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ng his lunch break。 Franklin wouldn't have recognized the captain out there in the rapidly emptying parking lot anyway； not even if they had passed in a corridor。 They had never met。 But Franklin would have recognized the officer's puter security access password； for he had just finished using it。
Tonight the captain grimaced as the wind tore at his unprotected face and took the time to open the hatchback of his Toyota Corolla and toss his attaché case in。 Then he fumbled with the key to the driver's door。 Snuggled in with the engine running and waiting for the heater to warm up； Captain Harold Strong tried to relax。 It had been another long week； as each and every one of them were in this gargantuan paper factory by the Potomac。 He cast a bleak eye on the cars creeping toward the exit。 Not too many now； well after quitting time。 And he had wanted to get an early start this evening！ God； he was tired。
He put the car in gear and threaded it toward the exit。 He checked his watch。 It was twenty…two minutes past six。 At least the timing was right。 He would reach the interstate just as the car pool restrictions ended。
On the freeway he headed north along the river； past the Arlington Memorial Bridge； under the ramps of the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and out into the traffic snarl on 1…66 westbound。 Here at the tail end of rush hour the traffic moved along fairly well at about forty miles per hour； only occasionally ing to a plete stop。 Captain Strong listened carefully to an airborne traffic reporter tally the evening's casualties。 1…66 westbound wasn't mentioned。
Nearing Falls Church he stopped beside the road for a moment and removed his bridge coat。 With the car back in motion and the radio tuned to a soft…rock FM station； Strong chewed over the week's frustrations and disasters again。 Oh crap； he thought； it's Friday night and you have the cabin all to yourself for an entire weekend； so forget it。 It'll all keep until Monday； God knows。
Since the divorce he had spent most of his weekends in the cabin。 His son was a junior in college this year； busy with school and girls。 The captain wasn't interested in female panionship； which was perhaps a good thing since he lacked both the finances and the time。
They want too much from that airframe； he told himself as he drove； reviewing the arguments of the week yet one more time。 You can't build a plane that will drop bombs； shoot missiles； hassle with MiGs； have a radar cross section so small it can't be detected…haul the President back and forth to Camp David on weekends when it isn't being used to save the free world…and still expect the goddamn thing to take a cat shot and make an arrested carrier landing。 With so many design promises it can't possibly do any mission well。
A fucking flying Edsel； assuming that one way or the other it can be made to fly。 He had used precisely those words this afternoon to that simple sonuvabitch from SECNAV and that slimy political hack looked tike his wallet was being snatched。 And what had he said to Vice Admiral Henry after the meeting？ 〃It's almost as if those idiots want to buy just one ultimate do…everything flying machine and park it in the Rose Garden of the White House to scare the shit out of the Russian ambassador when he es to call。〃 Henry wasn't happy with his blunt assessment。 Well； he was right； whether Henry liked it or not。 Those political clowns want to build something straight out of a Hollywood special…effects shop； a suborbital battlestar that will automatically zap anybody who isn't wearing olive…drab underwear。
Why is it； over eighty…five years after Orville and Wilbur showed the world how to build an airplane； that we have to keep explaining the basic laws of aerodynamics to these used…car salesmen in mufti？
Strong was still stewing when he reached the outskirts of Winchester。 Raindrops began to splatter on the windshield。 He turned on the wipers。 The road looked slick and the wet night seemed to soak up his headlights； so he slowed down。
He was hungry。 He turned into the drive…through lane of a McDonald's and was soon back on the road mechanically munching a burger as he headed west。 The coffee was hot and black。
Passing through Gore he noticed headlights behind him。 Not too dose； but glued there。 How long had that guy been back there？ A cop clocking him？ Well； he wasn't speeding； not on a night like this。
The road was a twisty two…lane and empty。 Almost no traffic。 That was one of the charms of coining up here。 The glare of his headlights illuminated the black trunks of wet； naked trees as he cranked the wheel back and forth around the switchbacks up the mountain。 The sign at the top said： 〃Wele to Wild； Wonderful West Virginia。〃 And the radio reception would go on the other side of the signal。 Sure enough； on the second curve down the music faded to static。 He switched off the radio。 The headlights were still in the rear…view mirror。
At the foot of the mountain he went through the village of Capon Bridge。 Almost there； just a few more miles。 He checked the mirror as they went by a sodium light on a pole by the little Texaco station； which was dark and deserted at this hour of the evening。 It was some kind of pickup with a huge steel bumper welded to the front。 Not too new。 Mid…seventies maybe。
Impossible to make out the color。 Then a camper passed him headed east and； curious； he glanced in the mirror again。 The guy behind…blue； I think。 Maybe blue。
Leaving the village the road began to climb and he was again in switchbacks at twenty…five miles per hour。 The glare of the headlights from the pickup behind him swept across the mirror going into and ing out of every curve； and he squinted。 He turned the mirror so the lights wouldn't blind him。 Should've got the day…night mirror； he told himself； but he had saved twenty bucks passing on that option。
Above the noise of his engine he could hear the rhythmic slap…slap of the wipers and the protests of his tires on the wet macadam。
He was almost at the top of this low mountain。 He would build a fire in the fireplace when he reached the cabin in a few minutes。 Maybe a shot of Irish whiskey while the fire was driving out the chill。 Tomorrow he would…
He could hear the engine of the pickup behind roaring and the headlights spotlighted his dash and windshield。 He squinted。 What was that damn fool doing？ Did he want to pass？ We're right at that overlook…
The truck behind smashed into his rear bumper and pushed him。 Strong fought the wheel。 His vehicle was accelerating。 He applied the brakes。 Wheel lock…up。 He released the brakes and jammed the throttle down。 He was trying to steer but the wheels wouldn't bite on the slick pavement。 Goddamn…the car was going across the road； straight for the overlook pullout。
In the gravel the car skidded sideways and Strong glanced over his shoulder； straight into the pickup's headlights。 Then he felt the lurch as the pickup slammed on its brakes。
Panicked； he looked forward but saw nothing； still blinded from the headlights' glare。 He felt the car's nose go down； then it began to roll； over and over and over。
The motion stopped suddenly with a terrific； smashing impact。
When he came out of his daze he was in darkness and the engine was silent。 There was a little light； but it seemed to e from above and behind； from the road。 Jesus。。。 Something black and wet beside him。 A tree trunk； where the passenger seat used to be。
The car was half wrapped around a tree。 He had gone down over the edge and rolled several times and smashed into a tree。 That asshole in the pickup。。。 trying to kill him。
He wasn't hurt too bad。 Thank God for seat belts。 Blood on his face； minute pieces of glass everywhere。 He was still groggy。 What's that smell？ Gasoline！ A leak。 He fumbled for the seat…belt release。
Someone was beside him； reaching in through the smashed window。 〃Hey…〃
He was being splashed with something wet 〃What…〃 Gas！ It was gas！ 〃Please； you gotta…〃
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the lighted match e floating through the broken window。 The roar of the gasoline igniting was the last sound he heard。
2
The airplanes were shiny and brilliant in their bright colors of red； yellow and blue。 They hung in the window suspended on wires； frozen in flight； the spring sunlight firing the wings and fuselages and emphasizing the sleek perfection of their forms。
Jake Grafton stood on the sidewalk and stared。 He examined each one carefully； letting his eyes roam from tail to prop to gull…like wingtip。 After a moment he pushed the door open and went into the warm shop； out of the weak sunshine and the cool breeze ing off the ocean。
As he stood and gazed at another dozen or so planes banging from the ceiling； the shop proprietor behind the glass counter laid aside his newspaper and cleared his throat。 〃Good morning。〃
〃Hi。〃 Jake glanced at the man。 He was balding and bearlike and perched on a stool。 〃You've got some nice airplanes here。〃
〃Sure do。 You have a son interested in radio control？〃
Jake let his eyes find the swooping； soaring forms above his head。 〃No；〃 he said thoughtfully。 〃Just looking。〃
The proprietor began turning the pages of his newspaper as Jake moved deeper into the shop。 He wandered slowly； examining the counter displays； fingering balsa from a wire bin； scanning the rack of X…actokmves and miniature drills； looking at the rows and rows of boxes with airplanes and cars on the covers that stood on shelves behind the counter。 Finally； back at the door； he muttered his thanks to the shopkeeper and went out onto the sidewalk。
The sea breeze was brisk this morning and tangy with salt。 Not many people on the street。 This Delaware beach town lived on tourists and summer was a long way off。 At least the sun was out after a week of low； scuddy clouds and intermittent drizzle。 Standing there； Jake could faintly hear the gulls crying as they soared above the beach and boardwalk a half block away。 He looked again at the airplanes in the window； then went back into the shop。
〃Sell me an airplane；〃 he said as the proprietor looked up from his newspaper。
〃Delighted to。 Which one you want？〃
Jake scanned the planes hanging from the ceiling。 He began to examine them critically。
〃You ever build an RC plane before？〃
〃Build？ You mean I can't buy one already made？〃
〃Not any of these； you can't。 My son built all these years ago； before he went to the air force。 They're his。〃
〃Build one；〃 Jake said softly； weighing it。 He hadn't figured on that。 Oh well； the decision was already made。 Now he wanted a plane。 〃Let me see what you have。〃
Forty minutes later； with a yellow credit card invoice for S349。52 tucked into his wallet； Jake Grafton left the hobby store carrying two large sacks and walked the block to his car。 He walked purposefully； quickly。 For the first time in months he had a task ahead that would be worth doing。
Fifteen minutes later he parked the car in the sand…and…crushed…seashell parking area in front of his house。 He could hear the faint ringing of the telephone as he climbed the steps to the little wooden porch。 He unlocked the front door； sat one of the paper sacks on the floor and strode across the living room for the phone on the wall by the kitchen table。 The ringing stopped just as he reached for the receiver。 He went back to the car for the other sack。
The airplane on the lid of the box looked gorgeous； mouthwateringly gorgeous； but inside the box was sheet after sheet of raw balsa wood。 At least the aircraft parts were impressed； stamped； into the wood。 All you would have to do was pick them out and maybe trim the pieces。 The instruction booklet looked devilishly plicated； with photos and line drawings。 Jake studied the pictures。 After a bit he began laying out the balsa pieces from the box on the kitchen table； referring frequently to the pictures in the booklet。 When the box was empty he surveyed the mess and rubbed his temples。 This was going to be a big job； even bigger than he thought。
He put coffee and water in the brewer and was waiting for the Pyrex pot to fill when the phone rang again。 〃Hello。〃
〃Jake。 How are you feeling this morning？〃 Callie； his wife； called twice a day to check on him； even though she knew it irritated him。