ninth-inning home run.”
Howe nodded. He wasn’t much of a baseball fan.
He also wasn’t much of a late-night visitor.
“Come on in,” said Bonham. “Drink?”
Bonham walked to the small bookcase where he kept a bottle of Scotch.
“No, thanks. I’m flying tomorrow.”
“You’re flying?”
“That’s why I came over,” said Howe. “The engineers want to put Bird One through its paces, and I’m going to do it.”
Bonham poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch into a tumbler, then went to the small refrigerator he kept in the corner of the room. The tiny ice tray in the unit’s freezer was about three-quarters full; he popped out two cubes and put it back.
“Have a seat, Tom. Take a load off.”
The sides of the small, foam-cushioned chair seemed to pop out as Howe sat on it, as if it were a balloon. Howe shifted uncomfortably, right leg over left, then left over right, then back. Bonham thought to himself that he would not have wanted to trade places with the colonel, who until a few days ago seemed to be riding the career rocket to a general’s star and beyond.
Bonham liked Howe. He was a good, competent officer, and while more than a bit impatient with the bureaucratic side of the job—almost a given for anyone with the flying background Howe had—he made up for it by delegating those responsibilities to people who could handle them.
A little unimaginative. But that could be a useful flaw. Bonham would see that his career wasn’t screwed by this. A few bumps, admittedly—Gorman was just the start—but with patience it could be overcome.
Hard for Howe to know that now, though. Surely he had no reason to be optimistic.
“Tough to lose a wingmate,” Bonham offered.
“Yeah,” said Howe.
“And Ms. York. I know you two were close.” Bonham swirled his Scotch, then took a long sip. Either because of the drink or the hangdog look on Howe’s face, he suddenly felt paternal. “We get through the inquiry stage, people are going to understand that what we do here is loaded with danger. Tragedy, people will understand. This isn’t a normal situation,” said Bonham. “It’ll be taken into account. You’ll probably be commended for saving the plane.”
Howe gave him a wan smile, surely not believing him.
“You know, when I was a young buck, we lost a Phantom over Alaska,” said Bonham, playing the old soldier who’s seen everything. “Didn’t find it until two years later. Person who found it, flying one of those old Otters or whatever the hell it was they call those things. Utter accident.”
The story wasn’t completely apocryphal; there had indeed been a crash in Alaska, though not while Bonham was there, and not by a Phantom. It had, however, taken considerable time to find, and Bonham knew enough details to use the story to make his point. And the Scotch warmed his mouth and throat in a way that he really, truly wanted to cheer the colonel up.
“Thing is, it can take forever in that wilderness to find a crash. We will eventually,” said Bonham.
“It’s odd that there was no satellite coverage,” said Howe.
The statement seemed particularly pointed. Bonham got up and refilled his drink.
“I guess they took that one out for repair or whatever,” said Bonham. “There are satellites, though. With the weather, where you were operating, they couldn’t see anything. From what Colonel Gorman told me, they have ample assets for the search. We’ll find it eventually. It takes time.”
“Has Fisher spoken to you?”
“The FBI agent?”
“He asked me if Williams needed money.”
Bonham laughed. “What, did he think he crashed on purpose?”
He shook his head as he drank the Scotch. A real bee, that FBI bastard.
“Listen, Tom, I wouldn’t worry about the investigators, especially the FBI and CID people. They run around, kick over chairs, stir up dust, see what happens. This Fisher—he’s probably just trying to rile you.”
Howe rose. “Well, I just wanted to
Howe nodded. He wasn’t much of a baseball fan.
He also wasn’t much of a late-night visitor.
“Come on in,” said Bonham. “Drink?”
Bonham walked to the small bookcase where he kept a bottle of Scotch.
“No, thanks. I’m flying tomorrow.”
“You’re flying?”
“That’s why I came over,” said Howe. “The engineers want to put Bird One through its paces, and I’m going to do it.”
Bonham poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch into a tumbler, then went to the small refrigerator he kept in the corner of the room. The tiny ice tray in the unit’s freezer was about three-quarters full; he popped out two cubes and put it back.
“Have a seat, Tom. Take a load off.”
The sides of the small, foam-cushioned chair seemed to pop out as Howe sat on it, as if it were a balloon. Howe shifted uncomfortably, right leg over left, then left over right, then back. Bonham thought to himself that he would not have wanted to trade places with the colonel, who until a few days ago seemed to be riding the career rocket to a general’s star and beyond.
Bonham liked Howe. He was a good, competent officer, and while more than a bit impatient with the bureaucratic side of the job—almost a given for anyone with the flying background Howe had—he made up for it by delegating those responsibilities to people who could handle them.
A little unimaginative. But that could be a useful flaw. Bonham would see that his career wasn’t screwed by this. A few bumps, admittedly—Gorman was just the start—but with patience it could be overcome.
Hard for Howe to know that now, though. Surely he had no reason to be optimistic.
“Tough to lose a wingmate,” Bonham offered.
“Yeah,” said Howe.
“And Ms. York. I know you two were close.” Bonham swirled his Scotch, then took a long sip. Either because of the drink or the hangdog look on Howe’s face, he suddenly felt paternal. “We get through the inquiry stage, people are going to understand that what we do here is loaded with danger. Tragedy, people will understand. This isn’t a normal situation,” said Bonham. “It’ll be taken into account. You’ll probably be commended for saving the plane.”
Howe gave him a wan smile, surely not believing him.
“You know, when I was a young buck, we lost a Phantom over Alaska,” said Bonham, playing the old soldier who’s seen everything. “Didn’t find it until two years later. Person who found it, flying one of those old Otters or whatever the hell it was they call those things. Utter accident.”
The story wasn’t completely apocryphal; there had indeed been a crash in Alaska, though not while Bonham was there, and not by a Phantom. It had, however, taken considerable time to find, and Bonham knew enough details to use the story to make his point. And the Scotch warmed his mouth and throat in a way that he really, truly wanted to cheer the colonel up.
“Thing is, it can take forever in that wilderness to find a crash. We will eventually,” said Bonham.
“It’s odd that there was no satellite coverage,” said Howe.
The statement seemed particularly pointed. Bonham got up and refilled his drink.
“I guess they took that one out for repair or whatever,” said Bonham. “There are satellites, though. With the weather, where you were operating, they couldn’t see anything. From what Colonel Gorman told me, they have ample assets for the search. We’ll find it eventually. It takes time.”
“Has Fisher spoken to you?”
“The FBI agent?”
“He asked me if Williams needed money.”
Bonham laughed. “What, did he think he crashed on purpose?”
He shook his head as he drank the Scotch. A real bee, that FBI bastard.
“Listen, Tom, I wouldn’t worry about the investigators, especially the FBI and CID people. They run around, kick over chairs, stir up dust, see what happens. This Fisher—he’s probably just trying to rile you.”
Howe rose. “Well, I just wanted to
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