“It gives you something to look forward to.”
“But what made you take away a point?”
“Maybe next time I won’t,” I suggested, and we casually batted around the idea of catching a beer one of these days.
It’s not so different from my back-and-forth with Davy Crockett. Except Conn Lacrosse isn’t the least bit annoying, doesn’t bully, and I don’t need Carme to set me up with him. The Secret Service agent and I probably have a lot in common even if I can’t be certain who he really is. I suppose he could live up to his name and be a con artist, a double-crosser.
He might be married with kids in some other life, already in a committed relationship, or is a philanderer (and why wouldn’t he be?). The real Conn might not be kind to animals or into women (even if he acts otherwise convincingly). How am I supposed to know what’s genuine when dealing with a spy?
Why should I trust him any more than I would a salesman or an actor? Maybe it’s my SIN but I seem to be friendlier, more sociable with men, maybe with everyone, the same way I’m feeling about food all of a sudden. And that’s not necessarily good.
“Thus, the meaning of drinking from a firehose,” Dick sums up a day that’s far from over as we walk across the ramp to the awaiting C-17.
“I’ve given up worrying about whether I know what I’m doing anymore,” I tell him the truth.
“You’ve always known what you’re doing.”
“It never feels that way. How am I supposed to be good at something I’ve never done?”
“No one who goes to space does it until they do. The training happens down here, most of it virtual as you well know, and you’ve been doing it for years,” he says. “We don’t have practice rockets, and you don’t walk in space until you walk in it,” and we’ve reached the side door.
Our feet clunk hollowly up metal steps, and I hear the hydraulic hum and clank of the rear ramp beginning to close like a steel drawbridge. The cockpit is to the left, and the pilots and a loadmaster snap to attention, saluting Dick.
“Afternoon, sir.”
“Welcome aboard, sir.”
“How’s it going?” they get around to me, no salute, barely a glance, no competing with the big cheese.
“Fine, thanks,” I reply as if anyone is listening.
“You know where we’ll be,” Dick says to them. “And what I requested?”
“Yes, sir, all there. Whatever you need. I made sure there’s TP in the head.”
“Now that’s good thinking,” Dick nods with one of his bemused smiles.
“Much appreciated,” and I mean it.
37
THE CENTER FUSELAGE is as big as most submarines, windowless and dimly lit now that the back ramp is closed, everybody gone.
Military transporters aren’t built for comfort, and the less flammable the materials, the better. There’s nothing much in here but metal, nonskid flooring, cargo straps, and no wall panels or headliners to cover cables and anything else most passengers don’t want to see.
“I had a brainstorm last night when I saw the manifest,” Dick says as we walk through deep shadows, our feet loud on metal.
I can feel the cold through the soles of my dress boots that were terrible in snow and not the best idea here. The only seats look like fold-up beach chairs in this part of the plane where troops stay during transports. But we’re not stopping, and I follow Dick into the cargo section where we weave through foothills of shrink-wrapped wooden crates chained to tie-down rings.
“A sleeping bag is helpful,” he’s in his element, and I’m definitely not dressed for the environment. “The problem is the floor is so hard and can get really cold,” he has to remind me of how uncomfortable I’m going to be.
“Well this doesn’t sound like much fun. I can see my breath in here,” I finally comment. “And I doubt it’s going to be better at 30,000 feet . . .”
As I say it, ART verifies in my lenses that yes indeed it’s nippy at that altitude, –44.44°C or –48°F as we speak. Reaching the rear of the cargo section, I discover the reason for the wooden planks on the tarmac, a beauty of a Sikorsky HH-60W. Its 4 blades are folded together and bungee corded to the tail boom so the helicopter could fit inside the plane.
“It’s supposed to replace the Blackhawk,” Dick says as I gawk at yet something else today.
“How many times are you going to torture me?” my aircraft envy is back with a vengeance, my stomach reminding me nonstop that it’s empty.
“It’s been in testing, now headed for the skid strip,” Dick says, and he means the test airstrip at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. “Not as comfortable as your living room,” he means the Sikorsky isn’t. “But a hell of a lot better than sitting in one of those seats or on the metal floor. Hop in,” and we open the cockpit doors.
It may be petty of me but I’m grateful he climbs into the left seat. It’s only fitting that I should sit in the right one since I’m a helicopter pilot, and he’s not. It’s me going into space I’ve just discovered, not him. Since I’ll be flying my Chase Plane single pilot (if I don’t count ART), that would suggest I’m in command, and Dick needs to start treating me accordingly.
“You ready for some refreshment?” reaching behind his seat, he grabs folded blankets, and a soft-sided insulated bag.
Truth be told, I could eat a horse right about now, and I watch with keen interest as he opens the bag, pulls out a thermos.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he finds large Styrofoam cups. “Afternoon tea inside a helicopter that’s been swallowed by an airplane.”
Afternoon tea, and that’s it? I’m protesting in my head.
“An old trick of mine I learned after years of traveling on military transports,” he’s happy to explain. “The first thing you do is find something halfway comfortable to sit inside like a Humvee. A helicopter. A tank. Especially if you’re flying halfway around the world.”