Free Ultimate Issue by George Markstein Page A

damn reaction.
    “I just wondered if you’d heard of him.”
    The airman kept his eyes straight in front. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”
    Verago sighed. “What’s your name?”
    “Flynn, sir.”
    “Your first name?”
    The airman frowned. Was this visiting fireman going to make trouble? “Teddy, sir.”
    “Well, Teddy, what does a fellow do for fun around here?” Maybe, thought Verago, that’s the way to break the ice.
    “Not much, sir. Most of the guys go to London. Or Cambridge. That’s about it.”
    His tone was final.
    They drove through some small villages, followed a bumpy minor road, then past acres of farmland. They had left London two hours earlier.
    Suddenly a sharp-nosed jet streaked past over a wood.
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    “We’re nearly there, sir,” said the airman. It was the only time he had volunteered anything. They passed a tiny hamlet and a twelfth-century, ivy-covered church.
    “There’s the base, sir,” said Teddy.
    Verago didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this, Just hedgerows. A long line of them, blocking the view of what lay beyond them. He saw, in the distance, a couple of tall radio masts and a high wire fence.
    “Welcome to Laconbury” proclaimed a notice board at the entrance to the base. It had an emblem, the head of a Cyclops, with one huge staring eye in the middle of his forehead. And there was a motto underneath: “Ever Vigilant.”
    The car slid to a halt at the guardhouse. The APs were smart, really smart. They had razor creases, and their white-laced boots shone like mirrors. Their cap covers were snow white, like the lanyards of their pistols.
    They waved down the car. One AP came over, the other two stood watching.
    Teddy handed the AP a slip of paper. The guard peered at Verago and gave him a copy-book salute. Verago had rolled down the window and, awkwardly, saluted back.
    “You will proceed to headquarters, sir,” the AP said respectfully, very correctly, and yet giving a firm order.
    The car entered the base, and Verago saw a lot of anonymous buildings. And several of those radio masts. The only sign that it was an air base were a couple of men in flying suits. The flight lines, the hangars, the planes, the runways, Verago guessed, were at the other end, out of sight.
    In front of the headquarters building were two flagpoles. One flew the Stars and Stripes, the other an RAF ensign. A lieutenant was already waiting in front of the building, and when the car stopped, he came forward and stood watching while Teddy got out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for Verago.
    “Thank you,” said Verago.
    “Good morning, sir,” said the lieutenant. “This way, please. The general is waiting for you.”
    “The general?” repeated Verago.
    “General Croxford, sir,” said the lieutenant. “Our commander.”
    He made it sound like their privilege. He was Klein commander, nobody else’s. He belonged to them.
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    An airman walked behind them, carrying Verago’s carryall.
    They turned into a carpeted corridor, to a outer office. The lighting was soft, subdued. Here there was air conditioning and silence. The airman placed Verago’s bag near a desk, then left.
    The lieutenant knocked on a door.
    “Yes,” came a voice.
    The lieutenant went inside, came out after a moment, and said, “Please go in, Captain Verago.”
    Brigadier General Croxford did not get up. He sat behind his desk in his smart, tailor-made blue uniform, the single silver star gleaming on his shoulder. He had four rows of medal ribbons under the command pilot’s wings.
    Behind him on the wall was a giant replica of the Cyclops crest, and the lone eye seemed to be staring straight at Verago. The flags were there, standing by the desk, a Stars and Stripes and a blue-and-yellow air force flag.
    The only pictures on the wall were black-framed photographs. One of President Kennedy. Another of a B29, and it was only later that Verago found out it was a picture of the plane that dropped the atom bomb