opened the file again, studied an item in it. “Calling your pilot a dipshit is no way to make friends and influence people, especially when
he’s
a major, and you’re a rookie second lieutenant … even if you were top of your class.”
McCann cleared his throat. “I apologised afterwards, Colonel. I’d got over-excited.”
“Over-excited. Is that what you call it? To Major … now where’s his name … to Major Ives, it was crass insubordination. He recommended at the time that you be kicked out. Did you know that?”
McCann was genuinely surprised. “No, sir.”
Crane looked at him. “A pity. You might have learned something if you had. You’ve got a good flying record, McCann. Before you came to us, you were on Rhinos.” Rhino was slang for the Phantom, the aging but powerfully brutish twin-engined fighter bomber.
“Yes, sir. I was on F-4Es.”
“Again, your flying record during that periodis excellent. But you apparently got into an argument with another major, on tactics,
during
a hard turning fight. Do you always pick arguments with majors, Lieutenant?”
“Not if I can help it, Colonel, sir. The incident you mentioned took place during Red Flag at Nellis. We were coming out of Coyote North when we were bounced by a couple of Gomer F-5s.” McCann meant the Tiger II used as MiG simulators against which participating aircraft had to fight. “I called a break and he ignored it. I could see the Gomer, and he couldn’t. He had zeroed in on the Gomer’s buddy and had become fixated. He wouldn’t let go. I called the break again, but got no reaction. He was determined to nail that little F-5. But his buddy nailed us first. I got angry. We could have taken them both if he’d listened. I told him what the hell use was it having a back-seater if he wasn’t going to listen.”
Crane remained silent for a few moments, again reading the file.
“Someone ought to paint two gold oak leaves on your cockpit rim,” he said. “You’ve certainly nailed two majors.”
McCann did not smile. The Colonel was not smiling.
“Some people say,” Crane went on, “you’re a spoilt rich kid. I don’t happen to agree … but you do have a slight problem with superior officers, especially those you think know less than you.” Crane’s eyes, seeming to hold the wisdom of the ages, fastenedupon McCann. “A special memo has been passed to me. There’s a requirement for top crews to form an elite group of squadrons. I’ve recommended you.”
McCann would not have been McCann if he had not snidely suggested: “Getting rid of me, sir?”
“No, Lieutenant. I may be doing you a favour. I may be the only person in the entire United States Air Force who believes it, but I think you have it in you to make the grade to high rank. You might even carry a general’s star one day, if you’re not busted out first. If these new squadrons hold their promise, you’ll be among some of the most envied aircrew in the Western Alliance.”
McCann thought about that for a while, then asked: “Why me, Colonel?”
“In the first place,” Crane said, “I consider you good enough.”
“And in the second?”
“And in the second place, I want you to give someone else a headache for a change.”
He closed McCann’s file, shunted it to one side, and picked up another. He opened the new file and started to read. The interview was clearly over.
That night, in London, Mark Selby woke up sweating, in the grip of his nightmare. Once again he’d had to watch Sammy Newton’s screaming face melting in flames. It hadn’t happened that way, of course—Sammy’s death must have been instantaneous,the flames had come later, and Mark had been miles away, back at the station—but in his dream the face was always screaming, and always melting. And as it melted it was replaced by Charlotte Newton’s, her expression one of bitter accusation.
Selby sat bolt upright in the darkened room, trembling. Someone put her arms around him.
he’s
a major, and you’re a rookie second lieutenant … even if you were top of your class.”
McCann cleared his throat. “I apologised afterwards, Colonel. I’d got over-excited.”
“Over-excited. Is that what you call it? To Major … now where’s his name … to Major Ives, it was crass insubordination. He recommended at the time that you be kicked out. Did you know that?”
McCann was genuinely surprised. “No, sir.”
Crane looked at him. “A pity. You might have learned something if you had. You’ve got a good flying record, McCann. Before you came to us, you were on Rhinos.” Rhino was slang for the Phantom, the aging but powerfully brutish twin-engined fighter bomber.
“Yes, sir. I was on F-4Es.”
“Again, your flying record during that periodis excellent. But you apparently got into an argument with another major, on tactics,
during
a hard turning fight. Do you always pick arguments with majors, Lieutenant?”
“Not if I can help it, Colonel, sir. The incident you mentioned took place during Red Flag at Nellis. We were coming out of Coyote North when we were bounced by a couple of Gomer F-5s.” McCann meant the Tiger II used as MiG simulators against which participating aircraft had to fight. “I called a break and he ignored it. I could see the Gomer, and he couldn’t. He had zeroed in on the Gomer’s buddy and had become fixated. He wouldn’t let go. I called the break again, but got no reaction. He was determined to nail that little F-5. But his buddy nailed us first. I got angry. We could have taken them both if he’d listened. I told him what the hell use was it having a back-seater if he wasn’t going to listen.”
Crane remained silent for a few moments, again reading the file.
“Someone ought to paint two gold oak leaves on your cockpit rim,” he said. “You’ve certainly nailed two majors.”
McCann did not smile. The Colonel was not smiling.
“Some people say,” Crane went on, “you’re a spoilt rich kid. I don’t happen to agree … but you do have a slight problem with superior officers, especially those you think know less than you.” Crane’s eyes, seeming to hold the wisdom of the ages, fastenedupon McCann. “A special memo has been passed to me. There’s a requirement for top crews to form an elite group of squadrons. I’ve recommended you.”
McCann would not have been McCann if he had not snidely suggested: “Getting rid of me, sir?”
“No, Lieutenant. I may be doing you a favour. I may be the only person in the entire United States Air Force who believes it, but I think you have it in you to make the grade to high rank. You might even carry a general’s star one day, if you’re not busted out first. If these new squadrons hold their promise, you’ll be among some of the most envied aircrew in the Western Alliance.”
McCann thought about that for a while, then asked: “Why me, Colonel?”
“In the first place,” Crane said, “I consider you good enough.”
“And in the second?”
“And in the second place, I want you to give someone else a headache for a change.”
He closed McCann’s file, shunted it to one side, and picked up another. He opened the new file and started to read. The interview was clearly over.
That night, in London, Mark Selby woke up sweating, in the grip of his nightmare. Once again he’d had to watch Sammy Newton’s screaming face melting in flames. It hadn’t happened that way, of course—Sammy’s death must have been instantaneous,the flames had come later, and Mark had been miles away, back at the station—but in his dream the face was always screaming, and always melting. And as it melted it was replaced by Charlotte Newton’s, her expression one of bitter accusation.
Selby sat bolt upright in the darkened room, trembling. Someone put her arms around him.
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