"Accidents"

(1995)

By

Jay P. Hailey

and

The Vista City Players

1995:

The ancient bomber roared through the hot California air. Its two rotary engines pulled it through the air as its wings strained to keep it aloft.

In the pilot's seat, ex-astronaut, ex-secret agent Scott Ashby made another adjustment to the trim that kept the plane on course. It was overloaded and kept wanting to slew around.

The plane was as old as its pilot although he was unaware of it. Scott and a group of airplane enthusiasts from the "Confederate Air Force" specialized in keeping piston engine warplanes functioning as living artifacts from an earlier time.

They had bought the old plane from a charter cargo operation in South America. The old plane had wound up there after years and years as a chartered cargo carrier. The owner could not believe that a plane from World War II was still flying and so assumed that the B-25 was a replica built by license in South America.

The airplane enthusiasts, including Scott, bought the old plane and rebuilt it, so that they could have a replica of an old W.W.II plane to fly on actual missions. Thinking that it was a replica and not the original plane, they rebuilt it as a fire-bomber for use against forest fires in the Southwest. Then they fought over whose turn it was to fly the old thing.

For its own part, the plane was happy to be defending the country of its manufacture once again. It had rolled off the lines just a little too late to take part in the combat operations of the war. This had always bugged the airplane and it arranged to stick around as long as possible against the off chance that it might one day be called to duty again.

Both Scott and the airplane were happy as they approached the drop zone with the heavy load of fire retardant.

The fire in the Shasta National Forest was a bad one. The drought in California had dried the forests for three years or more and this provided a lot of fuel for the wild fire.

Worse, the area was on the flanks of Mount Shasta and was difficult for foot and truck bound fire fighters to get to. The fire was threatening the small town of Hazel Creek. Unless the advance of the fire was broken, the town was going to get burned.

This was a situation made for airborne fire fighters, and they had turned out. Most of the fire fighting airplanes belonged to various state or county governments, but a few groups had built fire bombers of their own and flew them on a volunteer basis. Most counties, when asked, were nice and paid for the fuel.

As Scott, his co-pilot and the airplane approached the fire zone, gusts of wind began to affect the plane more seriously. It dipped and slid around. Scott and his co-pilot had to exert more and more effort to hold their course.

Scott's co-pilot was Jack Small, a seventy-six year old veteran of W.W.II and Korea. He had flown in the wars and when that was done, he kept right on flying. Both Scott and Jack loved to be in the air.

"I think we should increase the final altitude to five hundred feet." Jack said over the tinny intercom.

Scott thought it over. It was a conservative move, and would reduce the chance of a solid hit against the fire. It would also reduce the chance of crashing the airplane while it was full to the top with the fire retardant. Under those conditions, in a crash, the airplane would probably leave retardant soaked chunks of Jack, Scott and airplane spread all over the mountain side.

"Roger." Scott said. "We'll make the pass at five hundred feet."

Scott keyed the radio and reported to the plane in the formation behind them. "Fire Seven to Fire Eight, We will make the pass at five hundred feet. Do you copy?"

"Roger, Fire Seven. We copy. Welcome back to sanity." The plane behind them was a California Air National Guard cargo plane, with a fire-bombing module carried in its cargo bay. Scott snorted. The National Guard planes were limited to one thousand feet, or more. The cargo module dispersed the fire retardant badly in the early parts of the drop. The effect of the cargo plane fire bombing was not commensurate with the effort it cost.

Scott wondered if a fire bombing pod could be built for an F-16, but quickly dropped the idea. Fire bombing was for others. The front line pilots of the F-16s got to have enough fun on their own.

Scott flew the F-16 over Panama in 1989 and in the Persian Gulf war due to a clerical foul up. Remembering it made the old B-25 seem clumsy and slow, but although an F-16 could carry more bombs than the old B-25, they could not attack fires with the same efficiency.

The plane rolled a little onto its side as if to remind Scott to keep his mind on the business at hand. Scott was careful not to over correct. If he spent too much time over steering the airplane, then they wouldn't be in a good position to start their run against the fire.

Soon they could see the pall of smoke that marked the main body of the fire. They began to set up for the bombing run. Jack Small activated the laser altimeter, and checked the GSPS reader in the brackets next to his seat. Behind them in main body of the airplane at the old navigator's station, a PC sat reading both the Global Satellite Positioning System and a CD-ROM map of California. The GSPS reader was an old model only accurate to one hundred meters. The laser altimeter became ineffective in the smoke near the fire, but both made it easy to set up for the bombing run.

Purists objected to the use of the 1990's technology on a W.W.II bomber but Scott, Jack, and the airplane had been in too many fights to turn down any advantages.

Scott turned the airplane onto the proper heading, as called off by Jack. The people who had rebuilt the plane didn't have enough money to install a fly-by-wire system, or an autopilot.

He turned the nose down and began a gentle descent to the five hundred-foot level. The descent became more haphazard and rough as they moved through air disturbed by the fire.

As they got closer to the drop point, the ride became rougher. The airplane was rising and dropping rapidly and it was difficult to hold on course. Scott and Jack both knew that it was going to be like that until after they had made the drop and left the fire zone.

"Take a look." Jack said "About two o'clock." A plane was approaching them. It seemed to be coming in slightly above them and from a parallel course. It was an old transport plane, a DC-3, the same apparent age as their own plane. It was slightly ahead of them and apparently the pilot of the DC-3 hadn't seen them.

"Fire Seven to Tower, I have a Delta Charley Three in the approach corridor. It's about a thousand yards ahead of us, at about fifteen hundred feet, over."

"Redding Tower to Fire Seven," the tower was at the Redding public airport, fifty miles to the south "I show Jump Four as the only Delta Charley Three in your vicinity. Can you identify it? Over."

Scott and Jack looked at each other. They thought that flying an antiquated bomber through the violent air over a forest fire was risky, but not bad if you knew what you were doing. However, they thought that the fire jumpers were totally insane. Fire jumpers were the paratroopers of the fire fighters. They parachuted into critical spots to try to blunt the advance of a forest fire. This combined the worst aspects of several dangerous activities, all at once.

"Fire Seven to Tower, They don't seem to see us. Could you warn them off? Over."

"Tower to Fire Seven, We copy. Will advise. Over."

The two planes continued to inch towards each other while flying at the huge pall of smoke over the fire.

Scott began to grow nervous. If they entered the pall of smoke the their visibility would be lost at least for a few moments. Usually the bombing approach by fire bombers was agreed to before hand, and that part of the sky cleared by the tower. The formation of planes going into the drop zone were lined up into a long single file line. That way no fire bomber risked collision with another plane.

Entering the pall of smoke so close to the fire jumper's airplane would be somewhat dangerous. It was more dangerous because Scott didn't know if the other pilot had seen them. There was no way to tell what he might do while Scott couldn't see him.

After a few minutes the planes continued on course with no obvious changes.

"Fire Seven to Tower. Any response from that Delta Charley? Over."

"Tower to Fire Seven, Negative. We could not raise them. Their channel is Tac-eight, that's channel Tac-eight. Maybe you can raise them. Over."

Scott switched the radio over to the proper channel. "Jump Four, Jump Four, this is Fire Seven please respond."

The planes continued towards the fire.

"This is Fire Seven calling Jump Four, come in, Jump Four."

"This is Jump Four, go ahead Fire Seven."

"Jump Four, If you look out past your port wing, you'll see us at about seven o'clock."

"Fire Seven, I'm checking, but I don't see you."

"Jump Four, you're going to need to take evasive action or you'll abort our attack run."

The airplanes were nearly at the point on no return now.

"Fire Seven, this is Jump Four. I still don't see you."

Jack said "We'd better abort and come back around."

Scott made his decision. "Roger. We're aborting." He pulled the nose of the airplane back a little and began a gentle turn away.

"Fire Seven, this is Jump Four, Say your position, please."

Scott reigned in his irritation. On the radio his voice remained perfectly neutral and calm. Years of training had taught him how to appear emotionless in nearly all circumstances.

"This is Fire Seven, We're aborting our attack run on the fire in the agreed upon attack lane, to the south of the fire. Our heading is north, Our altitude is twelve hundred and our air speed is one seven oh knots."

"Fire Seven, I don't know who that is on your nose, but it ain't us. We're southbound for Redding at this time. Jump Four over."

Scott tried to increase the rate of turn that the old bomber was making. The airplane was too badly over loaded for any severe maneuvering.

The airplane ahead of them entered the pall of smoke over the main body of the fire, and disappeared from view.

Scott and Jack were rattled inside the cockpit of their airplane as they entered the pall of smoke. The air over the fire had gained a serious updraft from the heat generated by the flames below. The old bomber seemed to want to tilt this way and that. Scott noted calmly that a straight in attack run made flying through the disturbed air easier than trying to turn in it.

The two men were pushed down into their seats as the airplane hit a particularly dense column of up welling air. Scott felt his guts and his left arm try to settle. It was disturbing to him the way his cybernetic limbs failed to perceive the odd sensations of flying. They were more stable and precise in motion than his natural limbs had been, but often didn't respond the same way to subtle stimuli.

-*-

Scott didn't often think of the wonders of mad science that had been attached to him, anymore. It had been nearly twenty years since the crippling accident that had maimed him; Scott never remembered the actual accident very clearly. He had been too badly injured in it.

Instead he remembered waking up somewhat mystified about just where he was and what had happened, only to find that his legs and right arm had gone away on vacation.

The horror and depression had been about to overwhelm him when a slim chance was offered. A secret government agency had been working on this top-secret project, see, and they were nearly ready to begin human experimentation. How would he like a chance to have arms and legs again?

There were times when Scott believed that he had actually died in that accident and the whole sequence of events that followed were actually a demented version of purgatory in which he was working off his past misdeeds.

Scott tried to wrench his mind out of the flashback and back to the business at hand. The memories of fifteen insane years as a secret government agent were a powerful distraction.

-*-

"Oh, my God." Jack Small said.

Scott looked up to see the other airplane looming in front of them. Scott quickly assessed the range and motion of the other plane. It was obvious that it hadn't handled the turbulence inside the smoke as well as the B-25 had.

He rolled the plane over and tried to hold it in a powerful turn. The plane tilted, slowly. The engines stained against the new load placed on them. The airframe creaked as too much weight was placed on it.

Scott realized that his skills as a fighter pilot were not relevant. The B-25 wasn't going to be able to turn tightly enough to inflict any punishing G-forces on him. It was going to collapse first.

He held the turn, hoping that we would be able ease off before the airplane was seriously damaged.

Jack Small found himself squashed unpleasantly into the seat. He pulled tight turns in a bomber before and knew what a desperate move it was. He also heard the airframes' complaining creaks.

Jack focused his will into movement. The g-forces of the turn felt much worse to him that they should have. Age had taken away all of his tolerance for such violent maneuvers. He didn't think of that. His focus was on keeping the plane in the air. Years of training had instilled in Jack the idea that the well being of the airplane took precedence. If the airplane crashed then no one would survive.

With great concentration Jack reached out and caught the release lever for the fire retardant tanks. He pulled the lever, triggering the dump.

Out side of the plane a gout of red fire retardant blossomed from the bomb bay. Within half a second several tons of fire retardant was vented out of the airplane.

With the weight gone the other forces acting on he airplane sought a new balance. The old B-25 bobbed higher into the air as though shot off of a giant spring.

Now squished further into his seat Scott struggled with the airplane whose whole feel had suddenly changed, drastically. He cut the throttle way back and leveled out of the big turn. He then pushed the nose of the airplane way down, trying to pass underneath the other old plane.

Out of the front windscreen, Scott could see the other plane very, very close. He could see that the closest parts would be the starboard wing of his airplane and the tail section of the other plane.

Scott relaxed and let it happen. In the final moments fighting would only make worse. The recovery was the thing to concentrate on, now.

With a bang, the two planes collided. As such things go, it was a gentle collision. The airplane equivalent of a fender bender.

The old B-25 slewed around and rolled over. Then it nosed down and began to dive; rolling over gently as it went.

Scott corrected the roll, and stabilized the plane's dive, slowly.

"How bad is it?" Scott asked Jack.

Jack pulled himself together and managed to peek out the window, at the starboard wing. "Ah, There's damage to the number two engine and propeller. There's some structural damage to the leading edge of the wing.

"I'm shutting down the number two engine." Scott said. He didn't have to bother. The number two engine was already torn apart inside, when the propeller was damaged,

Scott began to ease gently back on the stick. The plane shuddered and wanted to pull heavily to the right. Scott counter-steered to the left. The old B-25 began to pull out of its dive.

As the plane dove, it picked up speed. Scott thought that this had its good points and its bad points. The increased speed through the air made the wings work better at generating lift. As long as the plane was pushing through the air its wings would work as well as possible and Scott would still be in control. The draw back was that there was only so far down that the plane could go before it crashed into the ground.

Counter steering and gently pulling back on the stick, Scott managed to recover from the dive. The uneven thrust of the single engine made the plane want to turn to the right. Scott let it go that way a little. He had to turn back to the south to make the trip back to Redding.

Then he tried to gain altitude. This was an optimistic process. The single engine of the B-25 might be able to keep it in the air. It might allow enough control to land safely. It was asking a lot of the single engine to drag the bomber any higher. Scott really wanted the plane higher in the air. The distance between the old plane and the ground was Scott's forgiveness distance. Any mistakes he made might be forgiven if he had enough time to fall and recover. The bomber was now at just less than five hundred feet above the hills.

The new engines that Scott and his Confederate Air Force partners bought for the airplane were built by a small company in Arizona which had bought the rights to many parts from old aircraft. Literally hundreds of the old Warbirds and cargo planes from the 1940's and 1950's were still flying. A young entrepreneur thought that he could make money supplying spare parts for these old airplanes.

He did cut a few corners. He assembled engines to match the specifications of the originals, but he was not an obsessive purist. He did not build many of the parts and fittings for the recreated engines. He ordered them from shops that built similar parts for auto, boat and airplane racing.

His engines were several times more expensive than an off the shelf model from the 1950's. Scott and his partners had paid the extra money because the entrepreneur from Arizona was the only game in town.

The near racing quality of the engines on the old B-25 now proved itself, as the bomber started to slowly climb away from the crash.

Scott and Jack limped their old plane back to the air field in Redding.

-*-

As the old airplane rolled to a stop on the tarmac of the Redding airport, Scott breathed a sigh of relief. They said that any landing that you could walk away from was a good one. The approach and landing of the bomber had proven that to him, again.

Jack shut down the surviving motor and had his own moment of relief.

Fire engines and emergency vehicles rolled up to them. Scott had a complex reaction. The big, beefy trucks that hauled the fire equipment back and forth to the damaged planes had grown more blocky and stubby as time had worn on. It reminded him of the way that the Military had adapted the basic deuce-and-a-half truck frame to do everything they could think of nearly thirty years ago in Viet Nam.

Scott was happy that a small town airport could manage the kind of emergency response that he was seeing. It was a statement about how the lives of the crew and passengers of the airplanes were valued. On the other hand, it made a small American town remind him of war time. Was the whole world going to war bit by bit, and nobody noticed? Scott shut that train of though off quickly. It was dangerous.

He helped Jack Small out of the airplane and they were checked over by the paramedics. Jack was found to have suffered bruises and a good dose of adrenaline. Scott was declared intact.

Then they dealt with the B-25. It had been damaged along the right wing and engine. The airport safety inspector insisted that the plane be parked on the far side of the flight line and then drained of all fuel. After that he insisted that all batteries and electronic devices be removed. He wanted to make sure that there would be no fires starting in the damaged airplane.

Then an agent of the FAA interviewed Scott and Jack. Scott and Jack found their licenses suspended until the investigation was complete.

Scott was developing an increased tolerance and patience for bureaucracy, since he had become a police officer. It was just another internal investigation. Scott knew that if he was bland, boring and truthful that eventually the matter would be resolved.

A single reporter from a local paper appeared to ask for their feelings on the matter. It was from him that Scott learned that the plane that they hit had crashed. Two people were killed and a third was injured. It seems that the old cargo plane had already delivered its cargo of fire jumpers earlier.

After that, Scott and Jack changed. Scott called his wife.

"I heard a little." She said "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm on my way home now."

"We'll be waiting for you."

-*-

Scott walked in to his home with a bone deep weariness. It wasn't until he was driving home that the emergency coping mechanisms that he developed subsided. Scott then began to second-guess himself. Was there anything that he could have done differently?

Scott tried to cope with that in the best way he knew. Hindsight always revealed ways in which a situation could have been handled better. Scott tried to remember these things for future reference. He struggled not to blame himself for things that had already happened. He couldn't undo the past, not even five minutes ago.

It always took awhile.

As he walked in the door, His children ran to greet him. Scott was fifty years old. That was little old to be raising a family, but he cherished them. Scott and his wife lived a "Leave-it-to-Beaver" life style that they guarded ferociously. They almost missed the chance at their family and lifestyle several times.

Spaulding was named for Jennifer's grandfather, a man he had never met. He was eleven years old with red hair and freckles. He moved with relentless speed and unflagging spirit. He swarmed into Scott's space, grabbed a quick hug and ran off. There were monsters to be destroyed in the Nintendo world, and he was quick to be about it. Scott and Jennifer made him play the Nintendo in his own room away from their sight.

Michelle was quieter and more thoughtful, but no less happy a child. She hugged her father and said "I love you, Daddy," before returning to her book.

Scott looked at his generic three-bedroom house in the suburbs. He memories of a dozen such places but few held the emotional impact of this one. This one belonged to himself and his family. The fact that it was the nest for his family moved the house out of the realm of the generic and into the realm of the sacred for Scott.

Jennifer waited for him. She was thirteen years younger than Scott, but they found their common ground in the field, working for their secret government agency. She had red hair and a slim figure. Her face was a touch too rugged to really be pretty, but her determination and love shined out to Scott like a beacon. In the end, they both realized that they hated the life of a secret agent, and took the opportunity to retire.

Jennifer saw the strain written into Scott's face and wordlessly took him into their nest where she sat him down and fed him.

With Jennifer watching over him Scott felt free to let down his guard and relax. It was one of the reasons that he loved her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Scott and Jennifer had no difficulty expressing their feelings on a non-verbal level. Their love was written in their body language and the little reflexes they had. After years of undercover work, they still rarely discussed small details of everyday life with each other.. What you don't know, you can't give away. This made their usual conversations either very bland or boring, or extremely technical.

Scott just looked at Jennifer. This was an unusual request. He shrugged "We came through the smoke and there he was. I tried to evade, but the plane was too heavily loaded and we didn't dump the fire retardant quickly enough. So... bang. Then I recovered from the collision and went back to base." Scott waved his hands to demonstrate the motions.

For her part, Jennifer considered the old bomber a relic waiting to find its accident. Whenever she expressed a jealousy to Scott about the time he spent with the old plane, he would make a special effort not to ignore her and to make her feel loved. Jennifer didn't mind this part of it at all. She was afraid that Scott was going to get hurt or killed flying an old piece of junk around and didn't understand why he wanted to do it.

Jennifer listened patiently and when Scott was done she said "Was Jack hurt?" She liked Jack Small. He had a gentle humor and confidence that appealed to her. She kept trying to draft him into the role of ersatz grandfather for Spaulding and Michelle. Jack didn't fight this too hard.

"No. He was a little disturbed, and I think he overextended himself, but he wasn't physically hurt. He's got the stuff. He'll be okay."

Did you know anyone in the other plane?" It was a cruel question but Jennifer could think of no other way to ask. Scott and Jennifer lived with a slow attrition of their friends since they began their careers as secret agents. Their duty and community spirit required a certain amount of sadness at the passing of any person. They experienced enough death so that this reaction was pared down to its essential basic, and no more. Real emotions were reserved for people that they knew personally.

"No, I didn't. Does it matter?"

"It always matters. I'm sorry. I know that you have to be feeling pretty bad, but at least we didn't lose you, or Jack."

"That's looking on the bright side."

"I want to talk to you about that."

Scott knew what was coming, but didn't know how to avoid it. So he attacked first. "You don't like me flying the B-25."

"When we were single and undercover in L.A. getting shot at was part of the deal. It needed to be done and we did it. Then we said it was over. I thought maybe the idea of dying any minute would loose its appeal."

Flying the bomber isn't that bad. I've checked out the plane from stem to stern and so have the others. At one point or another, we all ride in it, and everyone does their part. She's a good plane and I'm not in danger flying her."

"Just like today."

"That was an accident. It could have happened to anybody."

"It didn't happened to anybody. It almost happened to you. I don't want to lose you because you have to prove what a fly boy you are."

"I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone. I just..."

"Just what?"

"I just like to fly."

"I'll put that on your tombstone."

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Just one more thing. I didn't cry about Panama, That I understood. I didn't cry about Saudi, although I'm still not sure I understand that one. I won't cry about the Police. That I understand, too, and I'm behind you one hundred percent, do you understand?"

"Uh-uh."

"I think you owe it to me and to the kids to pick and choose the risks you take. Please just tell me that you'll think about it."

Scott agreed to this.

Scott ate dinner and spent the evening relaxing. His relaxation was a deliberate, meditative act, learned from years of therapy. It helped.

-*-

The next morning was Monday. Scott woke up before dawn and got into the work groove. He got into his usual blue suit and picked a Mickey Mouse tie. Once upon a time Scott was supposed to act as a model of American society, correct and upstanding in all appearances. He was happy to be able wear something as frivolous as a Mickey Mouse tie and not draw a second glance.

He got into his car and drove to work at the Vista City Police Department. There he was the captain in charge of the Special Investigations Squad.

Scott's situation with the police department was odd. He was a member of the Vista City PD and took its mission to heart. However, he took that job under false pretenses and he knew that his mission to defend Vista City had certain details that his bosses didn't know.

This Monday, the job was routine. Scott said hello to the officers under his command. Then he got down to the paper work that allowed his crew to do their jobs.

Terry "Bumpers" Parkinson was a good driver with excellent reflexes and reaction times. He also had a certain amount of bad luck. In every response situation he damaged the police car that he was assigned. Mostly it was dented fenders and cracked tail-light lenses. Some times it was worse. Parkinson sent two patrol cars to the wrecking yard during the six months that Scott had worked with him. This was balanced by Terry's fine sense of timing. The cars that he wrecked had both been wrecked in such a way as to be a great benefit.

Scott carefully pointed these things out to the Assistant Chief of Police, as well as his decision to temporarily remove Terry's driving privileges if more damage should occur.

Then Scott tried to sort out the paperwork caused by Samuel Thomas. Thomas had dropped between the cracks of the bureaucracy of the Vista City PD. When pulled in to be assigned to the Special Investigations Squad it was found that he had been patrolling the same neighborhood in the same patrol car since 1979.

The 1978 Dodge Dart that was his patrol car was well out of date for the police. Thomas took it in for service at a local garage in his neighborhood and paid for it out of his own pocket.

The conflict of interest issues alone were staggering. During training exercises with the rest of the squad it was found that Thomas didn't know of the switch from .38 specials to 9mm automatics. There were a whole raft of "new" police procedures over the last fifteen years that Thomas avoided.

Thomas did a good job. His neighborhood was quiet and incident free for almost all of Thomas' tour.

Scott and the Assistant Chief, Moody worked out a system for dealing with Thomas. Scott arranged for the car to be "sold" to Thomas so that his using the car and maintaining it for so long could be made to seem legitimate. It would also make Thomas happy. The old car would otherwise have to be scrapped.

Scott and Assistant Chief Moody agreed that most of Thomas' system worked for his neighborhood, and so Scott agreed to keep Samuel Thomas assigned to his old neighborhood unless he was specifically needed for a "Special Investigation"

Then they had to sort out the background check on Sonja Traveler. The young Romany woman drifted into to town and applied for the police as if out of the blue. Her test scores and aptitudes were very good and the VCPD accepted her only to find weeks later that much of her background was impossible to check on. When questioned, Sonja freely admitted to Scott that "Traveler" was a name that she adopted for the VCPD and normally her family simply didn't use last names.

While not technically illegal, the VCPD usually frowned on this. The normal procedure would have been to let her go. With Sonja's help Scott had double-checked her reference from the North Slope Ski Lodge, and an added reference from a Canadian Mountie named Kelley Staton. Officer Staton's references checked out and on the phone he vouched for Sonja. That was enough for the Assistant Chief, and he closed the matter.

The Assistant Chief was really the man who ran the VCPD. He managed the office politics well enough to make the post of top assistant to the Chief. The Chief was an elected post, and the current Chief of the VCPD was a political animal. He considered the post a stepping stone to higher offices or better influence within his party. Consequently he was often away on seminars around the country or hob-nobbing with the political powers in San Francisco or Sacramento.

The Assistant Chief held his post as long as he made the Chief look good and he knew it. This forced him to occasionally sacrifice more complex cases and issues to the political considerations of his job. In his mind, Scott and the Special Investigations Squad were a chance to address some of these issues without risking his own status.

Scott liked Moody. Despite having the appearance of a hard driving, career oriented yuppie, Moody had a streak of imagination and tolerance that was rare. Moody was careful to keep his yuppie facade intact.

After the meeting with Assistant Chief Moody, Scott joined some of the rest of his detectives in their squad room, trying to run down leads on old, stale unsolved cases that had been dumped on them. There was no shortage of this stuff for the Special Investigations Squad.

The best investigator for these was Angelo Mancuso. A refugee from Los Angeles, Mancuso and his partner had stepped on one too many toes in the big city. Mancuso had a quiet, detailed approach to police work and enjoyed solving riddles. His work in the Police was an expression of this desire. Angelo's parents were rich Bel-Aire natives who supported Angelo's schooling to be a Nuclear Physicist. He turned to police work after independently solving an unsolved murder in Los Angeles.

His habitual partner, Marcus Gonzales, was a loose cannon. Gonzales was more prone to give chase and shoot first and then gather the details together later, if at all. His impulsive nature balanced Angelo's thoughtful attitude and the two together made a good, if politically unwise team.

The next full time detective on the Squad was Rebecca Stevens. She had been a detective for the LAPD, too. She had specialized in Japanese culture and language, and was the chief investigator of the Yakuza for the LAPD. That is, until a bomb took her right arm off.

Scott didn't know who had built her cybernetic replacement arm, but he was certain that it was not the same crew that was responsible for his own. Rebecca's arm was a gleaming metal limb that made no attempt to hide its artificial nature. It had mechanical joints and a port in the forearm for some sort of experimental blaster. There were small solar cell arrays on the arm, and when the power in her arm ran low, Rebecca had to plug it in to a wall socket to recharge it. Scott thought that this was a cruel approach. However, it was safer than the micro-nuclear packs that powered his own limbs.

Rebecca herself was a professional and competent detective, but she was still trying to overcome the events that had taken her arm. The VCPD was the only police force that would take her after the loss of her natural arm. Moody confided to Scott that the VCPD thought that her experience would be more useful than her actual duty on the street. Rebecca's experience was valuable, but she still went out on the street. Rebecca had proven herself as far a Scott was concerned.

She was still a little gun shy and liable to forget that she was a woman with a shiny metal arm.

For the rest of the day, Scott worked and thought about what his wife had asked of him.

-*-

Tuesday was much the same. Wednesday, Jack Small called Scott during lunch. "Scott, I have a damage report on the B-25."

Scott said "Shoot." He noted that Jack sounded happy.

"Brannon Mark agreed to finance the repair."

This was good news, indeed. Brannon Mark was a wealthy industrialist from the nearby town of Beauville. He was one of the airplane enthusiasts who bought and reconditioned the old plane. he had enough money to buy and recondition five old Warbirds, but his fortune and finances kept him too busy to play along too often.

"What's the catch?" Scott knew there would be one. Brannon Mark wasn't wealthy for nothing.

"Er, well, he wants first refusal on the next five flights."

"How much is the repair going to run?"

"About two thousand in body work, plus another engine."

Scott did the math in his head. "What's he charging us for the loan?"

"Three percent. It's the minimum under the law."

"Well he's not asking a lot, but I hate to give in on the first bid."

"Jerry said that we should offer the first two and then settle for three."

"What do you think?"

"I think I want to fly it, next time myself, that's what. How about we counter offer three?"

Scott wanted to ask Jack if he were bothered by the deaths of the people in the other plane. He didn't. On the flight line in Viet Nam, and back in World War Two you didn't discuss anyone who didn't come back. It was a pervasive superstition. If you let it get to you, then you'd be the next casualty.

Scott enjoyed flying, but he didn't know if he enjoyed it enough to kill anyone over it. That's what it felt like.

"Okay. Offer him first refusal on the next three flights."

-*-

The next Sunday, Scott made the short drive over to Beauville, dressed for heavy work. They would be congregating in the small hangar that housed the bomber, and doing as much of the work on repairing it as possible. Even with the loan from Brannon Mark money would be tight, and they needed to maximize what they had. Besides, under most conditions, working on the plane carried a large amount of satisfaction. It was something of a love affair with the plane.

This time Scott was distracted. He just couldn't put the minute amounts of attention into the plane that he usually did. Scott didn't notice his own state until his arm over heated.

Scott could pound away with repetitive strength and force using his cybernetic arm, but if he worked it too heavily for too long, then it over heated. The sensations were unpleasant. Once the arm ran wild as its over heated electronics fed spurious feedback to the motors.

Now, the arm just went dead. Scott went outside and took a walk, to give the arm a chance to cool down and his mind a chance to grapple with his emotions.

Jerry Bernard walked up behind him. "Scott, are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm just taking a walk to cool off, you know."

Jerry was a San Francisco based reporter. He first met Scott while investigating the end of Discrete Investigations Internationale, in Los Angeles. This event convinced Scott and Jennifer that retirement was their only course.

Jerry was the only one of the reporters who explored the background enough to discover the Scott actually was an astronaut.

"Okay, yeah, you got it under control, Moon man."

Scott bristled at Jerry's tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, it's just that you seem to be upset, and yet when I ask you, I get this he-man can-do attitude, like it's for the record or something."

Scott rolled his eyes "It's not that I'm trying to freeze you out or anything."

"I'm not asking as a reporter, I'm not asking as a pilot or your business partner or your Aunt Ethyl. I'm asking as your friend."

"You're always a reporter."

"Well, okay. I admit that. I promise that I'll quote you anonymously."

"Jerry, we killed a couple of people last week end."

"Oh? Is that it, then?"

"A little more damage to the plane and I wouldn't have been able to recover in time. We were almost killed ourselves."

"I understand. Do you need a little more time? Do you want to take off for today?"

"Uh, Jennifer wants me to quit flying the plane."

"Oh. That's a tough one."

"You think so?"

"Scott, they put you in a rocket and shot you out into space. Away from air, light, food and water. There were so many ways to die up there, that they never did count them all. You know these things better than I."

"What's your point?"

"When they pointed at the rocket and asked if you wanted to fly in it, what did you say?"

"I said yes. Why do you ask?"

"Why?"

"Well, it was my duty..."

"Bullshit! You jumped into that rocket and flew it away because it was a chance to fly farther and faster than most people ever get to. Your landing pad was on the Moon, for Christ's sake."

Scott thought it over "Yeah, I suppose you could put it that way."

"I can fly a long way, Scott, but I'll never fly that far. I can fly pretty fast, but I'll never fly that fast."

Scott remembered the acceleration of the Saturn Five rocket. Had he ever had so much fun?

"I have to focus on what's important, here, Jerry. I'm a family man, now. I can't afford the risk."

"Yeah, but life is a risk. Can you afford to lose yourself?"

"I am not a bomber. I am not a plane junky."

"You may not be the bomber, but you're the guy who makes it fly. You're a born pilot. That's who you are."

"I am Jennifer's husband. I am a father. That's who I am, too."

"Then you've got something to work out, don't you?"

-*-

"This is Jim Hill reporting live from the high rise fire in downtown San Francisco." Scott was at home Sunday evening, watching TV, and trying to think through what had been said.

CNN was on the scene of another disaster. Scott viewed the news with a certain amount of disdain. Anyone who has had an incident that they were involved in reported on the TV knows that what shows up on the screen only bears a coincidental relationship to the truth. Scott was reported on relatively often for someone who never held a public office.

"The San Francisco Holden Inn, a thirty story high rise is on fire, tonight, and there is confirmed word of people inside."

Scott's eyes bugged out. The San Francisco Holden Inn was the site of a seminar on the Yakuza given to law enforcement agencies. This Sunday several members of his Special Investigations Squad were supposed to be at the conference.

"The hotel was under construction, this evening and there are unconfirmed rumors of a propane tank explosion somewhere on the fifth floor of the building."

"We have tape now, of a conversation recorded some five minutes ago. Apparently this is a Police Officer in the building requesting something about his motorcycle."

The reporter's face was replaced by a long shot of the building, burning. In the evening light smoke was being replaced with bright orange flares from the fire. With a mounting sense of horror, Scott recognized the voice of one of his own detectives, Gary Dawson. The recording was scratchy.

"... She's a nineteen fifty Harley Hydra-Glide, man! You don't dump burning shrapnel and fire retardant on a nineteen fifty Hydra-Glide! Please get her out of the parking lot."

A sub-title flowed across the screen describing who was talking. Scott listened to Gary. Gary Dawson was a motorcyclist in the purest sense. He was in love with his motorcycle and the lifestyle that seemed to come with it. Gary Dawson started out an Ordinance Disposal Officer at the Vista City PD, until Scott requested that he be assigned to Special Investigations.

"What floor are you on, Sir?"

"The twentieth. I can almost see my bike from here."

"Please remain calm, sir. How many people are with you now?"

"Uh, twenty-seven."

"And how many of those are Police Officers?"

Uh, Six of us. Why? Do you want us to arrest the fire?"

Another voice came on. "Officer Dawson, this is Captain Biggs of the San Francisco Fire Department. Do you read me?"

"Yeah, Capt'n Biggs. Are you on the ground outside?"

"Never mind that. You need to listen carefully and not panic, okay?"

"Okay. Go ahead."

"You need to quickly and quietly move those people up to the roof."

"Yes, sir. Why?"

"You're cut off below. The fifth through seventh floors are fully involved. Secondly you're in danger of being cut off from above. The twenty-third floor is partially involved. Do you understand your situation, there, son?"

"Oh, yeah. Okay we're moving. Just one more thing."

"Yes, Dawson?"

"Please move my bike. If I don't, um... well..."

"I understand, son. We'll take care of her. Off."

The reporter came back on the screen. "We have not heard anything from inside the building for the last five minutes. The real mystery here is just what sort of police officer Gary Dawson is. There is no record of him from the SFPD. We're working on that at this time. The people trapped in the building should be coming out of the top any moment, now, unless the fire has indeed cut them off on the twenty-third floor. Back to you, Lynn."

An earnest woman behind a desk replaced the reporter in San Francisco.

"The big question running through the minds of experts and the public at large is: How could the fire grow out of control so quickly? To answer that we have Safety Expert Maxwell Purdue."

The camera switched to show an intense and excited man. "Lynn, the San Francisco Holden Inn was undergoing renovation. This included heavy construction on the lower floors."

He waved his hands at a computer generated graphic depicting the building. "The construction affected the main water system, causing a shutdown in the main water arteries, including the building's sprinkler system! This was combined with possible unsafe practices at the construction site on the fifth floor. I don't understand why they had a propane tank up there to begin with! An accident of some type occurred. It's possible that it had to do with welding equipment. Once the explosion occurred.." The graphic now changed to show a theatrical explosion. "..then a raging fire was almost guaranteed. In my opinion as a trained safety expert, the whole building should have been closed! It was just unsafe!"

The camera showed the Anchorwoman again.

"Sources indicate that the renovation led many groups to change to another building, including the last minute relocation of a law enforcement seminar. Jim, could these police officers we hear in the cellular phone conversation have been confused as to the location of that seminar?"

"I don't have any information about that, Lynn but we have pictures from helicopters in the air over the blazing building behind us!"

The view on the television changed again. The view was from a mounted camera on a news helicopter. Scott blanched as he saw the smoke from the fire in the dying light. The winds near the tower were heavy. The sky was filled with helicopters. Scott saw at least three others in the area near the building.

"This is Michael Moran aboard News Copter Eight in San Francisco. We can see survivors on the roof of the building, now."

A helicopter spotlight lit up the roof of the building. Scott saw people struggling along the windy heights. The spotlight blinded a couple of them and they stumbled. Some people were carrying wounded. Scott recognized Sonja Traveler and Gary Dawson among the people.

"The pilots of the Coast Guard Search and Rescue helicopters have told us on the radio that they feel the wind conditions to be unsafe. That is to say that any attempt to rescue the trapped victims of the fire would be extremely risky. We'll listen in on their channel now to see if they will, in fact make the attempt."

The speaker on Scott's TV hissed as the radio was switched to the Coast Guard frequencies.

"Rescue one to Tower, we still aren't clear to make the goddamned extraction, over."

"Tower to Rescue One, can you identify the other ship?"

"Roger, Tower, there is a big, hairy assed, Bell 500 in my way marked News Eight. There are several other news choppers in the way. Over."

The picture suddenly switched back to Lynn Vaughn in Atlanta. She started and then quickly regained her composure. "This is Lynn Vaughn in Atlanta. While they work that out, we'll go to a quick commercial. Stay tuned to CNN for continuing coverage of the high rise fire in San Francisco's Holden Inn."

CNN broke for the commercial. Scott was horrified to see that CNN already had a dazzling computer graphic logo for the event.

Scott stood up to see Jennifer waiting for him.

"I've got to go." he said, gruffly

"I understand. Keep your head down." It their standard be-careful warning.

The phone rang. Jennifer looked at Scott.

"I'm not here." He said.

She picked up the phone. "Hello? Who? I'm sorry he's not home right now. May I take a message? Uh-huh, yes, I'll tell him. Thank you."

She put down the phone, and intoned in a deep voice "That was CNN."

Scott made an obligatory grin at his wife's black humor, and kissed her on his way out the door.

-*-

At the Police Station, Scott arrived in the main Squad room to find that CNN was the focus there, too.

Captain Arnold, the senior officer present was in charge. Scott approached him. He nodded at the screen. "Ashby, hi. You know whose there, right?"

Scott nodded. "I want to take a van down there and pick them up, if possible."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I can handle it."

"Okay, take number five. The keys are at the desk." Captain Arnold picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed a number. "Jamie? Give Captain Ashby the keys to van number five, will ya? Thanks."

Scott turned to leave just a Captain Arnold said "Christ, the bastards are trying it again."

Scott turned to watch the coverage. From a good distance a News Copter showed footage of a National Guard Huey hovering over the rooftop. The big military helicopter danced in the heavy winds and weird updrafts from the burning building. A safety-belted crewman worked a winch and lowered a stretcher-basket down to the rooftop. The people on the roof pulled the stretcher-basket into them but waited until there was plenty of slack in the line, before loading a burn victim into it. Then Scott recognized Marcus Gonzales strapping himself inexpertly into the rig.

"Hey, Captain, is he one of ours?" Someone shouted.

"That's Marcus Gonzalas." Scott answered.

Seeing a thumbs up from the roof, the helicopter crewman began to operate the winch to lift the stretcher/basket. As the stretcher-basket was lifted clear of the roof, it started to spin. Marcus crouched down to shield the burn victim and try to keep him in the stretcher. It spun faster and faster as the helicopter tried to hover in place over the burning building.

Marcus now lost his battle to keep his place and was flung clear out of the basket. It was spinning very quickly now, and Scott didn't see how Marcus had the strength to hold on to it. Then he saw the straps that held Marcus.

The squad room gasped collectively as a gust sank the helicopter. The spinning basket dropped lower and Marcus was spun along the surface of the roof. The basket's spin slowed a lot, but it looked like Marcus picked up a serious case of roof rash.

The Helicopter bounced into the air lifting the basket off the roof again. The rate of spin increased again and once more Marcus and the burn victim were spun out of control.

Scott could see Marcus losing his focus and his strength. They were spinning at something like a turn and a half per second. Scott had undergone similar spins in astronaut training and knew how disorienting they could be. He was amazed that Marcus still seemed conscious and capable of fighting back, while spinning thirty stories in mid-air over a burning building.

Then another gust caught the Helicopter. It dipped down further and off to the side of the building. The pilot barely managed to miss the edge of the roof. Marcus and the burn victim were slammed into the side of the building with a bone breaking impact.

As the squad room jumped to their feet and shouted, Scott turned and left.

-*-

In the end, Marcus and the burn victim were the most seriously injured people to be evacuated from the roof. Sonja, Gary and Angelo were evacuated with little physical injury. They were all traumatized by the events they had witnessed. The burn victim had been burned while trying to escape the twenty third floor. Another person was been killed there.

A few others had been hurt getting winched into rescue helicopters, some seriously.

Marcus was in the ICU for the next two days. He under went quick and thorough reconstructive surgery. The doctors told Scott that there was good chance that Marcus would eventually recover fully, given enough time and physical therapy.

Sonja and Gary had been scared out of their wits, but had managed to maintain long enough to evacuate all the civilians from the roof first. Once on the ground and on their way home each collapsed to deal with event on a personal level.

Angelo almost earned a quick death when he admitted that he had enjoyed dangling from the helicopter in the air. He said that he was going to go to sky diving courses to explore this emotional reaction.

The last casualty to be counted was Gary's motorcycle. The collectors item Harley Davidson had indeed been pelted with burning debris and then doused with fire retardant foam.

Gary moaned at the thought of the damage to the leather and rubber fittings. He sobbed when he thought of the rare components that would be corroded by the foam and would need to be replaced. He sighed at the thought of taking his beloved motorcycle apart piece by piece and cleaning each component thoroughly. Then he would reassemble the whole machine, slowly, delicately and precisely.

Weeks of work lay ahead of Gary before he could ride his motorcycle again.

Gary looked at Scott and said bitterly, "I want a raise!"

-*-

The next few days were filled with heavy work for Scott. The people involved in the building disaster were all sent home for a few days of recovery and then assigned to attend survivors counseling.

Scott and the other officers assigned to the Special Investigations Squad had to scramble to keep up with the added workload. Then there were meetings with the Assistant Chief where the issue of Marcus' medical coverage had to be settled.

The press hounded the officers of the disaster briefly, but then turned to other survivors. One buxom young lady named Bambi was on top of the roof with them and turned out to be a natural in front of the cameras. Most of the other survivors were content to let her become their spokesman.

Scott tried to cope with his own reaction. There was a certain amount of guilt on his part. The VCPD had been mailed an older flyer, but the update informing them of the change in venue did not appeared at the police station. Scott felt guilty that the officers in that disaster had gone on his suggestion.

Scott also had the nightmarish feeling of accidents around every corner.

-*-

The next Sunday, Scott had made his decision. he would put in a days work on the old bomber and then back out of the group. He felt that he owed it to Jennifer to minimize his risks whenever possible.

Scott's car was a 1985 Ford Thunderbird. It was brown and somewhat bland looking. Nevertheless, underneath the bland exterior it was a well maintained machine and it could really move. Years ago Scott was more apt to really push the car and use its performance capabilities. They came in handy during the disaster of 1988. These days Scott drove more calmly, with the seat belt on and less focus on the act of driving itself. His life was changing in more ways than he was really aware of.

He drove on highway Twenty-Four through northern California between Vista City and Beauville. The two-lane highway was a natural for fast driving. Once or twice during the last six months Scott had given into temptation and gone a little too fast on it. Today he was not thinking of having fun with the ride. Having made his decision he was already into his last day of work on the old bomber.

The jalopy bombed over the hill at nearly one hundred miles an hour. To call the eighteen year olds' car a jalopy was really understating the case. The young man had lovingly rebuilt his Pontiac into a purebred racecar. After spending months of work and thousands of dollars perfecting his machine, he naturally wanted to test his work, thoroughly.

Not only that, but only a top notch driver could make the run between Vista City and Beauville in less than fifteen minutes.

The young man had pushed his limits coming around the turn, and was nearly sideways when he started to recover from the skid and get back on course. He noticed Scott's T-Bird down the road ahead of him, and knew that he was not going to be able avoid the crash.

Scott noticed the oncoming car and quickly glanced left and right. There were rocks and dirt from a cliff on his left. On his right there was a drop off that continued down some distance into a rocky ravine.

He hit the brakes and began to slow quickly. When the T-Bird threatened to lose traction, he delicately pumped them achieving the best possible deceleration.

The eighteen-year-old in the Pontiac also tried desperately to stop. He locked up the brakes and the tires screamed, leaving a trail of hot rubber on the road. The young man quickly began to pump his own brakes, not wanting to lose traction and go randomly sliding along.

At the last minute, Scott could see that there was no way to avoid a bone shattering collision. The T-Bird was nearly stopped, but the Pontiac was still sliding along at a good clip.

At the last possible second a part of Scott's mind that he was not clearly aware of made its own decision. Years of training and fighting had ingrained in Scott that the normal, every day people of the world were important, even desperately so.

So he flicked the steering wheel to the right and stomped his accelerator.

With a resounding bang, the two cars struck each other. The Pontiac hit the left rear quarter panel of the T-Bird with her left forward corner.

Things got a little vague for Scott as the T-Bird tumbled down the embankment and into ravine.

"Oh man! Oh man! Oh man!" The eighteen-year-old cried as his Pontiac came to a stop. He was too adrenalized to feel the soreness and stiffness in his neck, yet. The front end of his car had been destroyed, but the impact had taken away enough speed so that he was able to stop quickly. However, it wasn't a solid enough impact to seriously injure him.

He looked around and saw the embankment, but no sign of Scott's T-Bird. "OH MAN!" He yelled, jumping out of his car.

-*-

Scott lay in his hospital bed and had time to think. The accident destroyed his left leg. He had gotten some odd looks from the emergency crews that came to free him from the wreckage of his T-Bird. His concussion blunted the effect of his other injury until later.

After the first day, which Scott had spent sleeping, the doctor had come in to talk to him.

"Mr. Ashby. I need to talk to you about your leg."

Scott said "Yes?"

"I tried that number you gave me, but it has been disconnected. There is no one there. Is there someone else that I should call?"

Scott was shocked. The lab that had built his cybernetics were very secret and carefully guarded but was there the last time he called on them in 1991. Without that contact point, Scott didn't know how to reach the scientist who had built his arm, legs and left eye back in the 1970's. He slowly shook his head.

"I am not competent to deal with damage to a prosthetic like yours, Mr. Ashby. I'm sorry. I have heard of a few experts in the field, but if they did not build your new limbs then I don't know how they might help you."

Scott had other contacts for reaching the secret government agency that had sponsored the construction of his limbs, but he didn't know what the response might be. He always got the impression that Dr. Randolph Walsh and his crew of mad scientists who performed the cybernetic operation in the secret lab were an independent operation.

With that the book on his cybernetic limbs seemed closed, and so did most of his life. Scott had no doubt that his financial future was reasonably secure. Between his military pension and the retirement funds of himself and his wife, they had a livable if not stellar income. However, he would never be able to fly, drive, run or much else.

All of the things that he could no longer do came back to haunt him. Scott felt kind of dumb. He should have anticipated this. Damage or cumulative wear would have eventually destroyed his cybernetics anyway. To his horror, Scott found that the idea of being crippled had been banished from his mind. He never considered the possibility since the cybernetic limbs had proven themselves, twenty years ago.

It was wishful thinking and self delusion, but Scott went for it one hundred percent. That night while he slept, Scott dreamed of flying in airplanes whose wings kept falling off.

-*-

"Why didn't you tell me?" Rebecca was angry, but it came out hurt. Unconsciously, she folded her arms in a defensive posture. The metal arm curled up against her flesh and blood left arm, and the cold metal startled her. She stopped and jerked both arms down at her sides, uncertain of what to do with them.

"At one time, it was supposed to be top secret. I'm sorry if you think that I should have been open with you about it, but I have a different set of reflexes."

"It must be nice." She glared at Scott's right arm. "I mean, at least you had the choice to keep it secret."

Scott sighed. "Did you ever talk to the person who built yours about it?"

"No. It never occurred to me that you could build them.." She waved her right arm, stopped and continued the gesture with her left. "...Like that."

"Listen. These old things are probably out dated junk, now, but when they were first built, I had to be careful that someone wouldn't whisk me off and dissect me to find out what made them tick. Old habits die hard. I'm sorry."

"At least... At least you could pretend..."

"Rebecca, touch my right arm."

"What?"

"Just run your fingers along it."

With her left hand Rebecca felt the artificial surface of Scott's right arm. She seemed a little embarrassed. "Yeah, so?"

"What did it feel like to you?"

"Like latex. What was if supposed to feel like?"

"Do you want to hear about the lady I went on a date with? I forgot to tell her, too."

"At least you got the date."

"She ran screaming. She thought I was some sort of alien android."

"My heart bleeds." Rebecca's tone was harsh, but Scott knew he had her.

"At least no one that stupid is going to get that close to you."

"No one is going to get that close to me, period."

"My wife will probably disagree with you. Nevertheless, you do have the advantage of literally wearing it on your sleeve. There's no deception, there's no hiding. There's no doubt about how someone is going to react if they ever find out, is there?"

"Your wife..." Rebecca thought it through. "There's no way you could hide it from her, is there?"

"No, none at all."

"Maybe you're right." Rebecca was lost in thought. If someone did want to get close to her, then her arm would have already been dealt with, wouldn't it?

"Can you help me?" Scott asked.

"I'll make a call and see what happens."

-*-

"Mr. Ashby, I'm Doctor Valencia Pryor. I work at UCLA, in their experimental medicine department." Pryor was a short, round black woman, with a catchy sort of energy. She made you want to jump up and get things done, too.

"Nice to meet you, Doctor." Scott said.

"I hear you have some cybernetics. may I take a look?"

"Certainly." Scott flipped back the sheet that covered the stump where his leg used to be.

Pryor looked for a moment at the connection, poking it a little here or there, and saying "Hmmm."

Then she looked up. "Do you have the remains of the leg, itself?"

"It's in the closet."

Pryor went to the closet and rummaged around coming out with the twisted wreck of Scott's leg. The wreck had shred the latex cover and the efforts of the emergency crews to free Scott with his leg still attached. The metal skeleton-frame was twisted pretty badly, and electronic guts hung out of it almost randomly.

Pryor let out a squeak and threw the leg on the floor. Then she grabbed it up again and threw it back in the closet, slamming the door.

"Rebecca dear, please run down to the radiology lab and see if they have any Geiger counters or dosimeters, will you?" She said.

Scott's doctor and Jennifer looked at each other. Jennifer said "Is it leaking?"

Pryor said "I'll kill Randolph if I ever see him again! I don't know, dear. That's why I sent Rebecca down to radiology."

Scott said "Please let me see my leg and I'll be able to tell you."

Reluctantly, Pryor grabbed out Scott's leg and handed it to him. Scott examined the damage to the leg and quickly satisfied himself.

"No, the containment module is intact. It's fine. The battery has been destroyed, though."

Pryor let a sigh of relief out. "Whoosh! That's a relief. I thought that we were goners there for a moment."

"You mentioned Randolph. Is that Randolph Walsh?" Scott asked tentatively.

"Why, yes. I'd recognize that old reprobate's work anywhere. You see, he rebuilt my face." She grinned prettily. "That's why I'm in this business in the first place."

-*-

On the plane down to Los Angeles, Scott and Jennifer sat next to each other. Scott had the window seat. Hobbling around on crutches was getting on his nerves, but he knew that this was temporary. Doctor Pryor was going to rebuild his leg, and give him a thorough checkout. He would be back in peak condition, soon.

Being up in the air reminded Scott of something else he had thought of in the Hospital. "Jennifer, I wanted to talk to you about my flying." He started.

His wife looked at him intently for a few moments, reading his body language and expression. She heaved a deep, resigned sigh. "I know. I just want you to be careful, Okay?"

Scott grinned merrily.

-*-

Engines roaring, the old bomber heaved itself off the tarmac. Its frame creaked, protesting the weight of fire retardant in the bomb bay.

Scott grinned and carefully eased the nose back, staying well within the old plane's tolerances. Jack Small checked the engine gauges and the rest of the dials designed to tell him how the airplane was doing.

"Are we good to go?" Scott asked

Jack responded with a thumbs up, and Scott set course for the fire.

For its part, the plane was happy that Scott had worked it all out. Life is too short for uncertain pilots.

-end-