Thud shook his hand vigorously. “Welcome aboard! It’s great to have you.”
“You’re the XO?” Crumb asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Benefits of partial ownership. We get to appoint ourselves as the bosses.”
“Who writes your fitness report?”
“Nobody, except maybe Luke.”
“And who writes your fitness report?” Crumb asked Luke.
“Nobody. That’s the beauty of it. How do you like the setup?”
“This is unbelievable,” Crumb said, looking around. “This is like the greatest job in the history of the world. Thanks a lot for calling.”
“Did you see the MiGs?”
“Yeah. I hadn’t ever seen one in person.” He glowed. “That’s a beautiful airplane—or at least somewhere there are beautiful MiG-29s, but yours look like shit right now. They need a lot of work. The one I saw looks like a jalopy you’d find in a barn that you try to turn into a hot rod.”
“Don’t let the paint fool you. They’re in good shape. Did you see the two-seater?”
“Yeah. That’s a good thing, so we don’t prang ourselves on our first flight.”
“It’s supposed to be ready to go Monday.”
“When is everyone else due to get here?”
“Monday except for Lips, who won’t be here until next month, and Stamp, who has a bunch of air shows to fly.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Vlad has set up a ground school and a flight instruction plan. Believe it or not, this guy who’s the head of the MAPS group for maintenance is a former Russian instructor pilot in the MiG-29. He’s going to do a lot of the instruction for us and run the ground school.”
“A Russian?” Crumb’s eyes narrowed, and he grew serious. “You’re going to let a Russian fly as an instructor?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“How do you know he’s not a Russian spy?”
“What the hell would Russia get out of spying on us? Maybe learn all about the MiG-29?”
“No, the syllabus. The whole way of running a TOPGUN school. I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you? We’ve all flown as instructors. We’re probably going to do it exactly the same way. Russia could never get inside the real TOPGUN. So maybe they sent him here to get it from us.”
“Hell, Crumb. We’re going to be giving instruction to foreigners. This is no big secret deal. We might even do it on an unclass level. It might be secret level, but certainly not anything higher than that. I’m not worried about it. But if you see something that bugs you, tell Hayes. He’s the resident spook.”
Crumb knew the whole story about Hayes. “I will. Too bad about his discharge.”
“Yeah.”
“How will I know which one is Vlad?”
Thud smirked. “Just follow your nose. He’s down with the jets. Speaking of which, let’s go down there and get a sandwich.”
They walked downstairs into the main hangar area, to a small deli that some of the employees had carved out of a space at the back. They’d scrounged an old refrigerator, and on the counter next to it were mayonnaise, bread, mustard, and some meat and cheese that had come together as something of a center of gravity where people could fix lunch sandwiches. Luke asked Thud, “How’s the Officers’ Club?”
“Almost done. I’ve got a new name: 94th Aero Squadron.”
“What’s that?”
“The only Navy ace of World War I flew for them.”
“Perfect. Who’s going to head it up?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, glancing at Crumb. “But Crumb here would be a good candidate.”
“Thanks for volunteering, Crumb,” Luke said, his voice full of feigned appreciation. “Thud’ll tell you all about it.”
Crumb frowned and smiled at the same time. “So… it really is just like the Navy? You check in and they start dumping all the shitty little jobs on you right away? It’s like I never left! What just happened? Am I now the coffee mess officer?”
“You’re the O’ Club officer. In charge of all the petty little details,” Thud said. He turned to Luke. “That reminds me; the guy from my father’s company is here to interview. He’s waiting topside.”
Luke was unenthusiastic. “Remind me why we need to hire this guy.”
“He just heard about the company and asked my father if he could come interview with us.”
“Right. But what exactly does he bring to it? What’s his area?”
“Said he’d do anything.”
“What does he do for your father?” Luke asked.
“Security guard.”
Luke finished putting his sandwich together and glanced over his shoulder at Thud with a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look. “We’re set for security. Remember? It’s part of our contract. We can’t just hire some minimum-wage flunky to join them. Why are we doing this?”
“I told my father we’d interview him. My father likes him.”
“Here we go,” Luke said, with a tone of having been offended in a way that was anticipated, “We do things just because your father hints at it?”
“Hey, the way I see it, if my father asks us to do something that isn’t illegal, we do it. If he tells us to hire somebody, we will.”
“Fine, you interview him. Hire him. I’ve got too many things going on.”
“Nope. We’re going to interview him together.”
“Says who?” Luke asked, annoyed.
“Says me.”
“What is this, a mutiny?”
“No, just some friendly advice.”
Luke slapped his sandwich onto a paper plate and headed to his office. Before he could take one bite, Thud walked back in with a middle-aged man whose gut was hanging so far over his belt that Luke couldn’t even tell what his huge brass buckle said. He was wearing a black baseball cap that had “51” on the front in numbers so large they could be read a hundred yards away. It was the kind of baseball cap you would see at a tractor pull. It sat on top of his small head like a dunce cap. It appeared to be made out of Styrofoam, or the cheapest polyester possible. It puckered in the front and had mesh around the sides to the back. He showed absolutely no inclination to remove it as he walked into Luke’s office.
The man was about five feet ten and weighed at least two hundred fifty pounds. He had a swollen, serious look on his face and watery eyes behind silver-framed glasses. Luke stood up. “Hi. My name is Luke Henry.”
“Raymond Westover, sir,” the man replied in a low, confident voice. He took Luke’s hand with his own small, pudgy one.
“Sit down, please,” Luke said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. He rubbed his hand on his flight suit to remove the man’s sweat. Thud sat next to Westover across from Luke. “So. You want to come to work for the Nevada Fighter Weapons School.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
Luke smiled. “Like why men climb mountains—because they’re there.” He looked at Thud. “Who said that? Was it Sir Edmund Hillary? Or… that guy whose body they found frozen like an Otter Pop on Mount Everest a couple of years ago? What the hell was his name?”
“Mallory, I think.”
“Yeah.” Luke returned his gaze to Raymond. There was no recognition in his eyes. “What do you mean, because we’re here?”
Raymond looked around, pointed to the floor, and said enthusiastically, “Because you’re here. Here, meaning… here.”
“Tonopah?”
“Exactly. Tonopah.”
“What’s so special about Tonopah?”
Raymond’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”
“Sure. A perfect airfield,” Luke said, knowing it wasn’t what Raymond had in mind.
“Sir, I understand why you guys want to be here,” Raymond said, looking back and forth at the two principals. “I’d just be excited to work out here in the desert.”