Pilot and copilot in a DAP Hawk was a crazy symbiosis that only the very best could make work. Kee should have known that from the beginning.
No question that Beale flew. And Kee had ridden enough birds to know that few pilots were so smooth or quick. She wondered if half the legend might be true. Big John had insisted that the Major had earned that Silver Star fair and square.
The woman didn’t fit any of Kee’s patterns. She’d been absolutely standup about Dilyana. Another major point in Kee’s book. And about Kee’s failure to fly. That had shocked Kee to the core. She’d let down the team, failed in her sworn duty, and Major Beale had let her back aboard. Once. Kee knew there would be no second chance.
But independence wasn’t easy. Nobody really spoke to her, though Big John had loosened up a little. Keeping Jeff alive on the flight back had both shaken him and built up his confidence once it was clear Jeff had survived because of him.
Dilyana laughed in the sunlight with the Professor.
And Kee Smith stood in the shadows of the chow tent, alone.
Separate. Outside their circle of laughter.
Dilyana had woken trembling in the middle of their downtime and had taken the book from Kee’s pocket. She had lain there tight against Kee, studying and studying for an hour or more, while Kee pretended to sleep, wished she could sleep. At length the girl closed the book and snuggled a little closer to Kee.
When she spoke in the darkness of the tent, Kee could feel the words vibrating her body as well as her ears. Whispers. Whispers driven home with the force of a cannon.
“Mother. Father. Walk. Walk. Walk. Hide. Hide. Hide. Cold. Walk. Walk. Walk.” Then silence, then she made the cracking sound of a passing bullet. Twice.
A sound you could only make correctly if you’d heard a hundred of them go by close enough to have had your name on them. But they found the person behind you. When she’d still been infantry, everyone would sit around bored out of their skulls in the quiet between the adrenaline rush of one firefight and the next. One pastime, the grunts would take turns trying to imitate the tiny, sonic-boom crack beside your ear.
The more you heard, the better your imitation. You learned to break it down. The timbre of the initial snap, the shriek of the whistle while it passed within a couple inches, the Doppler drop-off as it moved on. And that dreadful wait, hoping it hit rock or dirt with a sharp slap rather than turning into a silent moment and then the cry of a gut-shot guy who was supposed to have your backside.
Dilyana’s imitation was near perfect.
“Dead. Family dead. Home dead.” And then she’d wept. And Kee had held her. Held her more tightly than when they’d returned from the refugee camp. More tightly than she’d ever held anyone before. Like she’d often imagined a father would hold on to her, if her mother had known who he was. Or dreamed her mother would, even once, instead of dying a dose at a time.
On her first leave from the Army, Kee had looked for her mother but not found her. Even the Street didn’t know where she’d gone. The Street had finally swallowed her mother whole and left nothing behind.
They were all of them lost. The Professor and Dilyana with their string figures. Kee herself. Lost in the shadows.
***
Archie had watched Kee run. Counted every lap, struggling to hide his distraction from the little girl. He was charmed by Dilya as if she were one of his nieces. There wasn’t a bone in the child’s body that didn’t radiate joy. And it shone ten times as brightly knowing even a little of what the girl had survived.
Kee didn’t radiate joy, she radiated pure power in its truest form. She ran the track like a mythical cross between the fleet-footed Hermes, messenger to the Greek gods, and a B-2 bomber. She plowed ten miles around the track, moving as strongly the last lap as she had the first. A feat most men couldn’t achieve, especially in the midday
No question that Beale flew. And Kee had ridden enough birds to know that few pilots were so smooth or quick. She wondered if half the legend might be true. Big John had insisted that the Major had earned that Silver Star fair and square.
The woman didn’t fit any of Kee’s patterns. She’d been absolutely standup about Dilyana. Another major point in Kee’s book. And about Kee’s failure to fly. That had shocked Kee to the core. She’d let down the team, failed in her sworn duty, and Major Beale had let her back aboard. Once. Kee knew there would be no second chance.
But independence wasn’t easy. Nobody really spoke to her, though Big John had loosened up a little. Keeping Jeff alive on the flight back had both shaken him and built up his confidence once it was clear Jeff had survived because of him.
Dilyana laughed in the sunlight with the Professor.
And Kee Smith stood in the shadows of the chow tent, alone.
Separate. Outside their circle of laughter.
Dilyana had woken trembling in the middle of their downtime and had taken the book from Kee’s pocket. She had lain there tight against Kee, studying and studying for an hour or more, while Kee pretended to sleep, wished she could sleep. At length the girl closed the book and snuggled a little closer to Kee.
When she spoke in the darkness of the tent, Kee could feel the words vibrating her body as well as her ears. Whispers. Whispers driven home with the force of a cannon.
“Mother. Father. Walk. Walk. Walk. Hide. Hide. Hide. Cold. Walk. Walk. Walk.” Then silence, then she made the cracking sound of a passing bullet. Twice.
A sound you could only make correctly if you’d heard a hundred of them go by close enough to have had your name on them. But they found the person behind you. When she’d still been infantry, everyone would sit around bored out of their skulls in the quiet between the adrenaline rush of one firefight and the next. One pastime, the grunts would take turns trying to imitate the tiny, sonic-boom crack beside your ear.
The more you heard, the better your imitation. You learned to break it down. The timbre of the initial snap, the shriek of the whistle while it passed within a couple inches, the Doppler drop-off as it moved on. And that dreadful wait, hoping it hit rock or dirt with a sharp slap rather than turning into a silent moment and then the cry of a gut-shot guy who was supposed to have your backside.
Dilyana’s imitation was near perfect.
“Dead. Family dead. Home dead.” And then she’d wept. And Kee had held her. Held her more tightly than when they’d returned from the refugee camp. More tightly than she’d ever held anyone before. Like she’d often imagined a father would hold on to her, if her mother had known who he was. Or dreamed her mother would, even once, instead of dying a dose at a time.
On her first leave from the Army, Kee had looked for her mother but not found her. Even the Street didn’t know where she’d gone. The Street had finally swallowed her mother whole and left nothing behind.
They were all of them lost. The Professor and Dilyana with their string figures. Kee herself. Lost in the shadows.
***
Archie had watched Kee run. Counted every lap, struggling to hide his distraction from the little girl. He was charmed by Dilya as if she were one of his nieces. There wasn’t a bone in the child’s body that didn’t radiate joy. And it shone ten times as brightly knowing even a little of what the girl had survived.
Kee didn’t radiate joy, she radiated pure power in its truest form. She ran the track like a mythical cross between the fleet-footed Hermes, messenger to the Greek gods, and a B-2 bomber. She plowed ten miles around the track, moving as strongly the last lap as she had the first. A feat most men couldn’t achieve, especially in the midday
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