Red Hammer 1994

Thomas realized what he had said and paused. He was out of line, way out. “Never mind,” he said with a gush of air, “I had a question about one of the recon satellites.” He hung up, still holding onto the receiver, tapping it in his palm. They’d think I’m crazy, he reflected. Maybe he was becoming hysterical—reading too much into the data. He prayed he was wrong.

CHAPTER 13

Major Buckmeister Grant rolled over in bed, groping for the ringing telephone resting on the adjacent nightstand. He simultaneously plucked a fresh Kleenex with his free hand to wipe his runny nose. “Hello,” he mumbled, half asleep, propping himself on one elbow. “Major Grant.”

“Buck, get back to the base pronto. We’ve got an alert.”

It was the duty officer from the squadron. “Ah, bullshit, give me a break,” Grant groaned, sitting up. He took a swig from the water glass that he had almost tipped reaching for the phone. The water didn’t relieve the sticky taste in his mouth. “I flew last night. Then the debrief took all morning. I got a cold that’s busting my head open.”

“This is a no-shitter, Buck. Code Sierra. I can’t say any more.”

The sudden click left Grant staring incredulously at the handset. Code Sierra? What the hell? He hung up and looked at the clock radio sitting next to the phone. A little after two thirty in the afternoon. At least he had got a few hours’ sleep. He eased his six-foot-three body out of bed and grabbed another Kleenex, throwing the used one on the floor amid a growing heap of pink and blue. Step two was a shuffle across the small bedroom and a stiff tug on the shade over the window. Bright sunlight poured through, bathing his aching body. Buck recoiled like a vampire caught by the rising sun.

“Crap,” he complained, “where did I put the damn aspirin?” The unsuccessful drug search was quickly abandoned for a better remedy, a strong cup of black coffee.

Grant could have been a recruiting-poster model for the US Air Force. Well built, handsome Nordic features, thick brown hair that lightened in the summer, hazel eyes that were greener than brown, and a wide, white-toothed grin that melted most women and commanding officers alike. His easygoing manner and soft drawl pegged him as a local Texas boy, but he originally hailed from the Midwest.

His small, studio apartment was in shambles. Dirty clothes were strewn the length of the L-shaped bedroom, and his open sliding-door closet revealed a tangled pile of messy laundry begging for attention. He had moved to the run-down apartment building when his beautiful, charming wife had abruptly walked out only six short months ago. Their lovely four-bedroom, two-story suburban home was on the market for a steal.

Buck had met his upscale future bride on a blind date his senior year at Penn State. She was a gorgeous business major from Pittsburgh who wanted to go into banking. They immediately fell in love. His six-year commitment to the US Air Force was conveniently overlooked. Frustrating separation, broken by intensely passionate weekends and holidays, solidified the storybook relationship. The culmination was a spectacular summer wedding at her parents’ huge Pennsylvania estate. Her prosperous investment-banker father provided an incredible spread, while Buck’s flying buddies provided the questionable entertainment.

His perfect mate never really adjusted to the transient military life, nor the role of an officer’s wife. A meaningful career was out of the question when traipsing all over the country after her man. One Texas winter morning, after five tumultuous years, she bailed, leaving a neatly typed three-page letter that spelled out Buck’s faults and transgressions in nauseating detail. He had got falling-down drunk, but the next morning, with his head resting in the toilet, he concluded that it was for the best. His first love was flying; he had always told her that. In retrospect, he didn’t blame her and held no grudge.

Twenty minutes later, Buck burst out the door dressed in a greenish-gray flight suit, polished black boots, and carrying an overnight bag. The Texas summer sky was deep crystal blue, and the gusting breeze felt like a foundry blast furnace against his exposed, tanned skin. He jogged down the stairs to his waiting pickup parked next to the curb, tossing the bag in the bed. It was an old, beat-up Ford that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months, which it hadn’t. An ugly gash on the left side commemorated the latest unidentified run-in.

“Must be a hundred today,” he grumbled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, engulfed by stifling heat. He danced in place as the blue vinyl seat burned his butt clear through the heavy flight suit. The steering wheel was so hot he had to use a dirty T-shirt from the floor to grip it.

“I’ve got to get one of those stupid-looking window shades,” he groused.