion laughing with them?—but the thought flew away in another spasm of silliness.

  Hujr waited with a smile painted on his face.

  Aquinaldo shook his head. “Uh?”

  Hujr repeated himself. “When will you fly with the President?”

  “Oh, not until after he gets back from this Russian-Israeli trip. They only use experienced crews for the international flights.” Aquinaldo looked sly. “But I tell you what, my friend … my buddy Ramis and I are the alternate stewards for this next trip. We were given the honor because of our hard work.” He shook his head sadly, suddenly changing his mood. “But the chances of the primary stewards not going are small. There are just no good excuses for missing such a trip.”

  “I see.” Hujr nodded toward his companion. “It is getting late, my friends, but before you go I would like to get rid of another line of this candy. Will you help me?”

  “I think another line would help us through the night,” giggled Aquinaldo. It felt so good to let loose. He watched as Hujr carefully cut out a long, thin line of cocaine, then eagerly sniffed the powder after Sicat.

  As the euphoria rolled over them they didn’t wonder why Hujr let them snort the last two lines alone, or why Hujr was talking on his cell phone in a low voice in the other room.

  Chapter 5

  0945 ZULU: WEDNESDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER

  Ordinary men—and, above all, peculiarly little men—experience a charm, a certain pleasure, in attacking great men. There is much of the spirit of revenge mixed up with this.

  Ernest Hello

  Andrews Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.

  Major Gutiérrez loved his job. As officer-in-charge of scheduling details on every presidential flight, he was responsible for everything from the crypto gear down to the meals. It appealed to him. Before he came to Washington he had served as commissary and MWR officer at Offut AFB and had so impressed the generals with his sierra hotel service that they had told the air force chief of staff that this was his job.

  And he could get things hopping.

  As a mustang who had served nine years of prior enlisted service before coming up through OTS, Gutiérrez knew the ins-and-outs of how to get almost anything done. He couldn’t care less about the money he was making. LTU, the mammoth aerospace firm, had a standing offer to triple his salary if he ever decided to get out of the air force and work for them. He could get anything working anytime and anywhere.

  So Major Gutiérrez didn’t panic when, the morning before the president’s flight to Russia was supposed to launch, the police called from Washington General with the news that two of his stewards had been severely injured in a hit-and-run car accident. Gutiérrez thanked the officers, made a memo for flowers to be sent, and looked up on the roster who the backups were for the sortie, all within a minute of the call.

  Major Gutiérrez made the call to Petty Officer Yoli Aquinaldo himself. Since he had placed the two on standby, he wasn’t surprised in the least when the phone was answered on the first ring. He informed Aquinaldo to report, with a haircut and a week’s change of clothes, to the AMC terminal in the morning for the flight with Air Force One.

  The only thing that disturbed him was that Aquinaldo sounded as if he had a slight cold … and if he had a cold, then why was there giggling in the background?

  But the one thing Major Gutiérrez had learned as an enlisted man, and what had made him so successful in getting the job done as an officer, was that if he treated his people as mature individuals, they’d come through for him.

  So he forgot the entire matter, but still made a note for his secretary to call the two in the morning, three hours before show time, to make sure they made it on time.

  U.S.S.S. Bifrost

  Lieutenant Colonel Ge
orge Frier pushed through the tunnel connecting the living quarters and the operations center. He floated through the middle of the complex, stopping only when he grabbed a handhold. His feet spun forward when he stopped, so he applied a little more torque with his hands to keep himself still. Below him floated southern India. The view rapidly changed to the soft blue stretches of ocean as BIGEYE sped toward Antarctica.

  The view from BIGEYE’s main portal never stopped astounding Frier. Even after the year and a half of being BIGEYE’s commander, any view from the portal three hundred miles above the Earth’s surface still took his breath away. He loved it up there. His rotund features, remnants of the hard and athletic body he had years before coming to BIGEYE, were dangerously flabby from the extended period in zero-g. His heart was pumping much too hard, and calcification had started melding his joints, but it was all worth it to him. Especially because, for the first time since the crash, he was useful again.

  The disintegration of his body was nothing compared to the satisfaction he felt working as commanding officer in the United States’ Space-Based Observation Platform—nicknamed “BIGEYE” by the press, for its primary purpose was spying.

  The cameras and sensors aboard BIGEYE were capable of reading a license plate from three hundred miles up. And if Washington wanted him to collect the data when it was dark on earth, the IR sensors on BIGEYE were almost as good as the visual ones. BIGEYE circled the Earth in a polar orbit, passing over every point on the earth—or at least passing near enough to get information—every twelve hours. It was the United States’ ultimate in verification technology, and Lieutenant Colonel George Frier was the lucky son of a bitch who headed it up.

  So when the buzzer sounded for Frier to check the alignment on the laser relay, he didn’t think anything of it. The message came in code, preceded by a puzzling juxtaposition of three lettered words, all different. Normal procedure was to store the message with the other clandestine codes beamed up by operatives and squirt the entire sequence to NSA headquarters in Maryland. The squirt compressed the messages into the on/off bit patterns recognizable to computers and could be transmitted to the ground in a tenth of a second.