Everyone was still there, sprawled out, heads pillowed on arms. It was like a scene from a vid—the airport lounge filled with exhausted refugees from some military rebellion.
Jim Hilton stood up, his body registering a mass of aches and pains, the muscles in legs and neck and back protesting at being disturbed. He stretched, the bloody specters of his nightmare drifting reluctantly from his mind.
Carrie Princip opened an eye, squinting up at him. “One order of eggs over easy. And the biggest pile of hash browns in the entire Western Hemisphere, please, Captain.”
“I’d settle for a good big mug of fresh-brewed Java,” he replied.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “That, too.”
“I’m going to look around some. Want to come along, Carrie?”
“Why not. Had all the sleep I’m likely to get. My head feels a whole lot better.”
She joined him by the doors, her boots crunching softly.
“Looks just like always,” he said. “Wouldn’t know there was anything wrong.”
The pinkish gold light from the early eastern dawn spilled across the entire base, touching the far-off peaks with its brightness. Jim could just make out the dark shape of the Aquila’s wreckage beyond the main runway toward where the field ended and the desert began.
He sucked in several long, deep breaths of the morning’s freshness, feeling it sweep away the night’s cobwebs.
“Tastes good after two years of recycled air that eleven other people have been breathing. Like a fine white wine.”
“I promised myself that I’d line up six of the biggest and best mint juleps at a little bar I know in New Orleans, back of Ursulines Avenue. Then sit there and listen to some good music and drink them real slow, one after the other.” Her voice was dreamy. “Then I figured I’d call up a guy I know. Intelligence of a fence post, but great in the sack. Spend the whole night getting laid.” She shrugged, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But now…”
“Yeah… now.”
Far away to their right, toward the north, Jim could see a tiny cloud of dust, no larger than a man’s fist. He stared at it, trying to figure out what it was. But it was so far off he couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t even see if it was moving in any particular direction. He decided it might be one of the small herds of wild mustangs that still lived and foraged up in the foothills.
“Shall we wake the others?”
He nodded. “Guess so. Reckon we should try and stick together.”
“Jim?” she called, catching at his sleeve as he started to move off.
“What?”
“Where do we go next?”
The question caught him off-balance. “I haven’t thought any further than right now, right this moment. I suppose I was sort of certain we’d be brought in and the cameras and press and then the debriefing, weeks and weeks of it. Then start training for the next one down the line. Oh, and see our folks, I guess. That goes without saying.”
She smiled. “Least you got folks to go and see, Jim.”
“Your parents…they’re both dead, aren’t they, Carrie?”
“Jackknifed semi near Yellowstone. Two years ago. They were on a big vacation to celebrate their silver wedding. Their second day into it.”
There was movement behind them, the sound of someone coughing and quiet voices.
Jim touched the woman on the shoulder. “Look, if you’d like to come back home with me…”
“D’you think we all got homes to go to, Skip?”
“That’s what most of us are going to want to find out, I suppose. Let’s go see the others.”
EVERYONE FELT a little better, except Jeff Thomas, who was already complaining bitterly about the pain from his smashed nose.
Both Kyle and Steve were pretty well out of their concussions.
The main problem for them all was one of general fatigue, and a spillage of the clinical aftershock from the crash and the horrific deaths of four old and trusted friends.
Jim stood in the lobby and clapped his hands, catching everyone’s attention.
“First things first. Check out the base. Get to our own quarters and see if there’s anything left or any messages for us…clues to what’s gone down while we were away. Then…”