by D F Capps
What’s gotten into her? Diane wondered. She’s never been religious, she never believed in a devil. Why was she now talking about an evil in the world that I have to confront, battle, and overcome? Could this, too, be from the pain meds?
Her mother looked up at the ceiling and started breathing harder.
“What is it, Mom? Do you need help?” Worry flooded into Diane’s mind as a feeling of helplessness filled her chest.
“Frank,” her mother said softly, raising her right arm into the air, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “The light.”
Diane looked around the room. “What light?” Frank was her father’s name. “Where’s Frank?” Worry quickly escalated into dread.
Her mother pointed at the ceiling. “Frank.”
Diane glanced at the ceiling, then back at her mom. The heart monitor went erratic and a male nurse rushed into the room.
“What’s going on?” Diane asked, trying to control the urgency in her voice. “Who’s Frank?”
“It’s her time,” he replied nervously.
The line showing her mother’s heart beat diminished in strength, slowed, and then flatlined.
“Mom, no . . .”
Tears filled Diane’s eyes as her mother’s arm fell silently to the bed. A long, slow exhalation issued from her mother’s mouth. Overwhelming grief filled Diane’s chest as she watched the nurse check her mother for a pulse. He then put a stethoscope to her mother’s chest and listened for a minute. Diane felt a rising panic within her heart as the nurse looked at the clock on the wall and entered the time of death on her mother’s chart.
“I’m so sorry. You can stay as long as you like,” he said as he left the room.
Overwhelmed with panic and loss, Diane grabbed her purse, bolted down the short hall, through the small lobby, and out into the freezing night air. She ran through the drifting snow to her rental car, slid inside, and slammed the door. Here, in the darkness and privacy of the car, she could let loose, wail, and weep for the second major loss in her life.
After thirty minutes she had calmed and regained her composure. She started the engine and waited for the warmth to come from the heater.
Why did she abandon me? How could she leave me alone like this? What am I supposed to do now? Questions and uncertainty swirled in her mind, but no answers were forthcoming. How could she betray me like this? She was supposed to always be here, strong and steady for me whenever I needed her. She wasn’t supposed to die!
The warm air blasting from the heater gradually returned her to the present moment. She put the car in gear and drove slowly to the hotel. Once in her room she changed into her pajamas and fell into bed. Emotionally spent and physically exhausted she quickly fell asleep.
Her mother appeared to her, younger, healthy, and confident. A tall, thin man in a light gray suit wearing a fedora hat stood behind her mother.
“It’s okay, Di, I’m fine,” her mother said. “And you will be just fine, too. You’ll see.” Her mother was smiling as she turned and glanced back at the man. “Frank was here to greet me. He explained what the evil in the world is. You’re going to have to be strong and fearless, Di, just the way I raised you. We know you will be courageous and wise. You will have friends to help you along the way. Be true to yourself and your new friends. Remember, the future depends on you.”
Diane woke and sat straight up in bed, breathing hard. She looked, bewildered, at the hotel room around her. It was a dream, she thought. It was just a dream. She got up and wandered into the bathroom, turned on the light, blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness, and looked at herself in the mirror. She kept her brunette hair short and straight. At five-eight and a hundred and forty pounds she was muscular and fit.
“It was just a dream,” she affirmed to herself. But it seemed so real—more real than anything she had experienced in her life. If it felt so real, how could it be only a dream? She returned to bed, but sleep would not come to her. She tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. Nothing was working. She went over the dream repeatedly in her mind: analyzing, dissecting, and evaluating every nuance, each word, and possible implication. Her mind raced at warp speed, as it always did, through endless details and multiple layers of possible hidden meanings. By four in the morning, fatigue finally dragged her back to sleep.
Chapter 3
Diane spent the next few days making arrangements for her mother’s funeral, notifying her mother’s friends, and talking to the lawyer about the will and her mother’s modest estate. From the time Diane was a small child, her mother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her. Now, assuming the duties for her mother’s final arrangements actually brought a much needed feeling of peace and control back into her life.
The funeral was held on Tuesday afternoon. The service began at the funeral home, then continued on to the cemetery for the internment. Diane completed the last of the details in Minneapolis and then boarded a Delta Airlines flight to San Diego, California.
Once back at Naval Air Station North Island on Coronado, she rested for the night in her officer’s quarters and reported for duty the following morning to Commander Chase, Carrier Air Wing Fourteen, Strike Fighter Squadron 147.
“I expected you to take more time, Lieutenant,” Commander Chase said. “You feel ready to return to duty?”
She smiled and stood tall. “Yes, sir. Flying is the best therapy for me, sir.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said. He looked down at the sheet of paper on his desk. “There’s just one thing you need to do first.”
This was a new wrinkle, she thought. “What’s that, sir?”
“A Dr. Cowen has requested that you have an evaluation as soon as possible. Once that’s completed, we can talk.”
An evaluation? she wondered. “Medical, sir?”
Commander Chase shook his head. “Psychological, actually. It’s a matter of some urgency. You are to report to him without delay.” He handed her a card with Dr. Cowen’s name and office number printed neatly in the center.
She took the card and examined it. “Yes, sir.” Psychological? she wondered. What the hell is going on? Do they think I’m unfit to fly because my mother died?
She walked over to the medical building and looked for Dr. Cowen’s name on the building registry. Not listed. He must be new, she thought. She walked up the stairs to the second floor, located the office printed on the card, and entered. The Navy nurse receptionist looked up at her as she entered, apparently wondering what Diane wanted.
“Lieutenant Zadanski, reporting as ordered.”
“Yes, of course,” the nurse replied. “He’s consulting at the moment. I’ll call him.” The nurse picked up the phone, punched in the number, looked over at Diane, and smiled. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Zadanski is here.” She listened. “Yes, sir.” She hung up. “You can wait in his office. He’s on his way.” The nurse opened the door to the inner office, motioned Diane to enter, and sit in the padded chair in front of the doctor’s desk. “He’ll be right with you.” The nurse left and gently closed the door.
Diane looked around the office. Diplomas and certifications lined the wall behind the desk, but the name wasn’t Cowen, it was Gentry. The wall on the left was filled with medical books and journals, all specializing in the various disorders of the mind. She frowned and thought, I was on compassionate leave for a week. Just what do they think happened to me?
The door opened and a man in a white lab coat walked in. He was trim, with a round face, wire-rimmed glasses, and a bald head sporting a shallow ring of gray hair that ran just above his protruding ears. A gold oak-leaf cluster pinned to his shirt lapel identified him as a Navy commander.
“I’m Dr. Cowen,” he said, extending his hand. She shook hands, wondering what was coming next. He walked around the desk and sat down. “I understand your mother died recently. How do you feel about that?”
How does he think I feel about that? she wondered. “Disappointed. She was only forty-six. Ovarian cancer.”
He grimaced and nodded slightly. “You feel a sense of loss?” Dr. Cowen asked.
She frowned a little. Is this all he wanted to know? she wondered. He could’ve asked me that on a phone call.
“Yes. She was my only family.”
He looked over his glasses at her.
“Do you feel disoriented or overwhelmed?”
He seemed almost as bored as she was with the questions so far.
“Not really. Her death came as quite a shock to me. I was angry at first, but going through the process of tying up all of the loose ends of her life helped me put her death in some kind of perspective. I’m doing better now.”
He looked down at the file on his desk. “Do you feel depressed?”
“No.” What was he doing? she wondered.
“Are you experiencing a lack of energy or motivation?”
He made eye contact again.
“No.” She glanced around the room and wished this whole interview was over.
“Any difficulty sleeping?”
She looked up. “No. I just want to get back in the air. I want to fly my Super Hornet again.”
He looked at the folder again. “I noticed in your file that you went through the Naval Strike and Air Warfare Center in Fallon Nevada.”
“Top Gun,” Diane replied. The change in subject had her curiosity piqued.
“Yes. I see that you graduated at the top of your class.”
He watched her closely as she answered.
Diane nodded. “In a fighter jet, it’s not about size or strength, it’s all about how fast your mind processes information, observes your surroundings, creates situational awareness, and how fast your body reacts.”
“You didn’t mention intuition,” Dr. Cowen said, glancing again at the file on his desk. “The evaluation from Top Gun indicated a high degree of intuitive accuracy in your actions.”
“Did it?” she asked. She hadn’t seen the actual evaluation, just that she was the best pilot in the eight-week air combat training school. “I just thought I was good at guessing what people would do next.”
Dr. Cowen smiled. “How do you feel about being the first woman to fly a combat aircraft for the Navy?”
She frowned a little, wondering where he was going with these questions.
“It’s an honor. I believe the Navy struggled as hard with me becoming a combat pilot as I did getting here. I think, in the end, both the Navy and I are satisfied with the results.”
He leaned back and tipped his head slightly.
“So tell me, why do you want to fly in combat?”
“It’s the greatest challenge I can imagine. It’s what gets me up in the morning,” she said. She smiled at him, trying to convince him there was nothing else to it. She glanced to the left and then reestablished eye contact with him.
That wasn’t her entire reason for flying. Yes, it was challenging, but how could she explain her obsession with flying in combat because her brother was abducted? It was her only real chance of getting close to one of those UFOs again. Only this time, she wouldn’t be standing helpless on the ground. This time she’d at least have an arsenal of modern weapons she could use.
I can’t mention UFOs, she thought. They wouldn’t understand. If they know I’ve encountered a real flying saucer, I’ll lose my certification to fly. They’ll think I’m mentally unstable.
Dr. Cowen’s face had an odd intensity to it as he studied her. She was left with the feeling that he didn’t believe her—that he knew she was withholding something about her motivation to fly in combat. Finally, he nodded slightly.
“How do you feel about shooting down an enemy craft?” he asked.
Good, she thought. He was moving on. Either he decided to believe her or it didn’t matter.
“It’s what I live for,” she said.
He leaned forward and stared at her.
“What about killing the pilots in enemy crafts?”
He seemed genuinely curious about how she would answer.
“If they don’t want to die in fighter planes, they shouldn’t be flying them.”
No nod, no acknowledgement, just the next question. “No feelings of regret for killing the pilot of an enemy craft?”
What’s he doing referring to an enemy plane as a craft? she thought. The only things we fly are airplanes.
“No.”
“You fly a Super Hornet,” Dr. Cowen said, glancing at the file again. “They fly at over Mach two. How do you feel about that level of speed?”
Now she was definitely curious. “I’m fine with it.”
“You’re comfortable with speeds like that?” His expression was getting more intense.
“Yes, as I said, it’s about the speed at which your mind processes information.”
This conversation had come a long way from how she felt about the death of her mother.
“And at fourteen to fifteen hundred miles an hour, your mind has no problem processing things that happen at that speed?”
He was leading up to something, but what? “No problem,” she replied.
“Do you ever wish you could fly faster?”
The question took her by surprise. “Yes,” she said. Where was he going with this? The SR-91 Aurora flies at Mach six, but that’s a high altitude reconnaissance plane, not a combat fighter.
Dr. Cowen shifted in his chair. “How dedicated are you to flying in combat?”
Dedicated? She frowned a little. “What do you mean?”
“In Top Gun, you flew against one other plane, sometimes two opponents. My question is—would you fly into combat against one or more opponents where your chance of survival was minimal?”
She settled back in her chair. “I think that would depend on what was at stake. Combat isn’t something you take on casually.”
“What if the survival of your country was at stake? Would you fly into combat even if the odds of your living through it were zero?”
She looked at him feeling stunned and thought, What in hell is going on?
“What would you do? Decide, right now!” he shouted.
She was startled. He appeared intense, but not angry.
“I’d take as many of the bastards with me as I could,” she stated firmly.
“You’re not afraid to die?”
His intensity held without wavering. This whole interview took a nasty turn in her mind. “It’s not my first preference, but if I have to go, flying in combat would be my choice.”
Dr. Cowen studied her face intently for several minutes. She stared back at him, confident in her decision.
“Okay. Report back to Commander Chase. You’re being reassigned.” He closed the file.
What the hell just happened? “Reassigned to where?” she asked.
“Thank you for your openness and honesty. We’ll be talking more later.” He stood, walked over to the door, opened it, and motioned for her to leave.
“I don’t understand.” Her mind searched for a reason, but came up empty.
“It’s okay. You will. All in good time.” He smiled at her as she walked past him into the hallway.
She walked back to the administration building deep in thought. She initially believed the psych evaluation had been about her emotional stability following the death of her mother. Now it was clear there was another, less obvious, purpose behind Dr. Cowen’s questions. She felt as if something important had just happened, but she couldn’t fathom what it might be. She was still lost in thought when she entered Commander Chase’s office.
“You have three weeks of leave accumulated,” Commander Chase said. “Do you want to take that leave before you report to your new duty station?”
Her thoughts were still swimming in her head. “No. Where am I being assigned?”
He looked down at the sheet of paper on his desk. “New Mexico.”
You’ve got to be kidding me, she thought. “There’s a Naval Air Station in New Mexico?”
He looked at the paper again. A p
uzzled expression worked its way onto his face.
“I can’t imagine there’s an aircraft carrier there,” she said flatly. What in the world were they doing to her?
“It’s classified,” he said.
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. Not a good sign, she thought. “You can’t give me a hint?”
“I would if I could.” He finally looked up at her. “There’s no destination on your orders, just a travel voucher to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Apparently where you’re going, and what you’ll be doing, is beyond my level of security clearance.” He held out his hand. “It’s been an honor having you in my squadron, Lieutenant, and wherever you go, I wish you the very best of luck.”
This can’t be happening, she thought. It just can’t. She reluctantly shook hands and took her new orders from him. She was booked on a commercial flight out of San Diego at four that afternoon.
Chapter 4
Admiral Howard J. Hollis sat quietly on the couch in the Oval Office of the White House reviewing the recent addition to his new team, a talented Navy lieutenant from Strike Fighter Squadron 147, based on the USS Ronald Reagan out of San Diego. He stood, as President Andrews entered.
“Howie, how’s our project doing?”
Andrews paced nervously in front of his desk.
“We’re making good progress, sir. The technology is almost there. The people are the best of the best. Still working on strategy and tactics, I’m afraid, but desperate times demand desperate measures.”
Andrews paused and looked at Hollis. “How did the test of the particle beam cannon work out?” Andrews sat on the couch, with the seal of the president woven into the carpeting between them.
“Everything is finally working properly. Effective range is two hundred miles. I have seven specialized ships being fitted with the new cannons. They can be launched in a week to ten days. The ships can stay in international waters and still provide protection for the weapon transmitters in São Luis, Brazil; Lima, Peru; Iceland; India; Indonesia; and Tromso, Norway. The cannons are also being installed to protect transmitters in Wales, West Australia, Alaska, and the Antarctic as we speak.”
