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  “Pull straight back into your lap and crosscheck your G-meter,” Rawlings said with a grunt, while he shadowed Jason’s control inputs.

  Jason saw the G-meter read three-point-five G’s and he relaxed the stick pressure to three G’s. The jet flew up and over the top, Jason grinned as he viewed the world upside down. He pulled out of the maneuver fast and off-center, with his wings cocked at thirty degrees.

  “Not too bad for the first time,” Rawlings said and shook the stick. “I have the aircraft.”

  “Roger, you have the aircraft,” Jason said as he walked the rudder pedals.

  They stayed in the MOA for another twenty minutes. The instructor demonstrated various maneuvers before they returned to Eastside. They flew several overhead patterns, used to expedite takeoff and landing practice. When the flight ended, an elated Jason bounced out of the aircraft. He didn’t get sick, he didn’t pass out, and he had flown a military jet. Baby steps.

  7

  August 14, 1995

  * * *

  JASON CLIMBED IN HIS 1965 Ford Mustang and turned the ignition. The canary yellow frame shook as the engine roared to life and he backed out of his parking space. He bought the car as a freshman in college, and it had been a project of his to restore it over the years. It was one of the few items he managed to keep after his divorce.

  Life started to improve . . . for a Monday. He had his dollar ride and it had been a good first day in the jet, especially after his standup EP disaster on Friday. To make things better, after he’d met Kathy on Friday, he went back to Chicaros on Saturday and she agreed to have dinner with him tonight. A daring move on his part; and it paid off.

  The sky touched the ground from the horizon in the east to the setting sun in the west. A beautiful sight. The sparsely populated flatlands of northwest Oklahoma always made a stable foreground for a sunset on a clear night. The stars would be out soon, spreading from the earth to the top of the sky and back again, each more distinct than the next.

  Jason’s car raced north along the deserted street out of town toward Kathy’s house. It wasn’t a long drive to the outskirts of town—it merely felt that way. Jason’s emotions were spun like the T-37 in a training sortie. The elation of his first jet ride had been overcome by first-date fears. He wasn’t afraid to date—he just wasn’t sure he remembered how.

  Kathy said she lived with an elderly couple named Jones in a large house north of town. The Jones’ enjoyed having Kathy stay with them, she said, because she took care of their horses. They didn’t get out much to ride but kept them for sentimental value.

  The long, one-story ranch house sat alone over a hundred feet from the road. Jason could see the barn behind the house and the white-pole fence that ran far behind the house, denoting the property line. Nervously, he stepped out of his car and approached the front door. As he reached up to knock, the door swung open.

  “Hi there, killer!”

  Jason smiled at the attractive young woman. Again, she wore shorts, but the black tank top had given way to a meticulously pressed Oxford shirt. Slight touches of make-up enhanced an already beautiful face. They embraced in the awkward first-date hug.

  She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “Where are we going to eat?”

  “Well, I hoped you had something in mind,” he said as they walked to the Mustang. “I’ve been living on TV dinners and fast food for the past three weeks.”

  “There’s a small café downtown where not many people go. Well, more of a diner, but it would be a wonderful place to sit and talk.” Kathy was a woman who spoke her mind, and he admired that.

  “Sounds great. I could use a real meal.”

  The trip to the center of town took about ten minutes. Jason parked in front of the café, which sat half a block from the courthouse. The two of them walked inside and found themselves among ten other customers, none of whom were from the base. They took a small booth next to the window and quickly realized everyone watched them.

  “It’s obvious we’re not regulars here,” Jason said.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “About them? No.”

  “You seem a little uncomfortable. I thought all you pilots were cocky and on top of the world.”

  “Well, I’m still a student pilot. I imagine the real pilots are that way. I’ve still got a long way to go before I get there.”

  “Interesting perspective. So, let me guess . . . you want to be a fighter pilot?”

  “No, not exactly. A week ago, yes. At this point, I’m not setting my goals that high. I would be happy to graduate.”

  “I thought all you pilot types wanted to be fighter jocks.”

  “Another of those rumors we perpetuate to boost our egos.”

  The waitress, an older woman well into her fifties with a pleasant smile, showed up to take their order. Both ordered the house special— chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, fried okra, and carrots broiled in butter sauce. Jason took a sip of water and started to relax. He found Kathy easy to talk to. She let him know right away she was not impressed by the flashy pilot image, and he was relieved he didn’t have to live up to it.

  “So, Miss Delgato, tell me about yourself.”

  “Direct, aren’t we?”

  “Thought I’d beat you to the punch.”

  Kathy leaned back in the booth and flashed a bright smile. “Well, I’m a service brat. My dad is a retired Air Force Master Sergeant. He’s full-blooded Italian, and my mother is half-Mexican. That explains my feisty attitude. I went to the University of Texas in Austin and studied philosophy. It was interesting, but when I earned my degree, I didn’t know what to do with it. I was tired of school and didn’t want a master’s degree. So, I did what every girl does. I went home to daddy.”

  “So how did you end up in Enid?”

  She frowned. “Not one of my more favorite subjects. I made the mistake of letting one of my girlfriends talk me into going to the Auger Inn at the Officers’ Club at Randolph. I hadn’t been there since my freshman year in college.”

  “I’ve heard of that place. It has quite a reputation.”

  “It’s not as wild as it used to be, but it’s fun on occasion. Anyway, while I was there, I met a smooth-talking, tall, dark, and handsome instructor pilot. He was down for the week from Vance on temporary duty for a conference. Well, I was young and stupid, and he swept me off my feet. He flew down every weekend for the next two months, and the next thing I knew, I moved up here. Daddy warned me it was a mistake.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  Kathy shifted her weight in the seat, her smile gone. “I’m not. He turned out to be an asshole. Six months later, he got an assignment to Arizona flying F-16s, and that was the end of that romance. I stayed in Enid because I was too embarrassed to go home.”

  “Why else? There’s not much here.”

  “That’s the other reason. I like it here. It’s quiet, which is a nice change of pace after living in Austin and San Antonio for so long. Besides, my landlord lets me stay at his house and ride his horses whenever I want. It’s not a bad deal.”

  “Do you ever go home to see your folks?”

  She smiled again. “Oh, sure, they’ve gotten over my mistake. I go home often and spend time with them. I guess you could say we’ve all kissed and made up.”

  “What are your plans for the future?”

  “Plans? God only knows,” she said with a laugh. “I’m having fun riding horses when I want and working at Chicaros is a kick. It’s fun to flirt with these young horny pilots here. I think I intimidate most of them.”

  “I can see how that would happen.”

  “Well, I must not have intimidated you very much.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Jason said. “I’m pretty nervous.”

  “Well, don’t be,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “I think you’re very nice.”

  “Thanks.” Goose bumps formed on his body. The two sat in silence for a moment, each obliviou
s to their surroundings.

  “So, Jason Conrad, why don’t you tell me about you?”

  “Wow, where do I start?” He propped both elbows on the table. “I grew up in Baton Rouge, went to LSU.” Jason told her the story of his ex-wife. It never seemed to get easier.

  “So why did you want to become a pilot? Was your father one?”

  “No, he’s a politician in Texas. I only met him for the first time a few months back. I don’t really know him, but I look forward to getting to know him. He understands I’m in pilot training and I’m very busy. He’s busy right now too. It’s weird, growing up without a father . . . and then this man, this high-profile man shows up in your life.”

  “Do you two talk much?”

  “No. I’ve tried calling him a couple of times on the weekends, but his phone number changed. My mom blames it on the guy she calls, ‘The Silver-Haired Bastard.’ A devious asshole who destroys everything in his path to get what he wants.”

  “He sounds creepy”

  Jason nodded. “Mom says the guy is dad’s handler. The puppet-master behind the scenes who’s pulling the strings. Other than that, she won’t tell me much. I think she has dad’s new number, but she won’t say.”

  “She sounds protective. Where is she?”

  “Mom lives in New Orleans. She’s on a whirlwind trip to Europe right now. I get a postcard from her every now and then. She deserves it. She needs to get out and see the world a little more.”

  “Your life sounds fascinating. And you didn’t want to be a politician?”

  Jason’s head shook. “Clearly it’s not genetic. But as I grew older and mom filled me in, I knew his life is not the route I wanted to take. I guess I didn’t want to work behind a desk the rest of my life. I wanted to fly jets. It’s exciting and opens doors to a lot of opportunities in the future.”

  The two of them ate, laughed, and told stories for the next hour. They hit it off well, as far as first dates go. Jason apologized for having to rush the evening, but it was a workday, and he had a lot of studying to do. The drive back to Kathy’s place was quick; the kiss goodbye, not so much. His heart fluttered as she melted in his arms. Eventually, he had to disengage.

  “That was amazing,” he said.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Conrad.” Her smile was genuine, and her eyes sparkled.

  They said their goodbyes and Jason bounced back to his car. Damn. He wasn’t expecting this. He checked his watch and raced back to the base.

  When he parked at the dormitory, Vince stood outside his room across the parking lot and stared at Jason. Odd, he thought. He gave a casual wave which brought no response from Vince, who simply stared. Jason turned and went to his room. He was starting to like Vince Andrews less every day.

  8

  August 14, 1995

  * * *

  VIKTOR VASILYEVICH KRYUCHKOV frowned as he gathered his hat, coat, and briefcase. The winter would be unusually cold this year. Here it was mid-August in Moscow, and the average temperature was fifteen degrees lower than normal. Through the dirty glass of his kitchen window, he saw the signs of decay in his small garden. Sadly, it was symbolic of the nation’s economic status. Everyone who lived outside the city grew vegetables to supplement their food supply. The few flowers that had once bloomed along his cottage, withered long ago; the aesthetic quality of his residence no longer a priority. The once glorious pumpkins he and his wife planted were sparse; his potato crop, half of normal. On the far northern side of his withered garden, weeds overtook the yams. Since his wife died two years ago, he neglected to care for his home. The short summer months didn’t allow for many opportunities to grow crops, and the thought of an early winter didn’t raise his hopes.

  He paused and picked up his wife’s picture near the front door. “My dear, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had enough. Our people have had enough. It is time for a change. The old ways did not work, yet the current ways seem worse. I’m sorry.”

  Setting the frame back in its place in the foyer, he stepped outside. The front door clicked shut behind him. Outside, his driver waited by the car for him in the circular driveway. The large Cyprus trees on either side of the driveway blocked out any of the morning sun. Viktor shivered as he walked toward the car.

  “Good Morning, Comrade Kryuchkov.”

  “Good Morning, Palovich. It seems not so long ago I saw you.” Viktor coughed as he finished his statement.

  “Yes, not so long at all. The morning chill shows signs of challenging times ahead,” said Palovich as he opened the rear door of the car for Viktor. Viktor did not reply, but the comment stuck in his mind. Another hard winter on his people. A shorter summer meant fewer crops; and less food for the long, frigid days that lay ahead.

  Palovich pulled the black Mercedes out of the circular driveway on to the dirt road. The engine roared as he accelerated to begin the thirty-minute ride into Moscow. Viktor appreciated his position. He lived in a cottage in the country instead of a crowded apartment in the city. He had a car, a driver, and a modest income. By Russian standards, he was wealthy. Yet Viktor Kryuchkov wanted more. Not more for himself, but more for his people. They deserved better.

  Viktor opened his tattered briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. Economic reports, agriculture statistics, military analysis, public opinion comments—his meeting with the committee would be a difficult one. He had easy access to such information, and the knowledge tugged at his heart. Last year, close to three million crimes were committed throughout the nation. Murders increased by seventy-four percent as extortion cases became the norm. The status of the military decayed to the point that they could not sustain extended operations in another country for more than six months. Most of the enlisted, and portions of the officer corps, were forced to find work outside the military just to have enough money to buy groceries. Organized crime embedded itself in the economy, making it a challenge to determine which police officers could be trusted. The Russian mafia comprised of a wide variety of thugs, from the common hood on the street to government officials and millionaires.

  As a special advisor to the infant Russian Congress, he was handed such information daily for his analysis. Viktor kept most of this for use in the future. For use on a day like today. He felt a slight thrill inside. As he approached his seventieth birthday, he was still a driven man and engaged in acts better suited for younger men.

  “Palovich, we will not go to the Kremlin this morning.”

  The directive was unusual. Every day, for the past five years, Viktor had gone straight to the Kremlin.

  “Yes, Comrade Kryuchkov. Where shall we be going?”

  “Drive me to the Dacha Complex at Yasenevo.”

  “Yasenevo. The Dacha Complex. Yes, comrade.”

  Yasenevo was the old KGB headquarters in the middle of Moscow. The Dacha Complex—a small building west of the main structure. Outsiders knew little of what went on there. In the decline of the Communist Party, the security in the Dacha Complex increased, just as activity inside the building increased at a steady rate. Viktor had offices in both the Kremlin and the Dacha Complex. Meetings with other hardline Communists still active in the Russian government were held in the Dacha Complex at least once a week. Viktor opposed the attempt at democracy, stating from the outset that it would fail.

  The streets of Moscow were empty this time of day. Even in the most prosperous of times, traffic was light by Western standards. Palovich entered downtown Moscow with no specific route in mind. Viktor enjoyed the sightseeing trip every morning, a simple pleasure for an aging man. They drove through Sverdlov Square and passed the Bolshoi Theatre.

  “There it is, Palovich, the Bolshoi Theatre. That is where I met my Helga in 1947.”

  “Yes, comrade. It was a lovely place.”

  “She was a lovely girl.”

  “Yes, she was comrade.”

  Viktor was a young man then, a boy really, a soldier of the Soviet Union who helped repel the Nazi hoard at the Battle of Stal
ingrad. After the war, he was in Moscow with his unit for a display of Soviet strength for Stalin. His commander invited Viktor and several of his peers to an opera at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. Viktor, of course, expressed no interest in such things. As a young warrior, he was more interested in facing off with the Americans, the emerging threat to Soviet power.

  Halfway through the show, Viktor went to the lobby to smoke a cigarette. There she stood before him, a vision of beauty, leaning against one of the columns in the lobby. He was struck at once by the freshness of her skin and her cool demeanor. She was impressed with the uniform and how he filled it out. It was love at first sight. A year later, the two married.

  “I miss her deeply, Palovich.”

  “I miss her, too, comrade.”

  Every time they passed the theater, it was the same exchange of dialogue. In recent years, the Bolshoi and its environs turned it into one of Moscow’s seedier districts. Drug dealers, pimps, hookers, pedophiles, and child peddling deviants inhabited the area. Moscow, it seemed, became more and more Westernized every day.

  Palovich worked as Viktor’s driver for the past twelve years. He’d seen Viktor face many different issues, but Helga’s death affected him more than anything. She developed breast cancer that went undetected due to the lack of available medical care. Viktor experienced firsthand the failure of the democratic system, at the expense of his spouse. After she died, he became obsessed with work.

  He went through all the stages of grief. First, there was the initial shock. The next two days were spent in disbelief. Then came the sorrow and the weeping. A proud man, Viktor did not afford himself the luxury of sadness for long. Two weeks had passed when he entered the next stage: loneliness.

  Initially, he took time off from work to arrange Helga’s funeral. Viktor didn’t recognize he was so depressed. When his emotions finally hit him, he searched deep inside and realized what had happened. He buried himself in projects and worked constantly. Not that his life took new meaning; it simply took a new direction. Viktor did not speak of the work he did. The many meetings with unknown persons often resulted in reams of papers brought home at night.