He could do it. He wanted to do it.
And then Karen. Christina being born in the hospital. Taking blood in the doctor’s office when she was a week old because the TSH had been so elevated.
Normal, said the nurse, for a traumatic birth.
Except the birth hadn’t been traumatic. Labor was only two hours and the kid nailed the Apgar charts.
Christina wailed as they pricked her heel. They couldn’t get the blood to flow.
The second test, then the third. X-rays. Colonel Glavin, Theo P. Glavin, wouldn’t give him the day off so he could be there.
“P” for Prick.
Oh, God, you bastards, why did you poison her?
Karen, don’t you see — they killed her. They poisoned her and then me.
His wife looked at him from across the room, the empty white room at the back of the small church where they’d had the service for Christina, their poor, dead little girl. Karen’s eyes stabbed at his chest, wounding him again, the memory so vivid it wasn’t a memory but reality; he was in the church again, his daughter dead, his marriage crumbling, his life over. He’d been uncontrollable at the service, blurting out the truth, what he knew was the truth — they had poisoned her through him, killed her.
He’d get them, the bastards who’d exposed him to the radiation, exposed her —
“Kevin?”
“I can’t do it, I’m sorry.” Madrone snapped upright in the chair. He yanked off the helmet.
“Easy, easy,” said Geraldo. Her fingers folded over his gently but firmly. “Let’s break for lunch.”
Her words or perhaps her touch pushed him back, somehow both surprising and calming him at the same time.
“Lunch?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s lunchtime,” she said. “Why don’t you go over to the Red Room? Take a real break. We’ll start from scratch at two o’clock.”
“What time is it?” asked Madrone. He’d only just sat in the chair, perhaps five minutes ago.
“High noon,” said Roger. “You’ve been attached for nearly two hours. Flirting with Theta-alpha the whole time. You’re close.” He put his thumb and forefinger a half centimeter apart. “You’re damn close.”
Chapter 23
“Hey, monkey brain,” said Mack as he entered the food line in the mess hall and spotted Madrone in front of him. “How’s it feel to have a microchip in your head?”
“Hi, Major.” Madrone stood stiffly, eyes on the cook’s helper who was cutting him some roast beef. Mack thought the Army captain looked even paler than normal. The ANTARES people must have started frying his brain already.
Gained a few pounds, though.
“Lot of food you got there,” said Knife. “Bulking up for all that skull work, huh?”
“I’m hungry.”
“That a boy. Go for the red meat. No more Twig, right? Got a new nickname — Microchip Brain. Monkey Boy.”
The airman slicing the meat glanced in Mack’s direction.
“No electrodes in your neck yet?” Mack asked Madrone, narrowing his eyes as if he were scanning for microscopic ANTARES implants. “Guess 1 can’t ask you to toast my bread, huh?”
“Jeez, you’re more obnoxious than usual today, Knife,” said Zen, rolling in behind him.
“And why not, oh, exalted one,” said Mack. He did a mock bow. “Your father-in-law just offered me a job as janitor here.”
Actually, Bastian had tried to talk him into flying Megafortresses. Smith would take a job with a commuter airline, or even look up that Brazilian geezer who’d come on to him in Vegas, before stooping to flying BUFFs.
“I’m sure you’ll get a good assignment soon,” said Jeff.
The thing about Stockard that pissed Knife off was his ability to deliver a line like that without giving himself away. Anybody overhearing him undoubtedly thought he was being sincere.
Mack knew otherwise. But there was no real way to answer him, or at least Mack couldn’t think of anything snappy. He compensated by making sure the airman cut him an extra slab of beef from the rare side of the roast, then helped himself to the rest of the spread. Known colloquially as the Red Room, this mess and the fancy food had once been reserved for special occasions. Bastian had thrown it open with his “all ranks, all the time” decree. Interestingly, most of the base personnel had responded by using the Red Room only for special occasions.
Mack decided he’d eat here until his next assignment was settled. Might as well. Odds were he’d end up getting shipped out to Alaska, or perhaps the Antarctic.
Bastian — whom he’d actually had to make an appointment to see — had pretended to be gracious after Mack turned down the Megafortress. He’d told him he could stay on as an “unassigned test pilot,” whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Obviously a career crusher. When Mack had said that was no good, Bastian had pointed out that the MiG project would live on for only a few weeks more. After filling out some odds and ends and collecting data for future simulations of next-generation Russian planes, the plane would head for deep storage. If Mack couldn’t snag something before then. he might very well find himself assigned to something he didn’t like, almost certainly not at Dreamland.
Things did look bleak. The only assignment Mack’s preliminary trolling had turned up was as a maintenance officer for a squadron of A-10A Warthogs.
It was possible, maybe even likely, that the brass was trying to get him to glide into the sunset. The fact that he’d gotten waxed over Somalia probably embarrassed them. They just hadn’t dared admitting it to his face at the time.
Bastards. Let them put their butts over a few dozen ZSUs and SA-9’s. If he hadn’t hung around there, an entire company of Marines and at least one helicopter would be Somalian tourist attractions right now.
Knife took his tray into the paneled eating area, his flight boots tromping on the thick red carpet that gave the room its name. Madrone sat by himself at a table for four in the corner. Mack walked over and put his tray down.
“Penny for your thoughts, Monkey Brain,” said Mack. When Madrone didn’t respond, Mack started humming the start of the John Lennon song “Mind Games.”
Madrone shot him a glance, then put his head down, staring at his food.
“Silent treatment. I get it,” said Knife.
Zen rolled across the room, tray in his lap. “Mind if I sit here, Kevin?” he asked.
“I’m kind of thinking,” said Madrone softly.
Smith started to laugh. “What the hell are you thinking about?”
“Leave him alone, Smith.”
“Come on, Zen, Kevvy can fight his own battles. Right, Key?”
“I would like to be left alone,” said Madrone, his voice a monotone so soft it was difficult to hear even in the quiet room.
“Hey, that’s okay, Kevin,” said Zen.
“Guess he doesn’t like you today,” said Mack.
Stockard said nothing, rolling backward and then across to the next table. Madrone stared down at his food.
Mack liked the guy, he really did. Maybe he shouldn’t have busted his balls quite so hard.
“Hey, look, Key, I didn’t mean nothing, okay? Just bustin’ your chops. If I was out of line, I’m sorry.”
The Army captain raised his head slowly. His face had changed — his eyes were squeezed down in his forehead, under a long furrow.
“Go away, Major,” he said.
Mack laughed. That’s what he got for trying to be nice.
Madrone stared at his food for a few seconds more, then slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and walked from the room.