and the spiced fries were sharp and golden.
Megan used to love them, though she’d only eat a few.
“Too many make me fart,” she said.
It seemed impossible that the word had come from her mouth.
“They’re really grinding on the avionics system,” said Timmy. “They keep running it back and forth.”
“I don’t think they have a clue.” Howe picked up a fry. He’d been eating one the first time he met Megan; she’d walked in wearing jeans and a pair of T-shirts, looking like one of the kids working the food line.
He’d give anything for that moment—anything.
“Hey, boss, what’s your flight level?” said Timmy.
“Huh?”
“You’re up in the sky somewhere,” said the other pilot. “Still running through the tests?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I talked to Williams’s dad last night. Nice guy.”
Howe nodded. He’d spoken to the father as well, making the arrangements.
“Hell of a looker.”
Howe jerked his head up, vaguely aware that Timmy had continued talking but unsure of what he had said. Had he been talking about Megan?
“What?” asked Howe.
“I said I met Williams’s sister once. She was a hell of a looker.”
“Oh.”
The two men continued eating in silence.
“You liked her, huh?”
Howe stared at him. The younger pilot wasn’t trying to be insulting, not at all.
“Megan York,” prompted Timmy.
“Yeah. I did,” said Howe.
“Sucks. She was pretty nice.”
Howe nodded. He didn’t want sympathy; there really wasn’t much call for any.
“I know you didn’t publicize it,” said Timmy. “But, uh, she, uh, she was pretty nice.”
Howe smiled, both appreciating the attempted delicacy and amused by it. “She was nice,” he said.
More than nice, but he’d only known her—slept with her, he meant—for four weeks. He really shouldn’t be feeling like he’d been kicked in the ribs, should he?
If he’d known it was going to be that short, would he have done things differently?
Like…
…talk her out of taking that flight?
Why had she frowned at him that morning? What was she thinking?
He’d make sure they gave her a hell of a funeral.
And then?
Then he’d feel like shit for the rest of his life, his one real chance at true love blown all to shit in the Canadian Rockies.
“Yeah, sucks,” said Timmy. He smiled, back to his old self. “You think Firenze really believes in UFOs?”
Chapter 4
General Vladimir Luksha stood with his legs spread slightly and his arms straight out, bent at the elbows so that his fingers touched the sides of his head. He twisted slowly at the waist as he exhaled, moving first in one direction, then the other, practicing a yoga routine he had learned years and years ago as a young lieutenant on assignment to India. It was the only thing of value that had come from that brief tour as a foreign advisor; his three months there did not help his army career, and surely the Indians learned nothing of value from him.
He felt the joints at his neck crack, temporarily releasing the tension there. He went back to the desk in the bunker office he had borrowed for his operation, putting on his sweater as well as his jacket. It was an unusually hot summer day outside; that meant it might be approaching fifty, about as balmy as the Russian Far East ever got.
The temperature in the bunker itself never varied more than two degrees from 72° Fahrenheit; nonetheless, Luksha had felt cold the moment he flew over the Urals from Moscow two months before, and from the moment he arrived at the base ten miles from Petropavlovsk-Kamchakiy on Kamchatka he had worn a sweater as well as his jacket. If any of the others in the borrowed facilities at the former naval base thought this eccentric, they didn’t share their comments with the general.
Luksha’s long-range spy planes were confined to the far quarter of the facility, guarded and serviced by a special detachment of men who lived behind two rows of barbed-wire fence. Luksha’s
Megan used to love them, though she’d only eat a few.
“Too many make me fart,” she said.
It seemed impossible that the word had come from her mouth.
“They’re really grinding on the avionics system,” said Timmy. “They keep running it back and forth.”
“I don’t think they have a clue.” Howe picked up a fry. He’d been eating one the first time he met Megan; she’d walked in wearing jeans and a pair of T-shirts, looking like one of the kids working the food line.
He’d give anything for that moment—anything.
“Hey, boss, what’s your flight level?” said Timmy.
“Huh?”
“You’re up in the sky somewhere,” said the other pilot. “Still running through the tests?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I talked to Williams’s dad last night. Nice guy.”
Howe nodded. He’d spoken to the father as well, making the arrangements.
“Hell of a looker.”
Howe jerked his head up, vaguely aware that Timmy had continued talking but unsure of what he had said. Had he been talking about Megan?
“What?” asked Howe.
“I said I met Williams’s sister once. She was a hell of a looker.”
“Oh.”
The two men continued eating in silence.
“You liked her, huh?”
Howe stared at him. The younger pilot wasn’t trying to be insulting, not at all.
“Megan York,” prompted Timmy.
“Yeah. I did,” said Howe.
“Sucks. She was pretty nice.”
Howe nodded. He didn’t want sympathy; there really wasn’t much call for any.
“I know you didn’t publicize it,” said Timmy. “But, uh, she, uh, she was pretty nice.”
Howe smiled, both appreciating the attempted delicacy and amused by it. “She was nice,” he said.
More than nice, but he’d only known her—slept with her, he meant—for four weeks. He really shouldn’t be feeling like he’d been kicked in the ribs, should he?
If he’d known it was going to be that short, would he have done things differently?
Like…
…talk her out of taking that flight?
Why had she frowned at him that morning? What was she thinking?
He’d make sure they gave her a hell of a funeral.
And then?
Then he’d feel like shit for the rest of his life, his one real chance at true love blown all to shit in the Canadian Rockies.
“Yeah, sucks,” said Timmy. He smiled, back to his old self. “You think Firenze really believes in UFOs?”
Chapter 4
General Vladimir Luksha stood with his legs spread slightly and his arms straight out, bent at the elbows so that his fingers touched the sides of his head. He twisted slowly at the waist as he exhaled, moving first in one direction, then the other, practicing a yoga routine he had learned years and years ago as a young lieutenant on assignment to India. It was the only thing of value that had come from that brief tour as a foreign advisor; his three months there did not help his army career, and surely the Indians learned nothing of value from him.
He felt the joints at his neck crack, temporarily releasing the tension there. He went back to the desk in the bunker office he had borrowed for his operation, putting on his sweater as well as his jacket. It was an unusually hot summer day outside; that meant it might be approaching fifty, about as balmy as the Russian Far East ever got.
The temperature in the bunker itself never varied more than two degrees from 72° Fahrenheit; nonetheless, Luksha had felt cold the moment he flew over the Urals from Moscow two months before, and from the moment he arrived at the base ten miles from Petropavlovsk-Kamchakiy on Kamchatka he had worn a sweater as well as his jacket. If any of the others in the borrowed facilities at the former naval base thought this eccentric, they didn’t share their comments with the general.
Luksha’s long-range spy planes were confined to the far quarter of the facility, guarded and serviced by a special detachment of men who lived behind two rows of barbed-wire fence. Luksha’s
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