Chapter 32

“Why? Quite simply, there are two common methods available to facilitate covert infiltration of existing governmental institutions, or propaganda by the deed.”

“Propaganda by the deed?”

“Direct and overt actions. As in the Oklahoma City bombing.”

“So that’s way ya running this shit? Because they’re not being overt?”

“It would be one of the principals. Which is a difficult path for us to walk, Mark. America needs a ‘loyal opposition’; we need the checks and balances of varied social philosophies. But we must take the long-term approach to counter this unique insurgency. So this delicate walk we take must not allow us to interfere with the democratic process, while also ensuring that we protect our Republic.”

“Yeah, right. Good intentions and all of that shit. But back to the original point, what’s so unique about it, major? And why the fuck should I care?”

“As I said, we represent the long-term approach that exercises restraint until that is not enough. Large-scale, that is, those insurgencies and revolutions that occur at the nation-state level, tend to evolve and bear fruit within five to twenty months. This insurgent activity is, so far, de-centralized and has been in progress since the end of World War II. So we shall exercise restraint.”

Like I really need to know this shit. Wonder if he goes on like this at home? Bet his ol’ lady keeps her tits under wraps if he talks that historical and philosophic shit all the time. Maybe that’s his problem, doesn’t have any recent hooter time in the log book.

“Uh, yeah, guess I see that, sir. So what ya got going that ya had bring your ride all the way out here?”

“I would like to see your systems, and talk to your people.”

“Whatever. What about your pilot? Gonna invite her in?”

I sure as fuck would like to invite her in. How the fuck does she zip that flight suit over them bit tits? Damn, that is one part of her preflight I’d wanna see. Wonder if her preflight checklist has a line item for ‘Secure Tits’?

“She has no knowledge of your unit, and I would prefer that it remained that way. Do you have separate quarters for Warrant Officer Dawson?”

“Got some extra bedrooms at my hacienda. The major can also rack out at my place also.”

“Do you have quarters near your control center?”

“Yep, we got a set-up for when we can’t leave the building. It ain’t the best place to rack out. Ya sure?”

“Yes, I am certain.”

“Uh, major? Can I take a gander at the cockpit of your ride? Sorta curious ‘bout the new avionics they putting into those army airplanes. Joe can give ya a ride over to the control room.”

Geez, what the fuck with the sour look? Ain’t asking to see some top secret stuff.

“Hmmm ... Miss Dawson, Please allow this man to see the aircraft interior. Mister Barts, if you would...”

“So you’re army. Why ya flying Major Stewart around?”

“I am part of a pool of C-12 pilots in the Virginia/Maryland area. I was the next one up on the roster for the rotation flying out of Quantico. What do you want to see, Mister Jackson?”

Sorta like how the woman said that. Nah, probably a bad idea to get froggy with the major’s pilot.

“Uh, I’m Mark. Ain’t no mister. I wanna see the new avionics package y’all are stuffing into the panel these days.”

“I am Karen. You can look at anything, Mark.”

There’s that way of talking again. She’s making it clear. Why the fuck not? But wanna see the cockpit first ... Yeah, almost forgot, need get an outsider opinion of our approach alignment.

“So what ya think of my airstrip?”

“Excellent. Although I am uncertain about the BFL.”

“Yeah. But the density altitude is good - it’s pretty cold, and the wind is typically four to seven outa the northwest. So it should be long enough. If not just turn port ‘bout ten degrees after wheels up and head up through that pass. If ya lose an engine before refusal or blue-line, just put your gear up and glide ‘bout five to ten degrees starboard. Ya gotta a big fuckin meadow to belly slide into.”

“Thank you. Is that your TBM?”

“Belongs to the boss, I’m his bus driver.”

“What do you think of the TBM?”

“I really like that bird. Ain’t nothing like it on the market, unless ya wanna fly one of them little Cessna 500 series. Them things ain’t no fun to fly, and I sure as fuck couldn’t fly them off of something not asphalt. Like ya said, I’d have to cut my gross way down to make the BFL for a Citation 500 series.”

“Didn’t know that the TBM is rated for other surfaces.”

“Not really. But I’ve done grass strips, and it’s no problemo because we don’t have to operate under Part 135 ... See that ya got the new Garmins installed. And a shit-load of radios. What you think of ‘em?”

“Outstanding. It has totally changed the way I plan and file. The complete radio stack can be programmed and controlled here.”

“That’s cool. Ya fly just this bird?”

“Actually, I typically fly the RC-12. I was originally a UH-60 pilot.”

“Whoa, don’t tell me shit about that RC-12 airplane, don’t wanna know about any spook shit.”

“But I was told that you are a major sigint operator.”

“Major operator? Nah, I just run transportation for this weird shit. Have no idea what the fuck I’m looking at half the time, and don’t wanna know shit ... Totally cool panel ya got there, Karen.”

Damn, I’m getting good at this lying bullshit. Maybe I should go into politics.

“So where am I quartered? I would like to get out of this flight suit.”

Yeah, bet them tits are screaming for release from that flight suit. Wonder if she can even zip that thing all the way up.

“No problema, grab your stuff, put it on that golf cart and follow me and Dumbshit.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dumbshit.”

“Named your horse Dumbshit?”

“Yeah, for a gelding, the guy is stupid as fuck. He’s a mellow guy, but ya gotta guide him all the time. The idiot would probably wander into Canada. Sorta like flying a statically unstable airplane, can’t take your hands off the controls. But the cats like him.”

“Nice barn ... Only one horse?”

“Can’t ride more than one at a time, but was thinking ‘bout gettin a donkey.”

“A donkey?”

“Need a pack animal. And this idiot here needs someone smart to hang with.”

“Why do you need a pack animal”

“We do, or mostly I do, fishin trips.”

“Where?”

“The national forests to the northeast and northwest. For some reason, they stock the small lakes up in the mountains. We go fishing a day or two after it rains and washes ‘em downstream ... Uh, the barn too warm for ya?”

“It is not. Have you ever done it in the barn?”

Holee shit. That zipper goes all the way down ... Why the sudden all the women-folk wanna show me their tits? Can they smell my money or something? ... Yeah, probably the only reason any woman would stick around for any length of time. But them are some big fucking tits. Sorta reminds me of Janice’s heavy hangers ... Back the trolley up, asshole. This shit has been a series of one crazy after another. Sharon, Janice, Dianne, Sandy. Not gonna add this Karen woman to the list of crazys. No more weird shit or crazy for me. At least not for the next hundred years or so.

“Hey, Karen. Uh ... really sorry and such, but I’m guessing that we had a comm blank-out or something. You’re a hot lady and all that, but I don’t think this is a good thing. No hard feelings?

“I am fine with it, Mark. But let me know if you are interested.”

We pause this inane bullshit for a message from our sponsor.

Age. It affects more than the body. The effects of age to the brain and the mind is a akin to a two-edged sword. Actually it is more similar to a claymore mine; a device that can be just as deadly from the front as from the rear.

With age, some people become more risk-averse and become unable to take advantage of opportune moments. Some people will become less risk-averse - damn the burritos, full habeneros ahead and that the sort of thing. And some people demonstrate no such change. I did all of the above. A bit schizoid, but that’s me.

Some people call these changes ‘wisdom’. Dave said that if any truth is to found, then it be a wisdom that enables one to know the deeper and enduring purposes of life. This sounds okay, but this is Zen bullshit that ignores any pursuit of personal happiness

My wisdom was based on the happiness of a woman’s tits, itself a simple and uncomplicated endeavor. Apply the correct amount of suction and moisture, along with a modicum of digital dexterity, and said tit is happy and the owner of said tit responds in a positive manner. But, again, this does not address the long-term question of personal happiness.

Making tits happy, and their respective owners happy, was to this point, all short-term gain for someone else, but had yet to enable any long-term personal happiness for me.

The thing about long-term happiness is that I did not know that I had achieved it until my asshole friends inadvertently made the point, on the morning of my 39th birthday, that I needed a woman as an essential element to achieve this specification of long-term happiness. I could only assume that Dianne, Jackie, Tim, and Joe had appointed themselves experts on the concept of long-term happiness.

I ignored the offered birthday presents, pie, and cake. No, that’s a lie, I gave Darcy and Dumbshit the horse, some of the apple pie. My good friends were of dismay and disquiet that I sacrificed their short-term happiness of a birthday celebration in favor of my long-term happiness.

The morning of the first day of my 40th trip around Sol was also coincident with the first flight of my RV-6. Joe and I had ‘wasted’ a week on high-speed taxi tests, and I was determined to get my beautiful little acrobat into the sky. Alleged birthday celebration or not, there was a dog and a horse waiting to see my plane fly. I would not dissapoint them.

As I turned to align to the center-line, I cycled the props once more to be sure, shoved the prop control forward, decided at the last moment to eschew flaps, then advanced the throttle. As I had done in the taxi tests, I raised the tail wheel with a light touch. Trundling down the runway, with a slightly positive pitch, I allowed the ground effect to accelerate and to fly off the asphalt without any further pitch input from the stick, as no positive rotation was required.

As I passed through 65 knots, I gradually increased the angle of attack, seeking something well over Vy. I remember the meditation-like focus on the engine instruments and other panel indicators, feeling the control pressure feedback, and intently listening to the myriad sounds of flight. Glancing at the VSI, I was incredulous that the little airplane was giving me over 1200 fpm at such a shallow angle of attack.

Reaching pattern altitude, I was careful to remain within gliding distance of the runway and away from the mountain drafts from the north. Looking down at the small group clustered in front of the third hangar, I noted that both the horse and Darcy were following my progress, but Tim, Dianne, and Jackie were talking among themselves, ignoring the magnificence of the first flight of my creation. Joe, also being a pilot and my flight test technician, did occasionally look up, but in his defense, he was also monitoring the radio and watching the data-link stream of engine and flight data as it scrolled across my laptop computer, seeking Joe’s analytical attentions.

What does this have to do with the price of bamboo in Japan? Not a damn thing. But it was when I realized that I had achieved personal happiness. I was doing this for me, not for Dianne, not for the criminal Sharon, not for the loony-tuned Sandy, and not for the corporate-minded and unfaithful Janice. I had to fight myself to not do a victory roll. Acrobatics would come later, and would come often.