now tightly gripped around the steering column, disguised a hand that had been badly burned and disfigured along with a third of his body in an explosion on the launch pad before his aborted third mission.
Conrad said, “Come on, Lundstrom, riding the space shuttle couldn’t have been this bumpy.”
Lundstrom said nothing and returned his attention to the steering column.
Conrad scanned the weather radar and saw four swirling storms converging into a double-low.
“We’re flying into that?”
“We’re going to slip between the back side of one low and the front side of the other before they merge,” Lundstrom said. “McMurdo advises us that back side winds of the first low won’t exceed a hundred knots. Then we ride the front side of the other low, tailwinds of about a hundred and twenty knots pushing us downhill all the way to the ice.”
“In one piece?” McMurdo, Conrad knew, was the largest American station on the continent. “I thought McMurdo had a big airstrip. Why can’t we land there and try again here tomorrow? What’s the rush?”
“Our window is closing fast.” Lundstrom tapped the radar screen. “Tomorrow those two lows will have merged into one big nasty mother. Now get back to your seat.”
Conrad took a seat behind the navigator. “I am.”
Lundstrom glanced at his copilot. Conrad could see their reflections in the windshield. Apparently they had decided he might as well stay.
Lundstrom said, “Your file warned us that you were trouble. Like father, like son, I suppose.”
“He’s not my real father, I’m not his real son.” At least at this moment Conrad hoped not. Like most Americans he had suspected the existence of a database with information about him somewhere in Washington. Now Lundstrom had confirmed it.
“Or wasn’t that information in my file?”
“That along with some psychiatric evaluations,” Lundstrom said, obviously enjoying this exercise at Conrad’s expense.
“Nightmares about the end of the world. No memories before the age of five. You were one screwed-up kid.”
“Guess you missed the joys of being breastfed milk tainted with LSD and other hallucinogens,” Conrad said. “Or having full-blown flashbacks when you were six. Or kicking the asses of little Air Force brats who said you were a screwed-up kid.”
Lundstrom grew quiet for a moment, busying himself with the controls.
But Conrad’s interest was piqued. “What else does my file say?”
“Some shit you pulled the first time we went to war with Iraq in the 1990s.”
Conrad was still in grad school back then. “Ancient history.”
“That’s what I heard,” said Lundstrom. “Something about Soviet MiGs and the Ziggurat at Ur.”
Conrad nodded. Four thousand years ago Ur was the capital of Sumer in the land of Abraham. Today it was buried in the sands of modern-day Iraq. “Something like that.”
“Like what?” Lundstrom seemed genuinely curious.
Apparently Conrad’s file didn’t include everything.
“The Iraqis had a nasty habit of building military installations next to archaeological treasures as shields for protection,” Conrad said. “So when U.S. satellites detected two Soviet MiG-21 attack jets next to the ruins of the ancient Ziggurat at Ur, the Pentagon concluded the Iraqis were parking the MiGs there to avoid bombing.”
Lundstrom nodded. “I remember hearing that.”
“Well, they also suspected Hussein himself was holed up inside the ziggurat,” Conrad went on. “So I gave them the targeting information they needed to launch a Maverick missile at the site.”
“A Maverick? That was first-generation bunker buster.
You’re shitting me.”
“Only a Maverick could burrow its way beneath the pyramid and destroy it from the inside out and make the explosion look like an Iraqi mishap.”
“So you’d wipe an eternal treasure from the face of the earth just to kill somedespot du jour?” Lundstrom actually seemed shocked. “What the hell kind of
Conrad said, “Come on, Lundstrom, riding the space shuttle couldn’t have been this bumpy.”
Lundstrom said nothing and returned his attention to the steering column.
Conrad scanned the weather radar and saw four swirling storms converging into a double-low.
“We’re flying into that?”
“We’re going to slip between the back side of one low and the front side of the other before they merge,” Lundstrom said. “McMurdo advises us that back side winds of the first low won’t exceed a hundred knots. Then we ride the front side of the other low, tailwinds of about a hundred and twenty knots pushing us downhill all the way to the ice.”
“In one piece?” McMurdo, Conrad knew, was the largest American station on the continent. “I thought McMurdo had a big airstrip. Why can’t we land there and try again here tomorrow? What’s the rush?”
“Our window is closing fast.” Lundstrom tapped the radar screen. “Tomorrow those two lows will have merged into one big nasty mother. Now get back to your seat.”
Conrad took a seat behind the navigator. “I am.”
Lundstrom glanced at his copilot. Conrad could see their reflections in the windshield. Apparently they had decided he might as well stay.
Lundstrom said, “Your file warned us that you were trouble. Like father, like son, I suppose.”
“He’s not my real father, I’m not his real son.” At least at this moment Conrad hoped not. Like most Americans he had suspected the existence of a database with information about him somewhere in Washington. Now Lundstrom had confirmed it.
“Or wasn’t that information in my file?”
“That along with some psychiatric evaluations,” Lundstrom said, obviously enjoying this exercise at Conrad’s expense.
“Nightmares about the end of the world. No memories before the age of five. You were one screwed-up kid.”
“Guess you missed the joys of being breastfed milk tainted with LSD and other hallucinogens,” Conrad said. “Or having full-blown flashbacks when you were six. Or kicking the asses of little Air Force brats who said you were a screwed-up kid.”
Lundstrom grew quiet for a moment, busying himself with the controls.
But Conrad’s interest was piqued. “What else does my file say?”
“Some shit you pulled the first time we went to war with Iraq in the 1990s.”
Conrad was still in grad school back then. “Ancient history.”
“That’s what I heard,” said Lundstrom. “Something about Soviet MiGs and the Ziggurat at Ur.”
Conrad nodded. Four thousand years ago Ur was the capital of Sumer in the land of Abraham. Today it was buried in the sands of modern-day Iraq. “Something like that.”
“Like what?” Lundstrom seemed genuinely curious.
Apparently Conrad’s file didn’t include everything.
“The Iraqis had a nasty habit of building military installations next to archaeological treasures as shields for protection,” Conrad said. “So when U.S. satellites detected two Soviet MiG-21 attack jets next to the ruins of the ancient Ziggurat at Ur, the Pentagon concluded the Iraqis were parking the MiGs there to avoid bombing.”
Lundstrom nodded. “I remember hearing that.”
“Well, they also suspected Hussein himself was holed up inside the ziggurat,” Conrad went on. “So I gave them the targeting information they needed to launch a Maverick missile at the site.”
“A Maverick? That was first-generation bunker buster.
You’re shitting me.”
“Only a Maverick could burrow its way beneath the pyramid and destroy it from the inside out and make the explosion look like an Iraqi mishap.”
“So you’d wipe an eternal treasure from the face of the earth just to kill somedespot du jour?” Lundstrom actually seemed shocked. “What the hell kind of
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