Chapter 10 - Wings Over Texas
The sun was sinking below the western horizon when I stepped out of the hospital entrance into the warm evening breeze.
Parked along the curb, its engine idling with a low, rhythmic rumble, was the command Suburban. Major Vance stood by the rear passenger door, holding it open for me.
Behind us, fifty miles to the west, the skies were clear and open, stretching all the way to the Rocky Mountains.
"Director," Vance said, saluting as I approached. "General Morrison just called from Peterson. The Chairman has been briefed on the operation. The President has signed off on the recovery confirmation. The White House Chief of Staff asked to extend personal commendations to your team."
I returned the salute, crisp and sharp. "And the shipment?"
"Secured under armed guard at Fort Cavazos logistics depot," Vance replied. "The avionics package will be installed in the test airframes by sunrise tomorrow. The leak is plugged. The network is completely rolled up."
"Good work, Major," I said. "What about the media?"
"Total communications blackout," Vance smiled faintly. "As far as the local news is concerned, the commotion in Oak Ridge was an unscheduled emergency readiness exercise conducted by the National Guard. The neighbors think your father’s yard was just an authorized emergency landing zone. His reputation as a local loudmouth might take a hit, but the operation remains classified."
I looked back over my shoulder one last time toward the hospital.
I saw my father standing near the entrance glass, clutching a Styrofoam cup of coffee, looking at our convoy. He didn't wave. He didn't shout. He just watched, his shoulders hunched, watching his daughter prepare to vanish back into the world he would never understand.
I stepped into the Suburban. "Take us back to the bird, Major."
"Yes, ma'am."
The drive back to the airfield took twelve minutes.
The V-22 Osprey was sitting on the tarmac at the regional municipal field, illuminated by the high-intensity halogen floodlights of two Air Force maintenance trucks. The twin nacelles were tilted vertically, the massive rotors already beginning their slow, rhythmic rotation as the auxiliary power unit kicked in.
I climbed the rear ramp into the belly of the machine.
Captain Miller was already strapped into his jump seat, running through the pre-flight checklist. The holographic table was gone, the tactical vests were stowed, and the interior had returned to its functional, austere military reality.
I took my seat in the command position, clipped the four-point harness across my chest, and pulled the noise-canceling headset over my ears.
The crew chief hit the hydraulic toggle. The ramp hissed and sealed shut, cutting off the warm Texas night and replacing it with the cool, pressurized hum of the flight deck.
"Director Carter," the pilot's voice crackled through my headset. "Dallas Departure has cleared us direct to Peterson Air Force Base, flight level two-four-zero. Wheels up in thirty seconds."
"Cleared as filed, Captain," I replied. "Take us home."
The Osprey surged.
The twin proprotors bit into the thick evening air with a thunderous roar. The vertical lift pressed me into my seat as the aircraft rose straight up into the darkening Texas sky, clearing the runway lights, clearing the tree line, clearing the small suburban grid of Oak Ridge below.
I looked out the small scratch-resistant window.
Down there, somewhere among the thousands of tiny, twinkling streetlights, was a house with a ruined lawn and a cold, grease-stained grill. Down there was a brother who would spend tomorrow morning in an orange jumpsuit learning what it felt like to be ordinary, and a father who would never again be able to look at a uniform without feeling the weight of his own failure.
And up here, at twenty-four thousand feet, climbing through the clouds toward the stars, was Emily Carter.
The girl who had left on a bus.
And the woman who had returned with wings.
The tiltrotors rotated forward with a smooth, heavy clunk that resonated through the airframe. The engine pitch shifted from a hover-whine to the deep, predatory roar of high-speed forward flight.
The airspeed indicator on the bulkhead display began to climb: *250 knots... 300 knots... 340 knots.*
The state of Texas slipped away behind us in the dark.
I reached down, unzipped the front pocket of my sand-colored duffel bag, and pulled out an old, creased photograph I had carried through fourteen years of service. It was a picture of me at seventeen, standing in front of the local high school, holding my UT Austin acceptance letter, smiling with pure, innocent hope.
Nobody had hugged me that day either.
I looked at the girl in the picture for a long moment. Then I carefully folded the photograph, placed it back into the duffel bag, and zipped it shut for good.
I pressed the transmit button on my headset.
"Major Vance."
May you like
"Yes, Director?"
"Pull up the readiness reports for the Pacific corridor," I said, leaning back into the harness and closing my eyes as the Osprey raced through the midnight sky. "We have work to do."
