Parallax View by Allan Leverone

had been since she had enjoyed any male
companionship outside of official duty status and realizing she couldn’t
remember. She kept her remark to herself, though, noting the Major’s wedding
ring.
    He chuckled.
“BUFF’s our nickname for the B-52. Stands for ‘Big Ugly Fat Fuckers.’ And they
are all of that, but these babies have served with distinction for a
quarter-century, with plenty more years to come. Some say the new B-1 will make
the BUFF obsolete, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”
    Tracie nodded,
noting the reverence in the pilot’s voice as he talked about the plane. “How
long have you flown the B-52, Major?”
    “It’s Stan to my
friends, Miss Tanner. And I’ve been involved with these Big Ugly Fuckers almost
since my first day in the Air Force. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my
whole life inside one of these beasts. Can’t imagine a better way to serve my
country, to be honest.”
    Tracie grinned.
The man’s enthusiasm was infectious, and went a long way toward breaking down
her caution, a trait she came by naturally and one that had served her well
over the course of her seven-year CIA career. But there was no need for it now;
it was clear she was among friends.
    “Anyway,”
Wilczynki continued, “I’ve bored you long enough. I just can’t help bragging
when the subject is my baby.” He gestured affectionately toward the aircraft’s
nose. “Whaddaya say we climb aboard and get ready to leave this continent
behind?” The Major turned and indicated a metal ladder hanging from an open
hatch in the bottom of the aircraft.
    “I’m not bored at
all,” Tracie answered, starting up the ladder. “I love hearing a professional
discuss his passion.”
    Major Wilczynski
paused. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it in those terms before,
but you’re right, I do have a passion for these old birds.” He started up the
ladder behind Tracie and they disappeared into the B-52.
     
     
    11
    May 30, 1987
    10:50 p.m.
    Ramstein Air Base, West Germany
    A maze of equipment ran the
otherwise mostly empty length of the aircraft’s interior, wires and cables
seemingly placed in random locations, performing tasks Tracie could not
imagine. The cockpit featured two seats placed side by side, each with a yoke
where the steering wheel would be in a car. Avionics clogged the area below the
windshield and the console between the two seats, gauges and dials and switches
and levers that somehow allowed the flight crew to manage the almost mystical
task of lifting the B-52 into the air and keeping it there.
    She gazed into the
empty cockpit, marveling at the engineering prowess involved in the production
of such a complex aircraft. Tracie felt as though she would rattle around
inside the vast interior of the aircraft like an elderly widow inside an
otherwise deserted mansion, regardless of how many other passengers were
aboard. This BUFF made her feel tiny and insignificant.
    She turned left,
away from the cockpit and toward the rear of the aircraft, and ran straight
into Major Wilczynski. His body was solid and muscled; the body of a man who
welcomed physical labor. She stumbled and he grabbed her arm, and she chuckled.
“Sorry about that,” she said, not really sorry at all, again reminded how long
it had been since she had spent any time with a man not involved in some way in
the espionage game. Any personal time.
    “Not a problem,”
Wilczynski answered. “I apologize for sneaking up on you. I just wanted to take
a moment to introduce you to the rest of the team.” He nodded to a pair of
airmen who had climbed up the ladder and now stood next to them. “This isn’t my
normal flight crew—we’re mixing and matching personnel thanks to other
commitments and the unscheduled nature of the trip. Not that we mind, of course.
If there’s one thing an airman loves to do, it’s fly.
    “Anyway, our
copilot for today’s mission is Major Tom Mitchell. Tom needs to get stateside
as quickly