Warriors (9781101621189) by Tom Young Page A

admitted to himself, I would have wanted to be that boy, and later that man.
    â€œWebster will want to know about those phone calls, especially if there’s some kind of military connection,” Gold said, “I suspect he’ll be talking to the NSA.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œWell, the National Security Agency handles signals intelligence,” Gold said.
    â€œAh,” Parson said, “like cell phone signals.” He raised his eyebrows, turned the thought over in his mind for a moment. “So they can listen to our boy out there.”
    â€œIf they get approval.”
    Parson didn’t know much about cryptology. As an airlifter, his contact with the intelligence world consisted mainly of background data like the ranks he’d just recalled, and pre-mission briefings before going out to fly:
    Bad guys have mortared airfields here, shot at airplanes there. Foreign agents like to hang out in bars where you’re going, so watch what you say. These guys in this village have given up their weapons. These guys in that other village have said, “No, I like my AK-47, and I like to shoot it. At you.”
    Good luck. Please file a report when you get back.
    He had once taken a War College course that mentioned NSA capabilities. He couldn’t remember all the details, but he did recall the NSA seal: an eagle clutching a key in its talons. For unlocking secrets.
    Until Webster and those above him decided how to proceed from here, Parson found nothing to do except wrap up his safety investigation. The lab reports had come back; Parson had printed them out and stuck them in a lower leg pocket of his flight suit. The reports were unclassified, so he didn’t need to study them in a secure facility. Parson unfolded his papers and perused them while Gold petted the cat to sleep.
    Nothing unexpected in the autopsies. The crewmen had died of blunt force trauma and smoke inhalation. The C-27’s flight data recorder offered no surprises, either. At the moment of impact, both engines showed max fuel flow and redline torque. Oil pressures and temperatures, hydraulic quantities and pressures, all within limits. Flight control surfaces and trim settings where they should have been. When the glass faces of gauges smacked against instrument needles, the positions of those needles reflected the expected values. In other words, not a damned thing wrong with the airplane. Just lousy airmanship, as Parson had suspected all along. He folded the lab reports and, in disgust, jammed them back into his zippered pocket. The open zipper scraped his hand, and that pissed him off.
    Gold looked up from her book. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    â€œNothing,” Parson said. “Just the data analysis on that stupid-ass crash.” He rubbed at the scratch across his knuckles. The zipper had cut deep enough to make the capillaries bleed.
    Parson needed something to change his mood, so he got up and ordered a cup of coffee. The barista, a dark-eyed Kyrgyz woman who spoke fluent but accented English, brought him his usual: dark roast, black, no shot of anything. He also bought a slice of carrot cake.
    When he returned to his seat, the cat had moved from Gold’s lap to the table and appeared to have gone back to sleep. Parson broke the cake slice in two, handed half to Gold. A dollop of icing stuck to his frostbite-shortened middle finger. He wiped the icing onto a napkin, slid the napkin under the cat’s nose. The animal woke up and licked away the icing. Gold laughed, rare for her.
    â€œI bet that’s how he got so big,” she said.
    Two aviators from the United Kingdom entered the coffee shop. Parson knew their nationality from the style of their flight suits and the design of their wings. Both wore the chevrons of RAF flight sergeants. The cat leaped from the table and ran to the Brits.
    â€œThere goes our protocol officer,” Parson said.
    One of the flight sergeants