Then he picked up the phone and, still standing, called his commanding general.
I want to resign, he planned to say.
Or, I’m resigning.
Or, I’m quitting.
Or, I’m unfit for duty.
His mind flitted back and forth among the possibilities, unsettled. The exact choice didn’t matter: what was important was to hold his voice calm and to speak distinctly and to get it started. He waited for the connection to be made, waited in the static limbo where he’d been since the flight took off to support Splash this afternoon.
“General is at dinner,” said an aide’s voice, breaking through the white noise.
“Excuse me?” said Knowlington, though he’d heard clearly.
“Not sure precisely when the general will be back,” said the aide. “Can I help you with something, sir?”
“No.”
“I can have him call you.”
“That would be fine.”
“Is it urgent?”
“It’s important,” Knowlington said, carefully choosing the word.
“He’ll get back to you, Colonel.”
Still standing in front of his desk, Knowlington hung up the phone.
He’d spent his entire adult life in the Air Force. What would he do now? Take up one of the countless offers from old cronies to take a cushy job with a contractor?
Why not? Good money. Free booze.
He wouldn’t drink. He couldn’t stand it.
Who was he kidding? It took everything now not to bolt for the Depot.
He stared down at the phone. He should talk to his sisters, tell them.
He’d have to tell them sooner or later. He’d probably have to stay with one of then — Susan, probably. Debbie was always busy with her kids.
He called Debbie, surprised that he got a line, surprised to hear the phone ring, surprised to hear her voice on the other end.
“Michael. It’s about time you called,” she said, as if she’d been waiting for him all day. “I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Yeah?”
“I ran into Simona yesterday,” His sister laughed. “She was talking about her son Jimmy wanting to be a pilot. I told her you would talk him out of it, of course.”
Another time, he might have laughed. He’d gone out with Simona way back in high school, knew her now only as a vague acquaintance. She had two kids, Jimmy was the youngest. He husband — what the hell did he do? Accountant or something for a large corporation. Kept track of toilet-paper orders for factories all across America.
“You’d be surprised, she’s lost a lot of weight,” said Debbie. “She looks a lot younger. I mean, we all look old.”
“I’m coming home,” Michael told his sister, the words rushing out.
There was no answer. He hadn’t seen his sister in months, but he saw her clearly before him, as if she were in the room. He imagined her pushing her head back, narrowing her eyes, considering how to respond, running her hand through her light reddish-brown hair.
“What’s wrong, Michael?”
“I’m letting people down.”
She understood the code as well as he did; knew what it referred to without having to use the words.
“So you’re going to quit?”
Her voice was as cold as their mother’s. Colder.
“I don’t want to hurt these kids.”
“And you wouldn’t be hurting them by quitting?”
“I’m not quitting.” He paused, looking around the room, as if the explanation were a notice or bulletin tacked to the wall. “I can’t trust myself.”
She was silent. She’d have nothing more to say, would stand there in her kitchen, waiting for him to change the subject, as always.
So he did.
“How’s Bobby?” he said, asking after his nephew. He turned and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Growing like a weed. Jack wants to take him hunting, but I say no.”
“Isn’t it out of season?”
“Maybe.” She gave a forced, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not really sure how that works.”
“Chris okay?”
“She may make valedictorian.”
“Smart girl.”
“Very.”
“Well, I have to get going here.”
“Michael…”
“I love you, too,” he said, though he knew that wasn’t what she was going to say. “I’ll be talking to you.”
Knowlington slipped the phone back onto its cradle. It was all too much. He had to get a drink.
He hunched his shoulders and opened the door, moving quickly into the hallway. He ignored the framed photos slightly off-kilter on the wall — pictures of old war birds in their prime: a Mustang, the original Thunderbolt, a toothy Tomahawk, two different Phantoms, and a Sabre. He pulled open the door and trotted down the steps outside, resigned to his fate.
“Colonel Knowlington, a word, sir,” snapped Captain Wong, materializing at this side just as he hit his stride.
Knowlington nearly jumped back, surprised by the intelligence specialist.
“Wong, what the hell are you doing?”
“Coming to get you on a matter of some urgency.”
“I have to tell you, Captain, I’m not really in the mood for joking tonight.”
“I’m not in the habit of making jokes, sir.”
Wong. His voice was so distressed, so sincere, so straight, Knowlington couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re a first-class ball-buster,” he told the captain. “Shit, Wong. What the hell? What’s up?”
“I’d like you to take a look at a photograph,” said the captain. “It’s not very high quality, but I believe you would be extremely interested in its subject.”
“Its subject,” echoed Knowlington, pointing the captain back in the direction of his office. “Wong, you crack me up.”
CHAPTER 25
Hack collapsed into the chair of the borrowed office at KKMC, sighing now that he was finally alone after a tedious and largely pointless debriefing with three difference intelligence specialists in the base commander’s office suite down the hall. His body felt like it had been pummeled by a dozen heavyweights. What wasn’t bruised was cramped into jagged slabs of slate; his neck and shoulder muscles had more knots in them than a Persian rug.
One of the debriefers, a weaselly looking Army guy from the CinC’s staff, had implied that Hack wasn’t aggressive enough. Hack had kept his cool, his Pentagon training coming to the fore — he hinted displeasure without making it absolutely explicit, emphasizing the “fluidity of the combat situation” in a way that strongly implied his guys had put their necks out damned far, thank you very much. The jerk finally nodded and left.
Of course, the Air Force guys had implied just the opposite, wondering why the hell they had gone for the Roland. Neither seemed terribly impressed when A-Bomb said, “Because it was there,” and walked out in exasperation.
Preston had been seriously tempted to join him. They’d saved the Tornado crew, killed a potent SAM site. They out to get pats on the back, not questions.
The Army guy truly boiled him. What the hell else did he expect?
But what did Hack expect of himself? He felt, he knew, he’d screwed up a couple of times today, big-time.
Hack shifted uneasily in the chair, trying to position his legs so the cramps might ease. Still technically on alert for Splash, Devil Squadron had been loaned the small nondescript as temporary operational headquarters, rest area, and bus station. The furnishings included four metal folding chairs, a very lop-sided card table, and an empty footlocker that looked and smelled as if it dated from World War I.