“I know you’ve been working really hard on it,” Patrick said. “But I’m not going to let you go back until I know you’re safe. The house you were in is being shut down—it’s just too isolated.”
“Then I’ll live in the dorms and eat in the dining halls,” Brad said. “They’re plenty crowded. I don’t know how much work I can get done there, but I have twenty-four/seven access to the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering building—I can work there.”
“If anyone can think of a way to have you safely go back there, Chris Wohl will do it,” Patrick said. “So how did you pick Cal Poly?”
“Best aerospace engineering school on the West Coast I could get into with my grades,” Brad said. “I guess too much football, Civil Air Patrol, and Angel Flight West charity flying in high school really affected my grades.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “So it’s no coincidence that there happened to be that rancherita available when I was looking for housing? Does it really belong to the sergeant major?”
“It belongs to Scion Aviation,” Patrick said. “I felt it was easier to keep an eye on you there than in the dorms. So you really like Cal Poly?”
“Cal Poly is a great school, I like most of my professors, and it’s well within range for the P210 so I can fly to Battle Mountain to visit Sondra Eddington when I can.”
“You two hit it off pretty well, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s tough going,” Brad said. “She’s always gone, and I have virtually no spare time.”
“Still want to be a test pilot?”
“You bet I do, Dad,” Brad said. “I’ve been staying in touch with Boomer, Gonzo, Dr. Richter, and Dr. Kaddiri at Sky Masters, and Colonel Hoffman at Warbirds Forever. They might be able to get me an internship at the Nevada Test Pilot School between my junior and senior years if I keep my grades up, and maybe Sky Masters will even sponsor me for a class slot, like Warbirds Forever is doing with Sondra training to fly the spaceplanes at Sky Masters.” Warbirds Forever was an aircraft maintenance facility at Stead Airport in Reno, Nevada, that also trained civilian pilots in a wide variety of aircraft, from old classic biplanes, multimillion-dollar bizjets, and retired military aircraft; Sondra Eddington was one of their instructor pilots. “A million and a half dollars for a master’s degree and accreditation as a test pilot. I eventually want to fly the spaceplanes into orbit too. Maybe Sondra will be my instructor.”
“Congratulations. I think you’re well on your way.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Brad paused, looking the CID up and down, and smiled. “It’s great to be able to talk with you again, Dad,” he said finally. “I think I’m starting to get over the fact that you’re sealed up inside a machine.”
“I knew it was going to be hard for you at first and maybe later on too,” Patrick said. “I considered not stepping out of the Sherpa, or not telling you it was me, just so you’d be spared the pain this has caused. President Martindale and I talked about it, and he said he’d play it any way I wanted. I’m glad I did tell you, and I’m glad you’re getting used to it.”
“I get a feeling that it’s not really you in there,” Brad said. “You say you’re my dad, but how do I know that?”
“Do you want to test me?” Patrick asked. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. You fixed something for me all the time for dinner that was simple for you and good for me.”
“Mac and cheese with roasted sliced hot dogs,” Patrick said immediately. “You especially liked the MRE version.”
“Mom?”
“You scattered her ashes at sea off Coronado,” Patrick said. “It was amazing: the ashes glistened like silver, and it seemed as if they never touched the water. They went skyward instead of downward.”
“I remember that day,” Brad said. “The guys with us were sad, but you didn’t seem that sad.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “I believed that as commanding officer, I wasn’t supposed to show sadness, fear, weakness, or sorrow, even regarding my own wife. That was wrong. I always thought you never noticed. Obviously, you did.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I’m sorry, son. Your mother was an extraordinary woman. I never told you stories about what she did. I’m sorry about that too. I’ll make it up to you.”
“That would be cool, Dad.” Brad motioned over his shoulder to the C-23C Sherpa. “Is that your airplane?”
“One of many in President Martindale’s collection,” Patrick said. “Surplus from U.S. Air Forces in Europe. It’s the smallest cargo plane I can fit in. He’s got a Boeing 737-800 freighter for overseas trips. He paints them all black despite how dangerous and illegal that is, and how screwed up it makes the plane’s environmental control systems. He’s been like that ever since I’ve known him: everything is a means of control and intimidation, even the color of paint on an aircraft, and screw the mechanical, social, or political ramifications.”