Suddenly he felt very thirsty.

“I’m going to go grab something to drink,” he told Ginella. “You want something?”

“Sure.”

“Uh, what?”

“Well, that wine would be nice, but since I have to fly later, just some of that sparkling water. The Ferrarelle. It’s the one in the green bottle that’s not Pellegrino.”

“Gotcha.”

Turk went back to the serving area and got two bottles of water, along with some glasses. When he returned, Ginella was texting something on her BlackBerry. He opened one of the bottles and poured some water for her, then filled his own. The water was fizzy, and a little heavy with minerals.

“Flu,” said Ginella, looking up from her phone. “Half my squadron is down with it.”

“What’s your squadron?”

“The 129th, Shooter Squadron.”

“That would be A–10Es.”

“You got it. Still flown by people.”

“It’s a great aircraft,” said Turk. “I was just, you know—”

“The hired monkey.”

It was a put-down he’d heard many times: Most of Turk’s work had been to sit in the cockpit while the remote control concept was tested. But he had done a lot more than that.

“It’s all right,” continued Ginella. “We staved off the geeks for now. We still have people in the cockpit.”

“The machines flew OK,” said Turk. “But, uh, it’s too nice a place not to have a man at the stick.”

“Or a woman.”

“Right.” He felt his cheeks redden at the faux pas, and hurriedly changed the subject. “When did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

“The way you were talking, with the food and the water, I thought you’d been around.”

“With a name like Ernesto, you don’t think I’ve ever been to Sicily before?”

“I just . . . I don’t know.”

“Mako—that’s Italian?”

“My great-grandfather shortened it from Makolowejeski. This is the first time I’ve ever been in Italy.”

“Sicilians think they’re from a different country,” said Ginella. She started telling him a little about the island and Italy in general. Her great-grandparents had come from different parts of the “mainland,” as she called it. She still had some relatives living there.

Turk kept waiting for her to turn the conversation to the “incident,” but she didn’t. Instead, she regaled him with a veritable travelogue, detailing the beauties of Siena and Bologna, her two favorite cities in the whole world. Turk had never had much interest in visiting Italy, but now felt guilty about that.

“You don’t like to travel, do you?” she said to him finally. Then she got an impish grin. “Are you afraid of flying?”

“Very funny.”

“You should do more sightseeing.”

“Maybe I will. I guess you’ve probably heard about the, uh, accident.”

Her face became serious again. “Yes, I’m sorry. It must be a real ordeal.”

“It is,” said Turk. “It’s—the whole thing was weird. But . . . I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“So don’t.” She smiled, and took a sip of her water. “You know, this is naturally carbonated. Other waters have carbon dioxide pumped into them, like seltzer. Yuck.”

“I kinda like seltzer.”

“Oh, excuse me, Captain.” She laughed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Before Turk could answer, they were interrupted by two pilots in flight suits, bellowing across the room as they entered.

“Hey, Colonel, how’s it hanging?” said the taller one.

“Colonel, Colonel, we are here to brighten your day,” said the other man, much shorter—he looked perhaps five-four—and so broad-shouldered that Turk thought he must have a hard time fitting into the cockpit.

“Private party?” asked the taller pilot when they were closer.

“Turk Mako,” Ginella said, “let me introduce two of the worst pilots on the face of the earth. How they manage to stay off that face of the earth is beyond me. Captain Johnny Paulson.” The taller man bowed. “And Grizzly.”

“That’s Captain Grizzly to you,” said Grizzly, putting his plate down.

“I’m Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Paulson grinned. “Are we allowed to sit at the superstar’s table?”

“Careful, Pauly boy,” said Grizzly. “He’s liable to vaporize you with a death ray.”

“Don’t take them seriously, Captain,” said Ginella. “No one else does.”

“Because we are bad boys,” said Grizzly. “That’s why we fly Hogs.”

“As did Turk,” said Ginella. “He’s the guy who ran all the A–10E tests.”

“The monkey who sat in the seat for the geeks, right?” said Paulson after sitting down. “What do you think, Dreamland? Do we look like remote controllers?”

“I was just saying it’s such a great plane to fly that it would be a shame to do it by remote control.”

“Got that straight.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to get some dessert.” Ginella rose. “Captain, would you like something?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“We hear you’re better than good,” said Grizzly as the colonel walked toward the serving area. “You fried four planes yesterday.”

“They kinda got in my way,” said Turk.

“Ha, that’s a good one,” said Grizzly, across the table. “What do you think of the Hog?”

“It’s good,” said Turk.

“You were a passenger,” said Paulson.

“No. I pretty much flew every day a couple of hours at least. The remotes tests were just a part of it.”

“How long?”

“Couple of months. It’s better than the A–10C, thanks to the engines, and the—”

“Thank God they didn’t go ahead and put remote controls in it,” said Paulson. “Then we’d all be working for Dreamland. Like you.”

“I don’t work for them. But what’s wrong with Dreamland?”

“Oh, Dreamland,” said Grizzly. Smiling, he jumped off his chair and fell to his knees. He extended his arms and lowered them as if worshipping Turk. Paulson followed suit.

“Good, you got them on their knees,” said Ginella, returning. “It’s a position they’re used to.”

“Only for our dominatrix leader,” said Grizzly in a loud stage whisper. “For her, anything.”

“Don’t look now,” said Paulson, “but here comes the Beast.”

“Oh, God,” said Grizzly.

“Are you degenerates eating off the floor again?” growled a black pilot, strolling over. He was tall and well-built, a linebacker in a flight suit. His smile changed to a frown as he turned to Ginella and in a mock-serious tone said, “I’m sorry you have to see this, Colonel. Perversion in the ranks.”

“We’re just worshipping at the altar of Dreamland,” said Grizzly, rising. “This is Turk Mako.”

“No shit.” Beast held out his hand. Turk rose to shake it. “Pleased to meet you, Captain.”

“Turk.”

“There room for me here?” joked Beast. His name tag declared his last name was Robinson. “Or is this a segregated table?”

“It’s segregated all right,” said Grizzly. “Pauly boy was just leaving.”

“Hahaha.”

“Actually, I’m done,” said Turk, getting up. “You can have my place.”

“Don’t let them chase you away,” said Ginella.

“We can move to a larger table,” said Grizzly.

“No, I got some stuff I gotta do.”

“Look, I’m grabbing a chair and pulling it over,” said Beast.

“I gotta check my plane and do a million little things,” said Turk.

“Colonel, given that Turk here has flown Hogs,” said Grizzly, “maybe we can get him on board as a backup. We need subs.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Ginella. “What do you think, Captain?”

“Well, uh—”

“I understand your aircraft is grounded until they figure out what happened to the Sabres.”

“Something like that.”

“I am short of pilots,” said Ginella. “You want me to talk to your command?”

Turk hesitated. He did want to fly. Even Zen had suggested he should. He liked the A–10E, a predictable, steady aircraft. But it had been nearly a year since he’d been in a Hog cockpit.

“Does Dreamland have the stuff to be a Hog driver?” asked Paulson mockingly. “It’s a comedown from his sleek beast.”

“I could handle it,” said Turk.

“I’ll talk to some people,” said Ginella.