“Nothing, sir,” Gunny replied. “Ran it through every test we have in our pubs, and it passed with flying colors.”
“That’s disappointing,” the skipper replied. “We need some answers.”
“Did you want to see the write-up?”
“I want to see it,” CAG said, stepping around the skipper to belly up to the counter. “And I want you to make a copy of it and the raw data while you run it through the computer again.”
Gunny looked from CAG to the skipper, then back to the senior officer. “Aye aye, sir.”
Adam choked with fear and tried to cover it up by coughing.
Gunny barked, “Got something to add over there, Garett?”
“No, Gunny.” With one more glance at the two officers, Adam turned back to his terminal. But instead of returning to the batch of files he’d been sifting through, he searched for the file containing the data they had downloaded from the crippled jet. He had a feeling somebody would come looking for it sooner or later, but he had hoped for a bit more time. Now he needed a little luck and some sleight of hand to keep them from finding anything that could point to foul play. Or worse, to him.
“Gunnery Sergeant, how long is this going to take?” CAG asked, obviously annoyed with being made to wait for something he thought should take as long as it took him to snap his fingers.
“I’ll make a copy of the MAF right now for you, sir. It will be just a minute to run the data through the computer again to look for any anomalies.”
“I asked how long,” CAG snapped.
The skipper — one of the few officers Garett actually respected — stepped in to run interference for his Marines. “Sir, you don’t need to stick around for this. Why don’t you go back to your office, and I’ll bring it straight to you.”
“Fine. Straight to my office,” he said, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in the passageway.
When the footsteps had faded, Gunny addressed the lieutenant colonel. “What’s got him wound so tight, sir?”
“Don’t make me answer that, Gunny. Just make those copies and run the data again so I can tell him if something is wrong with these jets.”
Adam’s face flushed, but his fingers kept flying across the keyboard to find the file. He needed to replace it with another one before it was too late.
“Garett, make the skipper a copy of three oh seven’s history.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack under the strain as he frantically clicked his mouse to open folder after folder, drilling deep into the system’s archives to find the file that might implicate him in treason and attempted murder. He didn’t hear the skipper walk through the door, but he felt his presence hovering over him.
He spotted the file and, clicking on it, he quickly pressed Alt +
“Find it?” the skipper asked.
Adam forced himself to exhale slowly before answering. When he did, he kept his eyes fixed on the computer and exited the folder he had been in, then opened it again. “I don’t get it,” he said, his voice quavering and little more than a whisper. “This is the right folder, Skipper, but the file isn’t here.”
The skipper exhaled loudly in exasperation, and Adam took the momentary distraction to copy aircraft 305’s maintenance data and move it into the folder for 307. Then he exited the folder and leaned away from the computer while trying to act confused.
“What do you mean it ain’t there?” Sergeant Narvaez asked, pushing back from his desk to join the younger Marine at his terminal.
“See, Sarge? Should be right here in this folder.”
Adam opened the folder and groaned when he saw the copied file. “Oh,” he said.
The stocky Marine leaned over Adam’s shoulder and saw what he thought was the correct file, right where it was supposed to be. “Garett, you’re some kind of special.”
“Sorry, Sarge.”
“Do you have it or not?” the skipper asked.
“We’ve got it, sir. I’ll make you a copy right now.” Narvaez inserted a USB flash drive into the side of the Toughbook laptop and copied the file from the ODIN servers.
Colt sat on the edge of his rack in his stateroom and stared at the opposite bulkhead, numb with worry. He replayed the incident over in his mind, racking his brain to come up with a plausible explanation for why his jet had betrayed him. That had never happened to him before, and he couldn’t recall ever hearing of something like that happening to any other pilot either.
Frustrated, he stood and paced the cramped space. He ran through the entire event in his mind, from startup to shutdown, trying to pinpoint where it had gone wrong. The start and launch had been normal, and aside from being the only fighter to get airborne during the event, nothing stood out to him as unusual that could have given credence to the way his jet refused to respond to his control inputs. It was a dreadfully normal flight.
