His focus was drifting. Yesterday had been filled with meetings. Over at Naval Operations Base, he'd endured fourteen people all crammed around a conference table. Two men from Naval Intelligence were couriering a highly experimental missile prototype from DC to White Sands. They were fourteen hours late for a check-in, but it was still uncertain if they were compromised, in danger or already dead. And that was part of his job. The weird part of his job. His split-life: part-time pilot, part-time "finder." Okay, to be more honest--psychic.

He and hundreds of other government employees had been through a battery of screening tests. Tests he now knew were for psychic talents. He had always been good at finding things and people, illogically good. It was just a thing he did. The same thing that made him antsy in crowds over long periods of time. The same thing that made handshakes and slaps on the back uncomfortable. So he was recruited--by Division P.

Division P, the black ops group of psychics on the government payroll. Not a team per se, not even a group exactly. They were an organization. If you passed the screening process, and less than 0.1% did, you were sent on for more testing. Each round was harder, with a near 100% failure rate. They only recruited a handful of people each year. He still wasn't sure what made him stand out among the rest. They had trained him and he was assigned. Nearly all the Division P people juggled two jobs: a normal average government career linked job, and then the job they did for Division P.

So, he had sat in the meeting, listening to the bigwigs hashing through all the available data. Someone had provided him with a bare bones personnel file for the two men and two personal items--a wristwatch and a set of keys. These items might facilitate his search skills. In the end, a decision was made to wait a while longer. Apparently some very sensitive issues were at stake, and he was simply told that he was on stand-by.

"304, your state" said the LSO over the radio. The LSO was the Landing Safety Officer. His function during these practices was basically to "grade" your landing. No sugar coating for landing grades, a nice pass was graded as "OK." Hell, a perfect pass was an "OK underline."

"304 ... Hornet ball ... 4.3," replied Bradshaw as he rolled his plane into the groove, that last half mile of the approach on the runway centerline.

"304 ... Come left." Bradshaw dipped his left wing, adjusting his angle of attack. Back to meatball and lineup. The F/A-18 hit the runway with the usual slightly bone jarring impact. Kicking the jet back into full power, he hurtled down past the arresting gear and took off again.

Over the radio he heard the LSO, "304, watch the settle on lineup in close." Well, shit, thought Bradshaw, another fair pass, he was definitely letting the thoughts of the previous day get in the way of his concentration. Anything less than an "OK" was heading in the direction of what even a civilian would probably call a pretty crappy landing. He would have to make sure the last two were letter perfect.

The last pass was a full stop; he taxied in the direction of the hangar and parked his jet on the line outside, alongside ten others. Unstrapping, he had one main goal in mind--get on his motorcycle and get off the base, Oceana Naval Air Station. He needed to get away from people. Maybe he'd head toward the beach. But all that would have to wait for at least an hour, because next on the agenda was sitting through the debrief. Oh, the infinite joys of protocol, procedure and the infamous LSO debrief.