Flight of the Old Dog – Brown, Dale

Dale Brown – Flight Of The Old Dog

 

Synopsis:

 

The Soviets have developed the world’s most powerful laser installation.

 

They have already killed an American satellite and a rc-135 aircraft and now they’re after the space shuttle. General Brad Elliott, head of a super-secret installation called “Dreamland’ has the responsibility of stopping them. He puts together an intrepid crew and a specially modified B-52 bomber to do the job. Modern military fiction at its page-turning best.

 

Copyright 1987 by Dale Brown.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 

I would like to extend my gratitude to George Wieser and Donald I.

 

Fine, who took a chance on me; to Rick Horgan, senior editor at Donald I. Fine, Inc with whom I spent many long hours hammering this story into shape; and to my wife Jean, who gave me the support to get the job done. Thanks.

 

This book is dedicated to the thousands of men and women of the United States Air Force Strategic Air Command who assure the quality of our nation’s strategic deterrent force. I was proud to serve in SAC for seven years, and I know it is a thankless, lonely, sometimes frustrating job. They work in old alert shelters, underground launch centers, dark command posts, and cold hangars-and they are the nation’s best. More Sol than any high-tech machine, it is the dedication and professionalism of these men and women that insure the peace and security of the United States.

 

To all the bomber pukes, tanker toads, missile weenies, sky cops, knuckle-busters, and BB stackers of the Strategic Air Command-this one’s for you.

 

ABOARD A B-52 BOMBER

 

The Strategic Air Command B-52 was ready to begin its final assault.

 

Though half its bomb load had already been expended.

 

one gravity bomb and four Short-Range Attack Missiles (SRAMs) still stood in the bomb bays. So far, the crew of six had successfully guided their aged bomber through a crucial air refueling-, a high-altitude bomb run from thirty-seven thousand feet, with a surprise S.A-2 surface-to-air missile attack shortly afterward; and three subsequent bomb runs through a maze of hills and valleys.

 

Up ahead, closing in on them at a speed of six miles per minute, was the target area–defended by surface-to-air missile sites, radar-guided antiaircraft artillery, and prowling patrols of the most advanced interceptors in the world.

 

I.P inbound in three minutes. crew.” First Lieutenant David Luger announced over the interphone. He was following the B-52’s course on a narrow cardboard chart. mentally measuring the distance and computing the time to the I.P. or “initial point,” the start of a low-altitude nuclear bomb run. Time to start reviewing checklists, Luger thought.

 

The action was going to start soon.

 

He glanced down at the plastic-covered checklist pages.

 

anticipating each step of the “Before Initial Point” and “Bomb Run (Nuclear)” checklists before he came to it. Long years of training had enabled him to fix in his mind the exact details of what he was about to do.

 

-SRAM missile pre-simulated launch check, completed.” he said.

 

“Computer launch programming completed.”

 

No one acknowledged him. but he had not expected a reply.

 

The checklist had been reviewed hours earlier. As Luger reread the checklist items over the interphone to key everyone else that the busiest portion of the ten -hour sortie was about to begin. he found himself squirming in his seat. trying to get comfortable.

 

“Radios set to RBS frequency.” Luger said. He glanced at his chart annotations. “Two seventy-five Point three,” “Set,” Mark Martin. the co-pilot replied. -RBS bomb scoring plot is set in both radios. I’ll call I.P inbound when cleared by the radar.”

 

“Camera on, one -to-four,” Luger announced, flicking would now record the bomb run and missile – A special camera small black knob near his right shoulder a e launches on thirty five millimeter film for later study. “E.W.

 

measures point in sixty seconds.” start-counter “Defense copies,” First Lieutenant Hawthorne replied, double-checking his jammer and trackbreaker switch Positions.

 

The same age as Luger, Hawthorne was the E.W or electronic-warfare officer. His job was to defend the B-52 against attack by jamming or decoying enemy surface-to-air missile or artillery-tracking radars, and to warn the crew of missile or aircraft attacks.

 

“Rog, Luger said. “Checklist complete.” He checked the Ai TG meter, an antique gear-and-pulley dial that showed the time in seconds to the next turn point, Luger flipped the plastic covered page over to the “Bomb Run (Synchronous)” list, then glanced over at the radar navigator’s station check “About one-fifty TG to the I.R radar,” Luger asked. “Got it, Patrick McLanahan said. He was bent over a pile of bomb run charts and radar scope predictions, intently ” studying his bombing huh, ” of him.beside together, buddy?”

 

His work area was littered with snippets of “game plan” as if this was the first time he had seen it.paper , drawings and notes. A thermos, which lay underneath several books and papers atop his attack radar set, was leaking coffee over the cathode-ray tube display and the radar controls.

 

Luger impatiently waited for his partner to begin. The two navigators, representing their SAC bombardment wing in this important competition sortie, were a study in contrasts. Luger was a tall lanky Texan with emaculately spit-shined boots, closely cropped black hair, and a penchant for Perfection. He was fresh out of the textbook for B-52 Combat Crew Training after graduating top of his class from both the Air Force Academy and Undergraduate Navigator Training, and was easily the Wing’s most conscientious and professional navigator. He studied hard, performed his duties to perfection, and constantly drove himself to higher levels of achievement.

 

McLanahan… was McLanahan. He was of medium height and husky build, a blond and tanned Californian who looked as if he was fresh off the boardwalk at Venice Beach.

 

Despite McLanahan’s casual appearance and disdain for authority, he was acknowledged as the best navigator in the Wing, and quite possibly the best in SAC.Together he and Luger combined to make the most effective bomber crew in the United States Air Force. And they were about to go to work.

 

“Well, let’s get this over with,” McLanahan said finally.

 

“Good idea,” Luger said. He proceeded to run down the remaining items on the checklist, pausing at intervals to check switch positions with the pilot, Captain Gary Houser. Two minutes later, all switches had been configured and it only remained to activate the bombing system and tie all of the individual components together with the bombing computers.

 

“Master bomb control switch.”

 

“Good,” McLanahan asked. “I mean, on, light on.”

 

“Bombing system switch.”

 

“Auto. “The bombing computers now had control of everything-the steering, when to release the bomb, even crosshairs precisely on a when to open and close the bomb doors. McLanahan had only to position a set of electronic preselected aiming point on the radar scope, and the bombing computers would do the rest.

 

The computers would translate the crosshair positioning into range and azimuth data and display the target direction on the Flight Command Indicator (FCI) at the pilot’s station. The computers fed altitude, heading, airspeed, groundspeed, and drift through a set of precomputed ballistics data, and derived an exact release point based on that information. Even if the airspeed changed slightly, or if the winds shifted, the computers would recompute the exact point for bomb release.

 

“Coming up on sixty seconds to the I.P crew,” Houser announced.-FCI centered. Sixty TG, ready, ready…

 

now!

 

“Got it,” Luger said, starting a stopwatch as a backup.

 

“Bomb run review.”

 

Them.

 

us.

 

“Roger,” McLanahan replied. “Rocket, rocket, bomb… uh, concrete blivet.

 

rocket, rocket. This is the live drop over the range. Let’s not fuck this one up, ladies.

 

Some joker is going to run out there with a tape measure to see how we score. Nav?”McLanahan said, turning to Luger.

 

“SRAM fixes will be on the Airport, fix number thirty; target Bravo, fix number thirty-one; and the pumping station, fix number thirty-two.

 

We are running fully synchronous, all computers fully operational, with a drift rate less than-” “What he means,” McLanahan said, “is that the SRAM is tighter than that virgin lieutenant Gary’s been seeing.”

 

A conspiratorial snicker could be heard over the interphone.

 

“Thirty seconds to lp,” Houser announced. “Defense?”

 

“Electronic warfare officer ready for I.P inbound, pilot,” Mike Hawthorne replied.

 

India-band radar is searching but hasn’t locked onto us yet.”

 

Gunner has back-up timing, radar,” Bob Brake, the crew gunner, replied.

 

“Fire control radar is clear. I’ll get back on watch after the bomb run and get set for those Air National Guard fighters they told us about.”

 

“Twenty seconds to I.P,” McLanahan announced.

 

“Better stay on watch, guns,” Houser asked. “Sometimes those Air National Guard guys get a little antsy. Remember last year’s Bomb Competition-they didn’t wait for the bomb run to finish before they jumped us. The rules committee let them get away with it, too.

 

Realism, you know.”

 

“Okay,” Brake asked. “I’ll still be keeping backup timing until I see something. “He flipped some switches and returned to his small five-inch square tail radar display. At the tail of the huge bomber, the turret with four fifty-caliber machine guns slowly came unstowed and began a PreProgrammed search pattern.

 

“Guns unstowed, system capable, radar-search, radar track,” Brake reported.

 

“Ten seconds to I.P- Luger asked. “Next heading will be zero-one-zero.

 

Airspeed three-five-zero true. Clearance plane five hundred feet.”

 

He turned to McLanahan. His Partner had just removed his helmet and was rubbing his ears, then snapping his neck hard from side to side.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”Luger said.

 

“Loosening up, Dave,” McLanahan replied. “My brain bucket is killing me. “Luger answered calls for his partner until the radar navigator finally put his helmet back on.

 

Houser’s FCI slowly wound down. “Coming up on the I.P, crew…

 

ready… ready… now!

 

“Right turn, heading zero-one-zero, pilot,” Luger said. The huge aircraft banked in response. “Boy, is it flat out there,” McLanahan said, studying the radar scope.

 

“I guess that means we’re clear of terrain.””Roger, radar,” Houser replied. That information was important to Houserhe who was handflying the huge bomber only five hundred feet off the ground at almost six miles per minute. Houser used the EVS, or Electro-optical Viewing System, and terrainavoidance computer to provide a “profile” of the peaks and valleys ahead, but the best warning was McLanahan’s thirtymile range radar and his experience in guiding the huge bomber around trouble. The “Muck”-McLanahan’s lessthan-flattering nickname-wasn’t always by the book, but he was the best and Houser trusted him with his life. Everyone did.

 

“Ten degrees to roll-out,” Luger reminded the pilot. “Drift is zero, so heading is still zero-one-zero. Radar, I’ll correct gyro heading after roll-out. Pilot, don’t take the FCI until it’s displayed on the EVS scope.”

 

“We’re I.P inbound, crew,” Luger reported. “Pilot, center the FCI and keep it centered. Pat, I’ll check your switches when you-” “Pilot, airborne radar contact at two o’clock!”Hawthorne yelled suddenly over the interphone. “Possibly an F-15.

 

Breakingapartnow… there’stwoofthem. Searchradaron us…

 

switching to target track… they’ve seen us.”

 

“Roger, E.W,” Houser said. The fighter-intercept exercise area was still over eighty miles away, Houser thought.

 

Hawthorne must be picking up signals from some other airplane engaging the fighters. He put the E.W’s warning out of his mind.

 

Hawthorne tried to say something else, but he was quickly interrupted as the action of the B-52’s bomb run began.

 

“Co-pilot, call I.P inbound,” Luger said. McLanahan had switched off-sets and was now peering intently at a radar return that was almost obscured by terrain features around it.

 

“Pilot,” Hawthorne said nervously, “this is not a simulation.”

 

Glasgow Bomb Plot, Glasgow Bomb Plot, Sabre Threethree, India Papa, Alpha Sierra,” Martin radioed.

 

In a small trailer complex located at a municipal airport fifty miles from the ground-hugging bomber, a set of four dish antennas swung southward. In a few seconds, they had found the speeding B-52 and had begun to track its Progress toward the target on a mapping board.

 

Other antennas began emitting jamming signals to the B-52’s radar, and other transmitters simulated surface-to-air missile site tracking radars and antiaircraft guns. The scoring operator insured that they had Positive lock-on, then turned to his radio.

 

“Sabre Three-three, Glasgow clears you on range and frequency and copies your I.P call. India band is restricted. Do not jam India band radar. Range is clear for weapons release.

 

Just then, the scoring operator noticed two extra n release.”tracking display He immediately called his targets on his range supervisor.

 

“They’re at it again, sir, ” the Operator explained, pointing to the two newcomers.

 

as he studied the display He shook his head, then asked, Those National Guard hot-dogs,” the Supervisor muttered the next competition plane called I.P yet?””Has “Yes, sir, the operator replied. “Sabre Three-three, a Buff out of Ford.

 

Ford , huh The supervisor smiled at the mention of the B-52’s nickname. Once, decades earlier, calling a B-52 a “Buff”-short for Big Ugly Fat Fucker-was a sign of respect. Not any more. “You got a Positive track on the Buff?

 

ighters interfering with the bomb scoring?”

 

“Let ’em go. I Mark Martin switched to interphone. “We’ve been cleared onto the range, crew. Patrick, You’re cleared for weapon release.

 

“Rog, double-M,” McLanahan replied plastic cover of the release He opened the -circuits-disconnect switch and closed the circuit. “Let’s go bombin’!”he yelled.

 

No chance of the f.i “I don’t think so, sir.

 

He thought for a moment, then shrugged.

 

like watching a duck shoot.”

 

“Yes, sir,” the operator said.

 

“India band restricted, Mike,” Martin called down to Hawthorne over interphone.

 

opy,” Hawthorne replied. “Crew,we are under attack.

 

Airborne interceptors at two o’clock and closing fast.

 

“Mike, are you sure they’re on us?”Houser asked.

 

“Positive.”

 

“Mark, switch radio two to the fighter control frequency and- “We can’t do that,” Luger asked. “We need both radios on plot frequency.

 

“Well, we’ll call the site and tell them to chase the fighters off the bomb range,” Houser replied, irritation showing in his voice. “They can’t do this.”

 

“Bob can guns.take ’em,” McLanahan asked. “Go get ’em, “You’re crazy, radar,” the gunner replied. “It’ll mean maneuvering on the bomb run .

 

.. ” “Shoot the bastards down. “McLanahan asked. “Let’s give it a try. If it gets dicey, we’ll call a safety-of-flight abort.”

 

“Now you’re talkin’,” Brake said, turning to his equipment.

 

“Are you sure, Pat?”Houser asked. “This is your bomb run… ” I IBut it’s our trophy,” McLanahan asked. “I say let’s stick it to em.

 

“All right,” Houser replied, flipping switches on the center instrument console. “I’m taking steering away from the computers.

 

“The fighters are moving to four o’clock,” Hawthorne “Infra reported.

 

“They’re staying out of cannon range so far.”red missile attack,” Brake said, studying his tracking radar and waiting for the fighters to appear. “Simulated Sidewinders.”

 

“Coming up on the SRAM launch point,” Luger said.

 

“We’re going to need to maneuver in a few seconds,” Brake warned.

 

I’ve got a safe-in-range light and missiles for launch,” Luger said.

 

“We can’t maneuver until after these missile launches. Guns, give me a few more seconds… Tone!

 

Fighters now four o’clock, three miles and closing rapidly…

 

Luger pressed the MANUAL LAUNCH button. The missile computer began its five-second countdown. “Missile counting down,” Luger called out.

 

“Doors coming open It had been hard at first to spot the B-52 down there at low level, the pilot aboard the lead F-15 thought. Radar lock-on had been intermittent at high patrol altitude with all the ground clutter, and then it was nearly impossible because of the heavy jamming from the Buff. Visually, the Buff’s camouflage made it difficult to spot and hard to keep in sight if there were any distractions.

 

Now, though, with its huge white bomb bay doors open, it was like a diamond in a goat’s ass. The pilot waved his wingman off to the observation position and began his roll into I.R (infrared) missile firing position. At three miles, with the B-52’s eight big jet engines spewing out heat, an infrared lock-on would be easy and he’d be out of range of the Buffs little peashooter guns. No sweat. An easy kill.

 

On its bomb run, the Buff wouldn’t do much jinking, and it had to jam the groundbased threats, too.

 

“Missile away, missile away for Sabre Three-three,” Martin called to the bomb scoring site.

 

“Acknowledge tone break,” the site replied.

 

“Missile two counting down,” Luger began.

 

“Six o’clock, two miles,” Brake said nervously.

 

“Missile two away,” Luger asked. “Bomb doors closed.

 

Clear for evasive action.”

 

“Pilot, chop your power!”Brake yelled. “We’ll suck this cocky bastard in.”

 

Houser responded immediately, bringing the throttles back to idle.

 

Simultaneously, Martin raised the airbrakes to maximum up and dropped the gear. The airspeed suddenly and rapidly decreased from three hundred and fifty to two hundred knots. On the tail gunner’s radar scope, the result was exhilarating and immediate. For the fighter pilot, it was a nightmare come true.

 

The F-15 fighter chasing them had been flying nearly two hundred miles an hour faster than the B-52 in order to catch up with it from behind and get into an ideal firing position; suddenly, it was as if the huge bomber had just frozen in midair. The fighter pilot was now closing on his target at almost six hundred yards a second. The sight of the massive bomber filling his windscreen froze his trigger finger. The fighter pilot was staring into four fifty-caliber machine gun barrels pointed directly at him.

 

“Six o’clock, two miles,” Brake called out, watching his -Two miles and holding… goddamn!one mile, half radar.-four mile Fox-four!All guns firing!Call Fox !”

 

Up on the attack observation position, well above and to the right of the bomber, the leader’s wingman was watching a perfectly executed I.R missile run. Suddenly, something happened. Spoilers and airbrakes and landing gear doors and landing gears began to spring out of nowhere out of the bomber’s huge frame, and the distance between the two planes was chopped to nothing in the blink of an eye. The wingman thought he’d see his first midair collision.

 

At the last second, his partner ducked under the bomber’s belly, flying his F-15 a mere three hundred feet over the hills of Wyoming. The Buff’s fifty-caliber guns followed him all the way. The wingman could easily visualize the guns spitting fire, the three-inch-long shells plowing into the fighter’s canopy and ieces and crashing fuselage, the F-15 exploding into a billion p -three, Glasgow,” into the green hills below “Fox-four, Fox-four for sabre Three Martin called to the scoring site.

 

“Roger, Three-three.will relay Fox-four. “The young operator working the bomb-scoring-site tracking radar looked in amazement at his NCO Supervisor “Holy shit,” the veteran NCO said.’ That Buff just shot down a goddamned F-15-” “It’s a duck shoot, all right, Sarge,” the operator said, chuckling. “But who is shooting who?”

 

“Dead meat,” the F-15’s wingman said to himself, peeling off and preparing to start his own run at the B-52, keeping a respectful distance away from the fifty-caliber machine gun turret that, he knew, was now looking for him.

 

Luger and McLanahan could easily hear the wild jubilation of the defensive crew upstairs through the to, of the plane’s eight turbojet engines.

 

Brake shouted “One down, one to go, unit to McLanahan manually stepped the automatic offse target Bravo and pushed a small button on a console near his left thigh. Over the interphone, he said, “Pilot, I’m in BOMB mode. Center it up. We’re gonna bomb the crap outta them now.

 

Dave, check my switches.

 

“You got it,” Luger said. He compared the bomb computer’s countdown to the time remaining on his backup timing watch. “Two minutes to bomb release on my watch.”

 

“Checks with the FC1, nav,” Houser confirmed, carefully watching as Martin reconfigured the B-52 for normal flight.

 

Pilot, fighter at two O’clock, five miles,” Hawthorne said.

 

Break right!” “Radar?”Houser asked. “Should I turn?This is your ballgame.

 

jammin’ my”One second,” McLanahan asked. “S.O.B.”s are scope. “He leaned forward so close to the ten-inch radar scope that his oxygen mask almost touched it, then tried to refine his crosshair replacement.

 

Luger couldn’t see how his partner could Possibly make out any radar returns through all the strobing and clutter. When McLanahan was satisfied, he shouted, “Go for it!”

 

“Breaking right!”Houser shouted. He put the huge bomber in a thirty-degree bank to the right, urning so suddenly that charts and paperwork flew madly around the navigator’s compartment. “Fighter now at twelve o’clock,” Hawthorne asked. “Moving rapidly to one O’clock.

 

.. almost two O’clock now…”

 

“We can’t hold this turn long, E.W,” Martin, the co-pilot, reminded him.

 

“The corridor narrows to two miles on this bomb run.”as if in reply to the co-pilot’s warning, he said, “Fighter now at three O’clock!”

 

Hawthorne shouted. Then, “Break left.

 

at five o’clock.”

 

“Center the FCI, Pilot,” Luger asked. “Coming up on one hundred TG.

 

” “Checks,” Houser replied.

 

“Pilot, accelerate if possible, ” Brake said. Houser began to push the throttles up. “Stand by to chop Power again.”

 

“Do it after the bomb run, guns,” Luger asked. “Pilot, keep the throttles steady.

 

“Radar?”Houser queried. “This is your run.”

 

“Bring airspeed up as slow as you can,” McLanahan said.

 

Guns, stand by for Al P “Roger, E.W,” Brake replied.

 

“Shoving it up too fast will screw the ballistics up, not to mention Dave’s precious backup timing. He might get upset with us.”

 

“Standing by,” Luger replied, smirking through his oxygen mask.at McLanahan “Pilot,” Brake yelled, “fighter at seven o’clock, four miles, moving to eight o’clock. Break left!”

 

“Do it!”McLanahan said. This time, Houser threw the bomber over into about thirty-five degrees of bank. The forty year-old aircraft shrieked in protest.

 

“Fighter moving to seven o’clock… now six o’clock.

 

The bomber snapped out of the turn and began a slow turn to the right.

 

Pilot, roll out and center the FCI,” Brake said.

 

to center the thin white needle in the case of the Flight scanning the computer panel Command Indicator. Luger, before him, pointed to a single glowing red warning light.

 

It’s hung up,” Luger shouted. The Doppler “The Dopp was the system that provided groundspeed and wind information to the bombing computers-without it, the computers were useless, transmitting false information to the steering and release systems.

 

Luger tried recycling the Doppler power switches-turning them off and on several times to allow the system to reset itself-but no luck.

 

“Pilot, it looks like the Doppler has gone out. Disregard the FCI.

 

Radar, we need to get out of BOMB mode now!”

 

“Damned fighters,” Martin said.

 

Luger held up his running stopwatch. “I’ve got backup timing, radar,” he asked. “Coming up on seventy seconds to release. Pilot, hold the airspeed right here.”

 

Luger was about to read the Alternate Bombing (Nuclear) checklist to McLanahan, but his partner was already accom pushing the items from memory, disconnecting the computers from aircraft and bombing controls.

 

They were now relying on visual course control, Luger’s backup time and heading, and the radar scope to drop the bomb. Instead of the bombing computers sending the release pulse to the bomb racks, McLanahan would send the signal himself with the “pickle,” the bombs-away switch.

 

“Bomb door coming open, guys,” McLanahan asked. “Alternate delivery checklist complete. Dave, check my switches when you get a chance.

 

Where’s my coffee cup?”

 

“13-two switch,” Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the manual bomb release “Pickle” switch. Luger’s gloved fingers flew over the SRAM computer panel, reprogramming it to take a final position update at the same time the B-52 flew over the bomb target.

 

“Why did this have to happen to us now,” Luger asked. “We ought to make a formal complaint about those fighters.”

 

“Relax, nav, relax,” McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in his ejection seat, a contented smile on his face.

 

Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and piece of paper off his desk with a flourish.

 

“Hey!”Luger yelled across the compartment. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Nothing partner, nothing,” McLanahan said with a grin.

 

-everything’s great.”

 

“Want me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?”Luger asked excitedly, beginning to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.

 

“No,” McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap.

 

“No sweat. Stay strapped in.”

 

“How ’bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or something?Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a trophy!”

 

“Cool out, nav,” McLanahan said.

 

Luger shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end?Here they were, on an SAC bombing run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan hadn’t even glanced at the radar scope since the computers failed.

 

Finally, McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually.

 

“Five right, pilot, he asked. “Nav, how much time on your watch?”

 

“Coming up on sixty seconds,” Luger said. He was still looking at his partner in disbelief.

 

“Okay,” McLanahan asked. “Disregard your timing-it’s at least seven seconds off. I’m dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract seven seconds from your timing just in case the radar scope goes out or something crazy like that. “He studied the radar scope again. “Four more right, pilot.”

 

“Seven degrees right of planned heading, radar,” Luger reminded him.

 

“Not to worry, McLanahan asked. “Check my switch Positions and get ready for the overfly fix. Co-pilot, let me know as soon as you pick up any visual timing points. I know there’s not many on this target, but do the best you can. “I’ll try, radar,” Martin asked. “Nothing so far.”

 

“Ready for “Okay,” McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger the overfly fix, Dave?”

 

“I’m ready,” Luger asked. “But you’re going ob.m-y”man, Two more right, pilot,” McLanahan said.

 

where are those fighters?”

 

Fighters!Luger couldn’t believewhat he was hearing. His partner probably just had the worst of all possible things happen to him on a Bombing Competition sortie, and he was worried about fighters with less than a minute to bomb release “Clear for now,” Brake replied. “They’ll be “Al radar is searching,” Hawthorne reported.

 

around again in a minute.”

 

“Okay,” McLanahan said.

 

,Pilot, hold your airspeed,” Luger said over the interphone.

 

“It’s drifting too much.”-We’re going to nail this “Relax, nav,” McLanahan said.

 

one.

 

“Nine degrees right of planned heading,” Luger said, nervously studying his own five-inch scope. He glanced over at his partner. McLanahan was lounging back in his seat, toying with the pickle switch in his left hand.

 

“I missed the final visual timing point, radar,” Martin said.

 

le-M,” he asked. “Thanks anyway.”

 

The0crkeawywdaosusuddenly very quiet-everyone but McLanahAn.

 

“I’m going to bypass this overfly fix, radar,” Luger said.

 

They were going farther and farther off course, and McLanahan fix, nav,” McLanahan said, his voice suddenly han”Twakesrithtisdoing anything about it.

 

quiet. He gave Luger the thumbs-up signal.

 

“But.-.”

 

“Don’t worry, nav,” McLanahan asked. “I have a feeling about this one.”

 

Luger could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target coordinates, checked them, and prepared for the fix.

 

“Pilot, I want you to just caress that left rudder,” McLanahan said.

 

He leaned forward a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of tiny blips tracking down his scope.

 

“One left. Maybe a half left.”

 

“A half a degree?”Houser said.

 

“Just touch it,” McLanahan urged quietly. “Ever so gently… a little more just a touch more… hold it. That’s it… still zero drift, nav?”

 

“No Doppler,” Luger replied. “The winds and drift are out to lunch.

 

So is the ground speed and backup timing. I’m working strictly off true airspeed and last known reliable winds. “Luger shook his head, bewildered. What was going on?Was McLanahan doing all this for show?

 

Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!

 

“Okay. Never mind- I forgot. Coming up on release, nav… stand by Luger looked over at McLanahan’s radar. The cathodetube was a mass of arcs and spokes driving through it from r jamming. How could his partner see anything in that mes# McLanahan reached down and flicked the frequency-control knob, and the spikes and streaks of jamming cleared for a few seconds. He smiled.

 

The D-2 switch was nestled gently.casually, between McLanahan’s fingers, his thumb nowhere near the recessed button. “Caressing that rudder, Gary?”was all he said.

 

Suddenly McLanahan’s thumb flashed out, too fast for Luger to see it, and the BRIC flashed once as the last bomb fell into space. Luger counted three seconds to himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the SRAM computer. Three seconds after bomb release, at their altitude and irspeed, should put them right over the target-if McLanahan had hit the target.

 

To Luger’s immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the SRAM panel.

 

“It took the fix,” Luger said, his voice incredulous.

 

“We nailed ’em, guys!”McLanahan shouted.

 

“Sure, sure,” Luger said. McLanahan was carrying the act a little too far. They were eight degrees off planned heading and seven seconds short of planned timing-that equated to at least a ten-thousand-foot miss, and probably even a worse missile score. The bad Present position update, combined with the bad At, velocities the SRAM computer would derive from the fix, would nail the lid down on Bomb Comp for crew E-05-with them inside the coffin. “Tone!”The high-pitched radio tone came on.

 

Luger flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.

 

“Missile counting down… doors are already open… missile away. Missile two counting down…

 

missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed “Missile away, missile away,” Martin called to the bomb scoring site.

 

“Very good, boys,” McLanahan said, finally opening his eyes. “Nav, you have navigation. I’ll call post-release information soon. Right now, I’m going to take a piss. Guns, don’t let us get shot down after all that work.”

 

Go take your piss, radar,” Brake replied. “You’re as safe here as if you were in your mother’s arms. Or Catherine’s arms.

 

Whichever.

 

“Wait a minute, radar,” Houser asked. “Before you unstrap-which, I might add, is illegal as hell while we’re lowlevel but par for the course for you-how about those releases?

 

How far off track were we?”

 

“Not sure,” McLanahan replied. “Might have been two or three hundred feet.

 

“Keep dreaming,” Martin asked. “It looked close, but not that close.

 

“C’mon, really,” Houser said.

 

“I took into account all the turns and the changes in airspeed,” McLanahan deadpanned. “I was waiting for the Doppler to go out, you know. I knew it would.

 

“Case of beer says you pitched it long,” Martin said.

 

“Thanks for the confidence, double-M,” McLanahan replied, “but you’re on. “He turned to Luger. “What do you think, nav?”he asked.

 

“I think… I think you’re way off, radar,” Luger said.

 

Martin laughed. “Want to call it off, radar?”

 

“It was a shack,” Luger asked. “Zero-zero. Perfect. Better than the others. I don’t know why… but it was.

 

OVER THE SKIES OF KAvAZNYA, KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, SOVIET UNION Two thousand miles to the west of where the Strategic Air Command was holding its annual bombing competition, a drama of a different sort-this one carrying consequences far more serious for the crewmembers involved-was playing itself out. Two types of surveillance machines—one a U.S. Alpha Omega Nine Satellite traveling in a geosynchronous orbit at an altitude of twenty-two thousand three hundred miles, the other a U.S. RC- 135 surveillance aircraft flying at an altitude of forty thousand feet-were following courses that would bring them roughly over the same part of the globe in a matter of minutes. The RC- 1 35, with a crew of twelve men and women, had penetrated the Soviet Air Defense Zone to gather data on a strange radar that had begun tracking the aircraft as it passed within a hundred miles of the Soviet coast on its way home from Japan to Alaska.

 

Suddenly the world got very bright.

 

The pilots aboard the RC-135 were bathed in an eerie redorange glow for several seconds, wiping out their night vision.

 

They felt as if they had stepped inside the core of a nuclear reactor–every inch of their bodies felt warm and viscous, as if their skin was about to melt away.

 

When the red-orange illumination disappeared, the cabin went to black.

 

Several tiny spotlights and some engine gauges operating off the aircraft’s batteries could still be seen, but everything else snapped off. The roar of the engines began to subside.

 

“All of the generators went off-line,” the RC-135s co-pilot 3p, said.

 

“We’ve lost engines two.three and four,” the pilot said “Airstart checklist. Fast.

 

“Crew, this is the pilot. We are starting engines. Check your oxygen, check your stations, report in by compartment damage and casualties.

 

All departments reported in with only minor equipment malfunctions.

 

The pilot gave an order to code a message to SATCOM.Suddenly the aircraft’s reconaisance officer came on the interphone. “Radar target-tracking signal strength is increasing.

 

The pilot pushed on the yoke, forcing the RC-135s nose steeply downward. “That last shot was aimed at something else, now it’s us.

 

.. We’re going down to one thousand feet.

 

“Pilot,” the RSO said, “signal strength increasing…

 

blanking out my-” He never finished his report.

 

An intense beam of orange-red light slashed across the top and sides of the RC-135.Once it had pierced the aluminum skin of the jet, the beam found little resistance. It tracked precisely along the center of the aircraft, instantly superheatin the heavy oxygen atmosphere and creating a huge bubble Of plasma. The resulting explosion turned the two hundred million dollar aircraft into flecks of dust in a fraction of a second. The beam ignited the vaporized fuel that erupted from the disintegrated airplane and added the force of fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the detonation.

 

As fast as it had begun, it was over. The fireball grew to three miles in diameter, then hungrily feeding on itself in the intense plasma field, dissolved into the black Siberian night.

 

WASHINGTON.D.C. General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood at ramrod attention as the President of the United States entered the White House Situation Room, the emergency alternate conference center and shelter. The President was followed closely by Marshall Brent, the Secretary of State, and Kenneth Mitchell, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

 

Trailing behind them was a man in civilian clothes but with a short military haircut. He carried a black leather briefcase.

 

The President, wearing a blue and red athletic warmup suit, glared at Curtis as he sat down at the head of a large oblong table. His thick brown hair was tangled, and beads of sweat dropped from the ends and trickled down his neck. Curtis went over to the steel vaultlike door and checked that it was locked.

 

The President unzipped the warmup suit half-way and picked up a telephone on the table in front of him.

 

“Jeff?.”he asked. “Have some coffee and croissants brought down to the Situation Room right away. And see if you can move the morning Budget Committee meeting to this afternoon. If you can’t, let me know and I’ll try to shake loose… what?No, I don’t know how long this will be.”

 

He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.

 

The man with the briefcase set it down at a console in a far corner of the room. He put on a headset and punched a series of numbers into the keyboard. He spoke briefly, then watched the few moments later, he nodded and indicators on the console. A turned to the President.

 

“Full connectivity, Mr. President,” the man asked. “Sir, your helicopter is fifty seconds from touchdown on the south lawn.

 

Air Force One is ready for immediate takeoff.”

 

The President said nothing. The man at the communications console was in charge of the “football,” a tiny transceiver and several sets of authentication and coding documents packed inside the briefcase. That briefcase was always within arm’s reach of the President. In case of a surprise attack or other emergency, the President could instantly direct all of the United States’ strategic forces by typing a series of coded instructions into the miniature portable transceiver. Now, in the emergency command post under the White House, the President had instant communications capability with command centers all over the world.

 

“All right, General,” the President asked. “This seems to be your little party. Another unscheduled emergency exercise?if so, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. I was in the middle of my first workout in a week, and I’ve got a-” “It is no exercise, sir, ” Curtis asked. “Exactly fifteen minutes ago, we received confirmation that an Alpha Omega Nine surveillance satellite was lost. It-” “A satellite?”

 

the President asked. “That’s all?”

 

“This particular satellite,” Curtis went on, “was this nation’s primary missile-launch detection vehicle for eastern Russia and the western Pacific areas, Currently, Mr. President, we have absolutely no missile launch detection capability for an estimated one-fifth of the Soviet’s ground- and sea-based intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

 

“Surely, you’re exaggerating,” Kenneth Mitchell asked. “We have dozens of surveillance satellites-” “But only one over eastern Russia,” Curtis interrupted, specifically designed to warn us of an I.C.B.M launch from sea or land. Now we have none-at least, until we can reposition another satellite over that area. That may take some time.”

 

Curtis turned back to the President. “Meanwhile, sir, we need to have you available to evacuate Washington in less than ten minutes.

 

“Why ten minutes?”the President asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

 

“That, Mr. President, is how much warning time we have,” Curtis explained. “Ten minutes from when the Soviet I.C.B.Ms cross the horizon in the midcourse phase until the warheads impact. We believe none of those missiles would be targeted on Washington, but we can’t take the chance. “The President was quiet for a moment. The stillness was broken by the arrival of the President’s chief of staff, Jeffrey Hampton, followed by an aide with a tray of coffee and pastries. The aide circled the table, making sure that everyone’s coffee cup was filled.

 

“I couldn’t reach all of the Committee members, Mr. President,” Hampton asked. “I’ll keep trying.”

 

“Never mind, Jeff,” the President asked. “We’re going to wrap this up shortly.”ilk General Curtis stiffened. This President, he noted, was never very serious during the few simulations they had held, testing the emergency communications and evacuation plan.

 

Now it was the real thing, and he was already anxious to leave.

 

“I have more news, sir,” Curtis said, not touching his coffee. “We lost an RC- 135 reconnaissance plane near Russia sometime this morning.”

 

The President closed his eyes and let his coffee cup clatter back onto its saucer. “How?Where… ?”

 

“it was on a routine training mission from Japan to Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks,” Curtis said, “when it diverted to investigate some strange signals somewhere between the submarine base at Petropavlovsk and a large research complex north on the peninsula called Kavaznya.”

 

The President nodded. “Any survivors?”

 

“None so far,” Curtis asked. “Search teams from Japan are just arriving on the scene. Soviet searchers have been out there, but they haven’t found anything.”

 

The President nodded. “How many “Ten men, two women.”

 

“Damn. “The President pressed his fingers of his right hand to his temple and gently began to massage it. “What the hell happened?Why were they over there?”

 

“A routine radar mapping sortie-a spy mission,” Mitchell the CIA director, chimed in. “They fly off the coast, trying to get the Russians to bring a threat radar up against them. They plot out the radar’s location, identify it, see what it does.”

 

“How close to the coast were they?”the President asked.

 

Curtis hesitated. “How close?”the President asked again.

 

“Its closest approach was about thirty-five miles,” Curtis replied.

 

“When we lost contact with the plane, they were about ninety miles from the coast.

 

“Well, dammit,” the President said, “I’d be upset if a Russian spy plane was thirty miles from Washington. “The President turned to Brent, the Secretary of State, who anticipated the President’s next question.

 

“Technically, Mr. President, they stayed in international airspace as long as they did not overfly Soviet territory,” Brent asked. “However, the Soviets guard their ADIZ-the air defense identification zone-quite zealously. The ADIZ extends one hundred and twenty miles from shore.”

 

“How did they shoot them down?”the President asked.

 

Again, Curtis hesitated. “General?”

 

We… we’re not sure, Mr. President,” Curtis replied.

 

The President looked at the oak-paneled walls around him as if they had begun closing in on him. “Sir, at this time we can’t even confirm that the Russians did in fact down the plane.”

 

“You’re not sure “There was no way we could be sure what happened.”

 

“Goddamnit, General,” the President asked. “We’ve lost twelve men and women and an unarmed spy plane and you can’t tell me what happened?”

 

“We don’t have all the data in yet, sir.

 

“But you are accusing the Soviets of shooting down that plane?”

 

Marshall Brent asked. “Without evidence?”

 

“It had to be the Soviets,” Curtis shot back. “There was no way”Well, what have you got, General?”the President asked impatiently, pouring himself and Brent more coffee. “From the beginning. And it better be good.”

 

Curtis cleared his throat and began: “Sir, the RC-135 concentrated its patrol on a large research area north of Petropavlovsk-” “We’ve received intelligence about secret weapons research activities there,” Mitchell interjected. “They’ve built up defenses there, too.

 

They have an airfield and fixed surface-to-air missile batteries almost as large as at the sub pens at Petropavlovsk. But all we’re certain of is a huge nuclear power plant at the facility.”

 

“That may not be all,” Curtis asked. “We received data from the RC-135 about several new long-range early-warning and surveillance radars in the area, including one of tremendous power.it was powerful enough to disrupt the data coming from the RC-135 in all bands.”

 

“They were jamming us?”jamming,” Curtis asked. “Interference. They blotted “Not out a wide frequency spectrum with that one radar.”

 

“So what is it out there?”the President asked everyone in the room.

 

“Are you saying it’s a new antiaircraft site?A jammer?What?”

 

“We have reason to believe, sir,” Curtis replied, “that the Soviets have been conducting research into high-energy antisatellite and antiballistic missile lasers at Kavaznya. That radar has enough power and enough capability to find and track objects in Earth orbit. Sir, we believe they may have a laser defense system in operation there.

 

The President’s jaw lowered. He looked quickly at Mitchell and Brent.

 

“Jesus, Curtis,” Mitchell said, giving the General an exasperated look.

 

“Pure speculation. You don’t have enough information to-” “Do you know what they do have out there, Mitchell?”

 

Curtis asked.

 

“Of course,” the CIA chief asked. “A huge reactor, a large airfield, increased air defense sites-but not some pie-in-thesky laser defense system. We suspect they have a myriad of weapon experiments being conducted out there-nuclear warhead production, nerve gas, maybe some particle-beam and laser experiments dealing with future antisatellite and ABM devices. But an operational system’?Impossible.”

 

“That radar is immensely powerful,” Curtis asked. “They could easily have constructed a radar with far less power to guide missiles to an atmospheric target. This one can track targets, we estimate, as far as our highest orbiting satellite-as far as thirty thousand miles.” “Suspect. Possibly. Estimate. “The President glanced at his watch again. “Is that it?Nothing more definite?”

 

“We know it is a giant research facility,” Curtis said, trying to regain his lost credibility. “They have the energy source and a tracking and targeting capability. They’ve also spent enough money on that complex to achieve spectacular results-” “We also know,” Mitchell interrupted, “that despite the massive amount of money the Soviets have spent on research, they are still at least twenty years from developing a laser sophisticated enough to deploy a credible laser-based ABM system.”

 

“How far are we?”Brent asked, his curiosity piqued.

 

“Atleasttenyearsforalasersystem,” Curtisasked. “Turnof the century at most. But we have a working antisatellite system now-the two F-15 antisatelite groups operational at Andrews and Tacoma. Plus we have the Ice Fortress polar missile defense space station project. We can put it up next year on the Shuttle if we want to. We can upgrade it to a rail-gun or kinetic energy ASAT system by-” “We cancelled Ice Fortress, didn’t we?”the President asked absently as he sipped his coffee. He turned to Brent. “We cancelled it, right?”

 

“Absolutely, sir,” Brent said. He turned to Curtis. “I hope the fact has merely slipped your mind, General, that launching Ice Fortress would be a flagrant violation of the first ratified arms agreement we’ve had with the Soviets in over twenty years.

 

“Ice Fortress isn’t at issue here,” Curtis asked. “The point is: we can’t simply double the estimate of our own technology and apply it to the Soviets. This ‘just because we don’t have it the Russians can’t have it’ is nonsense. The Russians play by a whole different set of rules than we do. They don’t answer to Congress, the press, the public, or the world. They don’t cancel projects, close plants, lay off workers, or worry about a budget. If they want a laser defense system now, they build one. If they need more money, they buy twenty percent less meat and thirty percent less toilet paper and to hell with public opinion.

 

“C’mon, General,” Mitchell said, “I’m on your side, but our information just doesn’t support your theories. The technology involved in creating a laser-based antisatellite system that can hit even a geostationary satellite is tremendous.

 

It is almost mind-boggling to apply that same technique to shooting down warheads a little bigger than a yard in length.

 

The degree of accuracy required is enormous.”

 

“And just because we can’t do it,” Curtis said, “the Russians certainly can’t, eh, Mitch?”

 

“All right, all right,” the President asked. “Let’s stop trying to win debating points. “He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair and tried hard to think. “All I see is two of our country’s leading experts arguing and contradicting one another. You say that complex could house a Soviet antisatellite or anti-I.C.B.M laser, but then you say they don’t have the technology to deploy such a system. Excuse my impertinence, gentlemen, but it sounds like paranoia to me.”

 

“I assure you, Mr. President,” Curtis said quickly, “that it’s not-” “Mitch, we need more information on that facility in Siberia,” the President said, turning to the CIA director. “Can you get it for us?”

 

“We have some possibilities, sir,” Mitchell replied. “At the very least, we should be able to get a more detailed diagram of the complex.

 

I’ll give you a complete progress report as soon as possible.

 

“Good. “The President glanced at his watch again. “General, I realize the importance of insuring my fast departure from Washington in case of an emergency, but I simply don’t think the world situation warrants this degree of caution. I’ve got a heavy schedule today and I can’t interrupt it.

 

Curtis looked at the President disbelievingly Wasn’t there any way to convince him of the seriousness of the damage done to the nation’s defense?

 

“I want details of that plane crash as soon as possible. If the Russians aren’t cooperating in the search, I want to know about it.” Plane crash, Curtis thought. Not downing. Not destruction.

 

Not murder. He’s totally disregarded my suspicions.

 

“We have no evidence of any lack of cooperation, sir,” Curtis said quietly.

 

“Marshall, I think it’s time for you to put some feelers out to the Russians,” the President asked. “Start at the U.N. See if we can get a special Security Council meeting together. We’ll hit Karmarov with whatever information we can present there and see how the Russians react. Tell Greg Adams to hit ’em hardaccuse them of everything. See how that polite bastard Karmarov reacts. Maybe we have to jerk off these guys a little to find out what they’re up to.”

 

“I’ll avoid..

 

. ‘jerking’ anyone off, Mr. President,” Brent said, blanching at the locker room words as if they had a foul odor.

 

“Do what you have to,” the President said. He turned to Curtis.

 

“Wilbur, I’m truly sorry for the loss of your people.

 

Unfortunately, we don’t have enough information to accuse the Russians of foul play We have to treat it as an accident. There’s no sign of survivors, the Russians claim they don’t have the bodies or the wreckage, and there was no cockpit voice recorder or flight data recorder even if it was recovered, is that right?A tragic loss.” “Analysis of the signal data from the plane and the destroyed satellite haven’t been completed yet, sir,” Curtis asked. “I’ll report to you when that’s finished.”

 

“That’s fine, General,” the President asked. “Report to me directly about-” “I’d also like authorization to develop a response in case we find they do have an ASAT and ABM laser at that complex,” Curtis added quickly.

 

“Develop a response’?”the President asked. “That sounds like militarese for an attack plan.

 

“This is getting quite out of hand, General,” Brent asked. “I don’t feel it’s necessary to-, “Hold on, Marshall,” the President said. He looked closely at General Curtis. “Go ahead, Wilbur. What kind of response?”

 

“I’m talking about what this Administration will do,” Curtis said, “if it is discovered that my suspicions are correct.”

 

The President glanced at his watch again, seeing his rest time slipping away. “What you’re proposing, General-it could stir up a mess of trouble if word were to leak out. You know how close we are to signing that arms-reduction treaty.”

 

“There will be nothing to leak, sir,” Curtis asked. “I can handle it through my office only. It will consist only of collection and analysis of data on the Kavaznya site, and a compilation of possible options. There will be no military mobilization, no generation of forces, no funding.”

 

The President stood without replying, lost in thought.

 

Everyone in the room jumped to their feet. The President headed for the door, and General Curtis opened it for him.

 

“Authorized,” he said simply as he walked past the four-star general.

 

He stopped and glared at Curtis. “If it leaks, if it damages the negotiations in progress, you’ll answer for it. You have my guarantee General Curtis caught up to Marshall Brent as they walked toward the underground garage of the White House.

 

“Drop you somewhere, Mr. Secretary?”Curtis asked, falling into step beside Brent.

 

Brent hesitated a moment, frowning at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

 

Then.he nodded with a resigned shrug.

 

“Thanks. General.”he replied. “I’m heading out to Andrews to catch the diplomatic shuttle to New York. “Curtis, his aide, and Brent climbed into an Army-green Lincoln Continental and headed out into the raw Washington weather.

 

As the driver maneuvered onto the Beltway, Curtis signaled his aide to secure the thick glass separating the driver from his arms passengers.

 

“Rough week, eh, General?”

 

“I’ve had worse… and better,” Curtis replied.

 

“Do you really believe they have this… laser of yours?”

 

“I may be an old stubborn pack-mule, Mr. Secretary,” Curtis said, unbuttoning his jacket, “but I listen. Our intelligence sources have been saying for ten years that the Soviets are on the verge of developing the capability to track and hit satellites with lasers.

 

That complex at Kavaznya could easily be the culmination of all that research. I have a feeling in these old bones that some young hotshot in the Pentagon is going to come running to me in the next few days with something from that RC-135’s data transmission that says the Russians have something big going on over there.”

 

“I find it hard to believe,” Brent said, “that the Russians would actually conduct such an attack. The Russians may be a lot of things, but they are not reckless.”

 

“Reckless no. But if they thought they could get away with it, they might just take the chance,” Curtis said.

 

“Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time they fired on one of our recon planes.”

 

“You’re saying they’ve fired on us before.”

 

“Hell, yes,” Curtis said, laughing. “Those sons-of-bitches have brass balls sometimes. They lock onto an RC-135 with fire-control radars, like they’re gonna launch a missile at it.

 

They shoot bullets across the aircraft’s nose, fly with overlapping wingtips. They even alter their radio navigation beacons to transmit false navigational information to aircraft near their shores, hoping to get a reconnaissance plane to fly into a restricted area. That’s why our boys aren’t allowed to use outside navigational aids. They transmit false messages or orders on high-frequency radio all the time, or interfere with real messages, or just plain jam the frequencies.”

 

“But what do we do about it?”

 

“Ignore them, mostly,” Curtis asked. “As long as we follow the rules and no one gets hurt, we just let them make asses outta themselves. We lodge formal complaints, but they file counter-complaints just as fast and twice as wild as anything they’ve ever done. After a while, it burns itself out.”

 

“But that Korea Air Lines flight flies near “See that?You just can’t trust ’em. Sometimes they get serious. “Curtis was silent for a moment.

 

“But that didn’t happen with our RC-135,” he continued.

 

No matter how bad the shit hit the fan, the guys aboard her would’ve stayed cool. If they were under direct attack, or even believed they might soon be under attack, they would have flushed their data.”

 

“Flushed it?”

 

“As they collect data on Soviet radar and other electromagnetic signals.it’s coded and stored in a buffer-a computer storage space.

 

If there’s a hint of anything going wrongairplane problems, attack, equipment problems-the buffer can be transmitted to a Defense Department satellite within seconds. They hit one button and it’s gone, all of it. Most operators now have a hair trigger on that button; one engine coughs a bit and the data’s gone. The buffer transmits itself periodically after a complicated error-checking routine done L between the plane and the satellite.

 

“If the RC-135 crew knew they were under attack, we would I’ve gotten the rest of their data and an attack or distress code. Even a momentary threat signal from anywhere, especially with that plane so close to shore, would’ve caused them to flush their data. But they didn’t. They never knew what hit them.

 

“A sneak attack?”Brent suggested. “A fighter could have shot at them without their knowing it, couldn’t it?”

 

Curtis nodded. “At night.a passive infrared missile attack-sure.

 

But it’s unlikely. Those RC-135s can monitor hundreds of communications frequencies, especially Soviet Command frequencies. If the crew intercepted any air-to ground or ground-to-air radio transmissions ordering a fighter to attack, they would have flushed their data, turned tail and run. No Soviet fighter makes a move like that unless it receives an order from the Kremlin itself-unless, of course, the intruder plane actually makes an attack. The Korean Air Lines attack was preceded by two hours of communications, all of which were monitored as far away as Japan. No. Our guys never knew what killed them.”

 

Both men were silent for a long time-Brent searching for an explanation, Curtis simply hopping mad.

 

“So what can we do about it?”Brent asked.

 

“There ain’t shit we can do about it,” Curtis said, sighing.

 

“Unless the Russians try to do something stupid, something really flagrant. If they have a new toy over there, they’ve had their little fun with it. But if they play with it some more, our young President may go over and kick their little butts for them.

 

“Something flagrant,” Brent said, thinking to himself.

 

“That’s what I like about our boy President,” Curtis said, his voice growing suddenly exuberant. “He’s a politician and a half, but you can rile him. Just like his ol’ football quarterback days-he’s all finesse, pretty moves, bobbing and weavin’, until he’s behind by a touchdown and a field goal. Then he starts throwin’ the bomb, going’ for the score.”

 

Brent looked at Curtis and shook his head. “God help us,” he said, “if he goes all the way”

 

THE UNITED NATIONS.NEw YORK “This emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council is hereby called to order,” Ian McCaan, the United Nations Secretary-General and ambassador from Ireland, announced. It was almost eleven Pm.in New York. Most of the fifteen delegates and their aides and secretaries held steaming cups of coffee or tea. A few wore angry, tired faces. A few looked anxiously at, it was certain, the two principals for which this meeting was called–Gregory Adams, the ambassador from the United States, and Dmitri Karmarov, the Soviet ambassador.

 

“Let the record show,” McCaan continued, his Irish brogue thick despite two decades spent in the United Sates, “that this meeting was urgently requested by the government of the United States of America under Provision Nine, unprovoked and excessive use of military force against an unarmed vessel or aircraft near territorial boundaries. The charge of violation of Provision Nine is hereby submitted. The United States delegation has asked that this meeting be closed to all but Security council members, although confidential audio transcripts of this emergency meeting will be made available to all member nations.

 

Ambassador Adams, please proceed with specifications of the charge.”

 

Gregory Adams adjusted his microphone and looked around the table at the other fourteen delegates. This was not a receptive audience. The Russian ambassador looked completely bored. The other delegates looked equally uninterested, and now Adams began to question the wisdom of calling an emergency meeting under these circumstances. Adjusting the dark horn-rimmed glasses that he wore to make himself look older, he cleared his throat and began: “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. On the night of November thirteenth, two nights ago, an unarmed American RC- 1 35 reconnaissance aircraft was making a routine patrol of the eastern shore of the Kamchatka peninsula of the Soviet Union. The aircraft had been on a peaceful training mission “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams,” Dmitri Kartnarov interrupted, holding his translator earpiece closer to his left ear. He smiled and said in English, “The interpreter has told me that the RC135 was on a training mission. I wish to be clear on this point-is that the same as a spy mission, sir?”

 

“American aircraft of all types fly near shores all over the world for a variety of reasons, Ambassador,” Adams replied.

 

“This particular RC-135 was on a training and routine survey mission, collecting signal coverage data for satellite navigation units for civil and military use.”

 

“Navigation information!”Karmarov’s sixty-one-year-old face fairly cracked with suppressed laughter. He made an exaggerated point of hiding his face and choking down a chuckle. “Navigation information very well, Mr. Adams. I apologize for the interruption. “Another stifled laugh. The rest of the delegates, although not suppressing any laughter, clearly did not believe for one moment Adams’ excuse for the RC-135’s mission. Its capabilities were well known.

 

“That aircraft,” Adams said, much louder this time,” was destroyed.

 

Suddenly, without warning and without provocation. “Adams looked at the faces of the other delegates, but found nothing in their blank expressions. “This poses a threat to air traffic for all of us, gentlemen. It was not over Soviet airspace-” “Incorrect, Ambassador Adams,” Karmarov asked. “I have a report from our air defense radar tracking station at Kommandorskiy Island and Ossora Airbase on Ust-Kamchatka. They i; report the RC- 135 aircraft came within thirty-three miles of our shore “Thirty-three miles,” Adams retorted, “is hardly over Soviet airspace.

 

“Not according to the International Civil Aeronautics Organization,” Karmarov asked. “Article Seventeen, Chapter one-thirty-one, establishes a one-hundred-and-twenty-milewide Air Defense Identification Zone around countries that have borders on open ocean. Flight is prohibited in the Zone without permission from the country controlling that Zone.

 

I believe I can safely assume that your RC- 135 did not have permission to enter that area “Flight is not prohibited in an Air Defense Zone,” Adams said. He referred to a folder his aide passed to him.

 

“According to paragraph one-thirty-seven of the ICAO regulations, Ambassador, aircraft entering an ADIZ without permission or proper identification risk engagement of a country’s sea or air defense forces for the express purpose of positive aircraft identification and precise position, altitude, airspeed, and heading verification only. They can proceed through the area as long as they do not pose a threat to air traffic or national security. They are certainly not to be fired on.”

 

“An American military jet the size of the one that intruded into our airspace is most definitely a threat to our security, sir, Karmarov asked. “The Article specifies that, if the intruding aircraft is military and has the capability of carrying long-range air-to-air or air-to-ground weapons, it may be turned away from land, challenged, forced to land, or fired on. “Karmarov pointed a finger directly at Adams. “It was you who risked disaster, not us.”

 

“The RC-135 has no capability of carrying weapons.”

 

“Positive identification of the aircraft was never made until your government contacted us, sir,” Karmarov asked. “It followed an unusual flight path for a spy plane-not the usual course. Considering the sensitive nature of our activities in that area, I believe the Soviet government acted with considerable restraint.”

 

“Restraint!”Adams said. He contorted his face to display the maximum in indignation.

 

“You destroyed that aircraft. You fired on it without warning, without any consideration of any of the lives on board. You murdered twelve innocent men and women. An unarmed aircraft carrying out a peaceful mission!”

 

“I caution you to keep your wild accusations in check, Mr. Adams,” Karmarov said, louder this time. “We deny any involvement with the missing aircraft except to warn that aircraft out of Soviet airspace.

 

We did not know the exact identity of the aircraft until your Department of Defense notified us of the disaster. We immediately initiated an air and sea search for the aircraft. We do not know what happened to your spy plane. Do not put the blame for your unfortunate disaster on the hands of the innocent Soviet people.”

 

“The RC-135 aircraft reported unusual radar emissions tracking it, just before it was attacked,” Adams asked. “The crew believed it was target-tracking radar signals from a ffound radar installation preparing to attack.”

 

“Show us the data, then,” Karmarov asked. “You say it was a hostile radar. We say we had nothing but surveillance radars on the aircraft.

 

Show us the data that you say exist, Ambassador Adams. Confront the accused with the evidence-if you can.”

 

“Mr. Adams?”McCaan said, peering over his podium to the American delegate’s seat. “Can you at this time provide the Council with this information?”

 

“The crucial information is being collected for presentation, Mr. Secretary-General.”

 

“You mean decoded, deciphered, edited, and altered,” Heinrich Braunmueller, the East German ambassador, said wryly. “Intelligence data takes time to be made presentable.”

 

I “We’ll bring the data in, you can be sure of it,” Adams said.

 

“It clearly shows a tracking radar, one strong enough to steer dozens of nuclear -tipped surface-to-air missiles to it.”

 

“That is a wild, baseless accusation, sir,” Karmarov said once again, shaking his head in exasperation. “You’ll not get the Soviet Union to admit any culpability in this unfortunate accident.

 

“Tell the Council, Ambassador Karmarov,” Adams said, folding his hands in front of him. “What sort of activities do you pursue at Kavaznya?

 

Why is it so important?Why is it so vital that you’d shoot down an unarmed survey aircraft in international airspace?”

 

“You are beginning to become tiresome, Ambassador Adams,” Karmarov asked. “I will repeat myself for the last time-we do not know what happened to your aircraft.

 

Kavaznya is the site of an important research facility that I am not permitted, and this council is not entitled, to discuss.

 

Further, your aircraft, by your own admission, was not in international airspace. It was intruding into a Soviet controlled defense zone. It, or, more precisely, the military leaders in your Pentagon that ordered those men and women into violating the airspace of another nation, were the guilty party, not the Soviet Jnion. The aircraft made no attempt to identify itself, ask for help, state its intentions, or file a flight plan. It was an unidentified aircraft-” “That you shot down!”

 

Adams said, pointing his finger at Karmarov. He was ready to play one last card. “We know you are conducting research into particle-beam weapons, lasers, and other such devices, Ambassador. You may as well admit it.

 

You decided to test your new toy on an unarmed American aircraft.

 

“And you are on a fishing expedition, Adams,” Karmarov said. He turned to Ian McCaan. “Mr. Secretary-General, the Soviet Union pleads innocent to the trumped-up charges levied against us by the United States. We demand that the United States shows its evidence against us immediately. If there is no evidence, as I suspect will be the case, or if the evidence is not found to be accurate, reliable, or in clear support of the charges against us, I demand all charges be dropped and a formal apology be delivered by both Ambassador Adams and the President of the United States.”

 

“Ambassador Adams,” Ian McCaan said, “are you prepared to present your evidence supporting your charge”‘ Adams glared at Karmarov, then studied the faces of those around him. He saw only tiredness, confusion “The United States will present its evidence to the Council by the end of the week, in a regular session of-” “Then the delegation from the United States has wasted our time,” Karmarov declared.

 

“Ambassador Adams, I feel the need to remind you that an emergency meeting of this Council is not the proper forum for a political diatribe against the Soviet Union. Further, be prepared to confront the accused with evidence if you make such damaging charges. I will ask the Steering Committee of the United Nations to investigate this rash and irresponsible abuse of your privilege and see if charges of impropriety are not warranted against Gore. Mr. Secretary-General, I move for adjournment.

 

“Seconded,” Braunmueller said quickly.

 

Even McCaan, a long-time supporter of the United States and a friend of Gregory Adams, looked irritated. The rest of the Security Council members were already departing.leaving trails of angry comments behind, when McCaan’s gavel tapped the stone.

 

BARKSDALE AIR FORCE BASE, BOISSIER OTY, LouisiANA Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott.the honorary master of ceremonies, glanced at the typewritten winner’s name at the bottom of the five-by-seven card. His shock deepened. In his three years as honorary awards officer for the annual Strategic Air Command Bombing and Navigation Competition.he had never seen anything like it. One organization—A)nc crew.in fact-had blown the doors off the competition as no other crew in history had. The oddsmakers and the crystal-ball gazers were not just wrong about this one-they weren’t even in the ballpark.

 

General Elliott waited until the two stagehands were ready and the audience escorts had moved into position. He straightened his shoulders and smiled. These poor crewdogs.he said to himself. They wait months for the results of the SAC Bombing and Navigation competition.and whoever presents the awards teases them with sly innuendos and hints as to who won. And then, to increase their agony.

 

the escorts walk through the aisles in the audience, stopping in front of a unit’s row just long enough for the victory cries to begin, then move on.

 

A few years ago, Elliott recalled with pride.he stood on stage accepting the trophies for his unit.feeling the applause ripple through the massive hangar. His old unit, the sleek, supersonic FB-111s at Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire, had been top dog for years. It was different now.though.

 

It wasn’t that the modern, super-sophisticated new bombers were taking all the trophies. Rather, crew quality had become the crucial factor.

 

“The Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy,” General Elliott continued, immediately hushing the crowd, “is awarded to the #1 bomber crew-whether from B-52s, FB-111 s, or B-1Bs-who compiles the most points competing in both high- and low level bombing. To give you a little background, this trophy was known simply as the Bombing Trophy from 1948 until 1980, then renamed in honor of General Curtis E. LeMay for his contributions to the Strategic Air Command and his support of strategic air power.

 

“For eight of the ten past competition years, the crews from Pease and Plattsburgh have walked away with the LeMay trophy. It was thought by some that the upgraded Offensive Avionics System and the B-1B Excalibur would finally bump the FBs out of the running. “The General paused, waiting for a reaction from the crews in the audience. Then, he smiled a sly, secretive smile, and glanced at the Eighth Air Force commander and the fB-111 crews beside him.

 

“With a score of ninety-five point nine percent damage expectancy in low-level bombing and an unbelievable ninety percent effectiveness in high altitude bombing, the 715th Bombardment Squadron “Eagles’ of Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire set a record in all-purpose bombing-” At that, a huge roar went up from the audience.and the FB-111 crews from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.began to go berserk. The ” fastburner” FB-111 crews had gone through the entire competition in fear and loathing of the “heavies,” the B-52s with their spanking-new digital computers and the sleek, deadly B-1s with an even more sophisticated version of the solid-state bombing equipment. A B-52 crew had won the previous year, and the FB crews had felt their superiority in this annual international competition slip.

 

The FB-111 guys had not done too well in the awards ranking until then, although their performance had been up to their usual near-perfect levels. This, an all-time Bomb Comp record, was their turning point.

 

Elliott let the celebration continue for a few seconds. “Sorry, boys, I hate to do this to you He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the shouts of the FB-111 crews. More effectively than a gunshot or a cannon blast, a single word from Elliott quieted the audience and broke more hearts, including his own: “But…

 

The winner of the 1987 Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy, with an unprecedented ninety-eight point seven-seven percent damage effectiveness score and an unbelievable one hundred percent score in low-level bombing, is… crew E-05, from the 470th Bombardment Squadron.”

 

A massive scream went up from the members and guests of the winning bomb squadron and, as the winning B-52 crew stood and made their way to the stage, an equally noticeable groan went up from the rest of the crews in the huge converted aircraft hangar-now Competition Center at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. The restlessness was not unlike the reaction of a crowded football stadium when the visiting team had just scored another touchdown and gone ahead by twenty points with only a few minutes remaining in the game. The outcome of the contest, although far from over, was already obvious.

 

The 470th Bombardment Squadron, and Crew E-05 in particular, had just walked off with five trophies, losing only one trophy to another B-52 unit and three other trophies that could only be awarded to either an FB-111 or B-1B unit. In addition, the 325th Bomb Wing, of’which the 470th was a part.

 

had taken three other trophies for their KC-135B tanker unit and also brought home the Doolittle Trophy for the 470this Numbered Air Force award. Everyone knew the final outcome.

 

If it were not a military formation, the huge converted aircraft hangar may well have been empty by the time the grand prize, the coveted Fairchild Trophy, ever made it into the winner’s hands. It was certainly an anticlimactic finish.

 

Patrick McLanahan, his crew.and officers and invited guests of the 325th Bomb Wing were on stage for a solid hour after the ceremonies, getting pictures taken, holding interviews with military and civilian reporters, and letting the gleam of two long tables full of silver trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward Wilder, commander of the bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the commander of Fifteenth Air Force and Wilder’s boss, then took turns lifting the huge ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen photographers jockeyed for the best positions.

 

Two men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar, watching the festivities on stage from a deserted-looking projection room over the hangar.

 

Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of computer printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes, shook his head in amazement.

 

“A B-52 won Bomb Comp,” Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. “Hard to believe. We’ve spent megabucks on the B-1, on the Avionics Modernization Program on the FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System for the B-52s to carry cruise missiles-and an unmodified vacuum-tube B-52 that entered the service when I did almost thirty years ago wins the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible.”

 

“Those guys are good. That’s all there is to it,” Elliott said, closing the classified notes he was reading and handing them back to Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast page-count and locked the folder away in his briefcase.

 

“I thought the FB-111s were gonna pull it out,” Elliott said, “but this was the first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification and I think they still have some software bugs in it.

 

Wyatt nodded. “So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in Nevada?

 

The general is brainstorming. He thinks your research and development center might have some toys he can play with.”

 

Elliott smiled and nodded. “Sure-that’s why we call it Dreamland.” For a few moments both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of the Awards Hangar. Then, General Elliott cleared his throat.

 

“What’s going on, Andy?”he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look around the projection room and decided there was no way the room could be secure.

 

“Not here, sir,” he said in a low voice. “But General Curtis is very anxious to meet with you. Ven anxious. And not in an… official capacity.”

 

Elliott narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Not in an official capacity?

 

What the hell does that mean?”

 

“It means it’s to be a private tour,” Wyatt asked. “He’ll be in civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some assistance.”

 

“On what?”

 

“He’ll make that plain to you when he sees you.sir,” Wyatt said.

 

Elliott rolled his eyes in frustration.

 

“More JCS doubletalk,” Elliott asked. “All right, all right.

 

Day after tomorrow. Staff will be at a minimuni–skeleton crew. He’ll get the royal tour, but not the royal reception.”

 

“I believe you’ve got the right idea, General,” Wyatt said.

 

He extended a hand. “Very nice to see you again, General.”

 

“Same here, Andy,” Elliott said, shaking the aide’s hand.

 

“You ever going to get your fighter wing back, or are you content with being a general’s patsy?”

 

Now it was Wyatt’s turn to look exasperated. “The old Elliott eloquence,” Wyatt asked. “Cut right to the heart. No, I’m busier than I’d ever thought I could be, sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for the young bucks.”

 

Elliott’s face darkened. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for the rest of the Symposium, Colonel. SAC’s biggest bash. The Vice President is showing up in a few hours. The ladies in the Strategic Air Command get better and better looking every year.

 

“You know General Curtis, sir,” Wyatt asked. “If I’m not back in Washington before supper, I’ll be lucky to get command of a security police kennel. Thank you anyway, sir.

 

Wyatt hurried away.

 

Elliott made his way downstairs and into the hallway behind the huge awards ceremony hangar. There, standing alone in front of a huge model of the B-1B Excalibur, beer cup in hand, was Captain Patrick McLanahan.

 

He was easy to recognizethe young bombardier had been up on stage receiving trophies for most of the afternoon.

 

Elliott studied McLanahan for a moment. Why were the good ones always like that?Loners. Too intense. The best bombardier in SAC-probably the best in the world-standing out here, alone, looking at a damn airplane model. Weird.

 

Elliott studied him closer. Well, maybe not that intense.

 

Boots unpolished. No scarf. Flight suit zipped down nearly to his waist. Hair on the long side. Drinking during a military formation.

 

At least a dozen Air Force regulation 35-10 dress and appearance violations. He had to restrain himself from going over there and chewing the guy out.

 

But he did stroll over to the young officer. “Is that your next conquest, Captain McLanahan?”Elliott said.

 

McLanahan turned, took a sip of beer, and casually studied Elliott-something that Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott was very unaccustomed to. The general noticed none of the panic that usually accompanied confronting a three-star general; no stumbling over words, no overly exuberant greeting, no great big macho handshake.

 

After a moment, McLanahan smiled and extended his hand.

 

“Hello, General Elliott. “He glanced back at the B-1B Excalibur model.

 

“This thing?No. Too high-tech for me.”

 

“Most young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-1 assignment,” General Elliott remarked.

 

“Not me,” McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a B-52 hanging in a corner. “There’s my baby.

 

He gave an amiable grin and said, “Sorry about Pease. Those guys were tough this year.”

 

“Thanks. The FB-111s will come back next year, I’m sure of it.

 

They were beat out by the best. “No reaction from the young radar navigator.

 

“You say you want to stay in B-52s, Patrick?”Elliott asked curiously.

 

“Why?The B-1s will be replacing them by the turn of the century.”

 

McLanahan paused before answering. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that people see a new aircraft come on-line and they think all of the older planes are history. “He took another sip of beer. “They’ve condemned the B-52 a little early. She’s still got a lot of fight left in her.”

 

Elliott raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. “Old warhorses can still kick ass,” he said.

 

McLanahan smiled. “You know it, sir.”

 

“Well, congratulations again. Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing Trophy, two years in a row. You’re unbeatable, it seems.”

 

“I got the best crew in the business, General. “McLanahan said. He drained the last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. “We work hard-and party even harder. Gotta go.”

 

“Stop by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later,” Elliott said as he shook hands. “Let’s discuss the old monster some more.”

 

“You got it, General,” McLanahan said. He hurried off after his crew.

 

Not much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled as he recalled a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could have been said. Had it been that many years?

 

Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast becoming a relic.

 

He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left in him yet.

 

The Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation Competition Center was an immense aircraft hangar, remodeled and converted into the awards and hospitahty center that was used only once a year for just this event.

 

Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens of smaller offices and conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used by all of the units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit’s mission or its geographical location.

 

The first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The Competition Center was so crowded, so packed with military men and women in various stages of inebriation, that Gary Houser’s crew took ten minutes, once they entered the hangar’s immense lobby, to even get near the hospitality rooms. There was a large directory inside the lobby that described where each unit was located, but that defeated the purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit each and every room before the three A.M. closing time.

 

“I don’t believe this,” Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the crowd. “This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year.”

 

Their first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been combined into one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the jam-packed room was a massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the beerhall. It had a mural of a B-1B painted on each side. The bull was standing in a huge sandbox.

 

In the back part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull droppings, was a strip of red sand labeled, “To Russia With Love, From the Excalibur. “The bull wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy eating out of a trough filled with party snacks and corn.

 

Luger and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star beer and bowls of chili.

 

“Where y’all from?”one cheerleader asked.

 

“Amarillo,” Luger drawled. “Patty here’s from California but he’s okay.”

 

“I just love Amarillo, ” the other cheerleader said, giggling.

 

“And I just love California,” the first one said.

 

-Well,- McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader’s waist while the other took his arm. “Why don’t you two Southern belles show us around your little Texas tearoom here?”

 

McLanahan weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon, wearing a toy six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his neck. The place was packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating, some trying to drown their sorrows with massive amounts of beer and chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief from the 5th Fighter Interceptor Squadron from Minot, North Dakota, patiently waited on each one of them.

 

With one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of the bar. He strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon and looked over the target-five darts lodged in the exact center of the corkboard.

 

“Pretty good shootin’, huh, Sergeant Berger?”McLanahan said to the bartender. The sergeant, dressed like a Barbary Coast innkeeper, smiled.

 

“Your Sergeant Brake’s the one who can do some shooting, ” Berger said.

 

“If anyone had told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad daylight, I’d have said they were crazy.

 

I was the crew chief on that F- 15 that got shot down, but send Bob Brake over here and I’ll buy him a beer.”

 

“It would have been different if things were for real,” McLanahan said, taking a deep pull of the draft. “You would have nailed us from thirty miles away with one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you don’t get any points for a beyond-visual range shot. “McLanahan took another swig of beer. That’s why it’s all just a big game, he thought.

 

Just a game.

 

As he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his thoughts took a depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what?

 

Six years now. And he had never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each time that he had pressed his finger down on the pickle switch, it had been a concrete blivet that dropped out the botab bay doors.

 

Not that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was to defend his country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing exercise after exercise, then so be it. He couldn’t help wondering, though, what it would be like to drop a bomb under true “game” conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting to be called to his first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.

 

McLanahan looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in civilian clothes seated next to him. She was talking to another woman who had long blond hair tied up in a bun. On the blonde’s uniform lapel were lieutenant’s insignia.

 

“Excuse me, ladies,” McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. “But can I interest either of you in a game of darts?”

 

The blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. “Wendy,” she said, “why don’t you give it a try?I never could shoot those things. “The brunette demurred. “I don’t think so,” she said.

 

“Besides, what chance would I have competing against the King of Bomb Comp himself. “She fixed McLanahan with a bemused took, as if all the honors he’d received counted little in her estimation.

 

McLanahan mistook the look for active interest and charged forward.

 

“Well, if I’m the King of Bomb Comp, then I’m willing to let you be my Queen. “He clinked his beer mug against hers and made a toast. “To .

 

.. what was it?Wendy.

 

To Wendy, Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air Force.”

 

Wendy smiled. “Actually, I’m employed by an independent contractor.

 

We build and test ECM gear.”

 

“Well, we won’t hold that against you,” McLanahan said.

 

He glanced at the blond lieutenant.

 

Wendy looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then rose from her seat and straightened her dress.

 

She reached out her hand. “So nice to have met you, uh-” McLanahan told her his name. “Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it was nice to meet you. But I must be going.”

 

She waved to the blonde. “Catch you later, Cheryl,” she asked. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

 

“I’ll try,” Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she had no intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over her beer mug, McLanahan thought of the woman who’d just left.

 

FIGHTER WEAPONs TRAINING RANGE, NELLis AIR FORCE BASE, LAS VEGAS, NEvADA 19 -ISO IV 19

 

Two days after the Bomb Comp festivities ended, LieutenantGeneral Elliott rode with General Curtis in a blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty, pitted desert roads.

 

Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olivedrab fatigues and a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high Nevada desert.

 

“It’s incredible,” Elliott said, closing the top secret file he held in his hand. “Absolutely incredible.”

 

“And those are the things we’re sure of,” Curtis said.

 

“Those are the things that’ll be presented in the United Nations. I believe-and I’m alone on this so far-that the Russians have an extremely advanced, fully operational laser defense system in place, right now. As a matter of fact, I believe it’s been operational for months, ever since the Iceland summit.”

 

“This is amazing. The Russians are further ahead of us in beam defense than anyone ever imagined. So what do we do?

 

Go to the United Nations?Ask them to shut the thing down?”

 

“That’s one option we’re pursuing,” Curtis replied, loosening his tie against the lingering heat. “But I’ve been authorized to explore two other possible responses. “He paused. “Ice Fortress is one of them.”

 

Elliott looked surprised, but nodded thoughtfully.”seat SWI certainly will get people’s attention,” he asked. “But it’s a sitting duck, if that laser is as capable as you say it is.”

 

“They wouldn’t dare shoot down a manned space platform,” Curtis declared.

 

Elliott shook his head. “Tell that to the widows and widowers of that downed RC-135, sir.”

 

Curtis glared at Elliott, but said, “Ice Fortress is different.”

 

“You bet, sir,” Elliott replied. “It’s worse. “They rode on in silence. Elliott added: “Besides, wasn’t Ice Fortress cancelled?I know the Vandenburg control center is closed.”

 

“It was cancelled,” Curtis said, “but not because it wasn’t feasible.

 

We had to cancel it because of that damned treaty we signed. It’s frustrating. The Russians can shoot down one of our RC- 135s, but we can’t violate a treaty. We come out losers both ways. “His angry voice seemed loud enough to be heard by the sentries at the guard shack a hundred yards ahead of them.

 

“I haven’t heard anything about the incident,” Elliott remarked.

 

“Everything seems very quiet.”

 

“The situation politically has stabilized somewhat,” Curtis asked. “The White House is hoping this whole thing will just fade away. I’m sure the President will be more than happy to let the matter fizzle out, take the Russians’ excuses and minimal reparations. The President is really counting on Secretary of State Brent to defuse the whole affair.”

 

“But the Russians aren’t offering excuses or reparations, are they?”

 

Elliott asked, stretching his aching muscles.

 

“Hell, why should they?”Curtis asked. “They’re holding all the damn cards. We, the military, whine and bitch that the Russians are shooting down our spy satellites. Half the White House doesn’t believe us-and the other half doesn’t want to believe us. “He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m sorry about the RC- 135 crew, Brad. I know you worked with them in the past. I’m sorry those crewmembers died.

 

“I’m sorry, too, Curtis,” Elliott asked. “Those men and women were doing their job, their duty, something they trained hard to perfect.

 

Their murder was senseless-premeditated, cruel, and senseless.”

 

Elliott shook his head and tried not to think of the friends he had lost. “So,” he said finally, “Ice Fortress is one option. And you’re out here to see what else we have up our sleeves.”

 

“Putting you in charge out here was the best move the Defense Department ever made, Brad,” Curtis asked. “What we needed was a guy who never said it can’t be done. A guy happy to lock horns with Congress or anyone else who stood in the way of developing new ideas.

 

Now, I need you to find some for me. I want-” “To take out this..

 

.

 

this site,” Elliott said quickly, glancing sideways at the driver.

 

“Attack it.”

 

Curtis was somewhat taken aback. “No one said anything about ‘taking out’ anything, especially in goddamned Russia.”

 

He smiled. “Jesus, Brad, you’re a sonofabitch.”

 

General Elliott smiled back at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

 

“We’ll walk from here, Hal. Meet us back at the guard shack in an hour.

 

The truck ground to a halt, and the driver, a young second lieutenant wearing fatigues and carrying a small Uzi submachine gun, trotted around to General Curtis’ door and held it open for him. Both men stepped out.

 

“You won’t get lost from here, will you, General?”the lieutenant asked Elliott in a low enough voice to keep Curtis from hearing.

 

“Straight down the road, about four hundred “This is my desert, Hal,” Elliott growled. With a smile he said, “Get out of here. Make sure they have fresh coffee at the guard shack, and don’t drink it all.” The young officer saluted, trotted back to the driver’s seat, and drove off.

 

“This, sir, is Dreamland,” Elliott said, beaming. He spread his hands out across the desert as he spoke. “Ideas become reality here.

 

Theories become machines. Men like you don’t come here just to visit-you come here to get answers.”

 

Elliott’s mind was racing-it was exhilarating for Curtis just to watch.

 

“Kavaznya. Heavily defended, I’d say, according to your intel.

 

“That would be an understatement,” General Curtis replied.

 

“They converted their small supply airfield into a full-scale year-round base.

 

“Rule out a carrier task force, then,” Elliott said, nodding.

 

“They’d be blown out of the water thirteen hundred miles north of Japan. The Russians would see a flight of F-15s and their tankers long before they reached Kavaznya, and you might need two squadrons to beat past the defense and take that complex out. “He looked at Curtis.

 

“Bombers. Heavy bombers. B-1s, perhaps?”

 

“What else would I get from an old SAC warhorse?”Curtis said, smiling.

 

Elliott went on: “We don’t want the Russians to think we just declared war on them. One bomber, launch three, but pick the best for the attack. One lone penetrator, even against heavy defenses, has a chance. Especially a B- L” “My thoughts exactly.”

 

It was Elliott’s turn to smile. “You didn’t come here to shop, did you, sir?You came to buy. Cash and carry. Price is no object. All that stuff.”

 

“I wanted to see your little playland here, too,” Curtis said, “but I knew you’d have what I’m looking for.”

 

“I don’t have a B-1 here,” Elliott said as they approached the guard shack. “But I’ve got something… you won’t believe.

 

“I knew you’d put on a show for me,” Curtis asked. “But where the hell are we?”

 

“We’re in Nevada, sir,” Elliott said, scanning the horizon with the corners of his eyes. It was an old Navy seadog trick taught to him by his father: the corners of the eyes can detect motion easier than the center, because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the edges.”in the middle of nowhere.

 

That’s the Groom Mountain range over there,” Elliott said, pointing to the twilight-streaked horizon. “You can just barely see Bald Mountain over there. Papoose Range is over there to the south. We are on the northwest corner of Groom Lake.”

 

“Lake?”Curtis said, kicking up a cloud of hard-packed sand and dust.

 

“Dry lake,” Elliott explained. “Properly tested and reinforced. It makes a natural and easily concealed three-mile-long runway. “Elliott scanned the horizon, breathing in the fresh, clean, slightly chilling air. “Dreamland. They walked for a while longer. Suddenly, two streaks of light could be seen several miles in the distance, diving and turning over the nap of the rugged mountains. A moment later, two ear-shattering sonic booms rolled across the desert floor and echoed up and down the valley.

 

“What the hell was that?”Curtis asked.

 

“Red Flag,” Elliott said with a smile. “Probably a couple of FB-111s on a night terrain-following sortie out there on range 74.Going max afterburners and supersonic at two hundred feet.”

 

“But that was so close,” Curtis asked. “What about-” “Relax, relax,” Elliott asked. “They were at least fifteen miles away. Besides, those bomber pukes know better than to come any closer to Dreamland. The airspace from ground level to eighty thousand feet is absolutely prohibited from overflight-civilian, military, anybody. It’s an instant aircrew violation and a security debriefing they’d not soon forget-I’d guarantee that.

 

Finally, after a few minutes of searching, Elliott spotted the low, dimly lit guardhouse and steered Curtis and himself toward it. “I come out here once a week,” Elliott said, “and I still have trouble finding the damn guard shack.”

 

“I don’t think your sky-cops would let us wander around out here for too long,” Curtis observed.

 

“True,” Elliott asked. “They’d send a German shepherd to fetch us back.”

 

A few moments later, they all ived at a small concrete block building.

 

The shack had one large bullet-proof double-paned glass window in front, one door, and numerous gunports around it on the other walls. A twelve-foot-tall fence stretched on either side of the building, and the fence was topped with large, silvery coils of sharp barbed wire.

 

Three fully rigged Air Force security guards emerged from the building and quickly and quietly surrounded Elliott and Curtis. All three were armed with M-16 rifles, one with a mean-looking M-203 grenade launcher attached to the underside of his rifle barrel. A German shepherd dog was led out and began sniffing around the two visitors. The dog took one sniff of Wilbur Curtis and sat down directly in front of him, no more than six inches from the tips of his shoes.

 

” Don’t move, sir, ” the dog handler asked. “Is your identification in your breast pocket?”Curtis nodded, once, very slowly.

 

The guard removed Curtis’ wallet while another guard quickly pat-searched him.

 

“Should I raise my hands?”Curtis asked.

 

“He means ‘don’t move , sir,” Elliott said, as his ID was examined.

 

“Bambi there weighs over a hundred and fifty pounds and could probably drag you up a vertical ladder.”

 

“Bambi?”Curtis felt his body stiffen as he looked at the dog.

 

” I didn’t know you were carrying a weapon,” Elliott said to Curtis as the guard pulled a nine-millimeter automatic from a shoulder holster.

 

Curtis grunted, afraid to move his lips any further. The dog was led reluctantly to Elliott for a quick search, and then taken away.

 

As the two generals drank steaming cups of coffee just outside the guard shack waiting for their ID verification, Curtis surveyed what little visible landscape there was inside the compound. Inside the tall fence, the area was completely dark leading to a row of three hangars. No lights at all were visible anywhere. The large hangars were flanked by several smaller ones. A wide ramp emerged from the opposite side of each hangar, and stretched out over the horizon.

 

“Why no lights inside the compound, Brad?”Curtis asked after their IDs were rechecked and they were cleared inside the fence.

 

“Oh, they have lights on, sir,” Elliott asked. “All infrared.

 

To the guards with their sensors and sniperscopes, it’s just as clear as day. The darkness also helps the Dobermans.”

 

Curtis gulped. “Dobermans?”

 

” Yes, unattended guard dogs. They’re more effective if they’re allowed to prowl, and they’re very shy of lights. They all have laryngectomies, too, poor devils. If they spot you, they won’t even give you the courtesy of a warning bark before they go for your throat.

 

” Curtis looked around nervously.

 

“They’re not around now,” Elliott asked. “At least, I hope they’ve recalled them. We’d never know what hit us if they haven’t.

 

They reached the back entrance to the hangar after another hundred-yard walk. “One at a time,” Elliott said. They heard a buzzing sound, and Elliott grabbed the doorhandle, pulled the large metallic door open, and stepped inside. A few moments later, Curtis heard the same buzzer and did the same.

 

Curtis was standing in a long corridor. The walls of the corridor were clear, thick plastic on all sides, even the floor, and Elliott was just stepping out of the second half of the unusual walkway. More security guards studied Curtis carefully as he walked down the corridor and stopped at a plastic door.

 

He was aware of a large cannon-like device tracking him as he walked along, humming like a dentist’s X-ray machine. The remote-controlled lock buzzed, and he stepped into the second half of the plastic hallway Another door later, he joined up with General Elliott.

 

“Well, that’s new even to me. “Elliott asked. “An X-ray chamber.

 

Must’ve put it in just in the past few days. It checks for implants.

 

That X-ray device, I’m told, can find microdot transmitters embedded in your teeth, fingernails–even your intestines.

 

“Hmm. I’m not sure how much good it will do,” General Curtis asked. “I bet the Russians have Dreamland scoped out from six different angles.

 

A jackrabbit probably can’t screw in this desert without some Soviet spy satellite watching him.

 

“Well,” Elliott replied, “they might know about all the activity going on around here, and all the security, and maybe even have snapshots of you and me taking a stroll. But, at least for now, they don’t know anything about… this!”

 

They emerged from the security chief’s office into the main hangar area. Curtis let out a gasp.and even Elliott, who had seen this plane in nearly every step of its metamorphosis, felt a thrill of pride and anticipation as he studied the immense form before them.

 

“General Curtis,” Elliott said, “meet the Old Dog.”

 

The huge B-52 was completely black, a strange, eerie jetblack that seemed to absorb light, totally negating the effect of the hundred maintenance floodlights surrounding it. The surface was absolutely clean and as smooth as a bowling ball.

 

It was as if the B-52, the veteran of over thirty years of service, was in some sort of futuristic, comical costume.

 

“What the hell Curtis said.

 

“Don’t recognize it, huh?”Elliott laughed. “Officially, the B-52

 

I-model, although it’s only a B-52 H-model with a bunch of modifications. It is without a doubt one of a kind. We use it as a test bed for Stealth-type technology, air-to-air weaponry, weapons mating tests, computer hardware, everything. But she’s in top flyin’ condition-she can fly right now if you want. The workers have renamed her from Stratofortress to Megafortress, and you’ll see why. Let me show you around.”

 

Curtis followed Elliott around to the most prominent exterior change on the bomber-a long, needle-sharp nose and sharply angled cockpit windows.

 

” An SST-style nose, Brad?”Curtis asked. “Isn’t this going a little too far?”

 

“We checked out every aspect of this plane’s performance,” Elliott asked. “You’d be surprised how much a long, pointed nose, pointed tip fuel tanks, more streamlined cockpit windows, smoothed and polished skin, and no external TV or infrared cameras help to increase this plane’s top speed. The limiting Mach on this plane before modification was point eight-four Mach; now, the limiting Mach speed of this baby is point nine-six without the externals. And it’s just as comfortable at low altitude as it is in the stratosphere.”

 

Curtis ran his hand over the skin. “What kind of metal is this?”he asked. “Fiberglass?It’s not aluminum. What is it?”

 

“Radar-absorbing fibersteel,” Elliott asked. “A composition of fiberglass and carbon steel, stronger than aluminum but as radar-transparent as plastic.

 

“We can’t make it invisible, of course,” Elliott asked. “It’s all a matter of time. If we can get thirty or forty miles closer to the target without being detected, all the expense and trouble is worth it.

 

If an enemy fighter has to come in another ten or twenty miles before he can get a solid missile lock-on, it just improves our chances of getting him first and surviving. At night, the special black antisearchlight paint is worth its weight in gold. This plane will be virtually invisible to the naked eye at night. A fighter can be flying side-by-side with the Megafortress and he’ll never see it. “Elliott smiled as they walked around the smooth, pointed nose. “Besides, the black paint and the nose make it look mean as hell.”

 

As they approached the huge bomber, Curtis stopped short.

 

“You can’t… Elliott, you really did it this time, dammit., Curtis was staring at a long pylon on each wing, mounted between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles.

 

Each pylon carried six long, sleek missiles.

 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”Elliott asked. “Advanced MediumRange Air-to-Air Missiles. Radar guided, with terminal infrared and home-on-jam guidance. Twenty-five mile range.

 

High-explosive proximity flak warheads. We’ve modified the main attack radar to act as a guidance radar for these Scorpions.”

 

“Scorpions,” Curtis muttered. “Dammit, Elliott. We don’t even have Scorpions on our front-line fighters yet.”

 

“But I’ve put them on an SAC bomber, sir,” Elliott said.

 

“And they’ll go on your B-1s, too.

 

“Also on each wing we’ve put two thousand-gallon external fuel tanks instead of the one normal fifteen-hundred gallon tank. Both the missile pylons and all four external tanks are jettisonable.

 

” We also have split fibersteel bomb bay doors, which are lighter and more radar-transparent. You’ll see why they’re split in a moment.

 

There are many places in this beast that radar energy will just pass through with zero reflectivity. The radar cross-section of the B-52 used to double with the bomb doors open-but not anymore. By applying the same technology to a B-1, which already has half the radar cross-section of a B-52.

 

you can make it practically invisible.”

 

They reached the strange, unrecognizable tail of the airplane. “We eliminated the typical horizontal and vertical stabilizers and replaced them with a short, curved V-tail assembly. We built all of the tail-warning receivers and aft jammer antennas into the tail. We’ve also included an infrared search and warning system that is designed to detect air-to-air missile launches from the rear.”

 

“You took the tail guns MP” Curtis said, pointing up at the very end of the plane. “No big Gatling multibarrel gun, like on the H-models?”

 

“Tail guns are antiquated,” Elliott asked. “Even a radar guided Gatling gun is not effective enough against the current class of Soviet fighters we’re expecting. Hell, some Soviet interceptors can actually outrun a fifty-caliber shell.”

 

Curtis checked the tail end closer. “Well, you’ve got something up there. A larger fire-control radar, that’s for sure.

 

What else?A flame thrower or something?”

 

“Land mines, ” Elliott explained. “Actually, air mines. That enclosed cannon in the back fires twelve-inch-long flak canister rockets. The aft fire-control radar on the Megafortress tracks both the rocket and the enemy fighter, and it transmits steering signals to the rockets.

 

When the range between the fighter and the flak rocket is down to about two hundred yards or so, the fire-control computer detonates the rocket. The explosion s a pattern of metal chips out a couple hundred yards, send which acts like thousands of fifty-caliber bullets being fired all at once. There doesn’t have to be a direct hit on the fighter.

 

“The fire-control radar has an increased detection range of about thirty miles,” Elliott continued, as Curtis shook his head. “The rockets have a range of nearly three miles, which is very close to optimum infrared missile firing range.”

 

‘ “Elliott,” Curtis asked. “This is too much. Way too much. I don’t believe you-” “General,” Elliott interrupted, “you haven’t seen nothin’ yet. “Elliott waved to a nearby guard standing near the left wing-tip.

 

The guard spoke briefly into a walkie-talkie, received a reply, then waved to the general in response. Crouching below the ebony belly of the plane, Curtis and Elliott went inside the back half of the bomb bay. Once inside, Curtis stopped short.

 

“What the Mounted on a large drum-like rotary launcher in the aft portion of the sixty-foot-long bomb bay were fourteen long, sleek missiles.

 

“Our ace-in-the-hole, sir,” Elliott asked. “Ten more brandnew AIM-120

 

Scorpion AMRAAM missiles. They can be guided by the fire-control radar, the bombing radar, or they can home-in on an enemy fighter’s radar or on the fighter jamming transmissions. We have them facing aft, but they can attack any threat at any angle. If one of those radars has found a fighter, or if the threat-warning receivers can see it, a missile can hit it. The rotary launcher can pump out a missile once every two seconds.”

 

” Unbelievable,” Curtis asked. “Well, I suppose I should say it’s about time, eh, Brad?Nuclear bombers with little machine guns going against Mach one fighters seemed awfully silly to me. “He examined the launcher. “I can’t wait for you to tell me what the other rockets do.”

 

“Ah, yes. Glad you reminded me,” Elliott asked. “Four AGM-88B HARM missiles. HARM stands for High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile. They were the stars over Libya in 1985.The missiles home-in on either the radars themselves or, if the radars are turned off, they’ll fly the last computed path to the target.

 

“Twenty-two air-to-air missiles, four air-to-ground missiles, and a total of fifty air mine rockets, all for bomber selfdefense,” Elliott said, summing up. “Together with the usual chaff and flares and specialized electronic countermeasure packages installed on board, we think we’ve greatly increased the chances of this Megafortress reaching the target. Like I said, sir-a flying battleship.”

 

“Armed to the teeth, all right,” Curtis said. He closely examined the long, slender missiles on their launcher and looked forward. “What’s this?”

 

“The only space left for offensive weaponry,” Elliott explained. “In using the Megafortress as a test-bed we’ve concentrated mostly on defensive armament for strategic bombers. But she can still carry fifteen thousands pounds of ordnance-nukes, iron bombs, missiles, mines, anything. Or we can put extra fuel, additional defensive missiles, decoys, even personnel up there. How about side gunners, like a B-17 in World War Two?We’ve already done that with the Old Dog.

 

“We’ve been running tests with the new AGM-130 Striker TV/infrared guided glide bomb, the biggest non-nuclear bomb in the inventory. The damn thing weighs a ton and a half but can glide twelve miles when released at low altitudes.”

 

“I don’t believe it,” Curtis asked. “This thing is amazing.”

 

The two men exited the bomb bay, and several security officers closed the four clamshell bomb bay doors. Elliott then led Curtis to the entrance hatch on the bomber’s belly and both men climbed inside.

 

“Hard to believe,” Curtis commented, “that a huge plane like this has so little room inside.”

 

“Believe me, this is spacious now compared to a line B-52,” Elliott asked. “A lot of things have been taken out, miniaturized, or moved to the fuselage area. There’s almost room on the lower deck here for a couple airliner seats-in a line Buff, you can’t stand side-by-side down here. We’ve taken out as much extraneous stuff as possible to lighten the plane.”

 

They sat in the navigators’ seats downstairs.

 

“Where’s all the navigation and bombing stuff down here?”

 

Curtis asked, examining the blank panels before him. The entire compartment was almost devoid of equipment. There was the radar navigator’s ten-inch radar scope and associated controls on the left side, plus a small video monitor beside it with a small typewriter keyboard. Between the left and right sides were three small control panels. The navigator’s side had a few flight instruments, but nothing else. All the rest of the equipment slots were covered with blank plastic panels.

 

“The world’s biggest video game,” Elliott said with a smile.

 

“Simple, straightforward navigation. The Megafortress uses the Satellite Global Positioning System for navigation, along with a ring-laser gyro inertial navigation set. The INS is updated by the satellite, so the radar scope isn’t needed for navigation-we’ve modified it more for threat detection than for navigation.

 

“The radar nav uses a plug-in cartridge with all the navigation points and computer subroutines in it. The gyro takes three minutes to spin-up to full alignment, and it’s accurate to a quarter of a degree per hour just by itself. The satellite system automatically locks onto two of the eight Air Force navigation satellites orbiting the Earth and fixes its position once every five minutes, and it’s accurate to a few feet every time. The radar nav also has a combination computer and TV monitor and a keyboard for reprogramming the computer.

 

Elliott pointed to the ten-inch attack radar scope. “The Old Dog now has a Hughes APG -75 attack radar from the Navy F/A-18 Hornet fighter, which can feed targeting and tracking information to any of the Scorpion missiles. The radar can also serv e as a navigation radar, if necessary, and it can be used as a terrain-avoidance mapping display “There’s more, sir,” Elliott asked. “Let’s go upstairs.”

 

The two men climbed another ladder to the upper deck.

 

“Pilots won’t be happy about this,” Elliott commented, “but we didn’t do much in the pilot’s compartment. Their job hasn’t changed much.

 

This Megafortress has the capability of automatically monitoring its fuel system and electrical panel, so it frees the co-pilot to help out.

 

“One major addition is the automatic terrain avoidance system,” Elliott explained. “It’s an adaptation of the cruise missile’s terrain comparison system. We needed a system that could help the Old Dog fly as close to the earth as possible, but without using radar transmissions that would give away the plane’s location.

 

“The satellite navigation system and inertial nav system sends present position, heading, and groundspeed information to a computer, which already has all significant terrain and man-made obstacles for the proposed flight planned region programmed into it. The system finds where it is and figures out what altitude is safe for the proposed flight path. It then sends instructions to the autopilot to fly a set altitude over the terrain. Radar is only used intermittently as a back-up to the syst.e.m. so electronic emissions that could expose the plane’s position are almost eliminated.”

 

They half-walked, half-crawled aft of the cockpit to the defensive crew compartment. “Not many changes at the electronic warfare officer’s station, either,” Elliott asked. “His equipment is more specialized and a bit more automatic. The gunner’s station is quite different. He has an eight-inch firecontrol radar, the controls and indicators for the defensive missile launcher, and the controls for the air mine cannons and forward-firing missiles.

 

He’ll be one busy man back here.”

 

“All off-the-shelf, General?”Curtis asked, finding his tongue.

 

“If it wasn’t, sir, you’d know about it. You didn’t.”

 

Elliott led Curtis back down the entrance way ladder. A pair of security guards climbed inside and did a quick inspection of the bomber interior while Curtis and Elliott were watched.

 

After the guards reemerged, the two men were free to leave.

 

Elliott escorted Curtis toward the exit.

 

“You realize, Brad,” Curtis said as they headed for the security gate, “that this whole trip was just a friendly visit. I wasn’t asking about any special project or piece of equipment.

 

Just a friendly visit, that’s all.”

 

“Perfectly clear, General,” Elliott said.

 

“Good. Now that we understand each other, I want to know-” “My test bed B-1B arrives in three weeks,” Elliott interrupted him. “It’s been on the books for months, far earlier than your meeting with the President. No connection could ever be made.

 

Curtis smiled. Then: “Only one B-1T’ Elliott thought for a moment.

 

“I’m having lunch with the commander of the test and evaluation unit at Edwards in a few days. Colonel Jim Anderson, a real fireball but a great stick. I wanted to invite him in on some of the new Old Dog weapons tests I’m conducting. I think he can supply us with a B-1

 

A-model the contractors aren’t using. We won’t be able to bring it here to Dreamland without raising some curiosity, but I think he can arrange to have it….. at our immediate disposal. We can get it here when….. the time comes.”

 

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. “And I thought I had influence.”

 

He smiled – “If I didn’t know better, Brad, I’d say you knew what I was thinking all along.”

 

“After Andy Wyatt got hold of me, sir,” Elliott said, “I didn’t spend time shining my latrines up for your visit. “He thought for a moment, then said, “it just so happens that those Old Dog tests will coincide perfectly with the refit of those B-1s. Most of the equipment you’ve seen here tonight can be put in those B-1s in no time at all.”

 

“All right, all right, Brad.

 

This is starting to get spooky,” Curtis asked. “Remember, I never asked you for anything, you never saw those intelligence notes, and “I understand completely, General. “He looked sideways at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and said, “Two months.

 

Curtis shook his head in disbelief. “You mean-?”

 

“The tests will be completed in two months, sir,” Elliott asked. “For .

 

.. whatever reason.

 

“I may need a plane sooner… for whatever,” Curtis said.

 

Elliott thought for a moment-but only a moment.

 

“Then I’ll send the Old Dog.”

 

Curtis started to laugh but choked back the urge when he saw that Elliott was serious.

 

“You’re crazy, Elliott Curtis asked. “A thirty-year-old B-52?You’ve been wandering around this desert for too long.

 

Elliott smiled. “Just a thought, General,” he asked. “Just a thought Dowwowlv MANHAnAN Andrina Asserni, confidential secretary and aide to Ambassador Dmitri Karmarov, Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations, could scarcely believe it when she was informed by security that Secretary of State Marshall Brent was waiting in the outer reception area of the Ambassador’s private residence.

 

“Show him in immediately,” she told the guard. And a minute later he appeared.

 

“Secretary Brent…

 

“Zdrastwayti. Good evening, Miss Asserni,” Marshall Brent said in fluent Russian. Asserni’s eyes twinkled. How strange and wonderful her language sounded, coming from such a tall, distinguished American.

 

“May I speak with the Ambassador, please?”

 

Asserni stammered. “Why, uh, yes… of course. My apologies, Mr. Secretary. Please, please come in. “She stood in awe as Brent strode into the outer apartment. She had never seen the American Secretary travel like this, alone.

 

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Secretary,” Asserni asked. “I had no idea you would call on us – – – ” “This is a very informal and impromptu visit, Miss Asserni, I assure-” At that instant, Ambassador Karmarov entered the outer apartment. He wore a simple blue robe in place of a coat, and carrying a can of beer, looked exactly the opposite of his stiff, official persona. “Comrade Asserni, get me the file on-” “Comrade Ambassador!”

 

Karmarov looked up from his papers and took a step back.

 

“Marshall… Brent… I mean, Mr. Secretary.”

 

“I hope I am not intruding, Ambassador Karrnarov “No… no, of course not. “He turned to Asserni and handed her the documents he was carrying. “Take the Secretary’s coat, Asserni, what possesses you?

 

Why wasn’t I notified?”Brent removed his long dark coat with slippery ease, and Asserni took it in her arms like a newborn baby.

 

“This is an unexpected surprise “Ochin zhal. I do apologize for any inconvenience this visit has caused, Ambassador,” Brent asked. “But I was hoping to speak with you on an urgent matter.

 

“Of… of course. “Karmarov motioned to his inner apartment. “Do come in. “He turned to Asserni. “Bring coffee and brandy immediately.

 

And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that understood?”

 

Asserni was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the kitchen, Karmarov followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American into his inner apartment and closed the door behind him.

 

The Russian ambassador’s apartment resembled a large study, with walls covered mostly with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books of all kinds The most imposing item in the room was Karmarov’s massive desk, a huge, ornately carved antique, well over half the width of the apartment itself. Brent ran a hand over plush leather chairs, noticing that the coffee table in the center of the apartment was genuine Chippendale.

 

“A most exquisite room, Ambassador Karmarov,” Brent said without turning around. Karmarov wrung his hands with impatience as he waved Asserni into the apartment. She set the tray with a silver urn, a long fluted decanter of brandy, china cups, and large snifters onto the Chippendale table and hurried out.

 

“Balshoye spasibe. Thank you,” Karmarov said.

 

“Mr. Secretary, we may speak English if you prefer. You need not-” “I am in Russia now, Mr. Ambassador,” Brent said, continuing in urban Muscovite Russian. “It would be a presumption to speak anything but your native tongue.”

 

Brent turned, his hands folded behind his back. The two men observed each other for a moment. Karmarov saw a tall, elegant frame; a silver-maned head; a firm chin thrust defiantly up and outward; a thin silver mustache perfectly symmetrical.

 

The suit was conservative, tailored to razor-sharp perfection, the shoes were polished to a gleaming shine despite the harsh Manhattan streets.

 

Brent saw a shorter but powerful man, with a full head of gray hair atop broad shoulders. The years of plush living in the most fashionable section of New York had begun to tell on the Ambassador’s waistline and chin, but Karmarov’s eyes were still as fiery and bright as in his revolutionary youth.

 

Karmarov finally motioned Brent forward. “Pazhaloosta saditis. Please sit down, Mr. Secretary.”

 

Brent took the wide-armed leather chair offered him by the Russian and lightly seated himself. He kept his knees, legs and back perfectly straight as Karmarov joined him. Karmarov reached for the coffee urn but, correctly interpreting a sly grin in Brent’s eyes, his hand slipped over to the decanter. He poured a generous amount of brandy for both of them and offered one to the American Secretary of State.

 

“To your health, Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said in English.

 

Brent raised his glass. “Za vasha zdarovye!And to you and yours, Ambassador,” Brent replied.

 

They let the strong spirits flood their insides, then Brent set his glass down on the table.

 

Karmarov spoke first. “I am totally embarrassed, Mr. Secretary,” he asked. “I had no idea “It is I who should apologize, sir,” Brent said.

 

“This may seem most inappropriate, but I simply felt that I must speak with you immediately.”

 

“By all means,” Karmarov said. He took a bigger sip of brandy.

 

“It concerns the fears some in my government have of the research being done at the Kavaznya complex,” Brent began.

 

“They feel-” “Please. Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said, his eyes serious.

 

“I am not permitted to discuss Kavaznya. It is more than a classified facility, sir. It is a forbidden subject.”

 

“Then permit me to speak,” Brent asked. “Consider this a message from my government to yours-you need not reply.”

 

Brent interlaced his fingers and let his arms rest on the chair’s wide armrests. “The Pentagon is convinced on what I feel is sketchy ” information, that your government is responsible for the destruction of an American reconnaissance satellite and an American RC-135 aircraft.”

 

Kannarov said immediately, “My government has already categorically denied any involvement-” ‘.Yes, Ambassador. I know,” Brent interrupted. He picked up his brandy snifter, passed his nose over it, letting the palm of his left hand warm the liqueur. He settled back into his chair.

 

“Allow me to be frank with you, Ambassador,” Brent said.

 

Karmarov’s eyes widened. “I am not a friend of my country’s military hierarchy. I believe it was Montesquieu who once said ‘if our world should ever be ruined, it will be by the warriors.

 

“He referred to Europe, I believe,” Karmarov said, his eyes narrowing.

 

Brent nodded.

 

“It applies to affairs between our nations as well,” Brent continued.

 

“Ambassador, we are on the threshold of an historic arms-control agreement. In the two years since those negotiations have been conducted, both sides have mainaged to keep the uniformed military out of the negotiations. We have dealt on a level never before attempted-instead of throwing our bloody swords on the table and staring into each other’s faces to see who will blink first, like some medieval combat, we have sat down like men and talked true disarmament.

 

“Ambassador, in our lifetime we can see nuclear weapons eliminated.

 

Not just a phony controlled escalation, not even a numerical reduction.

 

No, I talk of true disarmament.”

 

Brent swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into it. “But there are those who see disarmament as a weakness. They seek to disrupt our efforts at every turn. It is the actions of these ‘disrupters’ that I wish to warn your government about, Ambassador.

 

“What… actions, Mr. Secretary?”Karmarov asked.

 

“As I said, there are many in my government who are convinced of your culpability in the loss of our aircraft,” Brent asked. “They have conjured up a magical laser device, straight out of one of our Hollywood films, and planted it on UstKamchatkskiy, at your research center at Kavaznya. Evidence or.not, they have all but convinced the President that this laser exists and that it threatens the security of the United States.”

 

Karmarov could not keep his eyes focused on Brent’s.

 

Brent’s fingers curled a bit tighter around the brandy snifter as he noticed Karmarov’s uneasiness.

 

Dammit, Brent thought. Could it be true?Is it possible… ?

 

“You must convince them. Mr. Secretary,” Karmarov said quickly, forcing his eyes back toward Brent’s. “I plead with you, my government is deeply and firmly committed to lasting peace and the total elimination of all nuclear weapons from the face of the globe. Nothing must interfere.”

 

“I have come to offer you my guarantee,” Brent continued, “that I will make every effort to achieve a workable arms greement. But I must tell you what is afoot. There is talk of matching the so-called killer laser with a construct of our own.

 

I’m not at liberty to give details, but-” “Ice Fortress.”‘ Karmarov said suddenly. “The armed space platform!That’s what your military means to deploy, isn’t it?”

 

Brent sighed. “Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss-” “But that’s it, isn’t it?”Karrnarov’s face was flushed with anger. “Marshall, you know that deployment of Ice Fortress is a clear violation of the 1972

 

Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. It is a violation of the 1982 Space DeMilitarization Agreement. It flies in the face of our entire arms elimination negotiations. It is madness.

 

“Key elements in our military are convinced of the existence of a killer laser,” Brent asked. “That is also a violation “Such a device-should it ever exist in our lifetime-is not a violation of the ABM Treaty,” Karmarov interrupted. “The Treaty clearly never mentioned such exotic devices because they exist only in the imagination of a few excitable scientists and physicists. Why write a treaty forbidding something that does not exist?”

 

Karmarov’s rising tone of voice, with the strained chuckle punctuating his last sentence, rang like an echo from the walls of a canyon in Brent’s ears. Karmarov continued: “The Space DeMilitarization Agreement does not apply, of course, to a ground-based defensive device. It was specifically written to eliminate the placement of weapons of any kind in orbit over the Earth. It was supposed to have averted a madness that swept both our countries. It cannot be possible for your country to deploy Ice Fortress. It cannot.”

 

“I have made no admission that such is the case,” Brent asked. “But I can tell you that many options are being considered. “He looked directly into Karmarov’s eyes and paused, as if to lend emphasis to what he was about to say “The laser is a menace, Dmitri,” Brent said.

 

His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a deep well. “Find some way to reassure the leaders of my government that their fears about a laser at Kavaznya are groundless. Make some sort of presentation about the research you conduct there, or at least describe the facility in a bit more detail. But put the saber-rattlers to rest “I can guarantee little,” Karmarov said.

 

We must not fail, Dmitri,” Brent replied. He got up and took Karmarov’s hand in his. “The future-our children’s future-may depend on it. “Slowly, Brent released his grip on Karmarov’s hand. He gave the Ambassador a curt nod and made his way out of the room.

 

Karmarov watched him leave, then sat down in one of the plush leather chairs. He did not move for a full two minutes.

 

Finally, he rang for Asserni.

 

“Do they know?”Assemi asked.

 

“They suspect. How could they not suspect?”Karmarov reached down to the table and gripped his snifter with both hands. “What the hell are they doing over there, Assemi?Are they trying to destroy the arms agreement?What do they want the Americans to do?”

 

Asserni did not reply. Karmarov stared into the brandy for a long time.

 

“I want the secure line to the Kremlin open al I morning, ” he finally ordered.

 

.”Of course, Comrade Ambassador.”

 

He drained the liqueur and winced-both at the bite of the spirits and from the threats that were now bombarding him from both sides.

 

“What are they doing?What?”

 

FORD AIR FORCE BASE, CALIFORNIA to Patrick McLanahan was in trouble.

 

His partner, Dave Luger, had been severely injured by flying glass and metal after his five-inch radar scope exploded from a near-hit by a Soviet S.A-4 surface-to-air missile. Their aircraft had just been jumped by a small squadron of four MiG-25s.

 

Climbing out of the low-level bomb run area in broad daylight, the B-52 was a sitting duck for the advanced Soviet interceptors.

 

Luger, lounging in his ejection seat, watched his partner switch the bomb-nay radar scope from off-center present position mode to station-keeping, bringing the radar antenna up to level with the aircraft’s longitudinal axis. The display was now configured from attack mode to scanning mode, with a maximum of five miles range with range marks displayed every half mile. He was trying to save their lives.

 

“Anything I can do for you, Pat?”Luger asked nonchalantly.

 

“Watch for the damn fighters,” McLanahan said.

 

“Can’t do that, buddy,” Luger asked. “I’ve got serious injuries over here, remember?”

 

As if to emphasize his point, he lolled lifelessly across the aisle, his parachute harness barely keeping him in his ejection seat. He stared up at the overhead circuit breaker panel of the B-52 Ejection and Egress Trainer, his arms flung out awkwardly. McLanahan muttered something about how stupid he looked.

 

“When did they add that into the scenario?”McLanahan asked.

 

“I don’t know,” Luger asked. “I like it, though.”

 

“You’re havin’ too much of a fucking good time,- McLanahan said.

 

“I like watchin’ you work your butt off, partner.”1@ “Too bad your injuries haven’t affected your mouth. “McLanahan flipped switches on the instrument panel in front of A him and looked over at his partner.

 

“Get strapped in like You’re supposed to. Can you still reach your ejection trigger ring, or are your hands blown off too?”

 

Luger went through the charade of inspecting his hands.

 

“Nope, they look fine. “As he reached for his parachute harness straps, he noticed a faint ripple of light in the upper left-hand corner of the radar navigator’s ten-inch radar scope.

 

“Ten o’clock,” Luger said, pointing at the scope. “Interference patterns. Could be “No cheating now, Luger,” the instructor, Paul White, interrupted from the control console outside the trainer.

 

“You’re blind, remember?Are you ready for the finale?”

 

“They’ve got this place bugged,” Luger said, hurriedly pulling on the parachute.

 

“You’d be dead meat right now if those fighters launched a missile, Dave,” White asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to unstrap yourself like that during the real thing?”

 

“Only if there aren’t any instructors around,” Luger said.

 

White did not share in the joke, and Luger quieted up and finished strapping himself into his seat.

 

“Pilot,” McLanahan said, acting as if he was talking to the Pilot, “I’m picking up a bogey at ten O’clock, five miles.

 

Moving rapidly to eleven o’clock.”

 

“Roger,” White said, acting now as the pilot. Then, switching roles to the crew electronic warfare officer, he shouted, “Pilot, break left now. “Simultaneously, he turned a large black knob on the console in front of him, putting the trainer into a sharp left turn. The compartment in which McLanahan and Luger were sitting was mounted on four ten-foot hydraulic legs, enabling it to move in any direction at the instructor’s command.

 

“Bogey at one O’clock, three and a half miles,” McLanahan reported.

 

The interference pattern on his radar scope, the telltale sign of the enemy fighter’s radar transmissions intermingling with the B-52s radar, disappeared and then hardened into a solid white dot on the upper-right corner of the ten-inch scope. By the time the radar sweep picked up the dot again, it had moved considerably. “Beginning to go off my scope rapidly at three o’clock, three miles. Guns, you should be able to pick him up.”

 

“Pilot,” White said, now as the crew gunner, “my firecontrol system is broken. All gun barrels are jammed. No radar contact. “White switched back to the E. W. “Pilot, the fighter’s radar has gone down.

 

Last contact was five o’clock, two miles.

 

Expecting a cannon attack or infrared missile attack. Continue evasive maneuvers. “White swung the control knob to the right, and the real-motion simulator responded by slamming both crewmembers into their seats. “Dispensing chaff and flares. Continue evasive maneuvers.”

 

A long pause. The gyro compass and altimeter were both spinning madly as White, striving for maximum realism in his trainer, jerked the “plane” around as quickly as he could without locking up the hydraulically operated moving trainer.

 

Then he leveled the trainer out and said, “Crew, this is the co-pilot.

 

We’ve taken a missile hit on number four nacelle.

 

Generators seven and eight are off-line. Pilot, seven and eight engine fire T-handles, pulled.”

 

White studied a hidden closed-circuit TV picture of the inside of the egress trainer-another modification he hadn’t told the trainees about.

 

Both McLanahan and Luger were sitting bolt-upright in their seats, heads shoved back, work tables stowed, their hands gripping the ejection trigger rings between their legs. They were fighting to remain upright in the oscillating box. White twisted the controls, and the wildlybucking box on its hydraulic legs slowly came back to normal.

 

Both navigators were still tense, waiting for the order to eject.

 

Not yet, boys, White said to himself. He turned and signaled the technicians assisting him to get ready, then clicked on his interphone.

 

“Okay, gents,” White asked. “Fun’s over. I was just checking out my new full-motion range. What do you think?”

 

“I’ll tell you,” McLanahan said, “after I puke on your shirt.

 

“Thanks,” White asked. “Okay. You’re level at ten thousand feet.

 

Plenty of time to get ready for ejection, right, Luger?”

 

“No sir,” Luger answered. “Last I remember before you blew my radar scope up—and that was a nifty addition to your little chamber of horrors here, by the way-the terrain was mountainous. Some peaks went up to six or seven thousand feet. Maybe more.”

 

“Very good,” White asked. “Pressure altitude is secondaryit’s feet above ground you need to worry about. You’re still flying over mountains. What else do you have to worry about, McLanahan?”

 

“The only damn thing I’m going to worry about,” McLanahan said, “is how far upwind I can get of that one-point-one megaton bomb I just dropped.

 

“You guys are sharp, real sharp,” White said, beaming. “I guess that’s why you picked up eight trophies at Bomb Comp.

 

All right, now, you only dropped your bomb ten minutes ago.

 

We were balls-to-the-wall after bomb release, so we escaped the blast effects, but the fallout is still spreading. So if you were the pilot, Luger, what would you do?”

 

“Well, we only lost two engines,” Luger said after thinking for a few moments. “I’d try to keep this Strato-Pig flying as long as I could toward the coast until she wouldn’t stay up any more, then start punchin’ people out.”

 

“Even with a squadron of MiGs on your tail?”

 

White prompted.

 

“Well, shit, ” McLanahan asked. “Our day has already gone to hell.

 

Maybe they’ll blow us up, or maybe they’ll miss, or maybe they’ll go home when they see our right wing on fire.

 

Who knows?I’m bettin’ that, even if they hit us again, we’ll still have a couple of seconds to get out before the damn plane falls out of the sky. Our goose is cooked either way.”

 

“Okay, Patrick,” White asked. “Don’t get all worked up.

 

This trainer is here primarily to give you practice in using your downward ejection seat, true, but I want you guys to get more out of it. Some guys will punch out as soon as they hear the word ‘fire.”

 

Others will wait for an order. Some guys will freeze. Some guys will never punch out–they think they’re safer in the plane, or that they can ditch it or crash land it. I want you guys to think about what to do. That’s all. Ejecting is a traumatic and dangerous thing to do-and I should know, because I’ve done it three times. I’ve seen too many guys die unnecessarily because they don’t think first. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” McLanahan said.

 

“Well, then,” White said, “I, uh… listen, I have to use the little boy’s room. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll just talk about the ejection sequence and finish early. Okay?”

 

“Sure,” McLanahan replied.

 

“Good. Don’t go away” The interphone clicked dead. Luger turned a puzzled glance toward McLanahan. “Leave early?That’s a first.”

 

“I smell a rat,” McLanahan said.

 

“Big deal,” Luger said. He placed a hand near the yellow ejection trigger ring, now stowed on the front of his ejection seat between his legs. “I’ve punched out of this thing a dozen-” Luger never finished that sentence.

 

The trainer suddenly swerved and heeled sharply to the right. Almost immediately afterward, it pitched down so suddenly that both navigators’ helmets bumped against their work tables.

 

he red ABANDON light between the two navigators’ seats snapped on.

 

Luger reached for the ejection ring with his free hand, but the cabin rolled over to the left so hard that it appeared it was completely flopped on its side. Not only did Luger’s left hand never find the ring, but his right hand was flung away from it.

 

Swearing softly to himself, McLanahan flicked a small lever on the front left corner of his ejection seat. With his right hand, he grabbed the side of his seat and straightened himself up. The shoulder harness inertial reel took up the slack, anchoring McLanahan’s back upright in the seat.

 

His partner, caught completely unawares, was almost bent in half when the cabin swung over to the left. Straining, McLanahan reached across the narrow aisle and locked Luger’s shoulder harness. Luger, propelled by rage that surely could be heard outside on the instructor’s control panel, hauled himself upright in his seat.

 

“C’mon, boys,” Major White said, gleefully watching the two navigators struggle on his closed-circuit TV.He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his safety observers and technicians were in place. “Time’s a-wastin’.-.”

 

The lights in the compartment had gone out. The cabin was lit only by the eerie glow of the ABANDON light, but a few seconds later that too blinked out. The normally quiet hum of the trainer had been replaced by super-amplified sounds of explosions, screeching metal, hissing gas, and more explosions. Smoke began to fill the compartment. White had really laid on the realism this time, McLanahan thought to himself the smoke began to sting his eyes. The cabin pitched over again, rolling slowly to the right and tipping downward.

 

Luger swore, louder than ever. He crossed his hands, wrapped his fingers around the trigger ring between his legs, s lammed his head back against the headrest, and pulled the ring as if he were doing a biceps curl.

 

Closing his eyes and grimacing, Luger yelled, “Damn you, Major Whiiiite. “McLanahan saw a rectangle of light appear under Luger’s seat, and then his partner was gone, blasted clear of the wildlypitching trainer by powerful thrusters. Grunting with satisfaction, McLanahan gripped his own trigger ring, braced himself with his legs and feet, and pulled.

 

Nothing happened.

 

It was McLanahan’s turn to swear, very loudly, but his actions were immediate. With two quick, fluid jerks, he pulled a yellow ring on either side of his ejection seat, freeing himself of the bulky global survival kit underneath him and popping the connections that held him fast. He reached upward, his blind fingers instantly finding the handhold bolted onto the overhead circuit breaker panel, and hauled himself up and out of the malfunctioned seat. The remains of his lap belt and shoulder harness clattered away.

 

The trainer was now tilted several degrees to the right, and McLanahan had to scramble for a handhold to keep himself clear of the gaping hole where his partner had been sitting a few moments earlier. He clutched the ladder behind Luger’s seat and the catapult railing that had shot Luger’s seat down into space.

 

Like a blind man feeling for a chair, McLanahan carefully maneuvered himself around the catapult railing, propping his feet against the hatch edge, feeling for the rim of the hatch.

 

The cabin tilted over and down even further, and his helmeted head banged against the side of the open hatch. His parachute felt like a huge concrete block on his back, dragging him closer and closer to the opening. The sounds behind him were deafening.

 

He was now straddling the open hatch, his feet against the back edge of the opening, his hands on either side, his head staring down through the hatch. There was another terrific explosion inside the cabin. A brilliant white light flashed. With one motion, McLanahan let go of both sides of the hatch. His right hand seized the D-ring ripcord on the harness of his parachute, and his left wrapped around his middle.

 

He tucked his head down and rolled out through the open hatch, curling his knees up to his chest.

 

He felt a split-second of weightlessness as he somersaulted out. The next instant he was landing with a loud thunW on the thick nylon safety bag eight feet below. The bag carefully deflated with a loud, relieved sound of gushing air, and McLanahan settled slowly and gently to the floor. The ripcord was in his right hand, and a large green ball that activated his emergency oxygen supply was in his left.

 

A horn blared somewhere, and several green-uniformed Air Force technicians rushed over to him. McLanahan remained motionless, curled up Re an embryo within the mountainous billows of the safety bag.

 

“Are you okay, Patrick?”White asked as he helped McLanahan off with his helmet. “Hurt anywhere?”

 

McLanahan uncurled himself and stared at the bottom of the trainer cabin looming over him. “Son of a bitch!”

 

“You’re okay,” White said with an amused Cheshire-cat smile. He helped McLanahan up to his feet and out of his parachute harness.

 

“You did great,” White asked. “It took longer for Luger to punch out on his ejection seat than it did for you to manually bail out after you realized your seat had malfunctioned. Most guys never even make it out. If they don’t make it within thirty seconds then they never will, especially at low altitude. You did it in fifteen.

 

White handed him a beer-fortunately it was their last class of the day-and they walked over to an adjacent classroom.

 

Luger was sprawled on a chair, his flight suit half unzipped one empty beer can near an elbow and another can in his hand: looking rumpled and angry. He scowled at White.

 

“No more surprises,” he told White. “I’m telling the whole squadron about your tricks.

 

“No, you won’t,” White said, chuckling. “I know you, Luger-you’d like me to stick it to your buddies just like I stuck it to you. Besides, if you tell them anything I’ll just have to think up some other nasty additions. When was the last time you did a manual bailout?”

 

Luger started to mutter something but then thought better of it.

 

“Oh, by the way,” White said, turning to McLanahan. “You had a phone call from Colonel Wilder’s office. Did you get an assignment?”

 

“Wilder,” McLanahan said. He looked puzzled. “No, I didn’t get an assignment as far as I know.”

 

“Could be the big time, Muck,” Luger said, finishing his beer with a happy belch. “I told you, didn’t I?

 

You’re going to SAC Headquarters.

 

I can feel it. The wing king wants to tell you himself.”

 

“Any other message, sir?”McLanahan asked White.

 

“No,” White replied. “You’ve got an appointment to see him, though.

 

Tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty In his office.

 

What assignment did you put in for?”

 

The puzzled expression still had not left McLanahan’s face.

 

“Hell, the usual wet-dream things a six-year captain puts in for. Air Command and Staff College with a waiver. SAC Headquarters. Numbered Air Force job. B-1s to Ellsworth.

 

King of Canada. The usual stuff.”

 

“Well, best of luck,” White asked. “Always like to see a good man move up.

 

Outside the trainer building, Luger could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he and McLanahan headed for their cars.

 

“Man, I knew you’d get your ticket out of here,” Luger asked. “Hot damn.”

 

“I don’t have anything yet,” McLanahan asked. “But why is Wilder telling me?”

 

“Who knows?”Luger asked. “But, it must be good. If it was bad news he wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Besides, you’re Wilder’s showpiece, his trophy-producing machine. If Wilder makes general it’ll be because of “Shack’ McLanahan.”

 

Luger looked over at his partner and noticed his faraway look. He frowned.

 

“Man, you don’t believe it can happen, do you,” he said angrily. “You can’t stay here forever, Pat. You’ve got to decide-” “I’ll decide what I want when I want,” McLanahan interrupted. “And I don’t need any advice from you.”

 

Luger grabbed McLanahan by the arm. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t need my advice. But I’m your friendand that gives me the right to tell you when I think you’re making a mistake. And I think you’ll be making a big mistake if you don’t grab whatever the big boys decide to give you.”

 

McLanahan sighed and shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Dave. You know it isn’t. My mom… Catherine…

 

they’re both down on this Air Force thing. Have been for a while.

 

Ever since my dad died it’s been a real struggle for my mom to keep the bar going. I’ve had to watch over things. And Catherine-well, you know Catherine. Her idea of the good life has nothing to do with being an Air Force wife. She keeps prodding me to separate from the service and go into business.

 

Lately, it’s begun to make some sense.”

 

” Shit, ” Luger said, “what are you saying to me?That you’d rather be in a three-piece suit shuffling papers, or helping your mom out with the bar?That doesn’t make sense. Here, at Ford, you’re the best.

 

Hell, you’re probably the best damn navigator at SAC.What would you be outside of the service?Just another guy picking up a paycheck, that’s what. “Luger shook his head. “It’s just not you, Pat. You’ve got a talent. And you can’t turn your back on it. “McLanahan looked out across the airfield at a B-52 taxiing down the runway, then turned back -to Luger. “Sometimes,” McLanahan said, “I think it might not be bad being a civilian again. At least, I’d be making a difference, getting things done, having an effect. Sometimes it seems as if all we do here is run simulations, conduct exercises. “He paused. “Take that trainer session today. A part of me sees the point, and another part sees it as just another game.”

 

“It’s a game that could save your life someday,” Luger said, “but you don’t need me to tell you that.”

 

“No, I guess not,” McLanahan said. He gestured toward his car.

 

“Listen, Dave, I… I gotta get going. See you tomorrow, okay?”

 

Luger nodded. He waited until McLanahan had made his way to the parking lot, then called out. “Hey, Muck!”

 

McLanahan turned.

 

“We make a good team, don’t we, buddy?”

 

McLanahan smiled and flashed him the thumbs -up sign.

 

Thirty minutes later, McLanahan parked his car in front of “The Shamrock,” the family restaurant and bar, and made his way through the side entrance upstairs to his third-floor apartment. For some reason, he had no desire to run into his mother or siblings just yet.

 

An assignment!The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He knew that this time there weren’t going to be any more extensions or delays. If he turned down another important assignment it was probably the end of his Air Force career, He threw his flight jacket and briefcase in the closet and dropped onto the sleeper sofa with a tired thud. Unzipping his flight suit to the waist, he looked around his tiny efficiency apartment and shook his head.

 

The place was spotless-but not because he was a tidy person. Despite the fact that he lived alone, his mother came by every day at ten o’clock and cleaned and straightened it up.

 

He once tried to discourage her by locking the door and not giving her the key, but his mother, assuming that the lock had broken somehow, had Patrick s brother Paul call a locksmith to open it. She never considered the possibility that her son might just want his privacy He got up, kicking his flight boots into a comcr of the dining room, and went to the kitchen. He found three six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. Popping open a can, he chuckled to himself. His mother hated to see him drinking anything but milk and water, but she always kept his refrigerator stocked.

 

Without looking, he knew there were fresh towels hanging on the rods in the bathroom and clean dishes in the cupboards.

 

For a brief second, he felt a pang of guilt. Christ, he thought, what’s wrong with this setup?Shouldn’t he be happy, living with his family, not worrying about cleaning or cooking?

 

Luger would probably give his right nut to have such a life.

 

Around his family, McLanahan was treated as much more than just the oldest sibling. He was the father, the head of the household, the provider and the decision-maker. It was Paul who ran the restaurant and tavern, and it was his mother who cooked and cleaned and served, but Patrick was the oldest, the manager, and therefore got top treatment. That was the way it was supposed to be. That’s how Patrick McLanahan, Senior, was treated. That’s how things were. Patrick was not even called “Patrick junior” or “Junior” or even “Pat, ” the way his family used to differentiate between him and his father. Patrick was now Patrick, Senior, even though it was unspoken.

 

Patrick’s father was a city policeman who knew nothing else but work from age twenty to age sixty. After he retired from the force, he took jobs as a security guard and private investigator until Paul was old enough to Find “The Shamrock,” and even then he slaved over his new enterprise like a teenager. The tavern was everything-not a gold mine, but a family symbol, an heirloom.

 

Patrick’s mother turned immediately to her oldest son after the death of her husband. Selling the tavern, and the apartments that went with the building, was unthinkable. Maureen McLanahan gathered her children around her, told them that selling out would be a dishonor, and charged them with keeping the business open. Because Patrick was the oldest, it was up to him to see they did not fail.

 

With help from his brothers and sister, and large infusions of his Air Force paycheck for improvements, Patrick kept the old tavern in business. He had been determined to turn that money into the security he wanted for his family, and his mother knew he would succeed. After all, he was the head of the household, n am and he was a McLanahan.

 

The thought of failure never entered Maureen McLanahan’s mind.

 

Surprisingly, the Air Force had cooperated. They had assigned Patrick to a base close to his family and had extended him a few extra years so that he could finish a master’s degree and work on the family business’ ‘ His success at the annual SAC Bomb Competition two years in a row, plus his knowledge and skill as a navigator, now made him a very valuable commodity But that extension was about to run out. His future destination-SAC Headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska; the Pentagon in Washington; or a staff position in a B-1 Excalibur unit in South Dakota or Texas-meant high-visibility and prestige, but it also meant moving to a location light-years from home. It was a painful thought.

 

Why is it so painful?McLanahan asked himself. Why is it so difficult?

 

“Hello there.”

 

McLanahan jumped- “Christ, Cat, ” he asked. “Did you ever hear of knocking?”

 

Catherine McGraith glided over, took a genteel sniff of him in his hot, sweaty flight suit, and daintily kissed his lips at a maximum distance.

 

“I thought I’d surprise you,” she asked. “Evidently, I succeeded.”

 

Just seeing Catherine seemed to make things better, he thought. For a moment, he forgot what it was that had been bothering him. Catherine’s slender figure-skater body, her tiny upturned nose, her white skin and glistening hair, always made him stop and just watch her, study her, take her in.

 

He reached out, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her full on the lips. “Hmmm. You look very nice,” he said. He proceeded to carry her into the living room and fall back with her onto the sofa.

 

“Patrick!”Catherine said. She pushed him away, but not too hard.

 

“You’d think you were on alert for a whole month.”

 

“You make me crazy all the time,” McLanahan asked. “It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been on alert.”

 

“It must be the green,” Catherine asked. “The green flightsuits, the green planes, the green buildings-all that green must make you guys terminally horny.”

 

“You make me terminally horny,” he said.

 

Catherine finally managed to push herself away. “C’mon, now,” she said, rising to her feet. “I finally succeeded in perfectly timing your arrival home. We have a reservation at the Firehouse in Old Sacramento for seven-thirty. Your mom had your suit cleaned, and you can-” McLanahan groaned. “Oh, Cat, c’mon. The trainer today was crazy. I had to manually bail out. Besides, I go on alert tomorrow.

 

I’m really not in the mood for-” “Alert!Again?You just got back from Bomb Comp. They should give you guys a rest. “She paused, looking at him.

 

“Oh, Patrick. Nancy and Margaret from school will be there tonight.

 

Please, let’s go?”

 

McLanahan looked up at the ceiling. “I think they are getting rid of me,” he said.

 

?”

 

“Getting rid of you?What do you mean “I got a call from Colonel Wilder, the wing commander,” he asked. “I didn’t talk to him, but Paul White did. He thinks I got an assignment.

 

“An assignment. Where?”

 

“I don’t know where. But a few months back Colonel Wilder specifically recommended me to a guy in Plans and Operations at SAC Headquarters.

 

I’ve got a feeling that’s where I’m going.”

 

“SAC Headquarters!In Omaha?Nebraska?”Catherine frowned. “You got an assignment to Nebraska?”

 

I’m not certain, Cat,” McLanahan said – He could feel the excitement washing away. “That’s what I wanted.”

 

“I know, I know,” Catherine said. She fiddled with her nails.

 

“It would be a giant step forward, Cat,” McLanahan said, looking at her, trying to read her thoughts. “I think I’ve worn out my welcome here at Ford. It’s time for me to move on.”

 

Catherine’s eyes met his. “But you were thinking of getting out of the service, Pat,” she asked. “We were going to get married and settle down and- “I’m still thinking of doing it,” McLanahan replied.

 

“Especially the marriage part. But… I don’t know it depends on what the Air Force has to offer. If I get an assignment to SAC Headquarters-it’ll be great. A perfect “Patrick, you run a restaurant, the biggest opportunity.d, “C’mon, Cat, it’s not that big,” he said.

 

“It’s a little neighborhood pub that can’t support me or us. And I just watch over things, that’s all. “He walked over to her and put his arms around her waist.

 

“You don’t have to worry about supporting us,” Catherine asked. “You know that. You’ve established yourself in this town. Daddy will-” “No,” McLanahan interrupted. “I don’t want your dad to bail me out.

 

“He wouldn’t do that-he doesn’t need to do that, Pat,” she replied, kissing him on the nose. “I want you to be happy. Are you happy in the military?I don’t think so. “McLanahan waited a moment before replying. “Sure,” he said, “I’d like to get into business-be my own boss someday.

 

But I’m doing a job I like right now, and the Air Force is paying for my education at the same time.”

 

“And tacking two years onto your commitment every time you take a class,” she pointed out. “It seems as if they’re making out better on the deal.”

 

“Maybe,” McLanahan said. He sat up on the sofa. “Cat, I don’t like to blow my horn, but I’m good at what I do. I like being very good at something. It’s important to me.”

 

“You can be good for Patrick McLanahan, too,” Catherine replied. “The Air Force is pulling your strings like a puppet, Pat. You deserve better than that. Do what you want to do, what’s best for you. Not what’s best for the damn Air Force.”

 

She sat down in an armchair in the far corner of the room.

 

“You’re not a bridge-burner, Pat,” she asked. “But I’m not a nomad, either. The thought of moving every two or three years, chasing a carrot held out by some general sitting on his fat behind in the Pentagon well, it sickens me. Those B-52s sicken me, your job sickens me. “She rose suddenly from the chair and headed for the kitchen. At the doorway she paused and turned.

 

“I don’t know if I can follow you, Patrick,” she said.

 

“Because I’m not sure what you’re following. Your own plans and goals–or the damned military’s.”

 

She gave him a final look. “Please be ready by seven.”

 

“Hello, Mrs. King. I’m here to see Colonel Wilder.”

 

Colonel Wilder’s secretary glanced at her appointment calendar and smiled. “Good morning, Patrick. Colonel Wilder is expecting you in the Command Post. I’ll buzz him and tell him you’re on your way.

 

In the Command Post?That was odd-but everything about this meeting was odd. “Thank you, Mrs. King.”

 

“Congratulations again on winning Bomb Comp this year, Patrick,” Mrs. King said with a smile. “I know the Colonel is very proud of you and your crew.”

 

“Thanks,” McLanahan said. He was about to leave, but paused in the doorway “Mrs. King?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Everyone knows that you executive secretaries are pretty powerful persons, working so close to the commander. “Mrs. King gave a sly smile.

 

“Yes, Patrick?”

 

“Any idea what Colonel Wilder wants to see me about?”

 

“You a” a worrywart,” she asked. “That’s probably why you won so many trophies. No, Patrick, this all-important, highpowered secretary has no idea why the commander wants to see you. “She smiled at him.

 

“Why?

 

Got a guilty conscience?”

 

“Me?C’mon.”

 

“Well, then, you’d better get going. I’ll tell him you’re on your way “Thanks.

 

In his six years at Ford Air Force Base, McLanahan had only been in the Command Post less than a half dozen times. The first time was for his initial Emergency War Order unit mission certification, when every SAC crewmember has to brief the wing commander on the part he will play, from takeoff to landing, if the Maxon sounded and he should ever go to war.

 

Most of the time, he simply stopped by to drop off some mission paperwork to the command post controllers after a late-night mission, or drop off some classified communications documents for the night.

 

Despite his experience, he was still somewhat awed whenever he had to report to the Command Post.

 

Part of the aura of the Command Post was the security required to get near it. McLanahan dug his line badge out of his wallet-luckily, he had taken it out of its usual place in a flightsuit pocket-and pinned it to his shirt pocket. He then stood in front of the main entrance to the Command Post, which was a heavy iron grate door. He pushed a buzzer button, and the grate was unlocked for him by someone inside.

 

As he stepped inside the short corridor, called the “entrapment” area, he heard the iron grate door lock behind him.

 

If there’s one thing I hate, McLanahan said to himself, it’s doors locking behind me like that.

 

He walked to the other end of the corridor and stood before a door that had a full-length one-way mirror on it. Spotlights were arranged on the mirror to completely flood out the dim images of the men and women working beyond it. McLanahan picked up a red telephone next to the door.

 

“Yes, sir?”came a voice immediately on the other end.

 

“Captain McLanahan to see Colonel Wilder.”

 

The door lock buzzed, and McLanahan opened it and stepped inside.

 

The security didn’t stop once he was inside. He was met by Lieutenant Colonel Carl Johannsen. Although McLanahan and Johannsen had crewed together for several months, Johannsen, wearing a revolver strapped to his waist, came up to his old navigator and took a peek at his line badge.

 

“Morning, sir,” McLanahan said, as his badge was quickly checked.

 

“Hi, Pat,” Johannsen said. He looked a bit embarrassed. “I probably taught you everything you knew when you were still a wet-behind-the-ears nav. But the boss is here, so we’re making it look good. Not under duress or anything?”

 

“No.

 

“Good. And call the boss ‘sir,Chr(34)+ okay?I’m still your old pilot to you.

 

“Yes, sir,” McLanahan asked. “How do you like the Command Post job?”

 

“Sometimes I wish I was still flying a Buff low-level in the Grand Tetons,” he asked. “The boss is in the Battle Staff Situation Room right through there. See you.”

 

On the way to the office, McLanahan passed by the main communications room itself. That was the most fascinating part of the place. It was hard to believe that the wing commander or duty controllers could put themselves in contact with almost anyone else in the world, on the ground or in the air, through that console. They had direct links to SAC Headquarters, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the perpetually-flying Airborne Command Post, and links to hundreds of other command posts throughout the world. They communicated by telephone, computer, satellite, high-frequency radio, and by coded teletype. In an instant, the SAC Commander in Chief in Omaha, Nebraska, could send a message that could launch all of Ford’s bombers and tankers within a matter of minutes. Or, just as easily and just as fast, the President could order those same planes to war.

 

The Battle Staff Situation Room was the hub of the Command Post during situations, whether real or simulated, where the wing commander and members of his staff met to coordinate the wartime actions of Ford Air Force Base’s two thousand men and women, twenty B-52 bombers, and twenty-five KC-135 tankers. McLanahan knocked on the door.

 

“C’mon in, Patrick.”

 

Colonel Edward Wilder was seated behind the center desk in the Battle Staff office. Colonel Wilder, the commander of all the forces on Ford Air Force Base, looked about as old as a college freshman. He was tall, trim and fit from running marathons a few times a year, and had not a touch of gray in his light brown hair despite being well past forty. He stood, shook McLanahan’s hand, and motioned to a thick, cushiony seat marked “Vice Commander.”

 

Wilder poured two cups of coffee. “Black, right, Patrick?”

 

Wilder asked, pushing the cup toward him.

 

“That’s right, sir.”

 

“I should have that memorized by now,” the wing commander asked. “I watched you put away enough of it during Bomb Comp. As he spoke, he pushed a button on his desk. A curtain over the window separating the Battle Staff Office from the communications center rolled closed on metal tracks.

 

T1

 

Lieutenant Colonel Johannsen and the others glanced up at the moving curtain but quickly went back to their duties.

 

Colonel Wilder had a red-covered folder on his desk in front of him.

 

“I tried to get hold of you before your trainer began yesterday, but you had already started.”

 

“Yes, sir,” McLanahan asked. “Major White’s egress trainers are getting extremely realistic.”

 

“The guy is a basement inventor. A genius,” Wilder said.

 

“The small amount of money we could spare for White’s group was the best money we ever spent. We may have created a monster, though.

 

McLanahan laughed, but it was short and strained. Wilder noticed the atmosphere, took a deep breath, and went on.

 

“Any idea why you’re here this morning?”

 

I hate when they start out that way!McLanahan thought.

 

“No, sir,” he asked. “I thought it might have something to do with an assignment.”

 

“It does, Patrick,” Wilder said. He paused a bit, looked at his desktop, then said, “Good news. SAC Headquarters wants you.

 

Soonest.

 

Plans and Operations for the B-1 program.

 

Congratulations-that was my first Headquarters job, although I was with the B-52 program when that monster was the hot new jet.”

 

McLanahan shook Wilder’s proffered hand. “That’s great, sir. Great news.”

 

“I hate to lose you, Patrick,” Wilder went on. “But they’re hustling you out pretty damned quick. Your reporting date is in three months.

 

McLanahan’s smile dimmed a bit. “That soon?For a Headquarters position?”

 

“It just came open,” Wilder explained. “It’s a great opportunity.”

 

Wilder studied McLanahan’s face. “Problems?”

 

“I need to discuss it with my family,” McLanahan said.

 

“It’s a big step “I need an answer now. It won’t wait.”

 

McLanahan averted his eyes, then said, “Sorry, Colonel. I have to discuss it with my family. If an immediate answer’s required, I have to say-” “Hold on, Patrick. Don’t say it,” Wilder interrupted.

 

“Patrick, I’m not trying to blow smoke in your face, but you’re the best navigator I’ve ever worked with in my eighteen years in the service. You’re energetic, intelligent, highly motivated, and you have as much expertise in the inner workings of your profession as anyone else in the command. Your Officer Evaluations Reports have been firewalled to “Outstanding’ every year you’ve been in the service, and, for the last two years, I’ve had the unusual honor of being the lowest rater on your OERs because they’ve always gone up to a higher command level. This year it’s gone up to SAC Headquarters, and we didn’t even request it–the SAC Commander in Chief asked for it. Personally.

 

You’d be a real asset to the Plans people. “Wilder punched a fist into an open palm in frustration, then looked at McLanahan. “But you can’t balk like this all the time. You have to grab at opportunities when you can.”

 

“Another one will come along “Don’t count on it, Patrick,” Wilder said quickly. He looked into McLanahan’s puzzled eyes, then continued. “I meant what I said. You’re the best radar nav I’ve seen. The best.

 

But… you need to straighten up a little bit.

 

McLanahan glared at the wing commander. “Straighten up?”

 

“C’mon, Patrick,” Wilder asked. “Gary must’ve mentioned this to you.

 

Look at yourself. Most guys who go to see the commander polish their shoes, get a haircut, and wear a clean uniform. “McLanahan said nothing, but crossed his arms impatiently on his chest.

 

“Your record outshines everyone else’s, Pat… but the Air Force wants officers nowadays, not just… technicians.

 

They want guys who want to be professionals. You’ve got to look and act like a professional. Real all-around full-time officers, not part-time performers.”

 

Wilder opened a folder-McLanahan’s squadron records.

 

“You finished your master’s degree, and you’re halfway through a second master’s degree, but you have hardly any military education. It took you six years to finish a correspondence course that should only take twelve months. No additional duties. Your attitude toward- “There’s nothing wrong with my attitude, Colonel,” MeLanahan interrupted. “I wanted to be the best. I worked hard to prove that I am. “He paused, then said, “I’ve been busy at the tavern. I- “I don’t doubt that, Patrick,” Wilder asked. “I know your situation at home. But you need to make a commitment.”

 

Wilder stood and walked over to the aircraft status board covering a wall in the Command Post Battle Staff Situation Room. “It’s a different Air Force nowadays. You know that.

 

The way things are, Patrick, even just meeting standards won’t get you anywhere. You’ve got to excel at everything…

 

and then some. And not just in your field of expertise.

 

“The so-called ‘whole person concept,”‘ McLanahan said “It may sound like b. s. to you, and to a lot of folks,” Wilder said, “but it’s still true. They want total immersernent nowadays. Being good..

 

.

 

hell, even being above average is the norm. I know you have the raw material to make that commitment, Patrick. You just need to make the decision. Yes or no.”

 

Wilder closed the folder. “Well, that’s enough of the party line,” he asked. “Get back to me as soon as you’ve made your decision about the assignment. I’ll work on keeping it open, but there are no guarantees.”

 

After a long moment, McLanahan got to his feet and s aid, “Well, I hope that’s all, sir, because I’ve got some thinking to do.

 

“I’ve got one more thing,” Wilder said, returning to his seat.

 

McLanahan did the same.

 

“It’s the reason why we’re meeting here, in the Command Post,” Wilder explained, “and another reason why I need your answer to this assignment offer. I received an unusual request for a senior, highly experienced B-52 radar navigator to participate in an exercise. The message was highly classified!didn’t think there was a classification higher than TOP SECRET, but there is. I had to receive the message from the communications center personally-in fact, they kicked everyone else out of the place but me. Anyway, naturally I thought of you.” “Sure, why not?I’ll do it,” McLanahan asked. “What is it?

 

What kind of exercise?”

 

Wilder opened the red-covered file folder in front of him.

 

“I… I don’t have any idea, Patrick,” he asked. “I have very simple instructions. Can you be ready to leave in two days?”

 

“Two days,” McLanahan said. He thought for a moment.

 

“Well, it’s not much time, but… sure I can leave. Leave for where?”

 

“I don’t have that information.”

 

“What… I don’t understand,” McLanahan said.

 

“Patrick, this is a highly classified exercise. They want you to go to Executive Airport, to the information booth, the day after tomorrow at eight A.M. You show your ID card and this letter. “He handed the letter to McLanahan. “You bring othing else but a change of civilian clothes and toilet articles in one piece of carry-on luggage. They’ll give you further instructions when your identity and the letter have been verified. “Wilder studied the young radar-navigator for a moment.

 

“Got all that?”

 

“Yes, sir,” McLanahan replied, shaking off the cloud of confusion. “I understand everything. It just sounds a bit… weird, that’s all.”

 

“You’ll find out, when you’ve been in as long as I have, Patrick,” Wilder said, standing, “that all this hush-hush stuff becomes old hat.

 

Second nature. It may seem like a real exercise in frustration. But they’ve got to play their games, you know.

 

McLanahan rose. “Oh, I understand that, Colonel,” he said.

 

“Remember, now,” Wilder asked. “Nobody needs to know about this duty.

 

Keep this letter out of sight. Don’t tell anyone else about what you’ll be doing or where you’re headed, even after you find out at the airport.

 

“Yes, sir, ” McLanahan asked. “That won’t be difficult to do, since I don’t know anything about what I’m doing.

 

“Well, don’t tell anyone that, either, Pat,” Wilder said, smiling.

 

“Yes, sir. “McLanahan turned to leave. Just before he stepped out, he turned to Wilder and said, “Sir, when I get back I need to talk to you about assignments-and the Air Force.

 

Wilder nMded and folded his hands before him on the desk.

 

“I understand, Pat,” Wilder replied. “I’m glad, at least, that you’re going to talk before doing anything else. Believe me, I know what you’re feeling. We’ll talk when you get back, but don’t let it spoil this exercise.”

 

“I won’t, sir,” McLanahan said. He turned and left.

 

Wilder stood, paced the floor for a few moments, then reached into a desk drawer and lit up a cigarette, the first in several years.

 

“”You’ll find out, my boy, when you’ve been in as long as I have,”‘ Wilder said sarcastically, mimicking himself, “‘that this hush-hush stuff becomes old hat.”‘ What horseshit, Wilder thought. Real horseshit. And he saw right through it all.

 

Wilder sat there for a long time smoking the cigarette.

 

SUNRISE CALIFORNIA “I don’t understand any of this,” she said finally McLanahan had just stuffed the last pair of socks in his bulging gym bag when his mother came into the bedroom to watch him pack. She stood, arms crossed impatiently on her slim chest, staring in dismay He slowly pulled the zipper closed.

 

“Mom,” he said, picking up the bag, “there’s nothing to understand.

 

“Is this some kind of secret mission?”Maureen McLanahan asked, half-jokingly. “Are you a spy?Come on, Patrick. Can’t you give me a hint?”

 

“You’ve been reading too much John LeCarre, Mom,” McLanahan said.

 

“I’ve got orders, just as if I was going to Bomb Comp or off-station training. You know, TDYs, Mom.

 

They come up suddenly.”

 

“But your orders don’t say where, or for how long, or for what.

 

“Mom, c’mon. I don’t have written orders. I went in to see Colonel Wilder. He gave me all the information.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Which I’m not allowed to say. “He turned and put his hands on his hips. “C’mon, now. You know better than to pump me for information I can’t give.”

 

Maureen McLanahan watched her son for a while. Then: “Catherine said something about the Colonel giving you a new assignment. Patrick nodded. “I received the assignment I wanted-an excellent position at SAC Headquarters. I had to call them and beg and plead with them to keep the slot open until I get back from this TDY Any other guy in the Air Force would have packed his bags and been on his way in three days.

 

I may lose that assignment. I may already have lost that assignment.”

 

Maureen tried to be soothing.

 

“It sounds like… a wonderful opportunity…”

 

“It is,” Patrick asked. “But Catherine may not follow me to Nebraska-she thinks that the military is manipulating me.

 

And you well, I know what your reaction would be if I moved out.

 

Patrick slung the bag over his shoulder and hurried past his mother.

 

“Is that all you’re taking?”his mother asked as she watched him enter the living room.

 

“This is all they wanted me to take,” he replied. “I imagine they’ll supply me with whatever else I need.”

 

“Oh, Patrick,” his mother said, wringing her hands. “I want to help you make the right decision, but I can’t help it.

 

The restaurant is our life. If you move away, I don’t know if we could handle it by ourselves.”

 

Patrick walked back to where she was standing and kissed her on the cheek. “I understand, Mom. I really do. But…

 

the business is almost running itself now. And you have Paul.

 

You don’t need me like before. “He gave her a hug. “It will be all right, Mom. Believe me.”

 

Maureen McLanahan buttoned the top button of her son’s shirt. “You’ll be back, won’t you, Patrick?”

 

She hadn’t really heard a thing. “Yes,” he sighed. “I’ll be back.” She brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and smiled. “I love you, Patrick.”

 

“I love you too, Mom,” he said. He gave her a firm reassuring look, turned and walked out.

 

The ride to the airport in Catherine’s Mercedes was fast and very quiet. McLanahan held hands with Catherine right up until she pulled up to the curb in front of the United Airlines terminal, but few words were exchanged. She did not stop the engine, but only put it into neutral and watched as he retrieved his bag and jacket from the back seat.

 

“I’m going to miss you,” he said as he piled his belongings on his lap.

 

“I’ll miss you, too,” she replied. There was an uncomfortable pause.

 

Then she added, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

 

“Part of the job, Cat,” he asked. “It’s kind of exciting, all this mystery. A ticket on the Orient Express.

 

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think it’s exciting. It’s stupidsending you off to God knows where and not even telling you when you’ll be back.”

 

He stared back at her and said nothing.

 

“Thank God you won’t have to do this much longer,” she went on. “This just underscores how the military treats people like you. The best nav in the Air Force, bundled up like a sack of dirty laundry and hustled off to Timbuktu.”

 

“The Air Force has been a good life, Cat. A good job. It’s had its ups and downs… ” ” Oh, Pat, that sounds like you, all right,” she said, glaring at him. “Here you are, on your way to some nonsense at a moment’s notice, and you’re still spouting the ol’ party line.”

 

She watched him as he opened the car door.

 

“Got to go, Cat,” he said, leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the lift. “He started to step out of the car.

 

.

 

.

 

“Patrick,” she said suddenly, “when you… get back, we have to talk-about us.”

 

He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her expression, then shrugged. “Okay,” he asked. “Fine. “He stepped out of the car and watched for a few seconds as she drove away.

 

The information counter handled McLanahan’s request as if cryptic orders for tickets were honored every day. He produced his ID card-the only piece of identification he was allowed to bring-and he was promptly given a sealed envelope and directions to the boarding gate.

 

Curiosity overcame him on the escalator ride to the upper floor, and he opened the envelope. Inside was a round-trip ticket to Spokane, Washington, with an open return date. The office symbol of the ticket purchaser was a strange four-letter military official symbol with no base or office location.

 

He exchanged one of the tickets for a boarding pass at the gate and sat down to wait. Why all the damn mystery, he asked himself. Spokane was the location of Fairchild Air Force Base, the Air Force’s basic survival school. He had already been to basic survival right after undergraduate navigator training, but Fairchild had a number of survival schools and other training courses.

 

Well, that was it, then. He had been tapped for some exotic survival training school-maybe it was a special school under development. He had heard rumors of a new school in the works that taught survival in environments contaminated by nuclear fallout. Or perhaps it was a new twist on the mock-up prisoner-of-war camp located at Fairchild, a facility complete with interrogation centers, a prison camp, and real Eastern bloc-trained guards and interrogators.

 

The waiting became much, much easier after McLanahan had sorted it all out for himself. Fairchild. All this lousy secrecy, all the hassles, all the worrying-all for some dumb exercise, some stupid class where CIA or DIA interrogators could get their hands on a real crewdog for a while. What a waste.

 

McLanahan did not have long to wait until his flight was called, and all the passengers were on board in a matter of minutes. Only a handful of people-a few obviously G.l. by the looks of their haircuts, a few civilians-were headed for Spokane. McLanahan scanned an inflight magazine, wishing he’d brought a magazine or a book, wishing the damned military had let him bring one.

 

He was fast asleep, the gentle roar of the engines acting as a narcotic for his settling nerves, long before the plane’s wheels ever left the ground.

 

A waste of time, he nodded to himself just before he dropped off. A complete waste of time.

 

SPOKANE, WASHINGTON It was late in the evening when McLanahan finally collected his baggage and stood at the entrance way to Spokane International’s central lobby.

 

He put his single carry-on bag down on an empty chair and reread the cryptic, computer-printed instructions he received when he departed:

 

ARRIVE SPOKANE 2135L.HAVE BAGGAGE IN POSSESSION BY 2200L AND WAIT FOR FURTHER DIRECTIONS.

 

It was 2345, almost two hours after his scheduledschedul@d what?

 

Another classic example of the military’s standard “hurry up and wait” procedures. Get to where you’re going on time or else, but sit on your butt and wait till they’re ready.

 

McLanahan slung his gym bag over a shoulder and went over to a counter with a sign that read SHUTTLE TO FAIRCHILD.The desk was empty, but a sign with two moveable hands on an Air Force recruiting clock face promised that an Airman Willis would be back by twelve o’clock. The hands looked as if they hadn’t been moved in months.

 

McLanahan chose a seat near the counter and waited.

 

A few minutes later, a tall, muscular Air Force enlisted man in a neat pair of combination one double-knits with a few impressive rows of ribbons arrived at the desk. He filled out a line of a clipboard log beneath the counter, turned on a huge portable tape deck, and took a seat on a tall stool. McLanahan approached the desk.

 

“Good evening, Sir,” Willis asked. “Headin’ out to the base, Sir?”

 

“I guess so,” McLanahan asked. “When’s the next shuttle?”

 

“Twelve-oh-five, or thereabouts, Sir,” Willis replied. He retrieved his clipboard. “Can I see your orders and ID, Sir?”

 

“I don’t have orders,” McLanahan said. He fished his plastic-coated card out of his jeans pocket. Willis examined the card, made a few entries on his log, and returned it.

 

“Do you have any quarters arranged, Sir?”

 

“No,” McLanahan replied. “I left… on pretty short notice.

 

“Do you have someone we can contact at the base?

 

Someone who knows you’re coming?Your sponsor perhaps?”

 

McLanahan pulled out the original message and scanned it.

 

“All I have is a Major Miller, but he only has a Washington office symbol and number. Nobody at Fairchild. I didn’t…

 

I mean… I wasn’t sure I’d be coming here Willis looked at Patrick McLanahan quizzically, suppressing a slight, “Jesus, another space cadet,” remark.

 

“Well, Sir, I can give billeting a call, but without orders or a point of contact you’ll be space-available only and that’s pretty slim pickins right now.

 

McLanahan put the message back in his pocket and said, “The shuttle leaves at five after twelve, right?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Okay Please give billeting a call and see what the room situation is like. My contact, whoever it’s supposed to be, was scheduled to meet me by ten. If he doesn’t show I might as well get a room and try to contact him in the morning.”

 

“You got it, Sir,” Airman Willis said cheerfully. He dialed a number, spoke for a few minutes, then hung up with a smile on his face, his head bobbing in time with the beat of the music throbbing from his portable stereo.

 

“You lucked out, Sir,” Willis said, filling out his log. “One room at the Qs, ready and waiting. If your Major Miller shows, I’ll tell him where you are.”

 

“Thanks,” McLanahan asked. “I appreciate your help.”

 

“No problem a-tall, Sir,” he said, maintaining the rhythm with a pencil. “You here for survival school?Got your OdorEaters and flea collars ready?”

 

“I went through all that stuff years ago,” McLanahan replied. “I guess they thought I needed a refresher.”

 

“Sure, Sir,” Willis replied, already tuning himself out now that the goofy lost captain was taken care of. “Everyone needs a little practice bleeding every now and then. “McLanahan was going to reply, but Willis was far away in his music and a copy of Playboy.

 

The shuttle arrived not-so-promptly at twelve-fifteen. No one, not even Airman Willis, had talked to him since he made his room reservations. The entire terminal was almost empty.

 

McLanahan thanked Willis once again and climbed aboard the blue school bus when it beeped outside. Again, he was the only one on the bus as it rattled away.

 

It was a short drive to Fairchild Air Force Base. McLanahan showed his ID to the gate guard and opened his gym bag for the M-16-carrying guard and his huge German shepherd. Fifteen minutes later, McLanahan sprawled sleepily on a queen-sized bed in the Visiting Officer’s Quarters.

 

He undressed, showered, and lay awake on top of his bed for a few confused minutes. It was just after one A.m. Restlessly, he picked up the base phone book and scanned the personnel directory. There were several Millers listed, and even two Major Millers, but neither with a similar office symbol as the one on his printout. McLanahan checked the organizational listings, but there were no organizations on base even resembling the office symbol on the message.

 

He threw the directory back on the nightstand.

 

“Screw ’em,” he said half-aloud. “If they want me, they should figure out where to find me. “He left a six-thirty wakeup call at the front desk and slipped under the coarse olive-drab G.I. horse blankets.

 

McLanahan awoke with a violent start to the furious sound of impatient knuckles rapping on wood. He felt as if he had been asleep for hours-perhaps it was the billeting clerk pounding on his door because he got no answer on the wake-up call. McLanahan glanced at the clock on the dresser. Nope, he’d only been asleep for an hour.

 

He slipped on a pair of gym shorts from his bag, smoothed down his blond hair, and opened the door. Two black men, one in a civilian suit and the other an Air Force security guard, were standing impatiently in the doorway.

 

“Captain McLanahan?”the guy in the suit asked. He did not even look at McLanahan-he was scanning up and down the hallways.

 

“Yeah,” McLanahan replied irritably, scratching his head.

 

“Patrick McLanahan?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. “McLanahan wasn’t in a conversational mood, but his gruff attitude didn’t faze these guys.

 

The guy in the suit looked immensely relieved. He put a finger on the security guard’s chest as if driving his commands into the guard’s body.

 

“We got him. Notify the gate guards. Then get an unmarked car and have it sent over here pronto. No Air Force or DOD crap on the doors.”

 

“We got one. “The guard trotted away. The guy in the suit pushed his way into McLanahan’s room and closed and locked the door.

 

“I need your ID, Captain McLanahan,” he said brusquely.

 

Like hell,” McLanahan said, finally beginning to wake up.

 

“I want to see your ID right now or I’ll call back that sky cop you just chased away.”

 

The guy muttered a “Jesus H. Christ” under his breath, but pulled out a wallet and held it up. McLanahan turned on the room light and squinted sleepily at the card and badge.

 

“Staff Sergeant Jenkins, Air Force Office of Special Investigations, ” the man said, snapping the wallet closed. “Now, sir, if you don’t mind “Yeah. Okay. “McLanahan fumbled through his jeans and produced the card. Jenkins already had a walkie-talkie in his hand. He studied the card, nodded, and thumbed the mike.

 

“Control, seven-seven,” he said as softly as he could.

 

“Seven-seven, go,” came the reply.

 

“I’ve located our subject. I’ll be escorting him back to the main rendezvous point.”

 

“Copy, seven-seven. “Jenkins returned the card.

 

“Captain McLanahan, please get dressed and get your gear together.” “Hey, wait a minute,” McLanahan protested. “What’s going on?”

 

Jenkins was frowning impatiently, his fists on his hips.

 

Apparently he didn’t like anyone, even officers, asking him why” and “what.”

 

“Sir, we are going back to meet Major Miller,” he said in short, clipped words. He glanced down at his walkie-talkie and clicked it off. “You were supposed to wait at the airport for further instructions, were you not, sir?”

 

“Yeah,” McLanahan said, feeling his ears redden. Shit, he thought. I screwed up. He reached for the jeans, wondering if Jenkins was going to stand there and watch him dress. “Ten o’clock. Nobody showed up.

 

I thought I’d get a room at the base and wait… ” “Why the base, sir?”Jenkins interrupted.

 

“What do you mean, ‘why the base’?I get orders to Spokane. It’s gotta be… ” “Sir. “Jenkins was obviously holding in check the massive urge to lash out with a ‘you dumb shit officer, who the hell told you to assume anything?”but he said instead, “That was an unfortunate… misjudgment. You were to meet Major Miller at the terminal. He was delayed, but he expected you to sit tight until you received further directions. “The spitting emphasis on misjudgment was too obvious.

 

“Okay, okay. Yeah. You’re right, sergeant,” McLanahan replied. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

 

Obviously, Jenkins had no intention of leaving.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

Jenkins did not reply, but he looked more exasperated than ever with every question. McLanahan glared at him as he finished repacking the gym bag and pulling on his jacket. It really did take McLanahan only a minute to get ready because he carried so few items.

 

McLanahan retrieved his key, stepped out into the hall an turned toward the lobby.

 

“This way, sir,” Jenkins said, grabbing McLanahan’s arm and swinging him around toward a dimly lit hallway to the back.

 

“But my room… “Will be taken care of, sir. This way” Jenkins led him to a side door that opened up to a laundry delivery dock and a dumpster in the rear of the building. A blue sedan, its engine idling, was waiting. As McLanahan headed for the steps leading down from the dock to the pavement below, Jenkins grabbed the gym bag off McLanahan’s shoulder.

 

“I’ll take this, sir,” he said quietly “Get in and we’ll leave. “He trotted down to the sedan, knocked on the window, and trotted around to the trunk just as it popped open. He hid the gym bag under some blankets and then slid quietly in the back seat next to McLanahan.

 

As they drove out the gate and onto the highway leading back to Spokane International, Jenkins picked up a device from the front seat and clicked it on.

 

“Bear with me, sir,” he said, passing the device quickly over McLanahan’s body. He repeated the sweep once more, then clicked it off and set the device next to the driver.

 

“Now, Sergeant Jenkins,” McLanahan said, “can you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

 

“As far as I’m allowed, sir,” he replied. “Major Miller was supposed to meet you at ten o’clock at the airport. He was delayed arranging for secure transportation. When he wrote your instructions he assumed that, when your printed instructions left you off at the airport, you would stop at the airport. A bad assumption on his part, apparently.”

 

“Well, since we’re admitting to poor assumptions tonight, I’ve got a few more,” McLanahan asked. “I assumed that my final destination was Fairchild-why else would I be sent to Spokane?Now I’m assuming all this to mean that Fairchild is not my final destination.”

 

“I don’t know anything about your final destination, Captain,” Jenkins replied. “You were sent to Spokane for one reason only ” “Which was?”

 

-Because they only had eight people booked on that flight,” Jenkins said, as if that explained everything.

 

“Say again?”

 

“They needed to know if you were being tailed, Captain McLanahan,” Jenkins explained. “They knew who had reservations on your flight, who signed on after you checked in, who arrived at Spokane, and where everyone went and A what everyone did when they got off your flight.

 

They could do this because of the small number aboard. They simply picked a time, date, and location with the fewest passengers and had you get on that flight. It just happened to go to Spokane, Washington.

 

It had nothing to do with Fairchild at all-as a matter of fact, it will probably take some fast explaining to someone when the billeting folks find you gone suddenly.”

 

“Tailed!Me?Why would anybody tail me?”

 

Jenkins let out a half laugh, half snort in the car’s darkness.

 

Shee-it, ” he said, chuckling humorlessly again. “If you don’t know, Captain, it must be bad news. “And, at that, the hairs rose on the back of McLanahan’s neck. Jenkins’ words echoed through his head as the lights of the airport grew larger and brighter.

 

If you don’t know, Captain, it must be bad news.

 

Jenkins’ monotone voice finally penetrated McLanahan’s reverie as the car bypassed the main terminal and headed for a row of hangars adjacent to the taxiways, away from the jet parking ramp. The car’s driver had already doused the headlights.

 

“Your bag will catch up with you, Captain, don’t worry,” he was saying.

 

“Remember now-walk away from the car about ten steps then just stop and … wait. “McLanahan had to smile at Jenkins’ emphasis on the word ‘wait,Chr(34)+ but apparently Jenkins didn’t notice. “Someone will meet you and tell you what to do.

 

The car pulled to a stop in the middle of a deserted parking ramp, far from the brilliantly lit terminal. The door on McLanahan’s side was opened by some dark figure outside. He noticed no interior courtesy lights illuminated-someone had punched holes in the plastic lenses with a knife.

 

“Sorry for the mixups, Sergeant Jenkins,” McLanahan said in a low voice in keeping with the hushed, tense atmosphere.

 

“No problem, sir, ” Jenkins said. His walkie-talkie crackled, and he spoke a few words into it. Then, he added, “Good luck,” and pulled the door closed. The car moved off and was soon lost in the darkness.

 

“I don’t need luck,” McLanahan said to himself, looking around in the gloom. “What I need is out of here.”

 

The ramp was completely dark-even the small blue taxiway lights leading from the runway were turned off.

 

McLanahan put the terminal on his right side and stepped forward ten paces, as carefully as if he was following a pirate’s treasure map.

 

Somehow, he could feel people all around him, lots of eyes watching him, talking about him, but he couldn’t see a thing. He could make out a large, seemingly deserted hangar behind him, its huge front bay door open like a dark cave entrance. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he spotted a few light single-engined Cessnas tied down to his left. The parking ramp was breezy and beginning to grow cold.

 

He made a motion to pull down his jacket sleeve and check his watch, but he suppressed that urge. This time, he was just going to stand and wait. Checking the time would only make him that much more impatient.

 

He zipped his jacket up all the way, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stood watching the runway McLanahan guessed that about fifteen minutes had passed since Jenkins dropped him off. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark now.

 

There were small birds everywhere, jumping and peeping nervously around him. An occasional rabbit scampered down the asphalt, stopping every now and then to test the air and sniff for danger. Once McLanahan thought he heard the static of a walkie-talkie nearby, but he saw no one. He watched every plane that landed-there were only two-expecting it to pull up in front of him any minute, but they never did.