Todd McGilvry spun his chair around and looked out his third-floor window as soon as he heard the angry sound of the Cessna under full throttle. That was one of the things he'd always liked about his office: he could watch and listen to the private planes coming and going from Pedersen Field, barely a mile to the east. Even though that was about all he could do anymore — watch and listen.

Todd got up and stretched. He was a broad-shouldered six-foot-two and, despite a hint of middle-age spread, still looked like the college running back he had been…was it really 35 years ago? He combed his fingers through his thick gray hair and watched the Cessna 210 climb heavenward, wondering where its pilot was headed in the agonizingly blue sky dotted with chaste puffs of beckoning clouds. Not that the destination would matter much to Todd, for him getting there was always at least 99% of the fun. He thought about his own airplane, a perfectly restored T-6, a long-retired Air Force propeller-driven trainer, relegated to the confines of his Pedersen Field hangar these days, except when he found another pilot, someone he really trusted, to fly with him.

It wasn't that he disliked sharing the T-6 with others, in fact the admiration and envy of other pilots was one of the things he enjoyed, but it just wasn't the same anymore. It was one thing when he could invite a friend to slip away for an hour's flight just because he felt like having some company, but quite another when he could not legally takeoff without another licensed pilot on board.

"I don't need a damn babysitter," he muttered for maybe the millionth time. The Cessna 210 turned east and was slowly absorbed into the azure of the sky and the inferno of the sun. Todd smiled, saluted, and whispered, "Keep the pointy end forward and the dirty side down, buddy."

He looked to his right, at the large framed photo of himself standing on the ladder of an F-4D, helmet tucked under his left arm, jungle boots protruding from the legs of his flightsuit, jungle hat with broad brim snapped up on the right side, and a cocky grin that said it all: I'm a warrior, I eat nails for breakfast, and I'm about as good a pilot as walks this planet.

He'd been a captain then, a young man fighting a war that was screwed up, poorly led, and misunderstood by everyone from the White House to the grunts in the field. But it was the only war they had, Todd and his squadron mates, and they were determined to do their jobs.

He was so young then, young and disgustingly healthy. He'd always kept himself in good shape — eating right, at least most of the time, exercising regularly, and, except maybe when he was that young fighter pilot, drinking only in moderation. After getting out of the Air Force, he'd gotten lucky and turned a few thousand dollars into tens of thousands, then the tens of thousands into hundreds of thousands until he was able to start his own company. Again his luck and timing held. Soon he was manufacturing and selling aircraft instrument displays, mostly on government contracts but also for civilian use.

He'd kept up his flying, buying a succession of aircraft from an old Aeronca Champ — which epitomized the term "puddle jumper" with its 65-horsepower engine and no electrical system, starter, radios, or navigational instruments — to his T-6 that he now flew less and less. His flying skills never deteriorated and his love of flying never waned. It was his body that turned on him.