3
“Whitling said you’d want these.” The short, tawny-haired airman sat across from Alice in the mess hall and passed a thumb drive beneath the rim of her plate.
She had just had a late breakfast of pancakes and coffee and was feeling almost right again.
The name patch on the airman’s gray flight suit said “Camper.”
“Arnie Camper,” he told her, thrusting out his hand. “I fly the Snack Packs.”
“The what?”
“The SPs,” he said. “Stealth Pods. Snack Packs. You’ve probably seen them.”
“Those tiny jets?” Alice guessed.
“One-seaters,” Camper confirmed. “Recon. I’ve been following Ms. Stemple on her mountain flights. Whitling said you’d want to see the footage.”
“Oh, yes,” said Alice. “Thank you.” She pocketed the thumb drive in her fleece vest.
“Grub’s not bad,” said Camper, indicating he
