She took the wheel gingerly and waggled it experimentally. “Oh, Toad! It’s terrific! It flies great.”
“Anything that gets you off the ground is a great airplane.” He gave her the course he wanted and checked that the IFF was properly set.
Upward they climbed. They circled south of the metropolitan Washington area and headed eastward across the Chesapeake at 5,500 feet, 105 knots indicated. The engine was loud, but not unpleasantly so.
Rita flew with a smile, occasionally waggling the wings or kicking the rudder, just to see how it felt. She made gentle coordinated climbing and descending turns as Toad monitored the engine instruments, swept the sky for other airplanes, and kept track of their position with the VOR needles. Still, 105 knots was not warp speed, so between all these tasks he had time to watch the boats on the Chesapeake a mile below. They were small, trailing short wakes on the great blue water, under the great blue sky.
The wind helped the plane eastward. About fifteen knots of wind from the northwest, Toad figured. Approaching the eastern shore of Maryland, he could see smoke rising skyward from odd smokestacks and bending with the wind as it drifted aloft.
Rita signaled that he should take the controls, and he did. She sat back in her seat and watched him fly. Somewhere over eastern Maryland she began to laugh.
What began as a giggle quickly became an eye-watering gut buster. Toad joined in. Together they laughed until they had tears in their eyes. When they had melted themselves down to wide grins, she ran her fingers through his hair as he continued his impersonation of Orville Wright, Glenn Curtiss and Eddie Rickenbacker, Douglas McCampbell and Randy Cunningham, Jake Grafton and Rita Moravia and all the rest, all those who were only truly alive when they had a stick in their hand and the airplane was a part of them.
Finally she devoted her attention to the sky and the green earth spread out below. When he next looked at her she wore a gentle, contented smile. She seemed very much at peace.
I must always remember her this way, he thought, with the sun on her face and the blue sky behind her, happy and content.
The field at Rehoboth was grass. Toad held the plane off until the stall warning sounded, and after the main mounts kissed, he held the weight off the nose with full back elevator until he had slowed to the speed of a man walking.
Jake Grafton was leaning on the fence, watching them taxi in. Toad flapped a hand. The captain waved back.
“Have a good flight?” Jake asked after Toad killed the engine and climbed out.
“The best. No lie, sir, this was the finest flight of my life.”
“’Lo, Rita. Was he safe?”
She laughed and grasped Toad’s hand. “I’ll fly with him anytime.”
At the Graftons’ house Callie led Rita upstairs, where she stretched out in Amy’s bed, at Amy’s proud insistence. Callie seized the girl’s hand and led her from the room, closing the door behind them. “You can visit with her all you want when she wakes. She’s very tired right now.”
“I’m going to be just like her when I grow up,” Amy announced, not for the first time.
“You already are, Amy. I think you’re sisters at heart.”
They had finished dinner and Jake and Toad were sipping coffee as Callie, Rita, and Amy rinsed the dishes and arranged them in the dishwasher when the phone rang. Callie answered it in the kitchen, then stuck her head around the corner and said, “It’s for you, Jake.”
He took the call on the phone in the living room.
“Captain, this is George Ludlow. Sorry to disturb you at home.”
“Quite all right, sir.”
“Just wanted you to know. We have a new man ordered in as the prospective program manager. Rear Admiral Harry Church. He’ll arrive Wednesday. I want you to do the turnover by December 15.”
“Aye aye, sir. But this is pretty quick, isn’t it? I’ve only been at this job nine months or so and am not due for orders for another—”
“You’re going to the staff of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. From your record, it looks as if you’ve never had a joint staff tour. CNO wants you to get one now so they can send you to a task group when you make rear admiral.”
“Rear admiral? I thought—”
“CNO thinks you’re flag material. For what it’s worth, two senators and three congressmen have mentioned you to me this past month. They want to see your name on the flag list next year or the year after. I concur. Wholeheartedly. So does Royce Caplinger. The CNO personally picked this billet for you.”
After a few pleasantries, they said goodbye. Jake hung up, slightly stunned. Callie glanced at him and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but he shrugged and grinned. He would tell her later, when they were alone.
The phone rang again. “Is Amy there?” The voice was high, well modulated. David, from down the street.
“Amy, it’s for you.”
Jake resumed his seat at the table. He was only half listening when he heard Amy say, “I’ll have to ask my dad.” She held the phone at arm’s length and said loudly, “Jake, can I go over to David’s?”
“Sure. Be back in about an hour or so and you can go with us when we take Rita and Toad back to the airport.”
“Can David come too?”
“Yep.”
She held the phone to her ear. “My dad says I can come over. And you can go with us to the airport. See you in a sec.” She threw the instrument roughly onto its cradle and bolted, elbows flying.
“Wear your coat,” Callie called.
The youngster snagged the garment from the peg and charged for the door, yelling over her shoulder, “See you later, Rita.” The door slammed shut behind her.
“You get that?” Toad asked Jake with a grin. “Dad?”
“Yeah,” said Jake Grafton. He stretched hugely. “It’s a nice sound, isn’t it?”
One Thursday in February, Admiral Church, the new project manager, called Toad to his office. Tarkington was one of only three officers in the office this day: everyone else was somewhere in Texas or Nevada or over at the Pentagon. The first production A-12 was due to roll out next week and everyone was swamped with work. Although Washington was suffering one of its rare blizzards, the navy was steaming as before. The Metro wasn’t running and all nonessential government employees had the day off. Only one of the civil service secretaries had made it to the office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. We got a call from the D.C. police. They would like one of the officers to drop by D.C. General this afternoon. If you can spare the time, would you go, please.”
“Yes, sir. Did they say what this is all about?”
“No, they didn’t. But they wanted an officer from this unit. Ask for a Dr. Wagner. And brief me in the morning, will you?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
As Toad approached the reception desk at D.C. General Hospital, he brushed the snow from his coat and shook the moisture from his cover. He explained his errand to the receptionist. She busied herself with the telephone buttons and he watched the flakes fall outside the front door while he absently pulled off his black leather gloves and placed them in the left pocket of his navy-blue bridge coat. The white scarf around his neck he folded and tucked into the other pocket. Finally he removed the coat and hung it over his arm. His hat he retrieved from the counter and held in his left hand.
“A navy officer…” the receptionist was telling someone. “…Dr. Wagner.”
The snow had been falling for two days. The sailor from Minnesota who had driven him here had had numerous pithy comments about the locals’ ability to drive on icy, snow-packed streets. The hospital staff, Toad noted with a trace of satisfaction, was apparently as indifferent to the edicts of the transportation authorities as Admiral Church was.
“Take the elevator on that wall. Third floor, turn left, then left again, fourth or fifth door on the right. I think.”
“I’ll find it.”
She smiled and fielded another phone cal
l. Toad went to the bank of elevators and jabbed a button.
Wagner was in his early fifties, with thin, iron-gray hair and an air of nervous energy. He seemed fit and agile in spite of the rather prominent tummy he sported.
“You from the A-12 program?”
“Yessir.”
“Know why we asked you to come over?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“Put your coat and hat on this chair. And do sit down.” Dr. Wagner hefted a pile of files to make room, then quickly surveyed the office for an empty spot. He placed the files on a corner of his desk, then took the remaining unoccupied seat. The chair behind the desk already contained a heap of paper a foot thick.
Wagner glanced at Toad’s uniform, then spoke. “Terrible weather. Plays havoc with the street people. Police and charities are scooping them up as fast as they can and bringing the ones in need of medical attention here.”
Toad nodded politely, wondering what this had to do with the navy.
“Got a case in last week during that terrible cold snap, those nights when it got down almost to zero. Just terrible.” He shook his head. “Wreck of a man. Had to amputate all his fingers and toes. Did save the stump of one thumb. He was dying of hypothermia, gangrene, and alcohol poisoning when the police found him. And we had to amputate his ears, the tip of his nose, and a portion of his lower lip. They were gangrenous when we got him, probably from damage during that storm at the end of January.”
Seeing the look on Toad’s face, the doctor added, “Amazingly enough, I think he’s out of danger now. His liver—well, usually these alcoholics have a liver the size and consistency of a football, but this one doesn’t. Damaged, of course, but not yet fatally so.”
“Amazing.”
“Yep. Anyway, this man is, of course, incoherent most of the time, but he has lucid moments occasionally. We thought you might be able to identify him.”
Toad smiled his doubt. “We have our share of party animals in the navy, but we haven’t misplaced any from our office lately.”
“No fingerprints to match, of course,” the doctor said. “No fingers. No wallet, no ID, no jewelry, but he is somebody. It’s a long shot, I know.”
“Has he given a name?”
“No. He keeps talking about a woman, probably a wife or daughter. Judy. Never gives her last name. And this only during coherent moments. There aren’t all that many of those.”
Toad Tarkington felt hot. He tugged at his tie.
“You must see quite a few of these folks,” he managed.
“Yes. Schizophrenics, most of them. Mental illness complicated by alcoholism and drug addiction. What say we go look? You’re busy and I don’t want to keep you. Not a chance in a thousand, I know.”
Toad lurched to his feet and arranged his coat and hat on his arm.
“How do you know,” he asked as they walked the corridor, “that these derelicts aren’t criminals?”
“No doubt some of them are. Petty thieves and whatnot. But the prosecutors have bigger fish to fry. And even if we found a man they wanted to prosecute, he’d probably be incompetent to stand trial.”
“I see.”
“We’d have to send them to St. Elizabeth’s for treatment and evaluation, hoping they could get well enough to understand the charges against them and assist in their defense.”
“Very civilized,” Toad said.
“I detect a note of irony there.” The medical man paused at the fire door of a staircase with his hand on the knob. “Actually all these derelicts should be in an institution. They are completely incapable of looking after themselves. The lawyers and judges—they are such asses.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Unless someone is being held for trial, we must go to the courts and seek an involuntary commitment order. We must prove the person we wish to commit is a danger to himself or others. Assuming the judge agrees, we can hold the man for six months. Then there is another hearing on precisely the same issue. And a group of public-interest lawyers have dedicated themselves to representing these people for nothing. The attorneys, all with the best of intentions, do their absolute damnedest to get these sick people out of the institutional setting and right back onto the streets, where they can drink and starve themselves to death.”
“What a great country,” Toad muttered.
The doctor opened the door and led the way down the stairs. “In America these days, freedom for those who are functionally disabled, incapable of keeping body and soul together, means the freedom to commit suicide with a bottle on a public sidewalk while the world walks around them. The politicians ignore the problem: these people don’t vote. There is no problem, the lawyers say.
Vagrancy and alcoholism aren’t crimes, the judges say. Nothing can be done.”
“This man we’re going to see—is he dangerous?”
“Only to himself. And the lawyers and judges would disagree.”
They were in a corridor now, proceeding past double swinging doors with little windows that opened onto wards. Toad could see the patients in the beds, smell the disinfectant. Nurses hustled by. He could hear people moaning, and from somewhere a man roaring common obscenities in a mindless chant, the mantra of the insane.
“What will become of him?”
“When the bandages come off? Oh, we’ll ship him over to St. Elizabeth’s and they’ll try for an involuntary commitment, and who knows, they may get lucky. But in six months, or a year, or a year and a half, the judge will turn him loose. He’ll drink himself to death in an alley. Or die some winter night when the police are late coming by.”
The doctor turned left and went through a door.
The patient was staring at a spot on the ceiling over the bed. Both arms were bandaged to the elbows. Lumps, bandages probably, under the covers where his feet were.
A chunk of his lower lip was missing. The cavity had stitches at the bottom of it. Bandages on both ears and nose; a strip of tape went completely around his head to hold them in place. He was secured to the bed by a cloth harness.
“You have to get over here, where he will see you. I think the alcohol has destroyed a lot of his peripheral vision.” The doctor led the hesitant lieutenant to where he wanted him, then waved his hand in front of the patient’s eyes.
The eyes moved. They traveled up the hand to the doctor’s face. Then they moved to Toad, focusing on the dark, navy-blue uniform.
The man in the bed tried to speak.
“Take your time,” the doctor said. “Tell us who you are.”
“Uh…uh…”
“What is your name? Please tell us your name.”
“Uh…” He stared at the uniform, at the ribbons, at the wings, at the brass buttons, at the gold rings on the sleeves. “Ju-dee. Ju-dee.” His gaze was fixated on the gleaming wings.
“There he goes again,” the doctor said to Toad. “Sometimes he mumbles about A-12. That could be an apartment, of course, but I remembered seeing all that stuff in the papers about the navy’s new airplane, so I decided to call you. A long shot.” The doctor sighed. “I do wish I knew who his Judy is. Maybe a daughter who’d like to take care of him, or at least know where he is. She’s obviously someone he cares about.” His voice became brisk, business-like: “So, do you recognize him?”
Toad Tarkington stared at the man in the bed as he weighed it: three squares a day in a nice warm cell for thirty or forty years, or an alcoholic’s death in a frozen alley.
At last he said, “I never saw him before in my life.”
A BIOGRAPHY OF STEPHEN COONTS
Stephen Coonts is a New York Times bestselling author of twenty-eight thriller, suspense, and nonfiction titles, including the blockbuster techno-thriller The Intruders (1994).
Born in 1946, Coonts grew up in Buckhannon, West Virginia, a small coalmining town in the western foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. His father, Gilbert, was a lawyer and his mother, Violet, was a schoolteacher and painter. He attended college at West Virgini
a University, graduating with a bachelor’s degree in political science in 1968. Following graduation, he joined the Navy and moved to Pensacola, Florida, to begin flight training at the age of twenty-two. He was stationed on the USS Enterprise for two combat cruises in the final years of the Vietnam War and flew an A-6 Intruder attack plane, an aircraft featured in many of his early novels. After completing a tour aboard the USS Nimitz, Coonts left active duty with an honorable discharge in 1977, having achieved the rank of lieutenant.
Coonts then moved to Colorado and worked as a taxi driver and police officer before enrolling in law school at the University of Colorado. He practiced law throughout his thirties while still enjoying his greatest hobby: aviation. In 1986, he published his highly successful debut, The Flight of the Intruder, which spent twenty-eight weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.
Coonts’s debut borrows heavily from his own experiences as a combat pilot, and the novel is rich in the technical details of aviation and warfare. Nine of Coonts’s subsequent thrillers star pilot Jake Grafton, the hero of The Flight of the Intruder, beginning with Final Flight (1988). Many of them have also appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. Through the course of the books Jake Grafton flies combat missions in the Gulf War and later becomes a CIA agent. He matches up against Soviet spies, terrorists, and, in Under Siege (1990), Colombian drug lords. In The Intruders (1994), Coonts delivers a sequel to his wildly popular debut, returning to Grafton’s last missions as a pilot in the Vietnam War.
Aside from the Jake Grafton books, Coonts has penned a number of successful series and stand-alone titles. Many of his recent novels feature Tommy Carmellini, a Jake Grafton protégé. Coonts has also branched out into science fiction with Saucer (2002), and has cowritten a series of high-tech espionage thrillers starting with Deep Black (2003). His nonfiction writing includes The Cannibal Queen (1992), a travelogue of Coonts’s summer spent crisscrossing the continental U.S. in a WWII-era biplane, often with his teenage son David as a companion.
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