The Devil on Chardonnay Read Free Page B

thought, looking for his socks, feeling miserable and ashamed. 

CHAPTER FOUR
    The Mission
    “Chailland!  Wing Commander wants you in his office right now,” the squadron operations officer said, hanging up the desk phone in the office he shared with Boyd.  Boyd was just coming out of the men’s room where he’d been running cold water on his hand, hoping to minimize the swelling.
    “What’d I do now?”  Boyd asked, trying to sound cheerful, but feeling no pleasure in the nagging worry that Crank might still be comatose.
    When Boyd walked into the wing commander’s office, the secretary smiled and motioned him toward the open door.  He crossed the expanse of carpet smartly and was about to snap to attention and report when the brigadier general stood and spoke first.
    “Come in, Boyd.  Have a seat.”  He motioned toward a chair to the side and sat back in his chair, looking across the shining, nearly empty desktop.
    Boyd took the seat and looked down at the general’s desk to see his own personnel file there, open to his photo.  The general, taller than Boyd but much thinner, was dressed in a flight suit, the stars on his shoulders clearly setting him apart from the average jock.  He was relaxed, calm, almost mellow.  He looked back down at the record he’d been reading. 
    “I was awakened at 5 this morning by a call that a major general was inbound from Andrews and due to land at 0800.  Not having heard about the visit beforehand, I assumed I was to be fired and replaced.”  He smiled and leaned back in his chair, enjoying his tale.  “Then, about 7, he radioed the command post that his visit was classified and he wanted no DV greeting, just a crew bus to bring him here for a meeting with me at 8:30, and with you at 9.”  Brigadier General Charles “Dunk” Wells looked at Boyd, waiting for a response.
    “General Ferguson?”  Boyd asked, knowing it could be no one else.
    “Old friends?  From another base perhaps?”  Wells wanted to know who this guy was. 
    “No, sir,” Boyd said, straight-faced.  He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t want to make his boss mad.
    “Well, I thought this might be something interesting, so I had Ginny pull your personnel file.  You are an extraordinary fellow.  I hadn’t heard that before.  You have an Air Force Cross, awarded last year.  The citation says it was for valor of the highest order during peacetime, and the aircraft and location are classified.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’ve never seen that before.  I’ve seen classified locations, never a classified aircraft.  Your flight record shows only T-37, T-38 and F-16.  Did you fly anything else?”
    “Yes, sir.”  In his mind Boyd remembered the jolt and fire as the cannon shells hit the engine of the restored P-51 Mustang, and then the silence as he pushed the nose into a dive and, dead stick, began to gain on the attacker who’d assumed he was dead.
    “I won’t ask.  It must be some story.  Apparently they want you to do it again, whatever it was.  The general is waiting in the office across the hall.  He said he wanted a few minutes with you and then lunch.  He’s due to leave at 1400.”
    The feeling was back.  Ferguson was an admirer, but no friend.  Boyd had a deal with Ferguson:  Keep his mouth shut about what he knew and what he’d done the summer before, in exchange for a full three-year tour flying Falcons at Shaw followed by an assignment to Fighter Weapons School as faculty.  He didn’t want or need anything funny with the promotions board, though they’d offered that.  They had a fast track outlined that would have him with stars before he was 40,  but Boyd had turned them down because it was mostly schools and Pentagon assignments.  Boyd wanted to fly.  He’d not expected to ever see Ferguson again.
    “Yes, sir,” Boyd said, standing, then smiled at the general and added, “As soon as they say it’s OK, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”  He