dubbed Werewolves, the English translation of Hokum.
Dog pulled up behind her, scanning the horizon before realizing what she was watching. The aircraft began unleashing a coordinated attack on an enemy ‘tank’ – a plywood box in a dugout ravine. Rockets spit from the pods under their forward wings – ‘arms,’ as the designers called them. The tank disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
‘Good shots,’ muttered Dog.
‘Decent,’ said Jennifer, whose team had helped develop the attack programs. ‘I could have done better.’
‘You’re telling me you can beat the computer?’
‘As if that were an accomplishment,’ she said. ‘I wrote most of the program.’
‘Ray Rubeo says no human can beat it.’
‘That’s just Ray. I kind of like flying the Werewolf, to be honest,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should quit being a scientist and become a pilot full-time.’
He folded his arms and smirked. ‘Take real flying lessons first. Then we’ll talk about it.’
‘I may. Then that smirk will be on the other side of your face.’
His smile grew wider. He leaned forward and kissed her, then started walking again.
‘Good aircraft,’ he said. ‘Would’ve been useful in Brunei.’
Jennifer turned and followed him down the trail. She could tell he was brooding on the men he had lost, in Brunei and elsewhere.
‘You want to strangle the people who killed them, don’t you?’ said Jennifer when they paused for a rest.
‘Wouldn’t we all?’
‘Seriously, don’t you want to?’
‘Of course,’ said Dog. He swung his upper body left, then right, loosening up his back and shoulder muscles. ‘But I can’t. I don’t have the luxury of revenge.’
‘It’s a luxury?’
‘Maybe that’s not the right word,’ he said.
‘Would you if you could? Take revenge?’
‘I don’t know what I’d do if I could,’ he said. He stared in the distance, gazing at the Werewolves; but probably not seeing them, she thought. ‘I’ve taken revenge at times,’ he added. ‘I’ve pulled the trigger on people. As a pilot. You go after someone who shot at your friend, your wingmate. That’s revenge.’
‘Is it?’
‘It’s not enough, that’s the problem,’ said Dog. ‘I could strangle each of the terrorists who fired the mortar that killed Kick, and it wouldn’t be enough. You can’t get enough. That’s the problem, Jen. You can strangle them and pummel them and blast them to bits. It’s not enough. That’s the thing that gets you in the end. It’s just not even – it’s still lopsided.’
He started walking again. Jennifer watched him, wanting to know more but sensing she couldn’t, or at least that she wasn’t going to learn anything more by asking questions. When they came to the ledge above the road where they’d parked, she waited as he climbed down ahead of her, watching as he found the foot- and handholds. He stared at the rocks intently, but his hands seemed to move independently, the fingers nudging into the proper spots by touch.
‘I love you,’ she whispered, before descending on her own.
Dreamland 3 November 1997 0801
‘Hey, gimp boy!’
Major Mack Smith stared straight ahead at Dreamland’s administrative building, known as the ‘Taj Mahal,’ ignoring the razzing. He’d expected this sort of greeting, and after considerable thought decided there was only one thing to do: ignore it. Still, it wasn’t easy.
Worse, though, was the indignity of being wheeled into the Taj by an airman who’d been detailed euphemistically as his bodyguard.
‘Can’t even push yourself up the ramp, huh? A wimp as well as a gimp.’
The concrete ramp to the entrance of the low-slung Taj had been poured in several sections, and there was about a three-quarter-inch rise between the first and second. It wasn’t the sort of thing someone walking would notice, but for someone in a wheelchair – especially if, like Mack, they weren’t used to it – three-quarters of an inch rattled the teeth. He grimaced as the wheels cleared the curb.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the airman, so flustered he stopped dead on the ramp.
Mack curled his fingers around the armrests of the chair, pressing out his anger. ‘Not a problem.’
‘Sorry,’ said the poor kid, pushing again.
Mack’s tormentor, sitting by the door to the building, laughed. ‘Bumpy ride, gimp boy?’ he said as Mack neared.
‘Good morning, Zen,’ said Mack.
‘How’s it feel?’
‘It feels good to be back at Dreamland,’ said Mack.
‘How’s the wheelchair feel?’ said Zen.
The automatic doors flew open, but Mack’s airman, thinking that Mack wanted to talk to Major Jeff ‘Zen’ Stockard, remained stationary. Mack glanced back at the airman. Pimples and all, the kid was looking at him with pity.
He felt sorry for him.
Sorry for Major Mack ‘the Knife’ Smith, holder of not one, but two stinking Air Force crosses. Mack Smith, who had shot down more stinking MiGs than any man since the Vietnam War. Mack Smith, who had run a small country’s air force and saved Las Vegas from nuclear catastrophe.
Mack stinking Smith, now in a wheelchair because of some maniac crazy terrorist in Brunei.
A wheelchair that the doctors agreed he’d be getting out of any day now …
The kid felt sorry for him.
Sorry!
Well the hell with that.
‘I can take it from here, airman. Thank you for your time,’ said Mack. He put his hands on the wheels of his chair and pushed himself forward.
Just as he did, the doors started to close. For a moment Mack thought he was going to crash into them, which would perhaps have been the ultimate embarrassment. Fortunately, they slid back and he made it inside without a crash.
‘Don’t
