Power Curve (10 page)

“To gain some separation,” Chris said. “But I couldn’t pull it out of afterburner. The throttles were jammed.”

“Which got you going down, though the Mach, and in an over-
g
situation,” the IP replied. Chris nodded, a forlorn look on his face. The rest of the tape played out.

Martini drummed his fingers on the table as he made a decision. There was no doubt that Chris had gotten way too aggressive and that Laurie had saved them. “I want to talk to these two T-bones alone,” he growled. The room rapidly emptied, leaving Chris and Laurie behind. The
door closed. “Leland, Maintenance had better find something wrong with the throttles or your ass is grass. The only thing you’ll be flying is a commode and the only stick you’ll ever see in your right hand is your pecker.”

He took a breath, gaining steam. “Maintenance tells me you pulled thirteen
gs
on the pullout. That calls for a major over-
g
inspection—takes two days. You caused a lot of good people a piss pot full of work, and you two are going to help Maintenance empty that pot. And Leland, you had better pray they find something wrong.”

“They will, sir,” Laurie predicted. “What then?”

“You’ll get one more chance,” Martini said. “Now get your asses over to Maintenance and do some real work—for a change.” Chris darted out of the room, glad to escape. Martini’s voice stopped Laurie. “You did good out there, Captain.”

“Sir, he still needs an IP in the backseat.”

“Why?”

“He’s inconsistent. We were lucky today that I could handle it.”

“I need every pilot, wizzo, crew chief, you name it, I can get,” Martini admitted. “If you’re right about the throttles, he gets one more chance—with you in his pit.”

“Why kill a perfectly good wizzo?” she asked.

“Because I’m an equal opportunity employer.”

Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz, the production supervisor, barreled into the maintenance hangar late Sunday afternoon. Contreraz was the stereotype of the grizzled old master sergeant portrayed by TV and the movies. But there were a few exceptions. He had never smoked in his life, only drank an occasional beer, and never gambled for money. He claimed he was in a game with much higher stakes and throwing money around was for fools who needed a life. The last was a lesson he had learned when he was an F-16 crew chief with the Thunderbirds at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, Nevada.

He checked his watch: the over-
g
inspection was right on time. He collared the tech sergeant in charge of the inspection. The tech showed him what they had just found in the front cockpit, and they talked briefly. Contreraz was
not given to long conversations. “Fuckin’ A,” Contreraz grumbled. He had never forsworn profanity and considered it a rare art form when used right. “OK, I’ll take care of it.” Then, “How’s she doing?”

“Captain Bender?” the tech sergeant answered. “Not bad. She’s worked one troop into the ground and is with Alvie. She learns quick.”

Contreraz joined Alvie, a staff sergeant, and Laurie under the F-15E. He watched approvingly as she counted the tools they had been using during the inspection. Satisfied that all were accounted for and none left inside the airframe, she buttoned up the inspection panel. They came out from under the aircraft. “We found this in the linkage,” Contreraz said. He handed her a badly bent metal ballpoint pen.

“Fuckin’ FOD,” she muttered. FOD—foreign object damage—had almost killed them. Someone had dropped the pen in the cockpit, and when they had maneuvered the jet in flight, it had fallen into the throttle quadrant and jammed the throttle in the afterburner position. “Murphy’s Law is alive and well,” she said.

“You were damn lucky,” Contreraz said. He pointed to the marks on the casing. “It looks like you had a leverage advantage from the backseat and were able to break it free. The crew chiefs should have found it when they did the preflight and checked the cockpits.”

She examined the expensive silver pen. “It wasn’t their fault. This belongs to Chris.” Contreraz nodded his thanks. Now he wouldn’t have to crunch heads. “I’ll tell him,” Laurie said. She looked around. “Where did he go?”

“He left over an hour ago,” Contreraz said.

Laurie exhaled sharply. “He should still be here.”

“Well, I appreciate you helping,” Contreraz said.

“I only got in the way,” she replied. “Give me a tool and I’ll do something stupid with it.”

Contreraz laughed. “That’s not what I heard. We’re finished here, captain. Just the paperwork left to do.”

“Thanks, I’m out’a here.”

Contreraz watched her leave.
Martini knows what he’s got there
, he decided. For a moment he was back at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, a young three-striper serving
as a crew chief on the Thunderbirds. And a Captain David “Mafia” Martini was flying his jet.

Bob Ryan glanced at his watch when he heard Laurie come in. It was twelve-thirty Sunday afternoon. He heard the refrigerator close and the pop of a Coke can being opened. “Where you been?” he called.

Laurie came through, still wearing her flight suit, and sat beside him on the couch. “What’cha reading?” she asked, glancing at the book in his lap.

“Herman Wouk’s
The Caine Mutiny
.”

“That’s a pretty old book,” she said, cuddling against him.

“It’s about what happens when the captain of a ship cracks up under pressure. The officers under him mutinied to save the ship.”

“That’s the Navy for you,” she said.

He put his arm around her, responding to the tone in her voice. “Things got pretty rough out there?” he asked. He felt her head nod against his chest. He listened without comment as she told him about the flight, the debrief with Martini, and the long hours spent going through the inspection with Maintenance.

“Why did Martini make you do that?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Probably so we’d know the problems we caused for Maintenance. It was an object lesson so we wouldn’t do it again.” She finished the story and told him about the pen. “I’m on the schedule to fly with Chris tomorrow.”

“Are you worried?” he asked.

Her soft “Yes” surprised him. Normally, she came home in overdrive after an exciting day, aggressive and eager for sex. But this was her first true experience facing death, and she was not reacting as he had expected. All the clinical studies and literature he had read on the subject described a different reaction from the men who had been in extreme danger in combat and knew they would be facing it again in the near future. Most of them experienced an overpowering need to get drunk and have sex, not necessarily in that order. It was the hormones sending a message to procreate in the face of death and destruction.

But Laurie was not a man, and she needed to be cuddled and find refuge in a safe nest. And better yet, it was his nest.
My God!
he thought.
I’m as basic and primitive about this as a Neanderthal
. “When are you going to make an honest man out of me?” he asked.

Laurie cuddled to his chest. “How soon can we find a chaplain?” She pulled back from him and touched his cheek. “If we get married, I’m going to resign my commission.”

“Come on, Laurie, this is the twenty-first century. There’s no reason for you to give up your career.”

She smiled and cuddled back on his chest, completely captivating him. “Bob, I want to have a bundle of kids. Raising them is a full-time job. I’ll worry about my career later—when they have a future.”

He stroked her hair. “It’s a deal.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Let’s get started.”

Washington, D.C.

T
he summons to the Oval Office came late Friday afternoon on the ninth of November.
She’s been president 83 days
, Bender calculated,
17 days shy of 100
. For some reason, 100 was a magical benchmark, and Shaw was building to it like a Superbowl. Bender hated to admit it, but Shaw was an excellent manager, one of the best he had ever seen, and things were running smoothly in the White House.

The big, hot-button issues were under control. Sam Kennett’s confirmation as vice president was moving smoothly through the Senate, and the Chinese were still making the appropriate sounds in the Far East, calming their neighbors after the takeover of Taiwan. As a consequence, the press was muted in its criticism of Turner as Shaw pushed her administration to the 100-day mark.

But for Bender, it only meant 17 more days in purgatory.

Turner’s secretary ushered him right in, and he was surprised that the ever-present Shaw was not in his usual position at the end of a couch. Turner came right to the point. “Robert, I understand the Thunderbirds are performing at Andrews on Sunday.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s the last show of the season before they go home.” Actually, they would do a postseason show the next weekend. It was for their families who
hadn’t seen them in seven months and for the biannual Thunderbird reunion held every other November—a reunion he and Nancy would miss again.

“Brian would love to see them,” Turner said. “Could you take him? He is fascinated with airplanes—” Bender’s warm smile stopped her in midsentence. It was the first time she could recall seeing him smile.

“My pleasure. I was going anyway.” He paused, thinking. “Why don’t you and Sarah come along, too?”

Turner returned his smile. “I would love a day out with Brian and Sarah, but my schedule—” Again, she did not complete the sentence.

“You’re a workaholic, Madam President. You need a break.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she replied, still smiling. “Please work out the details with the Military Office.” He was excused.

“Of course, ma’am.” He left and headed for the Military Office in the East Wing to arrange the details for Brian’s trip to Andrews.

Turner leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was tired. Then she leaned forward and picked up her phone. “Jackie, tell Mr. Shaw I want to clear Sunday’s schedule.”

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Bender and Nancy were waiting by the reviewing stand when the presidential motorcade drove across the ramp at Andrews Air Force Base. “Does the president’s son warrant a five-car motorcade?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Nope. The family usually travels in a single car with a backup van for security. This is an informal or unannounced visit by the president.”

“You didn’t tell me she was coming.”

“I didn’t know she was,” he replied. He stepped forward when the second limousine in line stopped in front of the reviewing stand. The brigadier general commanding Andrews hurried down the steps, stunned by the president’s sudden arrival. “Sorry, Al,” Bender told him. “It
was my understanding that only her son was coming. I’ll let you do the honors.” The brigadier beamed. One of his duties was to meet and escort the president whenever she departed or arrived on
Air Force One
. But this was his first chance to interact socially with her.

Madeline Turner stepped out followed by Brian, Sarah, and Maura. Bender made the introductions and turned the family over to the brigadier who escorted them onto the reviewing stand. “Hi, Brian,” he called. “Ready to get your eyes watered?”

Both Turner and Nancy watched the two as they talked. It was obvious that they liked each other. “Your son is a good-looking young man,” Nancy said.

“He takes after his father,” Turner said, studying the small woman. She had often wondered what type of woman Bender had married, and Nancy did not fit the image she had conjured in her mind. She focused on her son, struck by the way he mimicked Bender’s stance and gestures. Even the way he talked sounded the same.

Sarah took her mother’s hand. “I introduced them,” she said. “They talk a lot. Brian wants to go to the Air Force Academy and fly fighters like he did.” Turner hushed her so she could hear what they were saying.

“Sir,” Brian said, “where’s the best place to see the show?”

Bender pointed to a panel truck parked sideways in mid-field next to the runway. “About there. The truck marks the center of the show box. That’s where everything is supposed to come together.”

“Can we watch it from there?” Brian asked.

Bender laughed. “No way.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a camera crew out there. We can watch the takeoff with them.”

Brian looked at his mother. “Mom?”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Bender explained.

Turner made her decision. “I’ll go with you, Maura, you and Sarah can stay here if you want. We’ll be right back.”

Bender almost laughed when the Secret Service detail surrounding Turner realized what was happening. But she was off the platform before they could protest. “Let’s
go,” she called, getting into one of the Secret Service’s white sport-utility trucks. Behind her, the scramble was on as agents piled into their cars and frantic radio calls were made.

Bender and Brian joined her, and they drove out to the runway. Again, Turner led the way and got out to stand by the panel truck that marked the center of the show box. Her security detail was right behind and spread out. “I bet they’re screwing themselves into the ground,” Brian told Bender.

“They are spinning up,” Bender allowed. “But it’s a hard job to keep your mother safe.”

The Thunderbirds were taxiing out and lining up on the runway. Bender kept up a running dialogue, telling Brian what was happening. “They’ve changed the takeoff sequence,” he said. “I liked the old way better when the diamond formation rolled first.” Finally, the show was on, and a loud crack echoed over them as the lead F-16 stroked its afterburner and thundered down the runway, coming directly at them. Four seconds later, the second F-16 rolled. Then the four-ship diamond formation was rolling, their wings only a few feet apart.

The first F-16 was over them in full afterburner, reaching for the skies. Then the second passed over, the noise washing over them, building. Bender looked at Turner. She was facing into the four jets as they lifted free of the ground. They passed over, lower than the first two, and the force of their engines pounded at her, shaking her to the core. Suddenly, it was quiet, the silence as deafening as the noise.

“My God,” she whispered, her face flushed. “I didn’t know. The noise, the power, it’s overwhelming. It must be like riding the whirlwind.” She stopped and looked at Bender, understanding. “It’s the power in those beasts—caged and controlled—that’s the attraction, isn’t it?”

Bender didn’t answer. “We’ve got to hurry to clear the box,” he said. “Otherwise, no show.”

This time, Brian led his mother back to the truck. “Mom, I gotta do that,” he told her. She stared at Bender, her face unreadable.

Brian lowered himself into the F-16’s cockpit. The seat was still warm from the pilot, the right wingman, who had just finished the show. The seat seemed to reach up and pull him in, enveloping him like a glove. He leaned back, surprised that the seat was tilted back thirty degrees. He sat there for a moment, taking it all in. A sense of purpose swept over him, and he had never felt so sure of anything in his fourteen years. This was where he wanted to be.

The stick was not between his knees but mounted on the right console. He reached for the side stick, barely touching it. Then he grabbed it, feeling more confident as he stroked its four buttons and trigger with his thumb and forefinger. It felt so natural, and the jet became a physical extension of his very being. His left hand naturally fell on the throttle, and again, his fingers brushed its six buttons. Now the fingers on both hands were moving, playing with the controls on the stick and throttle. What had Bender said? It was like playing the piccolo.

He tried to make sense out of the displays, gauges, and switches that filled the cockpit. He wasn’t intimidated by their complexity, and there was no doubt that, someday, he would fly an aircraft like this one. He looked for Bender but couldn’t see him. “Where did General Bender go?” he asked the crew chief standing on the maintenance stand that had been pushed up to the cockpit.

“Down there,” the sergeant said, pointing to the large crowd of spectators who were milling around the jets. Brian raised himself out of the cockpit and saw Bender kneeling by a small boy in a wheelchair. “I never met a Thunderbird who could pass by a kid in a wheelchair,” the sergeant said. Brian settled back into the seat and listened as the crew chief ran through the cockpit familiarization drill.

On the ground, Bender gestured toward the F-16. “Have you ever sat in a cockpit?” he asked the boy. A shy shake of the head answered him. Bender looked at his mother. “Can I take him up there?” She smiled and told him it was OK. Bender scooped the boy into his arms and carried him up the stairs of the maintenance stand.

“Time’s up, Brian,” Bender called. Brian wanted to spend more time in the seat and hesitated. “Scoot,” Bender
said, his voice all business. Brian scampered out of the cockpit. Bender sat the boy on the canopy rail and then lowered him into the seat while Brian held back, a little peeved at playing second fiddle to some stranger. He waited impatiently until Bender lifted the boy out and followed them down the steps.

“I want to fly one of those,” the boy said when he was back in his wheelchair.

“Who knows?” Bender replied. “It takes a lot of work and you’ve got to have perfect eyesight.”

“I don’t think my eyes are so good,” the boy said.

“You can still fly in other airplanes,” Bender told him. “Say, I got to go, but I enjoyed talking to you.”

“Thank you,” the boy said very solemnly. His mother reached out and touched Bender’s arm. She spoke quietly and Bender nodded.

“Come on, Brian,” he said. “Time to find your mother.” They headed for the waiting staff car that would take them to the reception where Turner was meeting the Thunderbirds.

“Why did you spend so much time with that kid?” Brian asked. “You don’t even know him, and he’ll never fly a fighter.”

“He’s dying of leukemia—maybe another month. Brian, you and I got lots of days like this one in front of us. I wanted to help give him this one.”

“Mom,” Brian called, charging through the crowd in the Officers’ Club. Turner turned and smiled at the enthusiasm in his voice. “I got to sit in the cockpit—it fits like it was made for me. The crew chief told me all about it. You should see those jets, they look brand-new. General Bender told me this is the last year the Thunderbirds are flying the F-16. They’re gonna get F-22 Raptors next year. I’m gonna be a Thunderbird, Mom.”

Turner stared at her son when she heard the same certainty, the same stubbornness, that had made his father such a force in her life. A cold dread swept through her at the image of Brian as a Thunderbird sweeping low over a crowd, the ground rushing at him, and billowing flames consuming him.
I won’t let the military kill my son
, she
told herself. Suddenly, she wanted to leave Andrews and escape all that it represented. She turned to the brigadier escorting her, not remembering his name. “General, I want to thank you for your hospitality. I know how much trouble an impromptu visit causes.”

“It was our pleasure, Madam President. I hope you’ll come again.”

Maura, Brian, and Sarah preceded her to the waiting limousine, and she entered last, settling into the seat beside her mother. “That was nice,” Maura said. “I really enjoyed it, and Brian is certainly excited.” Turner didn’t answer.

“Mom thinks airplanes are too dangerous,” Sarah said.

“I need to speak to Robert about that,” Turner said.

The brigadier general broke into a big smile as the presidential motorcade drove away, heading for the main gate. “Yes,” he whispered sotto voce. He gathered his staff around him. “We looked good today, folks.” He headed back into the reception, searching for Bender. He wanted to thank Bender for standing aside and giving him the chance to shine in front of the president.

He grabbed a beer and twisted off the top. Bender’s love of a good brew was well known. He saw Bender and took a long pull at the bottle as he joined him.

Bender sipped at the glass of dark ale he was drinking. “Al, how long have you been wearing a star?” he asked.

“Three months,” the brigadier replied.

“I like beer with the best of the troops,” Bender said. “But you are in command and not in a beer joint shooting pool. Get a glass.” He spun around and walked away, looking for Nancy.

“Ah, shit,” the brigadier moaned. The rumors about Bender’s uptight personality were true.

Nancy found him. “Been chewing on the brigadier?” she asked. “I thought he did very well.”

“Did the president see him with a beer bottle?”

“No,” Nancy replied. She took his hand. “Lighten up, Robert.” She saw a chef wheel out a cart with a big cake decorated with a Thunderbird motif. “Come on,” she murmured, “let’s go.” She knew what was coming.

Bender went rigid as the Thunderbirds clustered around
the cake for the cutting. The right wingman stepped forward, and Nancy gave Bender’s hand a hard squeeze. “We really should go,” she whispered. He didn’t move.

The right wingman thanked the crowd surrounding them, and his right hand flashed down in a karate chop, cutting the cake. “Hi-yah!” he shouted.

“Let’s go,” Bender said. The cake cutting was a tradition he hated, and if he ever gained his fourth star and commanded ACC, it would be a dead tradition.

They walked in silence to the car. “I spent quite a bit of time talking to the president,” she finally said.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what about,” he replied.

“Oh, mostly what mothers talk about. She didn’t know we had a daughter in the Air Force.” No answer. “Damn,” Nancy fumed, “why are you always the great stone face? You wouldn’t say shit if your mouth was full of it.” She used profanity to get his attention.