JOINT BASE ANDREWS
MARYLAND
Dewey parked his car—a black 2006 Ferrari 575 Superamerica—inside a maintenance hangar near the outer rim of Andrews’s labyrinthine set of runways, buildings, and land. He locked it and set the key on the back left tire.
He found Steve Owen inside the main building. Owen was dressed in flight gear. He politely but firmly grabbed Dewey’s elbow and pushed him back out through the door. In the distance, a shiny black F-18/A loomed in the middle of the tarmac.
“You sure this is okay?” said Dewey.
“It’s fine. I need hours if I want to keep my license. To be perfectly honest, I might be a little rusty.”
“When was the last time you flew?” said Dewey as they walked toward the jet.
“A month or two,” said Owen. “It didn’t go very well. Do you have life insurance?”
Dewey didn’t laugh. He followed Owen across the tarmac. He climbed up the ladder and strapped into the backseat. Owen followed him up the ladder and strapped into the pilot seat, then fired up the engine and prepared to take off as he went through a quick systems protocol with the Andrews flight deck as, at the same time, he powered up the F-18/A and started taxiing toward the runway. By the time he hit the beginning of the long runway, Owen had the jet speeding forward. He turned into the barrel of the runway then slammed it forward. Dewey’s head was pushed backwards for a moment as the F-18/A roared down the tarmac. In a few seconds they were airborne. Owen slammed the jet harder, ripping toward the blue sky like a missile. Dewey was again throttled back into the seat, his stomach suddenly churning. He felt like he was going to vomit. In seconds they were scorching across the sky.
“Can you slow down?” said Dewey over commo.
A giddy laugh came from Owen.
“Sorry about that,” said Owen. “I forgot you haven’t had extensive training in this stuff. I’ll slow down and take you over to Newark. You can catch a commercial flight. I’m sure they must have hourly flights to Bangor, Maine.”
Another laugh emanated from Owen as Dewey clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to hold it in.
“You better hope I don’t throw up—” Dewey started, just as Owen rotated the jet 360 degrees in a little over a second.
“What was that?” said Owen.
* * *
Owen torched the fighter up the seaboard, moving a few hundred feet above the jaggedy-edged coast of New England. Dewey stared out the window, looking at Boston, and then above, trying to guess where Massachusetts ended and New Hampshire began. The ocean was a beautiful shelf of dark blue, with spatters of white where the wind topped the violent currents.
Twenty minutes later, Owen brought the jet into Bangor International Airport.
As Dewey climbed down the ladder, he looked at Owen. Dewey’s eyes were still slightly wavering, like marbles, as he eyed Owen.
“I should punch you,” said Dewey.
Owen smiled, then acted offended, even though he was still smiling.
“What?” he said. “I thought you needed a ride?”
Dewey shook his head. He climbed down to the tarmac. He pulled the backpack off his back and unzipped it. He looked up at Owen.
“When do you need me to pick you up?” said Owen.
“I don’t,” said Dewey.