Operator B Read online

  She spared a laugh.

  “The CQ will have a driver take you home,” Farrington said.

  She shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

  Not really, it’s the taxpayers’. “I’m glad you like the wine. But let me ask you something.” Farrington’s jaw set. He looked at her, then held up his strangely mittened hands. “Aren’t you going to ask about…this?”

  “They told me not to ask anything.”

  “Of course.” What was he thinking? “Good night…and take care of yourself.”

  He showed her out, locked the ornate double doors behind her. That’s right, honey. Tonight’s your lucky night…and tomorrow’s my lucky day.

  He was staring into the mirror over a Hepplewhite dresser. An image flashed, and he saw himself a decade younger: firing up the grill on the patio of his Oxen Hill home. His smiling wife bringing out a bowl of potato salad to the picnic table. His perfect little daughter playing in the sandbox.

  Then the image dissolved into the chisel-faced secret staring back at him.

  The strange black mittens touched the dresser’s brass knobs. He slid open the drawer, releasing a cedary scent of old wood. The framed picture of his wife remained face-down, as it always would. He couldn’t look at it, but he couldn’t throw it away either. Beside it, though, face up, lay a photograph from the ‘70s: Farrington, a major, standing in his Marine Corp flight suit on the ladder ramp of his Harrier V8B. He was surprised they’d let him keep it; any photograph of him was classified now.

  His face was classified. All files of his existence had been officially deleted.

  I’m deleted, he thought.

  “Esprit d’corp,” he whispered to himself. “Ain’t duty grand?”

  He stared at the drawer’s remaining contents—trinkets. A Purple Heart, three Silver Stars, a Distinguished Service Cross, a Congressional Medal of Honor that Jimmy Carter had draped around his neck.

  Only one more thing remained in the drawer…

  ««—»»

  The compound loomed behind her, a quiet fortress in plumes of sodium light. She kept the bottle of wine tucked under her arm, her high heels ticking across cement as she approached the lit gatehouse.

  Her name was Tina, not that names mattered. She’d joined the Army in 1993 at age eighteen, hoping to escape a drunk mother and abusive father. When she’d passed the polygraphs—Have you ever taken drugs? Do you gamble? Have you ever committed an act of theft?—INSCOM had plucked her out of Basic and launched her career as a restricted sexual surrogate. A whore by any other name. She didn’t care. She liked sex, and the money was good.

  “Hello,” she said. She held up the bottle of wine. “He said I could have this.”

  The young Air Force driver nodded at the gate. “One moment, please, ma’am,” and he took the bottle into the gatehouse where an SP in a white helmet inspected it. A drab-blue government van sat just past the gatehouse, a door open. The van had no windows in the back, a protocol Tina was used to. She wasn’t allowed to know where she was.

  “Ma’am?”

  Warm air swept past Tina’s face. Her gaze drifted back to the strange compound. “This is one off-the-wall place,” she commented. Then she remembered her “client’s” hands. Once she serviced a Russian demolition expert who’d defected with blueprints for a SAGGER IV firing-trigger. His hands had been all but blown away. She wondered how he jerked off.

  Tina knew she’d receive no answer but she asked the driver anyway, “What’s wrong with that guy? He get burned or something?”

  The driver stonily returned her bottle of wine. “Ma’am, I’m not authorized to disclose any information about your client, even if I was apprised of any such information, which I am not.”

  Tina almost laughed. These guys were all stock-in-trade, military automatons. I’ll bet he fucks like he’s doing push-ups for a PT test…

  But a final thought slipped back to the nameless man whose suite she’d just left, the easiest trick of her life.

  “He seems so sad,” she said. “He seems afraid of something, terrified but trying to cover it up.”

  The driver did not respond. He showed her into the van and closed the door and moments later was driving away from this secret place back to the world of normal people.

  ««—»»

  Yes, one more object remained in the dresser drawer. Not a medal, not a commendation or combat pin.

  Just a gun. Just an old Colt .45.

  General Farrington stared into the mirror for the rest of the night, peering more at his life than his reflection. He saw it all, all that he’d been and all that he’d become.

  Was it worth it?

  Then he raised his black-mittened hands. He drew open each zipper in grueling slowness.

  Was duty really worth this?

  Every night now for nearly a month he’d put the pistol to his head, determined to end it all. And every night, he lost his nerve.

  How would he fare tonight?

  Unzipped now, he let the leather mittens fall to the floor. He raised his hands to the mirror in front of his face. The hands—

  The hands deformed into things that no longer even appeared human. The hands laced with hundreds of intricate surgical scars and shiny with healed scar tissue.

  Each of Farrington’s hands possessed only two fingers and a thumb.

  Monster hands.

  He stared at them, and at his face beyond…

  “Semper Fi,” he whispered to himself. “Ooo-rah.”

  Then he picked up the gun.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Romeo One, this is Scratch One. Do you read?”

  “Five by five, Scratch One. Go ahead.”

  “Request permission to land by vectored thrust option.”

  “Roger, Scratch One. Land your victor by vectored thrust on designated flight line and coordinates.”

  The plane dipped out of the sky, plummeting. Six hundred knots dropped to zero in 15.4 seconds. The engines groaned—not a promising sound—as the plane hovered as if levitating, then began to lower elegantly to the aluminum-treated asphalt.

  When Colonel Jack Wentz landed the YF-61 on Runway 4 of Andrew’s Tango-Delta site, he fully expected to die. It was a mind-set, it was necessary. The VDU and temp gauges read normal—nevertheless, he expected to die. In fact, of the thousands of times he’d landed planes during his career, he expected to die every time.

  That way, he reasoned, if he did die, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  The wheel springs grated when he set down, then Wentz commenced with the proper system shut-downs. The Lockheed YF-61, though highly experimental (its turbines ran on hydrogen rather than conventional JP-6) looked just like an F-5E. Hence, there was no need to fly it at a black site.

  Colonel Wentz was sick to death of black test sites.

  The turbines wound down; Wentz popped the plex canopy and waited for Tech Sergeant Cole to wheel up the ladder.

  How do you like that? Wentz said to himself. I didn’t die today.

  And he only had three more days to go.

  “How’s she handle, sir?” Cole asked when he hopped off the ladder.

  Wentz passed him his CVC helmet and mask. “Like a barge. D-O-D wants to buy two hundred and fifty of these boat anchors at a hundred and fifty million a pop? Shit. For a while I thought I was driving a 5-ton Army truck over cinder blocks.”

  Cole edged close, whispering. “Come on, sir. What did she clock out at?”

  “That’s classified, Cole. You know better than to ask something like that.” Wentz zipped down his collar. “But let me ask you something. In baseball, you get three strikes…and how many balls?”

  Cole looked briefly puzzled. “Four, but—” Then his eyes shot wide. “You hit mach f—”

  “Shut up, Cole. I thought we were talking about baseball.” Wentz winked at his line attendant. “Now put my shit away and get me some coffee.”

  A squadron of F-16s roared overhead, drowning out Cole’s laughter. Up in the flight
tower, the duty controller flipped Wentz a thumbs up. Wentz waved back to the guy, knowing he’d never see him again.

  “Look, Colonel,” Cole said. “I know you’re getting out on Monday. I just wanted to say it’s been an honor to be your LA for these past couple of weeks.”

  “Don’t get misty on me, Cole, I forgot my hanky.” Wentz shook the man’s hand. “And call me Jack. You’re the best LA I’ve had in twenty-five years, so thanks. I’m throwing a retirement bash at my wife’s place Monday night. If you don’t show up, I’ll have you transferred to chow-hall duty in Turkey as my last official act as an Air Force officer.”

  “I’ll be there. Oh, and Top wants to see you in A Wing. ASAP.”

  Wentz snapped his gaze. “Gimme a break. I just unassed that flying coffin after five straight hours on stick. What’s Top want?

  Cole smiled knowingly. “Wouldn’t know.”

  Wentz cast a suspicious eye. “It ain’t cool to lie to full colonels, kid. Majors, warrant officers, first lueys—that’s fine. But not full colonels. So what’s going on?”

  “Wouldn’t know, Jack. Why don’t you go find out?”

  “Yeah.” Wentz walked off the line toward the Dress Unit, sputtering under his breath.

  ««—»»

  Now in fatigues, Colonel Wentz approached the door which read A-WING F.O.D. 1ST SGT. CAUDILL. But everyone here called him “Top,” as in Top Sergeant. Big, burly, and with a low southern drawl, Top was the highest-ranking enlisted man on the base. During Desert Storm, Top had hustled his 250-pound carcass around like a high-school kid, and ran an attack wing that launched over a hundred sorties a day without losing a bird. That’s where he and Wentz had met.

  “How’s things in the land of coffee and donuts?” Wentz asked.

  “Not bad,” Top replied from behind an immaculate desk. “At least I can eat before I come to work and not worry about blowing chunks when I pull a 6-G.”

  “Top, there’s only one thing you pull around here, and that’s my chain. The kid on the line says you need to see me ASAP, so I’m wondering what the hell can Top possibly want to see me about when he knows I’m out of here on Monday?”

  Top shrugged, took a sugary french cruller out of a Mr. Donut box. “I just wanted to know how the YF-61 flew.”

  “It’s spam in a can. If the Air Force wants to put kids in those things, they better clock ’em five hundred hours of training time first. Otherwise, there’s gonna be a whole lot of tax dollars sitting in the desert along with a whole bunch of kids.”

  “I watched you land her. Looked smooth to me,” Top remarked.

  “That’s only because I’m the best pilot in the goddamn Air Force—”

  “The most modest too—”

  “And what’s this all about anyway? You didn’t call me in here to ask me about that hunk of junk.”

  Top’s smile drew his jowls up. He slipped a piece of paper off his desk. “Got some orders for ya, Jack.”

  Wentz was instantly outraged. This was like a slap in the face. “I’m short and the CO is cutting me orders? Hey, he can send me to Alaska, but three days from now I’ll be signing my retirement papers and turning in this monkey suit for good! I got two hundred grand a year waiting for me flying 777s for United!”

  Top closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. “I can’t believe a hardcore Air Force driver like you wants to run off to fly those civvie air yachts. Look at all the cool stuff you get to fly for Uncle Sam.”

  “Shit on Uncle Sam. That old cracker’s had me bent over his desk for twenty-five years, and he’s never even kissed me. And you want to talk about the ‘cool stuff’ I get to fly? Cool, yeah.” Wentz groaned. “Stuff that would make the Wright Brothers puke. I’m telling you, Top, I’m out of here in three days, and I don’t care where those orders send me. If God Himself cut those orders, I’ll kick His ass up and down Heaven Street. I’ll slam St. Peter’s Gate on His head and bust Him one in the nuts.”

  Top winced. “Relax, Jack. They’re promotion orders.”

  The office fell silent along with Wentz’s protests. His face felt a yard long staring at Top.

  “Guess what?” the First Sergeant continued. “You just made the big one star. Does that mean you’re gonna start bossing me around now? I’m gonna have to start calling you sir?”

  Wentz stood speechless.

  Top got up from behind the desk and opened a small felt box containing two silver collar stars.

  The stars glinted like jewels.

  “Don’t just stand there looking like you locked your keys in your car. Try ’em on…”

  Wentz gazed longingly at the pair of stars, still unable to give voice.

  “Here, allow me,” Top said. He carefully pinned the stars onto Wentz’s fatigue collar, then snapped to attention and saluted.

  “Congratulations…General Wentz.”

  Wentz, still in a fog, turned to a mirror on the wall. General, the word slipped through his mind. The stars glittered back at him in the reflection.

  “Hard-fuckin’-core, man,” Top approved. “You’re a brigadier general now, Jack. That’s serious rank. And you know something else? You’re a first.”

  “I’m a…what?” Jack asked, distracted.

  “First time in the history of the United States Air Force they gave a general’s star to a guy who’s not an asshole!” Top blared. Then he yanked open his snack fridge, pulled out a bottle of Perier-Jouet champagne, and popped the cork. Foam poured on the floor.

  “Shit, Top, thanks—”

  Top poured the expensive bubbling wine into a pair of glasses, then passed one to Wentz.

  “A toast. Here’s to General Wentz…”

  Wentz sipped from his glass. “General Wentz,” he muttered. “You know, Top? I kind of like the sound of that.”

  ««—»»

  The limousine idled at the gate, Department of the Air Force flags waving at its front fenders. Two Marine Corp MPs emerged before red signs in white letters that read:

  PENTAGON WEST ENTRANCE.

  THIS IS A CONTROLLED ACCESS. DUTY GUARDS HAVE THE RIGHT TO DETAIN ALL ADMITTANTS REGARDLESS OF RANK OR OFFICE. YOU MAY BE ASKED TO BE SEARCHED.

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPLIANCE.

  The first MP opened the limo door, while the second opened the phone box in the guard shack. General Gerald Cawthorne Rainier got out of the vehicle and dully returned the MP’s crisp salute.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” the MP barked.

  “This may not be a very good afternoon at all, Sergeant,” Rainier mouthed.

  “Yes, sir!”

  The line of four stars barely fit on the epaulets of Rainier’s dress uniform. He was fifty-seven years old but right now he felt a hundred. No, this was not a good afternoon at all, not after the call he’d just received from SECPERS.

  There might not be any good afternoons ever again, he thought.

  His eyes lanced into the MP’s gaze. “Tell security to have Briefing Room One prepped and swept ASAP. And open this goddamn gate.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The MP shot a nod at the gate guard. The electric bolt snapped open, then Rainier brushed past, rushing into the west entrance as if trying to evade an augury of doom.

  CHAPTER 3

  In spite of the certainty of his retirement, Wentz felt funny in civilian clothes. He always had, as though high-alt flight suits had become as much a part of him as his skin. He felt funny driving cars, too, cautious to the point of paranoia—like a senior citizen behind the wheel. He remembered when he’d made the initial test flights of the B-2 bomber at Edward’s Palmdale range, how natural it had felt on the stick of a prototype aircraft that cost nearly a billion dollars. But, somehow, driving a $20,000 station wagon felt daunting.

  One thing that did feel right today, though, was the fact that his fourteen-year-old son, Pete, sat right next to him. Things would be different now. Now Wentz would actually get to be a father to his son. Today, they were on their way to Camden Yard, Yankees versus the
Orioles.

  “I couldn’t do math either, Pete,” Wentz was saying. “I hated it—algebra, trig, geometry. But I worked my tail off, hung in there, and made it. You’ve got to get those math grades up—C’s won’t cut it. Not if you want to get into a good—”

  “I aced the final, Dad,” Pete told him. “I got a ninety-nine.”

  Wentz was taken aback. “You’re kidding me? A ninety-nine?”

  Shit, I never got a ninety-nine on an algebra test in my life!

  “Yeah, so I’ll get a B for the course. A’s in everything else.”

  Wentz slapped the wheel. That’s my boy! “Hey, that’s great, Pete! Now you’ll make the honor roll! Outstanding! Buddy, we are celebrating this weekend! The Yankees game tonight, King’s Dominion tomorrow, crabbing on the bay all day Sunday, and…you know what? I think maybe we’ll do a little dirt-bike shopping once school lets out for the summer. How’s that sound?”