Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 5

This must be a product of a great conspiracy, a conspiracy on a scale so immense as to dwarf any previous such venture in the history of man. 

—Senator Joseph McCarthy 

The helicopter lands next to a hangar at Andrews Air Force Base. Adjacent to the hangar is a sleek, black metallic Gulf-stream 6, the world’s premier private jet. The United States Air Force seal is on the fuselage, directly behind the cockpit window. The cabin door is open, and the steps are folded out. 

The pilots kill the helicopter engine and take off their helmets. The Secret Service team exits, stretches their legs, and begins to chat. The sun beats down on the hot cement. We are at a remote section of the field; the quiet is disrupted every few moments by a distant plane engine’s roar. 

The great doors of the hangar part slightly, and a lone figure emerges and walks confidently toward us. He wears a green air force jumpsuit and looks thin and sinewy, like he can do a hundred pull-ups. 

“The immortal Fixer,” the captain says. 

“The immortal asshole,” the lieutenant says. 

The captain shakes her head. “I told you not to go out with him.” 

Fixer walks up to the helicopter and stands next to the captain’s open window. He has a strong jaw and short black hair that spikes up slightly in the center. The outside of the helicopter reflects off his Top Gun shades. “Hey there, Captain Pearson.” 

The captain looks at him with disdain. “Fixer.” 

Fixer cocks his head. “What do you say to me and you getting together for a few drinks at the officers’ club Friday night?” He looks over to Lieutenant Singer. “Last couple of dates I had were duds.” 

Lieutenant Singer angrily flips him off. 

“For the hundredth time, no, Fixer,” the captain says. 

“Only thirty-eight, if we’re keeping track.” 

“Don’t you give up?” 

“Don’t see why I should. Your rejections are much less spirited than when we first met. Someday Captain Pearson you’ll say yes, and then we’ll party like real pilots.” He looks at Lieutenant Singer. “And not like amateurs.” 

“Go to hell, Fixer!” the lieutenant snaps, glaring. “I’ll fly your ass out of the sky anytime.” 

Fixer lowers his sunglasses and winks at her. She clenches her fists. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” the captain asks. 

“Yeah,” says Fixer. “You have a suit for me?” 

She points her thumb back at me. “I have a suit, but he’s for Captain Riley.” She nods her head toward the Gulfstream. A tall male air force pilot climbs down the stairs. 

“Riley, of course,” Fixer says. “But I’m involved in it too.” 

“Aren’t they lucky,” Lieutenant Singer says. 

“Damn right.” Fixer steps over to the open door and sticks his hand in for a shake. “They call me the Fixer,” he says to me. 

“Some say ‘the Faker,’” Lieutenant Singer says. 

I shake his rough hand. “I’m—” 

“Wait. No names,” he says. 

“Names are way too personal for Fixer,” the lieutenant says. “He prefers to keep everything on a purely superficial level.”