Free Final Flight by Stephen Coonts

rarely
more than twenty feet from Flag Ops.
    “Seriously, we are here to make our presence
felt. That’s why we parade around right off the coast.
Doing damn fool things because politicians tell you
to goes with the uniform. And every man in this room is a
volunteer. But I don’t want anyone killing
himself or his crewman because he kept flying past the
limit of his own capabilities.” He unzipped
the helmet bag and took out a helmet. He held
it out by the chin strap, so it-hung upside down.
    “I’m going to hang this thing in my office.
Anyone who thinks that he has had all of this
bullshit he can stand can throw his wings in it.
    Put a piece of tape around your wings with your name
on it so I’ll know who to talk to.” All eyes
were on the helmet. “Flying the schedule we do
demands the best you can give it. I hate
to see guys turn in their wings, but I like it even
less when people kill themselves. Each and every one of you knows what your personal limit is. I am relying on
you to call it quits before you go beyond that limit.”
    He picked up the helmet bag, tucked the
helmet under his arm and headed for the door.
    “Attention on deck,” Toad roared.
    Everyone in the room snapped to attention while
Jake walked out.
    Up in the air wing office Jake handed the
helmet to Yeoman First Class Farnsworth.
“Get a coathanger,” he said, “and hang this thing from
the ceiling right here by the door. I want anyone who
opens this door to see this helmet.”
    “Why?” asked Farnsworth, slightly baffled.
    “It’s for wings,” Jake said and tossed the
helmet bag on a table. “Go get a coathanger
and do it now. Someone may want to use it sooner rather
than later.”
    “Yes sir.” Farnsworth laid the helmet on
his desk and started for the door.
    “Any new messages on the classified
board?” Jake asked before Farnsworth could get out
the door.
    “Yes sir. A bunch. There’s even
another intelligence report about a planned raid
on the ship by some group or other using an
ultralight.”
    “Again? How many air raid warnings have we had?”
    “I think about nineteen, CAG. Thank God
for the CIA.” Jake waved Farnsworth out the door
and took the message board into his office. He
thought about having a cigarette. There should be a pack
in his lower right desk drawer. He remembered
putting it there two or three days ago. Well,
maybe it was still there. He opened the drawer and glanced
inside. Just papers. He stirred them. Aha, the
pack of weeds had fallen under this little report with the
blue cover. Hiding there, weren’t you, little fellow.
Don’t try to get away like that. He closed the
drawer and began thumbing through the messages, trying
to sort the important ones from the usual reams of
computerized goo that constituted the vast bulk of the
classified traffic.
    He found it difficult to concentrate on the
messages with that pack of cigarettes lying down there
in the drawer, just waiting. Shit, how long had it
been? He looked at his watch. Three hours and
fifty-one minutes. No, fifty-two minutes.
Almost four hours!
    The black Mercedes rolled through the dusty
streets on the edge of town as if the streets were
empty, which they most certainly were not.
    Children and men leading laden mules and camels
scurried to clear the path of the speeding vehicle with
army flags on the front bumper. Dark glass
prevented anyone outside the vehicle from seeing the
passengers, but most of the people on the street averted their
gaze once they ensured they were not in danger of being
run over.
    The limousine stopped momentarily at two army
checkpoints on the outskirts of the city, then rolled
through the open gate of an enormous stucco building.
    In the courtyard two men stepped from the rear of the
car. Both wore Western clothes. A waiting
officer wearing a major’s uniform led them through a
small door and up a flight of stairs lit only
by a naked bulb hanging above each landing. High,
narrow windows without glass lined the