5
“Lieutenant William Blake?”
“Here,” Billy glanced up to see Lieutenant Colonel Kiley standing at the end of his cadre’s table.
“Sir!” Billy jolted to his feet and banged the DFAC—dining facility—table hard. His mates cursed and muttered as glasses of iced tea and soda spilled over half-finished meals.
He’d look down later.
Lt. Colonel Kiley was the military commander of the AFAMS—Air Force Agency for Modeling and Simulation—installation at Eglin Air Force Base. Billy remained at attention.
“You have a sortie in ten minutes. If you’re not in your seat, the flight leaves without you.”
Billy knew it didn’t matter that any sortie Kiley organized would be simulated. Scuttlebutt was that if a flier missed his start time, Kiley would dump him to the bottom of the rotation. And who knew h
