was a noticeable dip to the back end. Twice Jamil was bounced
off his seat, struck his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that happened,
VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as he might have done in the presence
of a real colonel.
Jamil gave up
trying to figure what all this was about. No use wasting his energies on
guesses. He was stumbling about in the dark and while he might accidentally put
his hand on the correct answer, how would he know it? This concluded, he ran
quickly through his options. There weren’t many. He could, of course, punch
VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point; the major was wearing
a sidearm), shoot the pilot and the driver, and make a run for it.
And go where,
exactly? And do what?
Besides,
VanDerGard didn’t look the type to collapse in a heap at one punch. And if he
was armed, the pilot probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea about
five seconds after he’d thought it up. Since he couldn’t think of anything else
constructive, he decided his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by
now, he was extremely curious.
His curiosity
would probably land him in the brig for about twenty years for impersonating an
officer, but he couldn’t help it. He was interested to know just what the devil
was going on. The only way to find out was to go along with the agenda—whatever
that happened to be.
The jeep entered
the airfield, the driver looked around for directions. Major VanDerGard
pointed, indicated a glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the
tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight. Its green and gray
camouflage enhanced the sleek look. It was designed for precision bombing, both
in and out of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels, indicating
that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks of missiles under the wings
were real—no practice weapons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung
from the central hard-point.
The jeep pulled up
beside a refueling bowser. The crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and
were starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.
The pilot jumped
out almost before the jeep came to a stop. She began walking around the
spaceplane, checking it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two members of
the ground crew were inside the cockpit, readying it for the pilot. The major
climbed out of the jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted when
he stepped out.
Jamil studied the
man’s face. If Jamil had seen one flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of
the lip, any indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a role, Jamil
might have reconsidered and taken on the major then and there.
VanDerGard saluted
respectfully, his face grave and solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil
returned the major’s salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard walked over
to the bombardier’s hatch, reached inside, pulled out a set of coveralls and a
flight helmet, and handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set of
flight clothes for himself and began to slip the coveralls on over his uniform.
Jamil glanced
swiftly around. The pilot had moved on to the back end of the spaceplane. The
ground crew were occupied some distance away.
VanDerGard glanced
up, noticed Jamil wasn’t dressing. “Don’t those fit, sir? There’s a size
larger—”
“Look, Major, let’s
cut the crap,” Jamil said tersely. “You and I both know—”
“—that Katchan is
innocent of these charges, is that what you were about to say, Colonel?”
VanDerGard shrugged. “I like to think so, sir, but I must add that, from what I’ve
seen, the evidence against him is very strong. You should be getting ready,
sir,” he advised, seeing that Jamil wasn’t moving. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”
And that was that.
Jamil slid the
coveralls on over his uniform, accepted the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot
to indicate they were ready to take off. He looked out
off his seat, struck his head on the detachable roof. Both times, when that happened,
VanDerGard smiled in rueful apology, just as he might have done in the presence
of a real colonel.
Jamil gave up
trying to figure what all this was about. No use wasting his energies on
guesses. He was stumbling about in the dark and while he might accidentally put
his hand on the correct answer, how would he know it? This concluded, he ran
quickly through his options. There weren’t many. He could, of course, punch
VanDerGard in the face, grab his gun (interesting point; the major was wearing
a sidearm), shoot the pilot and the driver, and make a run for it.
And go where,
exactly? And do what?
Besides,
VanDerGard didn’t look the type to collapse in a heap at one punch. And if he
was armed, the pilot probably was armed, too. Jamil discarded that idea about
five seconds after he’d thought it up. Since he couldn’t think of anything else
constructive, he decided his best bet was to keep playing the game. Besides, by
now, he was extremely curious.
His curiosity
would probably land him in the brig for about twenty years for impersonating an
officer, but he couldn’t help it. He was interested to know just what the devil
was going on. The only way to find out was to go along with the agenda—whatever
that happened to be.
The jeep entered
the airfield, the driver looked around for directions. Major VanDerGard
pointed, indicated a glistening Stiletto bomber parked at the very end of the
tarmac. The tubular fuselage gleamed in the moonlight. Its green and gray
camouflage enhanced the sleek look. It was designed for precision bombing, both
in and out of atmosphere. The spaceplane sat high on its wheels, indicating
that it did not have a bomb load, but the racks of missiles under the wings
were real—no practice weapons here. What was known as a wild-weasel pod hung
from the central hard-point.
The jeep pulled up
beside a refueling bowser. The crew was just finishing refueling the bomber and
were starting to replace the hoses back in the bowser.
The pilot jumped
out almost before the jeep came to a stop. She began walking around the
spaceplane, checking it over to ensure it was sound for flight. Two members of
the ground crew were inside the cockpit, readying it for the pilot. The major
climbed out of the jeep, walked around, opened the door for Jamil, saluted when
he stepped out.
Jamil studied the
man’s face. If Jamil had seen one flicker of an eyelid, one sardonic curl of
the lip, any indication at all that VanDerGard knew he was acting a role, Jamil
might have reconsidered and taken on the major then and there.
VanDerGard saluted
respectfully, his face grave and solemn as befitted the occasion. Jamil
returned the major’s salute and stepped onto the tarmac. VanDerGard walked over
to the bombardier’s hatch, reached inside, pulled out a set of coveralls and a
flight helmet, and handed them to Jamil. The major reached back for a set of
flight clothes for himself and began to slip the coveralls on over his uniform.
Jamil glanced
swiftly around. The pilot had moved on to the back end of the spaceplane. The
ground crew were occupied some distance away.
VanDerGard glanced
up, noticed Jamil wasn’t dressing. “Don’t those fit, sir? There’s a size
larger—”
“Look, Major, let’s
cut the crap,” Jamil said tersely. “You and I both know—”
“—that Katchan is
innocent of these charges, is that what you were about to say, Colonel?”
VanDerGard shrugged. “I like to think so, sir, but I must add that, from what I’ve
seen, the evidence against him is very strong. You should be getting ready,
sir,” he advised, seeing that Jamil wasn’t moving. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”
And that was that.
Jamil slid the
coveralls on over his uniform, accepted the flight helmet, and waited for the pilot
to indicate they were ready to take off. He looked out
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