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neighborhood and wipe out a block, or you can try to glide fifty miles to the water and flop a
hundred million bucks in the drink when you know you've only got one chance in ten of
surviving the impact. I did that once. So, I repeat, sir. Fuck yourself."
Wentz had expended his rant, and probably his honorable discharge. Fuck it, he thought.
Ashton and Smith stood wide-eyed in shock. Rainier strummed his fingers on the desk.
"I don't like to be played with," Wentz said to the silent room. Then, to Rainier, "Go ahead and
demote me to basic airman. See if I give a shit."
"This isn't about that," Rainier said, unperturbed. "This isn't about protocol or UCMJ or rank or
who's the top cat. Christ, I wish more men had the balls to talk to me like you just did. The
reason you're here isn't about any of that Air Force bullshit."
"What is it about then?"
"Total duty, total service to one's country."
Wentz ground his teeth until he could taste the metal in his fillings. "For twenty-five fuckin'
years, I've served my country like a waiter, and I never even asked for a tip. Remember the Gulf
War, the CNN shot of the Paveway II laser-guided bomb swerving into a single window on a
sixteen-story office building? That was me. I took out Iraq's Office of Tactical Air Command,
and after flying so low to make the hit, my plane got punched through by so much triple-A my
wings were whistling. I couldn't even make it back to the base at Jiddah; I had to eject over the
Gulf... Two hours after Air-Sea Rescue picked me up, I was flying another sortie. So don't tell me
about duty. Don't tell me about service... Sir."
"I would never presume to," Rainier's voice grated. "We know all about your feats. We know all
about the many times you've risked your life for your country. And that's the reason you're here
instead of some other cocky flyboy. You're the best. We need the best."
Smith stepped forward, holding classified evaluation reports. "Our performance indexes are
processed through every personnel computer in the United States military, the CIA, and NASA.
You were quite right. General Willard Farrington was the best pilot in the world. But now he's
gone. Which means that you are now the best pilot in the world."
Shit, Wentz thought.
Rainier offered a minuscule smile, stroking his beardless chin. "It's unlike any mission you could
ever imagine."
"I can't take it," Wentz insisted. "It doesn't matter. I'm retiring tomorrow. I promised my ex-wife
and kid."
"Don't you at least want to know what the mission is?"
Wentz felt his fingernails scraping his palms. "No, because if you tell me, then I'll just be that
much more tempted to take it."
Rainier eyed Smith and Ashton, cocked a brow. "A proposition, then. I won't tell you. Check it
out for yourself."
"What do you mean, sir?" Wentz asked.
"Fly out to Nellis, right now, with Colonel Ashton. Assess the mission. If you don't want it, that's
fine. We'll get someone else, and I give you my personal guarantee that you'll be back here
tomorrow by noon to attend your retirement ceremony."
Wentz gnawed his lower lip. "Putting it that way makes it damn hard to pass up, sir."
"All we're asking is that you investigate the mission and its details first-hand, General," Smith
stepped back in.
"And if I don't like it, I walk?"
"Absolutely, sir. We'll fly you straight back to this base and you can officially retire. Beyond that,
the only thing we'd ask of you is perhaps a list of other qualified candidates, men you've
personally known who you feel might be able to assume the mission's requirements."
Wentz's resolve began to bow, then it collapsed altogether. He rationalized, of course,
manipulated the proposition around his promise like a sculptor covering up a flaw with a last-
minute slap of clay.
He wasn't going to accept the mission...
I'm just going to check it out. What's the harm in that?
"All right," Wentz agreed.
"Outstanding," Rainier said. "Squared away."
Wentz came to attention, saluted but Rainier just waved a lazy hand. "I told you, forget about all
that. If I have to return one more salute, my goddamn arm's going to fall off. Colonel Ashton?"
The woman moved forward, a perfumed shadow. "Get your flight gear on, General Wentz.
There's an F-15 waiting for us on Taxiway Six. On afterburners, we should be in Nevada in about
fifty minutes."
Wentz scoffed. "With me flying? Try forty."
CHAPTER 6
Static crackled on the headset. "Romeo One this is Boxcars One. Request permission to..."
Wentz paused. Why should he care about proper commo protocol anymore? "Request permission
to open this fucker up to the max and get the fuck out of here."
A chuckle through the static. "Permission affirmed, Boxcars One. You are clear for take-off.
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