Cassada Read Online Free PDF Page A

cockpit?” Isbell said to Cassada. “Better go do that.”
    Cassada said, “Yes, sir.”
    When he had gone, Isbell said, “Bob.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI had more confidence in you than that.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDo you know what I expect of you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo, you don’t. If you knew, you’d never do a stupid thing like that. What do you know about whether this man can fly or not? You don’t. That’s what the transition missions are for. If the major found out about this he’d take away your flight.”
    â€œCaptain, I’m sorry. It wasn’t good judgement. He seemed to be doing pretty well and I just got carried away.”
    â€œYou don’t understand something.”
    Grace did not reply.
    â€œI trust you,” Isbell said. “I trust you will do the right thing. Don’t make me think I’ve made a mistake.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œI’m not going to say anything to the major. You better make sure nobody else does.”
    Cassada was carrying a bucket of water towards the parked planes when Grace caught up with him.
    â€œHey!”
    Cassada stopped. “Gee, I’m sorry,” he said. He sneezed. “I didn’t realize what I was saying.”
    â€œThe next time don’t just blurt out the first thing that comes to you.”
    â€œI’m really sorry,” Cassada said again. His hair was wet and lying flat.
    â€œAnother thing. Don’t mention this. I mean that. To nobody. We’ll both be out of here.”
    â€œYes, sir. I mean, OK.”
    There was already a bond.

In the mess Wickenden sat smoking a cigarette after breakfast, his habit. He had others, all well defined like the clapping of the top of his Zippo lighter, opening it and clapping it shut again a number of times, a sort of overture before he spoke. The lighter was from his old squadron, the case enameled in yellow and black squares. Now that was a squadron, the display of it seemed to say, the yellow and black checkered squadron, and he was like a spider, waiting for the tremor that would be one of them asking about it.
    He had a firm jaw and the fate of having been born in the wrong century. The cavalry was what he was made for, riding in the dust of the Mexican border with cracked lips and a line edged into his hair from the strap of a campaign hat. Even at that he would have been longing for the old days.
    He sat by himself, the tray in front of him. Wick the prick. You can give them all haircuts, he liked to say, teach them to salute, and call them gentlemen, but what does that mean? Good pay, the best equipment in the world, and with all that they still have the guts tocomplain. What are they getting out of the Air Force they want to know? Their cavities filled for one thing.
    At the next table he could see the squadron commander, what passed for one, looking fatherly and listening to what had happened the night before at some bar. The ones who weren’t married chasing after waitresses. Sirens, to hear them talk. Goddesses, skin like milk. Ferguson was one of them. And Godchaux, naturally.
    Then, hair bent the wrong way from sleeping on it, in came the new man. He went through the food line and found a place to sit. Head bent forward, he began to eat.
    â€œI like to see my pilots putting away a good breakfast,” Dunning commented.
    Cassada, unaware, kept eating and as he did, smoothed his hair.
    â€œAh, Lieutenant Cassada,” Dunning said.
    Cassada’s head came up. “Sir?”
    â€œI said I like to see my pilots eat a good breakfast before they go up. But in your case I don’t know.”
    There were some snickers.
    â€œAre you scheduled to fly again this morning?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œMaybe you’d better just have some coffee then. Oh, I forgot. Tea.”
    Cassada tried to smile. He wasn’t sure whether or not to stop eating.
    Wickenden,