Chopper Ops by Mack Maloney Page A

usually at night and which he always ate alone. Indeed, much of the island's training facility was located under-ground. Built inside old bomb shelters, he had been told.
    The helicopter simulator was aptly nicknamed. It was a huge white barrel set up on six monstrous spider legs. It had 360-degree three-dimensional TV screens inside, and with loads of surround-sound effects and laser-light manipulation, it didn't take long for the mind to accept that you were actually flying something and that people were actually throwing bad stuff up at you.
    When he wasn't being blasted out of virtual reality, Norton was usually asleep in his quarters. There really was little else to do. The security on the island was so tight at the moment, he was prohibited from speaking to anyone other than the Tin Can techs. He hadn't seen or talked to Delaney since getting back from Thule. And the CIA operations officer in charge of the mission—a pup of a guy named Gene Smitz—had spoken to him on just two occasions, both times to remind him about the importance of security and to see if his living arrangements were up to snuff.
    On that last score at least, Norton could not complain. His billet was comfortable enough. It had a bed, a chair, a small fridge, a microwave, plenty of coffee and fruit. There was a separate shower and a toilet. There were boxes of magazines for him to read, a TV, and a VCR with plenty of videos for him to watch. Still, he hated being cooped up inside the small windowless room. It was in essence a luxurious prison cell.
    The only thing he hated more was being strapped inside the Tin Can.
    No surprise that more than once in the past twelve days he'd asked himself one question: What the hell have I gotten myself into?
    Still, he didn't know the answer.

     
    *****

     
    He finally unstrapped himself and squeezed out of the simulator. He was stressed to the point of being woozy. How could his brain be so fooled? He was here, in one piece, safe and sound. Yet every time he crawled out of the Can, he felt like he'd flown a combat mission—for real. And had been blown out of the sky—for real. A crude sign above the door said it all: Everything but the pain, someone had written. That was the truth. . . .
    The worst part was, if history was any judge, once he was out of the Can, he would be permitted a quick bathroom break, a chance to grab a Coke or a cup of coffee, and then be thrown right back into the simulator to do it all over again. For the 128th time.
    But as it turned out, this recess would be different.
    Usually he found a technician waiting for him outside the simulator door; the small, glass-enclosed control room from which the Can's activities were monitored was down a staircase ten feet away. This time, though, the first face he saw belonged to Delaney. The slightly ragged-looking pilot was inside the control room, speaking with the six CIA geeks who ran the Tin Can.
    Norton hadn't seen Delaney since returning from Greenland. Though they lived in billets in the same building, their schedules ran exactly opposite. Whenever Norton wasn't doing his time inside the Tin Can, Delaney was, and vice versa.
    But now here Delaney was, dressed in a flight- simulator suit just like Norton, and looking quite stern and official. Yet he was carrying what appeared to be a small Styrofoam beer cooler.
    "I have orders to bring Major Norton up to the Big Room," Norton heard Delaney telling the simulator techs. "Smitz told me to tell you that you can dispense with the major's post-simulation briefing as well. He's through for the day. And so am I."
    Like every bullshit artist, it wasn't what Delaney was saying, it was how he was saying it. The pointy-head techs listened in silence, then did a group shrug and went about the business of shutting down the Tin Can. Delaney finally turned towards Norton, pointed to the cooler, and pantomimed drinking a beer. Norton gave him a thumbs-up, signed the Tin Can log book, and bade the techs