“The future is now, Jeremy. My fellow committee members, especially those in the minority party, argue that we’ve already paid your company over forty four billion dollars for twenty one aircraft that spend most of their time doing air shows. And now we’re down to twenty. Listen, I need this jet operational now! I need it ready to go to war now!”
The phone line was silent. Senator Tolnert used the silence to calm himself. He had attacked, and now it was time to console.
“Jeremy, you know I only want to help you and American Aero. But to do that, we need to prove the value of the B-2 now. We need to show it can truly penetrate the toughest air defenses in the world and destroy the hardest of targets. Only then can we press for its continued production. Your company is vital to California’s economic future and I don’t want that jeopardized.”
“If we can reopen the production lines in Palmdale, it’s good for both of us, Senator. And I want you to know we are making a great deal of progress on the Advanced Conventional Bomber.”
Tolnert liked Thompson’s conciliatory tone and was happy to feed it. “Jeremy, a successful B-2 could guarantee the B-3 for American Aero. That could be a five hundred billion dollar contract.”
“That’s our goal, Senator.”
It certainly is, thought the Senator. He planned to do everything within his considerable power to make sure that contract was not awarded to any company based in Chicago, St. Louis or any other city outside of California. But there would be no new bombers if the current ones didn’t earn their keep.
“Look Jeremy, if those test guys at Edwards were conducting some silly science experiment and lost the jet, then we need to know that. The safety board needs to know it and anyone else who will listen. I will talk to the Pentagon and see if we can keep the jet from being grounded.”
“I assure you we have a jet that is ready for combat. What happened at Edwards will not change that. I’ll let you know anything else the company learns over the next few days.”
“Thank you, Jeremy.”
The Senator hung up the phone. That was the easy part. American Aero ultimately shared his objectives. The Air Force would be another story.
He pressed the intercom button to his secretary in the outer office. “Stacy, please get me General Morgan at the Pentagon.”
The Senator always had a hard time talking to the Air Force Chief of Staff. Morgan was an imposing figure. He had flown over 400 combat missions in Vietnam as an F-4 pilot and spent his last two years there as a guest at the Hanoi Hilton. He was known for his common sense, integrity, and fervent devotion to the Air Force and its personnel. Most difficult for the Senator was the fact that his own military experience was limited to four years as an Air Force legal officer. He often felt the general talked to him as he would one of his own young troops.
“Senator, General Morgan is on line one.”
The Senator paused to consider his opening and then picked up the phone. “General. I want to thank you again for appearing before my committee last month and offering your insight regarding the resumption of B-2 production. I still hope we can get Air Force agreement on this before the budget debate.”
“Senator, I enjoyed the opportunity to testify. However, the Air Force continues to oppose the production of more B-2s. The President’s defense budget does not allow for it and he will veto any Defense Appropriation Bill that authorizes it.”
Tolnert chaffed at the general’s paternal tone. Still, he was confident the Congress would ultimately approve of his B-2 proposal and override any potential Presidential veto. The general may oppose him on this issue, but Tolnert knew he could get his concurrence on his other concern.
“General, regardless of the B-2’s future in the budget, I feel it is important we continue to prove the capability of our existing B-2 force.”
“The Air Force stands ready to employ the B-2 if the President and Defense Secretary deem it is appropriate. It’s a potent weapons system and I know my troops at Whiteman are ready to fly it into combat.”
“I agree. And it may get its chance sooner than later considering the current North Korean situation. But I understand the B-2’s at Whiteman are currently grounded.”
“That’s standard procedure after a major accident. We don’t want to fly the jet until we’re sure of what actually happened at Edwards.”
“And how long will that take?” The Senator found it hard to conceal his impatience.
“The safety board will be issuing its seventy-two hour status report the day after tomorrow. I hope there will be enough information at that time to make a decision.”
The Senator cursed the luck that caused this accident. Two days may be too late for his purposes.
“Very well, General. Just do what it takes to wrap up this investigation and get those jets flying again. I don’t want us to miss an opportunity to use this vital national asset.”
There was a long pause that stretched across the Potomac. It was a gap in conversation not unlike the gap in thinking and motivation that often existed between the Congress and the Pentagon. “Senator, once we determine it is safe, we will un-ground the jets. Not before then. And Senator, I want to remind you that one of my pilots was killed in that B-2 accident. To me, he and the other pilots who fly the B-2 are the only national assets that matter right now.”
Chapter 11
The young boy held his sister’s hand and bravely faced the adults gathered before the casket. The friends and family filed past, offering their sorrow and sympathy to the two small children. The boy nodded and thanked and sometimes even shook the hands of the men who offered. They felt pity for the boy who had lost a parent, but the boy felt nothing. He kept a strange detachment from the whole affair. He had seen this day coming for some time and had gradually withdrawn as it approached. Now he felt insulated from the pain.
He watched the priest pray over the casket, but did not grasp the meaning of his words. The comfort they were meant to provide was lost on the boy. His comfort lay in a facade of strength in the face of misfortune. He thought his courage made him special. He desperately wanted to feel special. The unthinkable had happened, but he would show everyone he could overcome the loss. Only later, when he would watch the casket being lowered into the ground would he begin to sense the finality of the moment. But how does a boy ever really accept the death of his mother?
The boy looked up as his grandmother approached. Beside him, he knew his father was crying. His grandmother knelt down and hugged him tightly. She whispered gently, “Frankie, it’s OK to cry . . .”
The first note of the National Anthem brought Frank back to the present. As he stood at attention, he realized it had been a long time since he had thought about his mother’s funeral. He could recall many of the details but little of the emotion surrounding her death. It was a brief period of unfocused confusion for a fourteen-year-old boy. Like a harsh awakening from the blissful comfort of sleep, Frank always knew his mother’s death had marked his transition from childhood to adulthood. But he never dwelled on the painful period in between. He had sought asylum in his destiny and never looked back. Now, when he did look back, he found he couldn’t even remember the sound of his mother’s voice.
As the anthem’s last note echoed about the cavernous hangar, Frank took his seat beside Rachel Walker. Seated to her right were Ethan and Emily. Frank looked at the two young children and wondered what they would remember of their father. Would they also struggle to remember the sound of his voice and how it felt when he hugged them? Would they think of him on their birthdays, their high school graduations, or even their wedding days? Frank looked toward the flag-draped coffin, so small in the vast interior of the aircraft hangar. He couldn’t comprehend all that Dale had lost. He also marveled at what Dale had possessed. A wife and children who loved him no matter what he accomplished in his life. This, more than anything, made Frank feel his own life had been a futile quest at fulfillment through personal achievement.
The chaplain s
tood before the assemblage of base personnel and their families. Behind him, the open doors of the hangar revealed the vast concrete expanse of the Edwards flight line, much of it obscured by a menacing gray overcast. A light mist floated through the opening, scattering the light and casting gossamer halos about the massive interior fixtures. The chaplain read from the Old Testament and the New Testament. He led them in prayer, his words echoing throughout the immense cathedral of flight. “. . . though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me.”
When the chaplain finished his sermon, he motioned for Frank to come forward. Frank rose stiffly and moved slowly toward the lectern. He had not prepared anything to say. He simply stood before the congregation, and looked into the faces of all those present. He began to speak, as much to himself as anyone else.
“Dale was my friend since we first met in college. Before today, I thought I understood our relationship. You see I always felt I had to look out for Dale. He was younger. Less athletic. Less academically inclined. Less experienced. I felt I had to set the example, to show him the way to a successful life.
“But the funny thing is, it was really him looking out for me. Somehow, he always ended up supporting me, advising me, trying to teach me the important things in life. All along, he was the one setting the example. I didn’t realize this until now. Dale knew the secret to a successful life all along.
“It was not just about sacrificing yourself for a job, a project or a goal. It was about sacrificing of yourself for other people. Understanding not what was important in life, but who. Dale had realized it was his family and his friends. He set the example for all of us.
“It’s a lesson I won’t forget. One I pray his children will carry forward from this day. I wish I could tell him what I’ve finally learned. What he meant to me and everyone who ever knew him.”
Frank fought to express what he was feeling—his own sense of shame, emptiness and sorrow. He was surprised when the words came. “I don’t know how it feels to be content. To be fulfilled and satisfied in one’s life. But Dale knew. He loved and he was loved. I wish I could understand why he was taken from us. Why he was taken from his family.” He paused and lowered his head. “I wish the lesser man had gone down with that jet.”
Frank stepped away from the lectern. He was oblivious to the silent sorrow that brought tears to all those present. He was a fourteen-year-old boy again, uncertain of what to feel. He searched his soul for comfort but found only emptiness.
He looked up to see the base commander kneeling before Rachel Walker. He offered her a folded American flag, which she gently accepted. The general then stood at attention and slowly raised his right arm in a salute to the widow. He held the salute for a long moment of respect and then, ever so slowly, lowered his arm. As his hand fell to his side, the bugler began the playing of taps. The simple notes cut the air, sending a chill through the most hardened of aviators.
As the last note faded, Frank could hear the unmistakable whine of jet engines approaching the hangar. Instinctively, he and the rest of the congregation moved toward the open hangar doors. They scanned the eastern sky for this final tribute to a fallen comrade. There, skimming just below the ragged deck of clouds, appeared the formation of four F-16s. As they approached the center of the hangar, the number three jet abruptly pulled up and disappeared into the vaporous haze. The other three jets continued past, without their missing man.
Frank turned to find Rachel, but he couldn’t see her. A second sound brought his attention back outside. This was a much deeper sound. An unseen rumble that shook the ground and those that stood upon it. From out of the mist, heading straight toward them, was a B-2. It passed directly overhead, a massive dark shadow that dwarfed the gathering of mourners. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Frank headed back into the hangar. He saw Rachel, still seated with Ethan and Emily. He kept his distance as the people filed past, offering their condolences. The young boy held tightly to his mother’s dress, tears streaming down his face. The young girl was in her mother’s arms. Her small face seemed to brighten every time a man in a flight suit passed before her mother. But the moment of joy quickly vanished each time she realized it wasn’t her father.
“Major Farago?”
Frank turned to see Melissa Fairfield.
“Sir, this may not be the best time, but I have to ask you something. It has bothered me ever since the accident.” Her distress was obvious.
“What is it, Melissa?”
“Was Mr. Schmidt right? Should we have brought the jet home after the low level?”
Frank had been asking himself the same question ever since the weather officer had confronted him at the safety board. He didn’t know the answer. He felt he should have prevented the accident, but how?
“I don’t know, Melissa.” He would have left it at that but he could see she was on the verge of tears. “Listen, you did the right thing in the control room that day. All you had to go by was what I told you. What happened may have been waiting to happen for a long time. I just wish I knew what I could have done to stop it.”
His words seemed to help calm her. “What happens now?” she asked.
Frank glanced toward Rachel and the children. “Now, I’m going home.”
Chapter 12
Frank rolled down the car’s window and took a deep breath. The thick Carolina air, heavy with salt, filled his lungs with its timeless purity. Unlike dry west coast air, so devoid of character, the moist breezes of the coastal plain gave a vivid reminder of the vast ocean beyond. The briny atmosphere permeated every part of coastal life and seemed to endow the region, and its inhabitants, with a distinct personality not found in California. Frank put his head back and slowly exhaled.
“Smells like home, doesn’t it?”
Frank turned toward Rachel, whom he thought had been asleep. She had hardly said a word since they left the funeral in Rocky Mount two hours earlier. “Yeah, I’ve missed this salt air. But I never did get to live at the beach.”
Rachel gazed out the windshield and smiled. “I think I spent every summer here growing up. I’m just glad mom is still able to keep a house here.”
Frank also knew that Rachel and Dale first met during one of those long summers at the beach. He glanced down at his dark suit, already dampened by the humid air. The funeral that morning in Dale’s hometown had been difficult for all of them. It seemed the only thing that had gotten Rachel through the last couple of days was the thought of returning to her mother’s home in Nags Head. Everything else had been a blur. Only yesterday they had flown from Los Angeles to Raleigh following the memorial ceremony. Dale’s body had been on that flight as well. They had spent the night in Rocky Mount with Dale’s brother, but after the funeral, Rachel had wanted to leave immediately for the coast. Frank was eager for the escape as well.
Ahead of them, the hazy blue sky began to blend with the deep blue of Croatan Sound. Leaving the mainland behind, they started up the three-mile bridge that spanned the shallow waterway. Frank took another long breath of air and held it. Years of desert grit, encrusted deep within his soul, seemed to melt away as the salty scent flooded his mind. The strong ocean air triggered something in Frank. Long forgotten memories suddenly returned with a startling clarity. Memories of childhood beach trips with his family. He and his sister stretched out in the back of their family station wagon, listening to the lazy drone of their parent’s voices, as they eagerly anticipated the vacation adventures to come. They were good memories. Ones he wished he thought of more often. But memories like muscles fade if not exercised. Even this vivid flashback brought no real sense of his mother’s presence or personality. He glanced over his shoulder into the backseat where Ethan and Emily were just beginning to stir from their sleep. He wondered what they would remember of this day.
The car crested the narrow bridge leading into Roanoke Island, giving Frank his first glimpse of the North Carolina Outer Banks in over ten
years. He leaned his head out of the window, letting the wind whip past his face, stinging his eyes. Beyond the island he could see the narrow strip of sand that separated the Atlantic from the calm inland sounds. Roanoke Island was itself guarded by this fragile barrier of shifting dunes. Over 400 years earlier, the English had first arrived at these Outer Banks, establishing a colony on the tiny island. The inhabitants of that colony had disappeared, though for centuries after, people spoke of gray-eyed Indians living in the area. As a boy, Frank had been fascinated by the story. He remembered digging countless holes in the sand under the hot summer sun, searching for the colonists’ buried treasure.
“Too bad it’s only April. We could have taken the kids to see the Lost Colony,” Frank said, thinking of the summertime outdoor drama that portrayed the mystery of the first English settlement.
When Rachel didn’t immediately respond, Frank realized he may have triggered a painful memory. He looked at her uncertainly, but her smile reassured him.
“It’s OK. Dale and I had talked about taking the kids this summer. I think Ethan would be old enough to enjoy it.”
“I want to go fishing.” Ethan’s small voice surprised them both. “Mr. Frank, will you take me fishing when we get to the beach?”
“I’m sure Mr. Frank would love to take you fishing, Ethan.” Rachel patted Frank’s hand. “You do know how to fish, right?”
“Sure.” Frank suddenly felt slightly off balance. He was being drawn into unfamiliar territory and it was awkward. Though he wanted to enjoy their company, he couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in this family’s life.
Frank continued to drive through the picturesque town of Manteo. They quickly reached the east shore of the island, crossing a final bridge into the small fishing village of Whalebone. Here, Highway 64, the winding country road that traverses the entire state of North Carolina, concluded its journey in view of the pounding Atlantic surf.
“Is that the ocean mommy?”
Spirit Flight Page 6
