A man in a well-worn flightsuit stands in the director's office, shifting his weight impatiently as he waits for permission to speak. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, he addresses the man behind the desk. “So, what do you have me flying today? I take it, given the short notice, it must be important.”
A few moments pass. His question hangs unanswered, and the man's annoyance grows, his stance tightening. Behind the desk, the other man continues to review a dossier stamped with state security insignia. The major's jaw worked silently, almost rehearsing what he was to say.
“Listen, I get you big shots-” he starts, frustration seeping into his tone.
The man behind the desk abruptly snaps the dossier shut, cutting him off. “Major, I understand that publicly the Institute is a civilian venture, but I would remind you that I do hold the rank of general. Were I a less patient man, I’d have you put up on charges.”
Instantly, the major snaps to attention. “Yes, sir.”
A tense silence follows. The general leans back in his chair, eyes tracing patterns on the ceiling. “Major, what I’m about to tell you is not to leave this room…” he trails off. Then, leaning forward, he withdraws a carton from the desk. “But before that, could I interest you in a cigarette?”
“No, sir, I don’t smoke. Not good for my lungs.”
A slight grin tugs at the general’s mouth. “Yes, yes, you wouldn’t want to ruin your lungs, would you? Very well then, I’ll cut to the chase.” He pauses, tapping a cigarette thoughtfully against the carton. “I’m sure I don’t have to inform you of project 52, do I?”
The question lingers in the air. The major eventually nods. “Yes, sir, I’m familiar. I doubt there’s anyone in the institute who isn’t. The flying plastic tomb.”
The general sits back, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the window. “Yes. The flying plastic tomb. The wonderful future of aviation that we spent half a decade making, only for it to be more effective at killing Desovan pilots than a CF-72.”
The major remains at attention, shaking his head. “Sir, although I know I’m currently the only qualified pilot, it’s been years. I don’t think I-”
The general raises a hand, interrupting. “Major, I wish this were a matter I had control of. The day a man never has to fly that contemptible machine again can’t come soon enough. But unfortunately, for all its failings, you know better than I do the results it can provide. It’s not a matter I can override, and it’s not one you can refuse. For what it’s worth, you’ll be assigned to the prototype; all of the “production-ready” composite airframes have degraded beyond repair. At least if something goes wrong, you’ll have one of the most expensive titanium coffins to ever burden the planet.”
The major forces a thin smile. “Yes, sir, I suppose that’s true.”
