Night Train to Planet X

By Larry Botkins

An alien race detected the unmanned probe sent from Earth to the Alpha Centauri triple star system. Eager to open a new market for their starship transports, they had that route declared an “established transportation corridor” and made first contact with Earth.

Given the unprecedented opportunity, Federated Nations bureaucrats approved Earth’s first interstellar colony and signed a contract to have it transported to the cold desert planet Alpha Centauri Ac only two years later. The many difficulties involved in such a colossal undertaking begin to present themselves almost immediately.

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This is a story of ordinary people engaged in the most extraordinary adventure in history. They experience constant shortages, unprecedented challenges, unexpected dangers, and finally, desperate combat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662916571

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Federated Nations Navy Petty Officer Second Class Joe Smith had been raised to respect success in the military, and from an early age, he’d hoped to do well in the service. Not much had happened during his first enlistment as a damage-control man. There had been the usual international tensions, but on his habitually inactive ship, there hadn’t been any battle damage to control. At the end of his first tour, he had reenlisted for aviation for a challenge at a higher level. But after struggling as a helicopter mechanic, and failing as a helicopter crew member, he’d been demoted to night shift tool room attendant.

Most of the lights were off in the main bay of the hangar as Joe worked alone in the tool room, checking that each of the torque wrenches was set to its minimum setting and otherwise stored properly. The process was involved as there were multiple types, and each torque wrench was stored in its own double-latched plastic case. The wide stainless-steel counter and the stool at the front of the tool room beckoned. Yet he remained standing as he checked and wiped clean each torque wrench with care, even though no one was ever looking. He’d resolved not to sit during the night, except during the scheduled breaks.

Checking torque wrenches was one of the activities on a checklist he’d created, intended to keep him busy and productive, even though some nights, like that night, there were no helicopter mechanics working in the hangar. Joe had been one of the night-shift mechanics until the month before, when he’d received the lowest possible scores on his annual evaluation. He had promised his commander that he’d do better. The commander hadn’t seemed to be listening, but Joe had meant what he said.

During the day, PO3 Lang ran the tool room efficiently. He was a professional, not a mechanic reject. But because his shift ended at the same time as the day-shift mechanics, the last half hour was usually a flash flood of tools being turned in, and there was little time for putting everything away. So Joe knew he could contribute by getting the tool room cleaned and organized every night.

He was taking another torque wrench from its case when he heard, Smith! What are you doing with those?

Startled, Joe turned and saw Chief Edwards, his section leader, leaning into the tool room service window. Chief Edwards normally worked only the day shift. And he looked very unhappy about being in the hangar after 9:00 p.m.

I’m checking them for proper storage, Chief, Joe said.

What are you talking about?

Two of these weren’t set at their minimum value, which is required to maintain their calibration.

Then you should have checked them when you signed them back in!

There’ve been no mechanics working tonight, Chief. These must have been signed back in during the day.

Look, Smith. I didn’t ask for your excuses. I don’t want you messing with those either. You might fuck up a torque wrench like you fuck up helicopters. And yes, I’m still pissed off about having to tow 689 back in here just to have its brakes replaced a second time. So if you need something to do in there, work the broom!

I’ve already swept up, Chief.

Enough! I’m here to give you this paperwork, Chief Edwards said, slamming a folder onto the wide stainless-steel countertop at the base of the service window. It has your orders for the Alpha Centauri Ac colony, an outprocessing checklist, travel papers, and even your goddamned airline reservation—

What? I didn’t apply for that shit!

Well, this says you did! And who do I believe? Master Chief Pollard, who showed up at my quarters tonight to give me this shit, or your sorry ass?

Joe’s mind reeled. The colony was like a sick joke, a universally ridiculed follow-up to the disastrous Titan program of—what was it, 2052? He’d heard the program had fallen to the navy and that people were being drafted into it. But how had it fallen on him?

Or, let me put it like this, Chief Edwards bellowed. It was only then Joe realized the chief was drunk and that he appeared to be wearing a bathrobe under his coat. Am I going to believe what it says on these papers, which includes your approved application, or your lying ass?!

Chief, I really didn’t apply—

Stow that shit! Do you think I’m going to tear up these orders and throw ’em away? Or tell Master Chief Pollard to fuck off?!

No, Chief.

Then have your ass in my office at 0800 tomorrow, with all your uniforms and equipment, every little thing you’ve signed for here, ready for immediate outprocessing. I’m to have your ass on an airplane the day after tomorrow. Do you read me?

Aye-aye, Chief.

After you’re nothing but a bad memory, I’ll find out what happened. I don’t think Commander Civitch even approved your application! So maybe I’ll get you bounced and save people’s lives! And you know what, Smith?

What, Chief?

Good fucking riddance! With that, the chief slapped his right hand onto the folder, then gave it a strong push into the tool room. Joe saw the papers slip from the folder as it fell. Everything scattered as it hit the concrete floor. Joe looked back to the window, mouth agape. By then, the chief was gone.

Joe gathered up everything, placed it all on the counter, and had a seat on the adjacent stool. He looked with disbelief at the jumbled pile of papers, most of which were facing downward. As he began to sort everything out, the first surprise was that his name really was on the papers. There were ten identical copies of his permanent change-of-station orders, which he gathered together and set aside. There was a thick welcome letter, with a Tri-Star Colony logo on its front page, stapled together. And there were various papers from the base transportation office, which he stacked together, their original order unknown. There were also copies of his personnel and finance files, which contained no surprises. And finally, there was an approved copy of his colony application, which he’d never seen before. It was form NAVPERS 1070/623, which had been completed with Joe’s personal data. And the first two signature blocks contained the data indicating his and Commander Civitch’s electronic signatures!

But how? An electronic signature would require his ID card to be inserted into a tablet or the card reader attached to a laptop. His PIN would have to be entered. Had those been faked?

Joe looked closely at the first two signature blocks. In the fine print, showing the metadata for the electronic signatures, was the date Monday, May 1, 2062. That was the day he’d reported to Commander Civitch’s office for his annual evaluation! Commander Civitch had already had his own ID card plugged into his keyboard, and he had inserted Joe’s ID card into a separate card reader, which had a cable attached to his laptop. And yes, Joe had entered his PIN whenever Commander Civitch had told him to, using the separate keypad. And the whole time, Joe hadn’t requested a look at the commander’s monitor to read any of the documents.

So Commander Civitch had prepared the application, entered their electronic signatures on it, and sent it in. Un-freakin’-believable! Joe had signed the application without realizing it!

Joe picked up the Tri-Star Colony welcome letter and began flipping through the pages, but it all seemed too unreal to sink in. He would be going to another planet! How crazy was that?! How would they get there? What would he do there? Would he go at all? If Chief Edwards raised a red flag, would his application be reviewed again? What would happen then?

Joe’s long-held dreams for air and space, so long dying and so recently buried, sprouted new life. Yet they were without form. Could he finally become a crew member? In what kind of vehicle? He decided such details didn’t matter. He was going to a new world!

Joe gathered all the papers and put them back into the folder. He stood and looked around the tool room. Except for the torque wrenches, everything was in order. So he put them away, with each plastic case in its proper position on the shelves.

That done, he closed and bolted the service window, picked up the folder, and had a last look around. Whatever happened next, he knew these were the final moments of his old life. So he slammed the door closed.

CHAPTER 2

Joe was about to take the first step from his rental car toward his immensely dysfunctional journey into space. His initial waypoint would be an ordinary old asphalt parking lot with its white paint stripes mostly worn away, partly covered by storm water–driven sand deposits, at the front of an enormous helicopter hangar. Only then did he realize that the painful four-hour drive to the Federated Nations Land Forces helicopter unit didn’t count as the first part of his journey. It would really start here, in this blocky, boxy, sheet-metal-covered hangar.

The more Joe looked at the thing, the less the colossal height of the ugly hangar made any sense. Could it have been designed for something much bigger than helicopters? Why was there a gigantic open, steel framework on the back side of it? And how could such a place have possibly been decided to be his cross-experience program assignment? Even though he was certain he had been assigned there, Why here? continued to be stuck in his mind.

Joe hesitated before taking the step. With all the drastic changes he’d experienced during his induction into the colony, he’d never imagined he’d be back at another helicopter unit. It felt like being snapped back into a painful past he’d thought was gone forever. He wasn’t even sure he could go back. As expected, he’d been given the option to withdraw from the colony when the irregularity in his application had become known. But he hadn’t withdrawn. Maybe, despite everything, there was something positive to be found in his military career, amid so much humiliation and frustration.

Making the commitment to himself again—which, after all, he realized, should matter the most—he picked up his folder of papers and took that step into the surprisingly damp midmorning heat, then slammed the car door closed. With no one else in the parking lot, he looked for clues indicating where he should go. One of the four sidewalks leading to the building terminated at a glassed-in office space. The others were windowless workers’ entrances, apparently. So he set off for the office area, figuring he’d have to be let in by someone.

Within a few steps, the swampy Mora Island air felt so saturated with fetid, oppressive humidity that it seemed impossible it could contain anything else. Yet a thumping rumbling grew within it, creating a reverberating echo from the front surface of the huge hangar building. Joe stopped to listen and sweat, looking for the source of the noise within the hazy blue sky.

In a few seconds, Joe knew there was something beyond the trees to the northwest. Suddenly two large tandem-rotor helicopters became visible, still maybe a couple of kilometers away. The second helicopter was transitioning from an offset formation, moving in line behind the lead Chinook. They were quickly moving obliquely to Joe’s right, obviously preparing to land somewhere behind the hangar.

Mesmerized by the power of their rumble and their speed, Joe was hooked.

Stepping off the white concrete sidewalk leading to the front door, he cut across a strip of lawn that was more weeds than grass, toward an empty loading dock area at the left side of the hangar. He had a fleeting thought of World War II, a hundred and twenty years prior but somehow still relevant, and wondered if a sergeant would suddenly appear to yell at him for walking on the grass. But there was no one else outside the hangar, and it seemed improbable anyone would care about an intruder walking on the closely mown weeds anyway.

The thumping helicopters quickly approached as Joe trotted around the empty loading dock and through a covered area containing various pieces of ground-support equipment. Among them were maintenance trailers with oddly shaped supports and brackets, apparently to support large aircraft components. He emerged even sweatier into a wide concrete parking apron, almost a hundred meters across, where several parked and tied-down Chinooks were along the far edge. The field of grooved, dark gray concrete was much older than the white sidewalks in front of the hangar, with acres of black mildew in the bottoms of millions of grooves. And at the back of the hangar—or was it its front?—he saw the interconnected webs of steel beams spanned a huge full-height, full-width opening. There were two helicopters inside the hangar, with room for two more.

Looking at the far end of the apron, Joe saw the lead Chinook bank with an improbably steep turn over a square landing pad, where it didn’t land. Quickly pitching nose-up as it descended from about four meters, touching down gently with its two aft wheels, it straddled the yellow line of paint on the far end of the parking apron. The scream of its big turbines lessened as its nose lowered until its dual-wheeled forward landing gear touched down, still moving forward about as fast as a man could run.

As the trailing Chinook repeated the turning pass over the landing pad, Joe understood and admired the smooth flow into the parking apron. There was no rookie reticence or hesitancy in it; instead there was a tangible feel of extensive experience, leading to an elegant flow of motion, maybe even with an economy of effort imposed by middle age. But more than anything else, there was an odd serenity and grace of power within the blast of noise; not power expended, but a deep well of reserve power, which the polished flow of motion didn’t draw upon.

The Chinooks taxied forward together briefly, then turned separately into empty parking spaces. Their turns were without any change of pitch in their rotor systems, leaving Joe to wonder how they steered. That wasn’t obvious at all, not having tail rotors for directional control.

The appearance of middle age, or older, asserted itself again as the Chinooks S-turned into their parking spaces and stopped within painted outlines for their wheels. Even from a distance, the wear and discoloration of the originally tan paint were apparent. As they had turned, sunlight had sparkled from rows of rivet heads that had had their paint worn away completely. And there was a dirty orange oily mess on their aft fuselage sections, spread by airflow from meter-wide layers of oil leaked downward from their engines.

There was mismatched paint wherever a part had been replaced, even no paint at all around the white margin of one new windshield panel on the lead Chinook. The trailing Chinook had an oily aft pylon, smeared from forward flight, as though the aft rotor head had been leaking oil before the mission. But the power of the Chinooks was obviously undiminished—and overwhelming.

As the power grasped the inside of his chest, a breath of improbably cool, gritty air passed through Joe. It wasn’t a fading gust from the helicopters that had finally reached him. And it didn’t contain the sand long ago blown upward by them in their distant, somehow reminisced deserts. Yet Joe had a gritty coating on his tongue, which felt unpleasant against his teeth. He bent over to spit it out, but he didn’t have enough air in his lungs. His gasp for air only seemed to draw him down onto the old concrete, and he was on his knees.

His kneecaps protested against the rough grooves in the concrete, but he focused on remaining upright and trying to catch his breath. Then his lungs receded into the distance as his knees had. The thrumming of the Chinooks’ rotors was millions of miles away. A vague premonition of a time to come clamped onto his chest like a vise.

Joe marveled that his mind maintained some degree of separation from the cold fist of foreboding and remained clear enough to assess himself. There was no air. But being deprived of oxygen didn’t bring the reputed euphoria, the classic symptom of hypoxia. He felt only the dread of going into dark, unforgiving space, which didn’t care how unlikely or ridiculous his upcoming mission was.

Yes, it was simply dread. The dread of yet another failure in yet another place where he shouldn’t be, a sudden fear of lack of air, and a premonition of a fate worse than failure. And that was it—he had finally realized the crushing cost of his next failure: a slow, gasping death. The true nature of the cold, almost airless planet they were to colonize became clear to him, as if a first glimpse had revealed all after being veiled in darkness his whole life. It was the frozen, unforgiving epicenter of the million things which could go wrong. Worst of all, it wasn’t something imaginary. It was an actual place of people’s ultimate fear. It was really out there somewhere. And soon, Joe would enter its physical grasp.

But the icy heart of the dread he felt wasn’t fear of the unknown. It was too real for that, as real as the planet under his knees. Yet the gripping dread seemed to dissipate, even though its source remained out there, real as ever. It was as though the fear passed from his mind and settled onto Joe’s shoulders like a heavy yoke, its weight pushing loose the clamp in his chest. Within a few seconds, he began to realize he could bear the weight.

He forced himself back to the present, concentrating on breathing steadily. Soon his mind cleared. Being careful not to rise too quickly, he stood. He saw one of the helicopter crew members walking toward him, still wearing a bulbous helmet with its dark visor and face shield, a flight vest, and gloves. The crew member pointed to Joe, then held up a questioning thumb.

Joe returned the thumbs-up, feeling better. Apparently satisfied the strange man in his navy suit wasn’t about to croak on the flight line, the crew member—a Hooker, as Joe knew they called themselves—turned and began walking back to his helicopter.

The Hooker was simply seeing to his business. That was the moral of the story, Joe realized, and certainly the cure for his disease: just take care of your business. Especially if your business was to crew an aerospace vehicle. He hungered for the many details that would fully occupy him and keep his mind too busy to feel that cold dread again.

The intensely spinning rotors of one of the Chinooks, then the other, slowed as their engines were pulled back to ground idle. Joe recognized that part of a shutdown process from his own experience in smaller navy helicopters. But he couldn’t bear remembering his failure in his navy crew member training program just then, minutes before meeting some of the Hookers. The other twenty-three hours of that day would have to suffice for reliving that humiliation. And the flight line, pulsating with power, certainly wasn’t an appropriate place for dwelling on his weaknesses—past, present, or future. So he turned and began walking back toward the front of the hangar, no longer sweating, hoping he wasn’t about to waste everyone’s time in a second helicopter unit.

CHAPTER 3

The Hookers seemed older and uglier than their helicopters, and that was saying something. Two of them entered the briefing room, carrying their tablets and mugs of tea. The older, shorter of them had jet-black hair, oddly cut, but with a well-trimmed graying beard. Seeing he was wearing some kind of officer’s insignia on the front of his camouflage flight suit, Joe stood quickly, faced the huge blank whiteboard at the front of the room, and snapped to attention.

Someone chuckled.

Someone else, now to his left, said, Excuse me, please.

Joe turned and saw the officer there with a grin on his laugh-lined face. Then, so much closer, Joe could see the officer’s flight suit was showing wear at its seams, where the camouflage pattern was noticeably faded. Being accustomed to the importance of military skill badges, Joe’s eyes were drawn to the two badges above the officer’s F.N. ARMY tape. Both were elegantly embroidered with black thread on patches made of the same material as the flight suit itself. The lower badge was undoubtedly pilot’s wings, but the odd-looking upper one appeared to depict some kind of old grenade.

We don’t do that here, the officer said. Unless the battalion commander or higher walks in the front door. And most of the time, he or she tells us not to. Please be seated and make yourself comfortable.

Joe relaxed but remained standing. Sorry, sir, he said.

The two Hookers moved to the front of Joe’s table and put their tea and tablets down onto it. Joe pulled his tablet and papers closer to his side to make more room and wondered why they continued moving into his space. Then they pulled chairs from under the table to Joe’s front and turned them toward Joe’s table. Before sitting, they both extended their hands.

Sergeant First Class Ralph Wood, the enlisted man said, shaking hands but glancing at Joe’s few possessions. Call me Ralph. Are those your orders and records in that folder? May I borrow those?

Certainly. I’m Petty Officer Second Class Joe Smith. I guess I was early. The operations clerk told me to wait in here.

Apparently eager to proceed, Ralph pulled the folder to his side of the table and sat.

That’s fine; better than being late. I’m CW3 Michael Abernathy, the officer said while shaking hands. Please be seated. Relax. You’re with friends now.

Joe sat and centered his tablet on the table in front of him, even though it was turned off. He had a moment of disorientation in time, a feeling he hadn’t experienced before. Why were the Hookers so old? Even their uniforms were old! Time blurred and shifted. Had they somehow been waiting for him to arrive, maybe for years?

Ralph was sorting through his papers, setting some aside. Don’t worry, he said, breaking into Joe’s thoughts in a way that Joe initially misinterpreted. I’ll scan the papers I need and get these back to you.

We’ve never progressed a navy service member before, so welcome, CW3 Abernathy said. We’re both full-time staff here in the reserve facility. ‘Federated Nations Land Forces’ now, but still the f’n army, same as always! I’m a Chinook instructor pilot and instrument flight examiner. Ralph here is an SI. That means he’s an instructor of flight engineer instructors, the most senior of enlisted duty positions. We have a conference room down the hall, which some might claim to be more suitable for the three of us. But we’re meeting here in our flight briefing room, which will also serve as your classroom, because all activity here is preparation for flight. So much so that it’s become customary to consider this area the same as in the aircraft. Hence the same rules and courtesies apply. So please don’t say ‘sir’ in here unless you’re speaking to the commander.

Do you know why that’s important? Ralph asked, looking at Joe with his sky-blue, piercing, bulging eyes. As he sipped his tea, the mug underlined his pale eyes and sallow eyebrows, which had gray hairs mixed with blond. The hair on his triangular head was buzzed too close to be sure, but it seemed to be graying just as much.

Sorry, I have no idea. Your customs and courtesies seem to be very different than in the navy.

It’s something more important than a custom or a courtesy, Ralph said, back to sorting papers. It’s about effective crew communication, which is extremely important to us. You’ll learn a lot more, believe me. It’s called ‘ACT,’ for Aircrew Coordination Training. It’s a way of life for us because it’s a way of staying alive. For now, remember that if you say ‘sir’ in the aircraft, ambiguous crew communication is the unavoidable result. Do you know why?

Sorry, no.

There are two of us officers up in the cockpit, CW3 Abernathy said. There are between one and three enlisted crew members in the cabin, depending on the mission. One flight engineer with two pilots is the minimum crew. So if you say ‘sir,’ then no one will know who you’re talking to.

Sorry…how should I address you?

You can call me Mike.

You certainly may call him Mike, Ralph said. But I call him Mr. Abernathy to show due respect. Please do likewise. You use ‘Mister’ for all junior officers in the navy, correct?

Yes.

Please do the same for all the warrant officers here. But please don’t use ‘Mister’ for the commissioned officers; doing that makes them pissy. Use their rank. Overall, though, it’s more about flight crew duty position more than rank. Now that I have a copy of your orders, you’re now a Chinook crew chief, readiness level 3. That’ll be effective tomorrow, June 9, 2062, when I’ll have the commander e-sign that entry in your Individual Aircrew Training Folder, which I’ll create this afternoon. Remember that date; there’s a time limit for your progression to RL1. Before then, when you progress to RL2, you can fly with any flight engineer. You’ll have more rank than some of them by pay grade. But after a course of action has been decided upon, a crew chief must always do as he’s told by his FE or the pilots.

Sorry—

Please, there’s no need to keep apologizing, Ralph said in a friendly tone.

Unless you fart! said CW3 Abernathy. He and Ralph had a chuckle.

Look, Joe said, ignoring the tired old joke. I assume you’re familiar with the cross-experience program.

Yes, said Ralph. You’ve been selected to be a space shuttle crew member. And your training has already begun. About two minutes ago.

Sorry, I mean I was enrolled in the program unwillingly. My commander refused to approve me as a navy helicopter crew chief, and being a mechanic didn’t work out either. So while I was in his office to sign a below-average fitness report, and while he had my ID card connected to his tablet, he also signed an application for me to join the Alpha Centauri Ac colony. He faked the application, of course, but he knew with so many others being drafted into the colony, any volunteer would be accepted immediately. And I was. After the application came back approved, everyone in the unit then called me ‘Rocket Man’ for a couple of days. Before that, it was ‘Everyday Joe,’ which they thought was funny as hell. So I’m—

‘Rocket Man’ I get, the sons of bitches, said Mr. Abernathy. But why ‘Everyday Joe’?

From my section leader at the time. He said, ‘Smith, I’ve seen people fucking up by the numbers many times. But you’re fucking up by the numbers on the calendar every goddamned day!’ So I became Everyday Joe. The point is, I’m not very smart. I’m not qualified, and I’ve already failed at this.

Joe, Mr. Abernathy said. We’ve been flying these things for a hundred years now, we and our thousands of predecessors. It’s not a family thing handed down from father to son or daughter. The smart ones in our families are doctors or lawyers, same as any other family. Yes, there’ll be draftee shuttle crew members on Alpha Centauri Ac, like there were draftee Chinook crews back in Vietnam. Some things don’t change. Not being among the best or brightest, this is just where some of us end up.

Or as dentists! Ralph quipped. He and Mr. Abernathy had a good laugh at what must have been a private joke, but it wasn’t apparent which of them had the dentist in the family.

Anyway, you haven’t failed here, Joe, unless Ralph says you’ve failed. He’s your primary trainer and your evaluator. And here’s a tip: we almost always already know the answer before we ask a question. Like now. Ralph, is he passing or failing?

He showed up early, with the correct papers. He demonstrated effective, honest, and timely crew communications about his qualifications and background. He stopped calling you ‘sir,’ so he’s already adopting new methods and procedures. So all marks are ‘S’ for satisfactory so far.

Mr. Abernathy nodded in agreement.

Joe’s breath caught. He dropped his face into his right hand.

Yes, we’re as familiar with your cross-experience program as we can be from the outside looking in, Mr. Abernathy said. There are no shuttles yet, so here you are, with four months of your two-year countdown already lapsed. And the other sailors we’re supposed to be getting haven’t shown up yet. And yes, we’ve all seen how the media claims the colony is a disaster waiting to happen. But it doesn’t matter; they’re almost always wrong. They’re wrong about us too. We know teamwork, as flight crews, far better than anyone else. We teach it well too. That’s why you’re here. And believe me, effective teamwork is the one and only important thing for a crew flying any kind of aircraft.

Joe pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his face, and regained his composure.

There’s another thing too, Ralph said. "We’ve sometimes had to retrain our guys. It happens. The second time around, you’re not the same person. We grow more from failures than from successes. Also, it’s been my experience that people who speak a difficult truth, plainly and directly, make good Chinook crew members. This job strips away whatever false pride you have and exposes your weaknesses to everyone else. Your integrity indicates you can handle that. So I think you’ll eventually be a good shuttle crew member too.

Back to the here and now. I copied your email address from your records. I’ll send a package of study materials after this meeting. Start reading it tonight, ACT first, and keep studying every night. Tomorrow your Chinook academic training begins.

And Joe, Mr. Abernathy said. You know today was the only easy day, don’t you?

Joe took a deep breath and relaxed a little. Yes, Mr. Abernathy. I do.

CHAPTER 4

Joe was about to finish his Friday night shift when a call came to his tablet. Seeing the caller was SFC Wood, he accepted the call. His boss in the plant had told him to consider any communications from his reserve unit as work-related.

Hello, Ralph, Joe said.

Hello, Joe. Sorry to call so late. And what’s with the fancy glasses and surgical mask? You operating on somebody? Oh, you’re still at work, aren’t you? The carbon plant?

Yep, they moved me into the quality control lab. They said I’d get more cross-experience here if I work in different departments. So now I’m doing ASTM conformance tests on activated carbon. I have to wear all this stuff to avoid contaminating the samples I took. So what’s up?

Can you be at the Hot Springs airport at 0300 in a flight uniform, ready for a hot pick-up?

Joe’s tired bones ached at the thought of working through yet another weekend. Yeah, he said with little enthusiasm. Four hours. That’s enough time to get home, change, and drive up the mountain.

"I know it sucks, but I’ve laid on some important training for you on Fort Knox. I’ll be crewing the helicopter there, so you can get some sleep on a troop seat. I’ll bring your flight gear. Just bring what you’ll need over the weekend. We’ll drop you off back at the