“So young,” Vashin sighed, releasing her. “You may leave.” She knelt to gather up her clothes on the floor but he stepped on them. She looked up and he shook his head. He jerked his chin toward the elevator. She stood. “Leave your shoes,” Vashin ordered. She stepped out of her black pumps and walked quickly across the room, totally naked. As she reached the two guards, one inserted a key into the elevator lock and twisted it fully counterclockwise. She stood at the closed doors. The doors silently opened but there was no elevator. The girl gasped as the other guard placed a hand between her shoulder blades and gave a hard shove. She tumbled into the black pit and her scream echoed for what seemed an eternity as she fell thirty stories. It halted abruptly. The guard twisted the key and the doors closed.
Kraiko sweated heavily and his face was deathly pale. For a moment, Vashin was certain Kraiko would be sick, as he was at the cemetery. “Politicians,” Vashin said to Gabrowski, “do not have a stomach for obedience. But Viktor is learning.” He shook his head in pity. “I give you my word,” Vashin said, “that we are honorable men and can be trusted.” He made a slight motion toward Kraiko. “Not like politicians.”
Kraiko wanted to escape. “It’s late,” he croaked, fighting the bile rising in his throat. “Can we finish this tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Vashin looked at his guest. “Is there anything else we can do for you tonight?”
Gabrowski studied Geraldine and smiled. “I have always found Englishwomen very appealing,” he said.
“Of course,” Vashin replied. He nodded at Geraldine and she walked toward the stairs descending to the guest bedroom. “We will finish our business tomorrow morning.”
Brian Turner stood in the middle of the dorm room in Hagerman Barracks and checked the time. Just after 8:00 P.M. Friday night and less than two hours to taps. He and Little Matt had been preparing for Saturday morning’s room inspection since returning from supper and he was bored with the entire drill. “Stupid,” he muttered, “fuckin’ stupid. I gotta get out of this place.”
Little Matt finished arranging the drawer in his locker and pushed it closed. “Your locker is gross. We ain’t gonna make it.” Saturday’s inspection was always a killer. He fell silent when he heard footsteps on the stoop, the cement walkway outside the room, come to a halt.
“Who gives a shit,” Brian muttered, oblivious to the person standing in the open door. Little Matt jumped to his feet and came to attention.
“Mr. Turner,” Zeth Trogger said, “read what the Blue Book has to say about profanity. Page one dash twenty-nine, I believe.”
“Little Miss Blue Book,” Brian mumbled under his breath, an obvious reference to the deputy commandant, nicknamed Colonel Blue Book, who took reports and administered punishments for infractions of the rules listed in the Blue Book, the book of cadet regulations.
Zeth ignored the remark and looked around the room. “Gross, absolutely gross. You’ll never pass. Haven’t you wussies learned anything?” She walked around the room and ripped the bunks apart before trashing Brian’s locker and desk. Then she inspected Little Matt’s locker, leaving it undisturbed. “Marginal, but it will get by.” She groaned loudly at the sight of his desk and destroyed it.
Brian’s face filled with anger. “You can’t do that. You’re history, Trogger.”
“Really?” she answered, surveying her handiwork. “What for? Hazing? Fagging? Get a clue.” She stood on a short ladder to work on Brian’s bunk that was above his desk. “Got a dollar, wuss?” Brian handed her a dollar bill. “Watch, wussie, and check the time.” She used the dollar bill as a measure to fold the blanket and sheet into a white collar. Next, she folded the corners at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Then she remade Little Matt’s bed before arranging Brian’s locker and desk. She finished by putting Little Matt’s desk in inspection order. She stepped back and raised her hands when she was finished. “That’s how it’s done. How long?”
“Thirty-eight minutes,” Little Matt answered.
“Yeah!” Brian said. “About time someone cut us some slack here.”
“Really?” she replied. The two boys stared in horror as she dismantled the bunks. “I’ll show you how it’s done, but you have to do it.” She spun around and walked out the door. “Have a nice evening, wussies. See you in the morning.”
“Bitch,” Brian muttered.
“I didn’t hear that,” Zeth called from the stoop.
“Look,” Little Matt said, pointing in excitement. Zeth Trogger had left the lockers and desks in inspection order.
“She’s still a bitch,” Brian muttered.
The blue-and-white T-34 Mentor descended to 4,000 feet as Pontowski followed the published arrival procedures for landing at the air show. He peered into the morning haze and tried to find the distinctive landmarks that pointed to Williams, the old Air Force pilot-training base that had been closed and turned over for civilian use. A tinge of nostalgia tugged at him, for, in many ways, this was a homecoming. He wished Little Matt was with him in the backseat of the T-34 but Saturday on Labor Day was just another duty weekend and Monday a normal class day at NMMI.
Pontowski had been born at Williams AFB when his father was a second lieutenant in pilot training. Twenty-two years later, after Pontowski had graduated from the Air Force Academy, he had returned to Williams also as a second lieutenant for pilot training. Now the old memories flooded back as he approached the airport. I must be getting sentimental in my old age, he thought. He shook his head. Pay attention to business and fly the airplane.
He overflew the published checkpoint and made the required radio call. “Willie Tower, Mentor Three-Four-One-Five ten miles southeast for landing.” Ahead of him he could see a double string of airplanes lined up for landing. But the airport was still lost in the haze.
“Mentor One-Five,” the tower replied, “you’re number four for runway three-zero right following a Cessna. Report field in sight. Maintain spacing.”
As the arrival procedures dictated, he did not acknowledge the instructions. There were too many aircraft arriving at the same time and the frequency was jammed with radio calls. Ahead of him, he could see the Cessna he was to follow and he slowed to 100 knots, the published approach speed. The Cessna pilot was a professional and was at the same airspeed. Now the triple parallel runways emerged from the haze and he could see the built-up area and parking ramp on the southwest side of the field. Suddenly, a bright red Marchetti 260 zoomed up in front of him and shot through his altitude. The pilot rolled ninety-degrees as he bled off his excessive airspeed and pulled down into the landing flow of traffic, less than 200 feet in front of Pontowski. But he had lost too much airspeed in the maneuver and was twenty knots slower than Pontowski.
Pontowski’s reaction was automatic, honed by years of flying. He rolled to the right, pulled the Mentor’s nose up, and firewalled the throttle. He cleared the Marchetti’s tail by less than fifty feet. It was a classic near miss in the landing pattern caused by a jerk who thought he was too good a pilot for the rules to apply to him. “Willie Tower,” Pontowski radioed, “Mentor One-Five breaking out of traffic to the north. Will reenter.” The heavy radio transmissions prevented him from explaining why. He was too seasoned a pilot to get angry in the air and would sort it out on the ground.
Fortunately, there was a professional in the control tower. “Aircraft cutting off the Mentor, say intentions.”