Ovid 5: The Jet Jockey free porn video

Ovid V: The Jet Jockey By The Professor It was a pleasant spring Saturday in Ovid. The sun was shining and the temperature was nearing seventy. Jerry and I had decided to make it a lazy day at the Patton household, letting the kids watch TV and play while he and I puttered at various small projects around the house. Jerry fertilized the yard, stopping at least twice for another beer. I did a little ironing and sewed a couple of missing buttons on the kids' shirts. All in all, it was just another domestic weekend in small town America. The only thing that made it a little unusual is that about six months earlier, all the members of the Patton family had been fraternity brothers at Notre Dame. I was the only one in the family who knew this. My husband, Jerry, thought he had always been Jerry Patton, currently the manager of Duggan's IGA out on the edge of town. The twins, Mike and Michelle, were nearly seven, and they were as normal as kids could be. Me? I knew what had happened to us. I knew we had been turned into a model Midwestern family. I knew my sex had been changed. But you know what? I didn't care anymore. It was a good life. Jerry and I both had good jobs, the sex was surprisingly great, and I wouldn't have changed any of it for the world. Jerry was in the den with the kids watching something on TV when the doorbell rang. Since I was on my feet and closest to the front door, I answered it. At the door was a woman I had never seen before, but I knew her instantly. She was a tall blonde, her hair cut in a pageboy style. She had fair skin and Nordic features. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts and sandals which displayed incredible legs. Her top was a white knit, showing off a set of perfect breasts. I found myself envying her. I was dressed about the same, but next to her, I looked like a boy. I should point out that in reality, I looked nothing like a boy. "And your name is?" I asked, knowing that she would have a new one. "Diane Mane," she responded with a smile. "Goddag." "Goddag?" "Swedish for hello," she explained. "Aren't you a little out of your territory?" I asked. After all, Diana - or Diane as she now called herself - was one of the gods from Greek and Roman mythology, not Norse. "I don't think anyone will mind," she said with a smile. Then looking me over, she added, "Nice outfit. You look like one hot babe." "So do you," I laughed. "Come on in." We holed up in the kitchen, the rest of my family oblivious to our conversation. I had a hunch Diane had something to do with that, but I didn't ask. I fixed us each a glass of lemonade and sat down at the kitchen table with her. "So what brings you here?" I asked. "I thought you usually left town for the weekend." "Usually," she agreed, "but something interesting just happened and I wanted to see it while the story was fresh." I knew the story she meant. I was the repository of the stories of Ovid's newest citizens, and already four of the major gods, the only ones who were allowed to see the stories, had come to see me about it. After all, it was really several days old. I didn't tell Diane that, though. She would have been heartbroken to learn that some of the other gods had seen the story first. "Which story?" I asked innocently. She sighed. "You've been a girl too long. You've learned how to be coy." I smiled. "Do you think so?" I batted my eyelashes for good measure. "Do I get to see the story, or do I have to turn you into a toad?" "Well, since you put it that way," I replied and went into my trance... *** A casual observer, walking along the cloud tops, would have been startled as three silver arrows burst through the fleecy layer on a course that would seem to take them straight into the sun. The triple blast of explosive exhaust cracked across the sky, mixed with the air itself, compressed and pushed aside by the supersonic speed of the three arrows. When he had regained his composure, the observer would have seen the three arrows for what they were - F18 Hornets streaking to their assigned altitude on patrol. Of course there was no observer walking casually through the clouds, although I almost imagined one being there. Instead there were only the six of us who manned the fighters, and we were too busy doing our assigned duties to appreciate the aesthetics of our situation. Flying a jet fighter is a dangerous business, requiring all of the pilot's skill and attention. A mistake at supersonic speeds can cost the loss of a multimillion dollar aircraft and, more importantly, the lives of the two pilots. We were on patrol over the Gulf, three powerful warbirds that could carry enough firepower to sweep any known enemy from the skies. Our task was to enforce the No Fly zones in southern Iraq. Our standing orders were to use whatever force was necessary to maintain absolute control of the skies. We took our jobs seriously. "Boxer One, Control," a voice barked in my ear. "Boxer One, aye," I responded. That was my designation for the mission. I was in the lead aircraft, Boxer Two off my left wing and Boxer Three off my right. "Bogey bearing two niner five at twenty six. Range two hundred, speed four four oh. Do you copy?" "We copy," I replied to the voice. Control was an E-2C Hawkeye off the Eisenhower with AWACS capability. The incredibly powerful radars she sported could have probably picked up a paper airplane sailed out of the window of the Defense Ministry in Baghdad. I reported our actions to Control as I gave the order to my patrol to turn to meet the threat. Battle was imminent. At our speeds, we would be on top of each other before - "Boxer One, break off and return to base. Boxer Two, you have con." I was being told to turn tail and run, leaving my two wingmen to face the threat. That didn't seem possible. "Repeat, Control!" "Break off now, Boxer One! Return to base." The real world isn't like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. You don't say, "The hells with orders," and go blazing into combat if you ever want to sit in the cockpit again. "Boxer One, aye. Breaking off." I did allow myself one private message, though. I called Boxer Two and Three to wish them luck. "What's going on, Rich?" Terry Brooks asked through the intercom from the seat behind me. "You've got me, Terry," I grumbled. This was it, my first chance at actual combat. I had paid my dues, damn it! What the hell was going on? I needed to be tested. I needed the combat experience if I was ever going to achieve my goals. My goals, I thought. My goals had begun to come into focus when I was ten years old back home in the Boston suburbs. Dad took my two brothers and me to an air show. The featured activity of the day was a performance by the Blue Angels, the Navy's crack precision aviation team. I stood there on the hot tarmac with thousands of other people, my mouth open in awe as the best pilots in the world thrilled us with seemingly impossible stunts in the skies above. I knew at that moment that I wanted to fly. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything else in my life. I was going to fly or know the reason why. I studied my ass off in school. Math wasn't easy for me, but I knew I'd have to get good at it if I ever wanted to be in a military cockpit. By high school, I was an A math student, as well as in all my other classes as well. Good grades alone wouldn't get me where I wanted to go, though. My family lived in a small town in Massachusetts, so I had plenty of opportunities for extracurricular activities. I made the football team, starting by my sophomore year as a tight end. I made the basketball squad, too, although even my slim six two frame wasn't enough to get me on the starting squad. When it came to track though, I could run like the wind, setting two conference records and coming within four seconds in the 5k of breaking the state record. I found time to be popular, too. I was on class council every year, and my senior year, I was Vice President of the student body. So there I was, smart, popular, and athletic, so needless to say, I enjoyed a successful social life as well. There weren't too many girls in high school who wouldn't have liked to land me right out of high school, but as much as I enjoyed them, I had no plans to marry for at least four years. Why four years? Because that's how long it would take me to get through the Naval Academy. I don't think Dad ever figured out why I would want to go to the Naval Academy. He had been an engineer in the high-tech industry for his entire adult life, and he told me that with my abilities, I could make big bucks doing the same thing. Besides, he told me, he and my mother could afford to send me to college. I didn't need the free ride at Annapolis to get a good education. I knew that, but I knew what I wanted. My acceptance at the Naval Academy would put me on the fast track for that jet I had wanted since I was ten. No amount of money would make up for losing that. Four years at Annapolis can be hard on the best of men and women. You're surrounded by young people who are every bit as smart and motivated as you are. When you graduate, you're given more responsibility right out of school than many of your civilian counterparts garner in a lifetime. But I thrived on the competition. I didn't make Battalion Commander, but I spent time as both a Company Commander and a member of Battalion Staff. I was in the top ten percent of my graduating class. Of course, I requested Aviation. My record continued throughout Flight School, and when I made it to my first squadron, I had already been identified as an up and comer. Squadron CO's shoved as much work my way as they could, knowing I would do whatever it took to reach the top. To me, the top was eventually to have my own squadron. No goal above that seemed worth the price. As a squadron CO, I would still spend time in the air. Above that, it would all be paperwork. Why make Admiral when you have to stay on the ground? As my plane made its lonely way back to the carrier, I realized that I had just experienced the biggest setback of my military life. Combat missions were rare, even in the Gulf. In the air, Iraq was like a mosquito. It could irritate you, even make you bleed, but in the final round, it would be squashed flat. The Iraqi leadership knew that, too, so there weren't many challenges to US air power. Now I had missed my chance at one of those challenges. I might never get another one. With combat under my belt, I would stand ahead of my compatriots when selection for further responsibility came along. On that day in the future when I stood for squadron CO, I might lose out to a man no better qualified, but with combat experience. It wasn't a pleasant thought. I had to take my mind off my problems, though. Down below, there was an aircraft carrier, and the most dangerous part of a mission was still ahead of me - the landing. Even experienced pilots in the other services cringe at the thought of what a Navy pilot goes through to land a plane on a carrier deck. An Air Force pilot lands his aircraft on a strip of concrete approximately a hundred feet wide and a couple of miles long. A Navy pilot doesn't really land his plane. He actually initiates a "controlled crash" on a forty foot by sixty foot section of metal deck which is pitching and rolling with the motion of the sea. To make it even more fun, your tailhook has to catch one of four steel cables called "wires" which will reduce your landing speed from about a hundred and seventy knots to zero in a little over two seconds. I was on final, listening to the LSO - the Landing Systems Officer - give me commands while I watched the "meatball," a lighted optical device which showed me exactly where my plane was in relation to the moving deck. Seas were calm and winds light as I brought my plane in toward the deck. It looked to be a textbook landing, but I was still ready to throw on the afterburners if I missed any of the wires. I didn't have to throw them on, though, for the landing was a pretty one, catching the number three wire like something out of a Pensacola training film. The powerful fighter came to a smooth but abrupt halt, and I powered back to taxi in. "Short hop," my Crew Chief yelled over the noises on the carrier deck as I scrambled down the ladder. "What's going on?" I yelled back when I was on the deck. "Why did they recall us?" The Crew Chief shrugged casually. Contrary to what many non-military people think, there is a lot of mutual respect between pilots and their enlisted ground crews. They're part of a team, so there's not a lot of time for excessive military formality. "Don't know, sir. The skipper doesn't always consult with me. He's waiting for you in the forward ready room." When he spoke of the skipper, he was not referring to the ship's captain. Rather, he was talking about Commander Murchison, our Squadron Commander. "We're on our way," I said, motioning for Terry to follow. "No, sir," the Crew Chief said. "He wants to see you alone. Mr. Brooks isn't invited." My stomach dropped a few thousand feet. Why would the skipper call me back from a mission just to talk to me privately? What was so important that it wouldn't wait until we got back from the mission? Whatever it was, I had a feeling I wasn't going to like it. The skipper was, as promised, in the ready room. I was happy to see he looked relaxed. Whatever was up wasn't bad or he would have been standing. Instead, he was seated in one of the high-backed chairs, reading what appeared to be a set of orders. He looked up when he saw me at the door and said, "Come on in, Rich." I was still in my flight suit, but he didn't comment on my recall. He got right down to business before I could ask any questions. "You're being reassigned, Rich." "Reassigned?" I asked. The squadron was a three-year tour, and I had only been on board for eighteen months. "What's going on, Skipper? Why call me back from a mission just to tell me I have orders eighteen months early?" "Because we were told to," he replied, handing me the orders. "By your new boss." I looked at the orders. Cutting through the bureaucratic double talk on the orders, I saw the key sentence: "You are ordered to report to NAVINTEL Code 146 by 0730..." I looked at the date. "That's tomorrow." He nodded. "Your bags have been packed for you and the COD is waiting." COD stood for Carrier Onboard Delivery. It was a C-2 aircraft that ferried men and material out to the ship from a shore base. "Sir, I know what NAVINTEL is. That's Naval Intelligence, but what is Code 146? I thought all the code designations were two digits." "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. "Now you had better get up on deck. As soon as you get ashore, there's a plane waiting to take you to Washington." He handed me my orders and stuck out his hand. "I hate to lose you, Rich. You're one hell of a fine officer. If I can ever help you, let me know." I accepted his hand. "Thank you, sir." Fifteen minutes later, I was shot off the deck of the carrier as a passenger on the COD. It felt odd to leave my ship that way. In the COD, you're strapped in facing backwards, so the catapult shot throws your body into the crossed straps rather than pushing you back in your seat. I was the only passenger, so I had some time to think. I wasn't an Intel officer, so why in hell was I being ordered to an Intel unit? Were they going to park me at some little cubicle in the Pentagon? I shuddered at the thought. Navy captains were a dime a dozen at the Pentagon where only an admiral had any real status. Lieutenants like me? They kept us around to shine shoes and open doors. This wasn't going to be a good way to get my ticket punched for squadron commander. I changed my mind a little when we landed. The plane waiting for me was a Navy C-9, the Navy version of the DC-9. I was being ferried to Rome where I would be sent to Washington on a commercial airliner. Again, I was the only passenger on a special flight. What was so important about me that I rated air service normally reserved for an admiral? In Rome, something even more remarkable happened. Now dressed in my dress blues, I was ushered by two civilian security guards to a waiting TWA flight bound for Washington. One of the security guards handed the flight attendant at the gate my ticket and boarding pass. She looked at me, obviously surprised. "Someone must think you're pretty important, Lieutenant," she remarked. "You mean the guards?" I asked, nodding toward the two departing security men. She smiled. "That and the fact that we've had to delay our departure for thirty minutes waiting for you." It was one thing to have Navy aircraft standing by for my use, but it was quite another thing to delay the departure of a commercial airliner. Who was my new boss? I wondered, and why did he have so much clout? Code 146 must be one of the most important departments in Washington, I thought. To my continued amazement, my seat was in First Class. Several passengers gave me curious looks obviously wondering how a lowly junior officer rated such treatment. I wanted to tell them that I wondered myself, but I just quietly settled in, ordered a drink, and slipped on a set of earphones to listen to music. After a sumptuous dinner - probably the best I had ever had in the air - I settled down as the skies darkened and got as much sleep as I could. I had to report first thing in the morning. It was going to be a busy day. We touched down at Dulles at a quarter after six the next morning. Fortunately, I had had the chance to shave and wash up a bit, but my shirt was looking a little wilted after the transoceanic flight. It would have to do, I realized as I got off the plane. "Lieutenant Baxter?" As I turned to see who was calling me, I spotted a very pretty young yeoman. She was motioning for me to talk to her. "Sir, are you Lieutenant Baxter?" "Yes," I replied. "Sir, your luggage is being picked up now from Customs. I have a car waiting to take you to the Pentagon. If you'll follow me, sir." She was as professional as she was pretty. "Wait, Yeoman," I called. She turned to face me. "Don't I have to clear Customs?" She smiled in relief. "Oh, no sir, it's all been taken care of. Now if you'll follow me." She led me to a nondescript black navy sedan. With the VIP treatment I had been receiving, I was actually surprised it wasn't a Lincoln or a Cadillac, but instead, it was your standard Ford Sedan. A sky cap was loading my luggage in the trunk as I got in the back seat. There was a small package waiting for me. "I thought you could use a fresh shirt, sir," the yeoman explained. I unwrapped the shirt, putting it on as we pulled away from the curb. "Can you tell me what's going on?" I asked. "I really wouldn't know, sir," she responded. "I'm just the delivery service." And an attractive delivery service she was, too. I had to remind myself that the Navy had some serious regulations against fraternizing with enlisted personnel. If not for that, I would have probably asked her out. She was an excellent driver as well. She wove her way through the early morning traffic with ease. We arrived at the Pentagon a 0715. I had fifteen minutes to spare. Another yeoman - this one male - was assigned to take me to the offices of Code 146. I was grateful for the guide. The Pentagon is actually the largest building on the planet. It consists of pentagonal rings of buildings, so rather than one large enclosed structure, it is actually a series of interconnected structures, so getting around is not easy. I have had friends who have been assigned there who learn their way to their office, the head, and the nearest cafeteria and after a year still get totally lost trying to find anything else. "What exactly is Code 146?" I asked the yeoman as we continued at a brisk pace through the labyrinth of America's military headquarters. I was sorry I hadn't brought along some bread crumbs to drop so I could find my way back. The yeoman looked back at me and grinned. "I don't rightly know, sir. If you find out, maybe you can tell me." "But there really is a Code 146?" I asked. "Oh, yes sir. It's headed up by an Admiral Nepper. Nobody knows anything about Code 146 - or about Admiral Nepper for that matter. I think he's a Vice Admiral though, so whatever Code 146 is, it must be important." It would have to be to pull the strings I had seen pulled in the last twenty-four hours. Special orders, aborted combat missions, waiting airplanes, and generally first class treatment smacked of something very big. I was almost over my pique at losing a chance for combat; it had been replaced by extreme curiosity about what was going on and what my role was going to be in it. The Pentagon is a busy place. The halls are filled with people hustling from one place to another day and night, yet the yeoman had led me to an empty corridor. I hadn't imagined that there was such a thing in the Pentagon, but I was apparently wrong. Then he turned into an alcove. As I followed, I almost thought I smelled something briny, as if the ocean had invaded the air conditioning system of the building. Suddenly I found myself in a small waiting room, furnished only with a Spartan Navy issue couch, guaranteed to be uncomfortable, and a reception desk. Behind the desk was an absolutely stunning brunette. She wasn't military, so I immediately looked for traces of a wedding ring. Finding none, I gave her my most winning smile as the yeoman excused himself and headed back to his post. "I'm Lieutenant Richard Baxter, reporting as ordered," I said formally. Then more friendly, "I'd appreciate it if you called me Rich." She gave me a knowing smile, leaning toward me with a teasing view of an incredible pair of breasts that her low neckline did little to disguise. "I'm pleased to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, putting my libido on hold. "Admiral Nepper will be with you shortly. Please have a seat." I took a seat on the couch which afforded me an excellent view of the receptionist. She had a face like an angel, framed by brown hair which actually sparkled. I thought it must be some popular new hair treatment. When you're on deployment and away from the United States, you tend to lose track of new trends. As I've already mentioned, the low-cut tight blouse did nothing to hide an absolutely beautiful set of breasts. The desk hid legs that I was sure must be stunning. I could only see down to her waist to observe that she was wearing a skirt which appeared to be molded to her body. It was made out of a shimmering gray-green material that I had never seen before. "Look," I ventured, not ready to give up on this beauty, "I may be in town for a couple of days, and I don't really know anyone. Would you like to have dinner with me?" For a lot of guys, the line never works. They say it with shyness bordering on embarrassment. Jet pilots usually have egos as powerful as their aircraft. There was nothing shy or embarrassed about my question. I had a pretty good hit rate with the line. Not this time, though. She simply smiled at me and said calmly, "I don't think you're my type, Lieutenant." "I might surprise you," I told her. The smile grew even bigger. "And I might surprise you," she returned. Before I could answer, a deep voice boomed through the intercom, "Ask Lieutenant Baxter to come in." I wondered how he knew I was waiting. His receptionist had never told him I was there. "Go right through that door," the receptionist pointed, making no move to show me in. I tentatively opened the door. "Come in, Lieutenant." Most senior officers have nice offices, and Admiral Nepper was no exception. The motif was a combination of professional and personal mementos. Naval scenes dominated the pictures. They were mostly paintings of old sailing ships. On the desk and the conference table were bronze statues of horses - noble steeds with dashing poses. They looked ready to run from the tables at a moment's notice. "Did you have a pleasant flight, Lieutenant?" the Admiral asked, coming from behind his desk to shake my hand. He was a large man. I was six two, but he was taller than me by at least three inches. His dress blue jacket was almost straining from the size of his wide shoulders and expansive chest. His hair was gray and shone even more than the receptionist's hair. If an actor were to portray him, it would have to be Charlton Heston in his prime. I took his hand. His hand was larger and stronger than mine, but the handshake was firm without being uncomfortable. I met his icy blue stare man to man. He seemed to like that. He gave a nod to the conference table. "Have a seat, Lieutenant." "Yes, sir." "I suppose you're wondering why I sent for you," he began, taking a seat at the head of the table when I was seated. "Yes, sir. I am curious," I agreed. He sat at the head of the table and slid a sheet of paper in front of me. "Do you know what this is?" I looked at the sheet. It was an engineering document with a red Top Secret stamp in the corner. "Yes, sir," I replied. "This is a fuel pump for an F-18." I had been Maintenance Officer for the squadron. I had seen dozens of those pumps. They ensured that the right amount of fuel reached the engine at all times. "Very good, Lieutenant," the Admiral said with a slight smile. Then he pushed another sheet in front of me. "And this?" Similar to the first sheet, it was an engineering document. It was also labeled Top Secret. At first glance, it appeared identical to the first pump, but on closer inspection, there were subtle differences around the nozzle and the vanes. "It looks like the same pump, only there are some small modifications. Look here, sir, at this nozzle. It looks almost as if there are multiple nozzles there. The only way to control something like this would be with an extremely complicated computer chip. This won't work." "No, Lieutenant," he said, pushing a third document under my nose. It appeared to be the same drawing, but the writing was all in Chinese. "This is the one that won't work. It lacks the right chip." I looked up at him in astonishment and pointed at the second drawing. "Then are you telling me, sir, that this one works?" "With the right chip, it most certainly works," he confirmed. "Of course, it doesn't work by itself. The F-18 has to be modified to make the finely tuned maneuvers this pump allows. When this new pump is installed in our F-18s, not only will the plane outmaneuver any other plane in the sky, but its range will be increased by ten to fifteen percent." The increase in range was almost more important than the increase in maneuverability. With a longer range, targets previously too far inland for carrier strikes would be accessible. Range could be sacrificed for a bigger weapons load on coastal targets. With the changes in avionics built into the latest generation of F-18s, the new fuel pump meant an increase of at least five years in the life span of the fighter. There was just one problem - the Chinese document. "So the Chinese know about this?" "They know," the Admiral said. "Their spy network is better than we had supposed. They could just as easily use this pump, or one similar to it, to extend the range of their own aircraft. All they need is the chip to make it work. And it is virtually impossible for them to develop the chip." "Unless they steal it, too," I concluded. The Admiral nodded. "I knew you'd understand. That was part of the reason I chose you for this mission. You have a quick grasp of technical matters, and you've flown the F-18. I can send you into the factory as an observer. It will be your job to determine where the leak is." "Sir," I began, "I'm flattered, but I have no experience in espionage. Surely one of your Intel people would be better at this." "I can't use my own people," he said simply. "Code 146 is... highly secret. We have a small staff, and I have reason to believe that staff has been compromised. I need a fresh face at that plant - someone the enemy has never seen before. It has to be someone with the technical skills to understand what is at stake." There was something he wasn't telling me, but I really couldn't ask what it was. I had protested that I wasn't qualified, but he had assured me that I was. If I protested further, I wouldn't be helping my career. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. There had to be dozens of Intelligence officers from other sections with a much better background than mine. There had to be reasons for my selection that I hadn't been told, but Admiral Nepper had no plans to tell me what they were. I had reached the point at which all I could do was accept the mission and hear him out. Satisfied that I would not offer further protest, he continued, "The chip is the product of Vulman Industries. It's a manufacturing company with headquarters in Oklahoma. They do manufacturing in several locations, but the chip was developed by a small research team at the Oklahoma headquarters. Your cover story will be that you have been sent to look at the chip and how it works since you will be the first pilot to field test it." "Is that true, sir?" I asked suddenly. If it were so, that meant I would have the status of a test pilot. That would be a career-enhancing assignment which might even lead to something like astronaut training. I wouldn't have my own squadron, but I would gladly shelve that idea to be an astronaut. The Admiral dashed my hopes though, when he said, "No, Lieutenant, it isn't true. In fact, your cover will be that you are a civilian test pilot. You will leave all Navy identification with Mr. Vulman. But don't worry. I can assure you that you will get a meaningful assignment out of this. Your future will be far better than it would be if I hadn't selected you for this mission." I didn't really understand the point he was trying to make, but again, I knew I would have to accept what he said. "I've arranged a room for you at a nearby Marriott for this evening," he went on. "There is a driver waiting for you in the passageway now to take you there. Then in the morning, you will be picked up at the hotel at 0800 by Eric Vulman, the president of Vulman Industries. He will give you a full mission briefing. He'll also fly you to his headquarters in Ovid." "Ovid, sir?" "Yes," the Admiral nodded. "Ovid, Oklahoma, is the headquarters of Vulman." "Exactly where is Ovid, sir?" I had envisioned a facility in Oklahoma City or Tulsa. At least, there would be a little nightlife. Instead it sounded as if I was going to have to spend the next few days or weeks stuck in some little one-horse town on the Oklahoma prairie. Bummer. "It's a little hard to explain," the Admiral said evasively. "Let's just say it's in eastern Oklahoma and leave it at that." What the hell is going on? I wondered. Of course, the Admiral was Intel. The intelligence community won't even tell you what time it is if you can't proved that you're cleared for it. Besides, I couldn't ask anything further. The Admiral had risen from his seat, requiring me to do the same. He offered me his hand as further evidence that my interview was over. "Good luck, son," he said to me as I took his hand. "Just remember, this is a very important mission. Eric Vulman has my full confidence. Do whatever he says. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." The beautiful receptionist was still at her desk. She smiled and I smiled back. "Last chance for a night on the town with me," I told her. She laughed. "You don't give up, do you?" No, I really didn't. As a breed, Navy pilots are used to getting their way, and that includes with women. They don't call Navy wings "little golden leg spreaders" for nothing. Secretaries are the best targets for pilots. They lead relatively boring lives, shuffling paper and taking orders from everybody. They think pilots live glamorous lives, filled with adventure and excitement, so they seem to be naturally attracted to us. All pilots are aware of that, too. "So what do you say?" Still, pilots don't win them all. With a staged looked of disappointment, she replied, "I really am sorry, Lieutenant. I have another commitment. I'm going fishing with some friends tonight." I shrugged. "Well, then maybe next time." It was early in the day. I had plenty of time to find another girl. I wasn't about to waste the evening, though. Here I was, back from a month at sea. I had one night in the big city before being hustled off to the hinterlands, and I had no intention of wasting it. The driver was waiting as promised. We had walked only a few paces when I stopped. "Wait a second. I left my cover." Cover was the Navy term for a cap. I had left my cap in the reception area and had forgotten to pick it up when I left. It was a common error since I had just come from being on a ship where caps are seldom worn below decks and never on the flight deck during operations. As I walked back to the reception area, I could have sworn I heard a splashing sound. When I entered the reception area, the beautiful receptionist was nowhere to be seen, but my cover was still on the table next to the couch. I picked it up and prepared to leave when something odd caught my eye. There was something around the base of the reception desk. I looked at it closely. It was something wet. She probably spilled something and went to get something to clean it up, I thought. Then I looked at the liquid more closely. It appeared to be water, but it was foaming slightly. I touched the liquid with the tips of my fingers and held them to my nose. There was an odd smell, but one I recognized. It was the smell of kelp. The water was ocean water. What was she doing with ocean water at her desk? Shaking my head, I left. There was certainly something strange about Code 146. I just wished that I knew what it was. The room at the Marriott was comfortable, and the staff was accommodating. Even though it was still morning, they got my room ready, and I was in it by eleven in the morning. In the room, there was a suitcase, open on the bed. It was a nice one, favored by many business travelers, but it wasn't mine. Attached to it was a note: Lieutenant Baxter: I've taken the liberty of moving your personal effects to this bag, along with clothes and other items which will confirm your cover identity. There is also a small travel kit in the bag which you should use to place all of your Navy Ids and other items which do not conform to your new identity. You can give them to me in the morning. Just leave all of your uniforms in the room when you leave, and they will be taken care of for you. I look forward to working with you. Eric Vulman I looked through the bag. He had done an excellent job. Any item I had owned which had a Navy crest or identification from the Eisenhower had been removed and replaced with an appropriate civilian equivalent. There was also a wallet which identified me as Mike Donovan, a civilian test pilot for McDonald Douglas. I was based out of St Louis. I didn't know the city well, but I had been there, so I could fake it if I had to. I made a mental note to see how the Blues were doing so I could discuss hockey if the subject came up. I took a shower - my first one since the day before on the Eisenhower. Then I sacked out for a few hours so I would be alert for the evening. While I was asleep, I had the weirdest dream. I could have sworn I heard Admiral Nepper's voice. "Are you sure this will work?" he was asking. "I do have other operatives we could use." "And they'll be compromised, too," another voice said. It was a sultry, feminine voice. "But what if he makes a mistake? He will be under a lot of pressure." "He can handle it, uncle," the woman's voice said. "Your brother has handled many similar situations." "I don't know. My brother may be over his head on this affair." "Perhaps I should get to know our lieutenant better," the woman's voice mused. I drifted further into sleep and couldn't remember anything else of the dream. I awoke about three in the afternoon feeling refreshed. This was my one night in the big city, and I had now had enough sleep to be able to enjoy my evening. All I needed was someone of the female persuasion to share it with. There had to be some good singles bars in the area. With the Pentagon practically around the corner, there had to be a lot of singles. Therefore: singles bars. I checked in at the concierge desk. It was manned - or rather personed if there was such a word in the politically correct climate of our capitol city - by an attractive young brunette. "Tell me," I asked with my most charming smile, "where is the best place for a guy like me to meet girls?" I said it half in hopes she would offer herself. The direct approach is usually best, I thought. "I know of several," a soft, feminine voice said behind me. I turned and found my one true love - at least for the evening. She was about five six with bright red hair practically down to her ass. She wore a short Kelly green minidress that displayed her considerable assets extremely well. Her face was incredibly beautiful, and her impish grin was enough to tell me that I wouldn't be hitting the nightspots alone. She held out a delicate hand with dark red nails. "Diane Moone, she said, "with an 'e.'" "Diane with an 'e' or Moone with an 'e?'" I asked, taking the hand. "Both," she replied with a smile. It had to be love, I thought. The evening was nothing short of fantastic. Diane was the most incredible woman I had ever known. She had it all - looks, poise, intelligence, and a sex drive that would make a mink blush. We started with dinner at a little place in Georgetown she knew. "It's a great place," I told her, sipping my wine with dinner. "You must spend a lot of time in Washington. Do you live here?" "Oh, no," she laughed. "I'm just here visiting my uncle. He's in the Navy." That gave us plenty to talk about. We discussed the Navy and in particular, Navy flying. She was remarkably well versed on all types of aircraft and their capabilities. The dinner passed quickly. Then we had planned to cab back to a night spot not far from the hotel, but at the last minute, that plan changed. "Look," she said with a smile, "let's cut to the chase. You don't need to take me drinking and dancing to get laid. Let's just go back to your room, order something with bubbles, and not waste time listening to loud music." It was an offer no red-blooded American boy could turn down. Now I knew I was in love. I was too much of a gentleman to discuss my conquests in detail, but with Diane, I wanted to break that rule. I wanted everyone to know that I had sex with one of the most incredible women I had ever known. Men enjoy sex most when the women they're doing it with are enjoying themselves, too. I don't know when I enjoyed sex more. Diane was a veritable tigress, leaping and pouncing in my bed until I was completely spent. We fell asleep in each other's arms. The wakeup call came through at seven. After I hung up the phone, I realized Diane was gone. I hadn't heard her leave, but I found myself regretting that she had. She was an absolutely incredible lover and I missed her already. She was a real looker, and that voice... Come to think of it, I realized, her voice was the woman's voice in my dream. I shuddered involuntarily. Just what in hell was going on anyway? Come to think of it, all I knew about her was her name. I hadn't thought to ask where she was from or her phone number. I knew she had an uncle in the Navy, but I hadn't even asked about him. It was as if I was so wrapped up in her spell that I hadn't thought to ask her anything. Eric Vulman had provided me with a good variety of casual clothing. I selected a dark blue polo shirt, tan slacks and brown loafers. I looked more as if I was going out to play eighteen holes rather than starting on an espionage assignment. It was probably just as well. I never cared much for trench coats and slouch hats. Eric Vulman was waiting for me in the lobby. He called my name when he saw me. I assumed he must have seen a picture of me, for he seemed to have no trouble picking me out of the busy morning crowd in the lobby. "Eric Vulman," he said in a friendly voice tinged with an Oklahoma twang as he stuck out a large, beefy hand. I had fairly large hands, but his were larger than mine. We were about the same height, but he carried about thirty pounds more than me. None of it appeared to be fat. Except for a slight limp, he seemed to be in perfect shape. He was dressed much as I was, although his polo shirt was green. To a casual observer, he might have been my father. We looked like men cut from the same cloth. I took an instant liking to him. "Rich Baxter," I replied. He shook his head with a smile. "Not anymore. Remember?" I could have kicked myself. I had a new identity and had forgotten to use it. That could be very bad during the mission, I realized. "Sorry, Mike Donovan." The smile became wider. "Pleased to meet you, Mike. Have you eaten yet?" "No, sir." "Drop the 'sir,'" he said with a laugh. "You're a civilian now. Just call me Eric. Everybody else does." After we had ordered breakfast and each had a cup of coffee in front of us, Eric asked, "Have you ever been to Oklahoma?" "No, s - uh, I mean no," I replied. "I've flown over it a few times, and I saw Twister twice if that helps." He laughed. "Well, that's a start anyhow. Most people think it's just a buffer to keep the Texans from moving north. They picture it as a flat, dry prairie with tornadoes every day." "It isn't like that?" I blurted. To be honest, I thought that was an accurate picture of the state. He shook his head. "Not really. Oh, there are parts of the state that are like that. Eastern Oklahoma is green with rolling hills, lots of lakes and lots of trees. That's where Ovid is. I think you'll like it." "What about the tornado part?" "Ovid's never been hit by one," he told me. "There's always a first time," I pointed out as our breakfasts arrived. He just chuckled, as if there was a joke that only he understood. "So," I pressed between bites, "I understand you're to brief me on the mission." "That's right," he agreed. "You already have your new identity. Are your old Ids in your travel kit?" "Yes," I replied. "I'll keep them hidden." He shook his head. "That won't work. I'll take them when we're in the air. We can't take the risk of someone going through your luggage, can we?" "I suppose not," I agreed. Deep down though, I didn't want to let go of those Ids. They described who I was. I didn't care so much about the credit cards, but my military Id and my wings were in there. I didn't want anything to happen to them. "Good," he said, motioning the waitress that we needed more coffee. When she had filled our cups, he leaned forward and continued, "There are a few things you need to be aware of in Ovid. In many ways, it is your typical small Midwestern town. In other ways though, it's very different. If you are to have any chance at success in your mission, it's important that you stay in character at all times and I do mean all times. If anyone discovers that you are not Mike Donovan, your life could be in danger. Do you understand?" "You make it sound like East Berlin during the Cold War," I commented. "Do you understand?" he repeated grimly. "Yes, Eric, I understand," I said seriously. There was something he wasn't telling me. What did he know about what I would be facing in Ovid? I thought. What made Ovid different from other small towns? I really couldn't imagine. We drove to the airport. It was one of those little suburban fields that caters to corporate jets. There, parked in front of an executive hangar, was a beautiful plane. It was thin and sleek, with swept back wings which angled straight up on the tips. It was white with blue letters reading Vulman Industries. I hadn't expected anything like it. "What do you think?" he asked with a smile. "It's a Learjet 45, isn't it?" I asked. "You know your aircraft," he replied. "But they're brand new," I said. "That's a - what? - seven million dollar plane?" "Configured the way you see it, closer to eight," he answered. "It cruises at over 400 knots with a ceiling of 51,000 feet. Not bad for a civilian plane, is it?" Compared to the F-18, it flew slow and low, but he was right. It was an impressive plane. My hands itched to take the stick and try it out. Eric must have been reading my mind, for he asked, "Would you like to fly us to Ovid?" "Very much," I replied. "You don't mind? I've never been checked out on one of these." "Don't worry. It's just you and me and there are dual controls. I can take over if you try to make it fly like an F-18." We loaded my gear on board. I felt like a part of me was being stolen away when he took the kit and removed all of my real Id's. I felt better though, when I sat in the pilot's seat. The Learjet 45 wasn't as complex as an F-18. Of course, it had no need of weapons systems and advanced radars. Still, it was an impressive machine. Controls were arranged in a logical and easy-to-use fashion. Every instrument was civilian state of the art. "Need any help?" Eric asked. "I don't think so," I replied, as I started going through the pre-flight checklist. In a few minutes, I had finished the list and was ready to taxi out. Eric was an able assistant, switching radio frequencies for me and acting as a second set of eyes. Until we were off the ground and at cruising altitude, we would be in what pilots derisively called "Indian Country." This was because of all the Cherokees and Apaches and other small planes that populated the lower altitudes. There were so many of them that a second set of eyes was needed just to make sure everybody stayed out of each other's way. Once cleared, the Learjet accelerated effortlessly down the long concrete runway. We made it off the deck without a bump and smoothly climbed to 8,000 feet as requested by ATC. I knew how planes were required to act in civilian airspace, but I longed for a military field and an area closed off to civilian traffic. There I could have punched the Learjet and scooted to cruising altitude in no time. Finally we were cleared to 38,000 feet, so I put the jet into a gentle climb and we were off for Oklahoma. "What's the night life like in Ovid?' I asked Eric as I flipped on the autopilot. I wasn't expecting much, but I had hoped for at least a little action. "There's not much to it," he admitted. "There are a couple of movies in town. Hell, we even still have a drive-in movie, too. There's the bowling alley and a couple of bars. I hear Randy Andy's is the spot most of my single folks hang out in." Now that place sounded very promising. "Is it a strip joint?" I asked hopefully. "Well, I haven't been there," he admitted. "I've been happily married for a long time. I don't think stripping is allowed there, though. Ovid is fairly liberal for a Bible Belt community, but there are some limits. If it wasn't for the college, we would probably be a lot more blue nosed." "It sounds like a good place to raise a family though," I allowed. "Oh, it is," Eric agreed. "It is a clean town. There's really no crime at all. There's no drug problem. We like it in Ovid." "Is that why you have your headquarters there?" "That's one of the reasons," he replied, not bothering to mention what the other reasons were. We talked about a lot of things on the way to Ovid. Eric was a true man of the world. Whatever the subject, he had had some experience with it. I thought being in the Navy had taken me to many exotic places, but Eric had not only been to all of them, but many more as well. It seemed as if he had been everywhere and done everything. I remember thinking at the time that it seemed as if he would have needed several lifetimes to accomplish so much. Sometimes, the most bizarre possibility is the correct one, as I was soon to learn. I found myself really liking Eric. He was becoming something of a surrogate father to me in the short time I had known him. My own father and I had gotten along okay, but Dad's feet were firmly planted on the ground. Being an engineer in a high-tech lab for the rest of his life suited him very well. Me? I knew I had to fly, and Eric was the same way. He could talk engineering at levels I could barely understand. He was obviously the genius who had designed the chip for the fuel pump. His grasp of science and engineering was the best I had ever seen. But my father was a good engineer as well. What drew me closer to Eric was his love of flying. "Eric, excuse me for saying this, but I'm surprised Vulman Industries is big enough to justify a plane like this." He grinned at me. "Working already? It sounds as if you're ready to put me on the list of suspects." "No," I rushed to say. "I didn't mean it that way at all. I was just curious about your company." "Well," he began, "we've been in the auto parts business for a number of years. That's how we can afford a plane like this. We've always had a good relationship with Ford. A number of years ago, someone in my family even helped design the Mercury for them. We've got plants in four states as well as Canada and Mexico. That's how we got started in aviation." "Excuse me?" "Think about it, son," he explained. "Rolls Royce, BMW, Saab, Mitsubishi, Nissan, and of course, Ford, have all been involved in aviation as well as automobiles. It's only natural that their suppliers would follow them in whatever lines they take on." "So is the entire plant in Ovid dedicated to the new fuel pump?" I asked. He shook his head. "No, not yet. Eventually we will start assembling it in Ovid, but we'll need time to do that. I've just put new loans in place to finance the project. But we have to find out where the leak is first. Otherwise, the proprietary nature of the product might become public knowledge, and we'll have nothing to sell."" That certainly eliminated any suspicions I might have unconsciously had about Eric. I had decided that he would be the one person in Ovid I would be able to trust. "Time to start our descent," he told me. "Then I should contact the tower in Ovid," I concluded. "No tower there, son. It's just a 4,000 foot concrete strip and a couple of executive hangars. There's not much air traffic in and out of Ovid. I'll talk you in." Ovid's airfield turned out to be at the south end of a long, narrow valley. The surrounding hills were wooded and were already starting to green up in the early spring. Farms spread across the valley, fields already green with winter wheat and other early crops. As we made our approach from the south, I could see in the distance a collection of buildings and a pattern of streets. "That's Ovid," Eric explained. "How big is it?" "About fifteen thousand," he told me, "and growing all the time." He should be a spokesman for their Chamber of Commerce, I thought. I began to wonder how I was going to find enough to do in a town of fifteen thousand. I wondered if they set up grandstands on the main drag so everyone could go watch the sidewalks roll up at sundown. I did look pleasant in a pastoral sort of way. I actually reminded me of some of the little valleys I had flown over in the Mediterranean area. Except for the distinctly American street grid laid out in continuous squares, it could have been a little town in Italy or Greece. I could see how it could grow on a person, but not on me. I was strictly a city boy. The Learjet made a smooth, fluid approach to the field. Landing on a 4,000 foot long airstrip was a walk in the park after landing fighters on carrier decks. It was an easy plane to fly, and I was sorry to see our flight end. I had no idea how long it would be before I was in the air again, but even a day would be too long. We parked the plane in front of a hangar which had "Vulman Industries" painted on the side. Eric pressed a button on a device that looked like a garage door opener and the hangar door flew up. Inside was a white Mustang convertible, brand new and polished until it shone. "That's your transportation," he told me, nodding at the car. "Not bad," I commented. "No," he agreed, "not bad at all. There's no Hertz or Avis in Ovid, but as I told you, we get along pretty good with Ford. That one is courtesy of the Ford dealer here in town. When we stow your gear, you can drive on into town and get settled. There's a reservation in your name at the Ovid Inn." "How do I find the Ovid Inn?" He pointed at a modest highway that ran parallel to the runway. "Just follow that road north. Ovid's about three miles ahead. The Ovid Inn will be on your right about three stoplights into town. If you have any trouble, just stop and ask someone. I'll give you this evening to get settled in. Then we'll get started first thing in the morning." "I'm fine now if you want to get started today," I told him. "I appreciate that," he replied, "but we're not ready for you yet. Let's just settle on starting in my office tomorrow morning at eight." "Okay," I agreed, throwing my bags into the back seat of the Mustang. "Do you need a ride into town? This seems to be the only car." "Oh, I have my own transportation." I assumed he meant that a car was being sent for him. It was his business, I decided. "One more thing before you go, son," Eric said as I got ready to fire up the Mustang. "Remember what I told you. Ovid is... different. You've got to maintain your cover at all times. Don't be surprised at anything you see or hear. Just play it cool and we'll talk in the morning." "Sure," I agreed, not having the foggiest idea what he was talking about. I was soon to learn. The drive into Ovid was pleasant enough. It was early afternoon, the warmest part of the day, and a clear blue Oklahoma sky unfettered by the pollution of larger cities let a sufficient amount of solar heating in to make the ride comfortable with the top down. I had never driven a Mustang before, and I was pleased to see it was a tight, responsive car. I vowed to consider one the next time I got ready to buy a car. I accelerated smoothly along the nearly deserted highway, but I kept my speed within the legal limit. I had heard too many stories about small town speed traps. No local cop was going to make his quota from me. Ovid was a clean, attractive little town. Even the businesses on the edge of town displayed signs of prosperity. Farm Implement dealers, car dealers, and gas stations all appeared clean and prosperous, if not busy. Oh well, I thought, it was a workday. Saturdays were probably the big business days for Ovid. That was the time when all the farmers came in to buy whatever they needed. Then my pleasant, relaxed drive into Ovid fell apart. Without warning, the Mustang engine, which had been so responsive only moments before, suddenly revved for no apparent reason, causing the car to shoot ahead at fifty, a good fifteen miles over the speed limit. As if it had a mind of its own, it shot through the approaching intersection against the light, swerving to narrowly miss a pickup truck which had started when the light changed. Then as quickly as it started, the excitement ended. With no help from me, the engine died down to an idle and the car pulled neatly up at the curb. What had happened? I wondered. Had the gas pedal stuck? Even if it had, why did the car swerve to avoid the truck. I hadn't been able to grab it to miss the truck. It was as if the car had a mind of its own. I didn't have much time to think about it, though. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw the sight I had hoped to avoid. Red and blue lights silently flashing, a police cruiser had pulled up directly behind me. I watched in resignation as a tall, slender police officer, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, stepped out of his car and walked purposely up to mine. "Step out of the car, please, sir," he said with the mantra of all traffic cops. I did as he asked. "Was there a problem back there, sir?" "Yes," I said, relieved that he at least seemed to be willing to listen to what had happened. "Something went wrong with my car back there. It went out of control for a moment." "All by itself?" he asked sardonically. "Yes," I replied indignantly. "If you were already behind me, you must know I was driving safely just before I went through that light." "So you admit to going through a red light?" "Of course," I replied, trying to keep my temper down. "Didn't you hear what I just said? The car went out of control. It must have been a stuck gas pedal or something." "Or something. I need to see your license and registration." I was doing my best to control my temper. I didn't want to make any waves my first hour in Ovid, but the cop was pissing me off. I fumbled for my wallet and pulled out the Missouri driver's license that identified me as Mike Donovan. "And the registration?" he asked. Eric hadn't said anything about the registration. I assumed it was probably in the glove compartment. I slid back into the seat and opened it. There was nothing there - not even an owner's manual. The same was true of the compartment between the bucket seats. "Look," I said, sliding back out of the seat, "Eric Vulman loaned me this car. I'm working with him on a project out at Vulman Industries." I hoped that he was an important enough person that the name would carry some weight. The officer's expression didn't change, though. "I'm sure if you give him a call, he can verify that. He said he got the car from the local Ford dealer. If you check with one of them, I'm sure they know where the registration is." "I'll do that," he said, "but for now, I'll have to impound the car. You'll have to see the Judge this afternoon." "Now wait a minute!" I began to protest. He looked at me through the mirrored glasses and asked quietly, "Do you want to add resisting arrest to the charges?" Muttering to myself, I got into the Mustang on the passenger side as he slid under the wheel. I found myself wishing someone would steal his police car while he was doing this. To my shock though, the police cruiser started up, too. I looked back and was surprised to see another officer behind the wheel of the cruiser. He looked like the twin of the officer who was with me. "I thought you were alone," I said. "Did you?" was his only reply. At least, I had the chance to look around Ovid. It was a newer version of a lot of the small towns I remembered back in New England. I grew up in a suburb just outside the Beltway, so I had seen little towns like Ovid before. I wondered how a person managed to live in a burg like Ovid and not die from boredom. Still, I had to admit, it was a pleasant town - the sort of town Beaver Cleaver must have grown up in. Since we were on the highway business strip, I didn't see many pedestrians, but the ones I did see were well dressed and, for the most part, attractive. The only thing that was odd about them was that some of them looked a little... well, transparent for lack of a better word. I don't mean I could see right through them. It was like looking at a 3-d image. You know it doesn't really leap off the page, but it looks as if it does. That was the way it was with some of the people. You couldn't actually see right through them, but it looked as if you could, if that makes any sense. Just before we turned off the business strip, I saw a big sign out in front of a bar which called itself Randy Andy's. Maybe after I got finished with this small town kangaroo court, I'd check in at the Ovid Inn and go down to Randy Andy's. It was probably all the action Ovid had to offer. We proceeded down a main arterial populated by small mom and pop shops and older houses. It gave way to the main business district of Ovid. It looked like your typical small town with lots of concrete, diagonal parking, and no buildings over three stories tall. We were actually about a block off the main business street, but I could see enough to get the general idea. We came up to a block which seemed to consist entirely of civic buildings. We came to a final stop as the Mustang pulled in beside us in front of a gray granite building with Doric columns in front. The words "City Hall" were carved into the granite above the columns. As small town city halls went, it was reasonably impressive. A blue flag, probably the state flag, was flying next to the US flag in the grassy area in front of the building. It could have been the city hall of almost any small town in the country. Oh well, I thought to myself, at least justice was swift in Ovid. I would meekly take my ticket and be done with it. After all, I was a jet pilot. We all had the reputation of being fast drivers, and most of us were. This wouldn't be my first time in front of a judge. I guessed I could look forward to another sharp increase in my auto insurance. Just as we were about to open the door to the courtroom, it burst open, and three little balls of energy disguised as little giggling girls came running out. "There you are!" a woman called to them from down the passageway. "What were you girls doing?" "We went to see the Judge!" the oldest of them, maybe ten, said, twirling her skirt. Another girl, about eight said, "Yeah!" with breathless excitement. It was the third girl that I was watching, though. She, too, appeared to be about eight, with long blonde hair and a gingham dress. She seemed a little dazed. "This isn't right," she muttered. Before she could say anything else, the woman - presumably her mother - grabbed her by the arm. Addressing all the girls, she said sternly, "I can't take my eyes off you for a minute! I come in here to renew my driver's license and you wander off to bother the Judge. Now come along, all of you." They left together, the little blonde girl looking back at us in confusion and... fear? Yes, fear. I looked at the officer, but he just smiled at me from behind his glasses and said, "Kids," as if that explained it all. It didn't. The courtroom was nicer than I would have expected in a small town. It was nearly deserted as well. The only spectator was an attractive blonde woman about my age who sat primly in the back row of the visitor's gallery. I glanced at her quickly enough to see that she was wearing a wedding ring. I guessed she wouldn't be joining me for a drink at Randy Andy's that evening. The Judge was already seated. From the look on his face, he had had a long day. That didn't bode well for me. He was about fifty, I would have guessed, and very distinguished looking in his black robe. His hair was mostly brown with just a hint of gray. He was gold rimmed glasses which appeared to be fairly expensive. Being a judge must pay fairly well, I thought, even in a little town like Ovid. "What have we here, Officer Mercer?" he asked in an authoritative voice. "Reckless driving and endangerment," he said formally. "Also no registration in his vehicle." "Well, we ought to be able to take care of that pretty quickly. What's your name, son?" "Mike Donovan," I told him as I stood before the bench. I had used the name so often that it was starting to sound natural to me. "Well, Mr. Donovan, exactly why were you engaging in reckless driving?" there was a touch of amusement in his voice. "Something went wrong with my car," I told him. "Eric Vulman loaned it to me while I was in Ovid. Apparently the gas pedal stuck and I went through a red light." "I see," said the Judge. "And do you have any proof of this?" "Perhaps someone should inspect the car," I suggested. "That's been done, Your Honor," Officer Mercer said. "There is nothing wrong with the car." "What are you talking about?" I exploded. "No one had checked that car! He's lying, Your Honor!" The Judge pounded his gavel and boomed, "That will be enough, Mr. Donovan!" Then he said something else to me, but I couldn't understand it. It sounded as if it were Latin or