Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (18 page)

 
          
“You’re
assuming that Powell is the problem,” and he started to walk away.

 
          
“There
are a dozen guys who can fly Cheetah,” James said behind him. McLanahan turned.
“There’s only one who can fly DreamStar. Me.” James realized how this sounded,
and tried to soft pedal... “The project doesn’t have to suffer, sir. I think we
can continue ...”

 
          
“Listen,
hotshot, I’ve got six guys training to fly DreamStar. I’d rather put this
project on hold for eight months until they’re ready than risk that machine and
this project. You read me?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Sorry...” Six guys, eight months ... More of a shock . . . time was
running out . . .

 
          
“Meet
me in my office at
two o’clock
, both of you. The data tapes should be
ready for review by then. General Elliott might be interested in what they
show.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Patrick
McLanahan was waiting for an elevator up to his office when he felt a tap on
his shoulder. He turned irritably. “Yeah?”

 
          
“Charming,”
Wendy Tork said. Next time I’ll do that with a pole.”

 
          
He
managed a grin and kissed her.

 
          
“Long
day, Colonel?”

 
          
“You
could say so.”

 
          
“You
had an early morning go, didn’t you?”

 
          
The
elevator arrived, and Wendy cut off the exchange, knowing that Patrick would
not talk about his project in an unsecure elevator. She waited until they
returned to Patrick’s office and he closed the door. An electronic grid in the
walls and floor, she knew, would activate when that door closed, which would
offset wiretapping or any other electronic eavesdropping.

 
          
He
dropped into his chair. “I’ve got two pilots butting heads.”

 
          
"I
like them both, but I can see both of them being very competitive.”

 
          
“At
least James comes right out and says it. He’s an excellent pilot, and he’s the
only one right now who can fly DreamStar. J.C. sits there putting on an
innocent and contrite act, but he’s as big a show-off as James.” He rubbed his
eyes. “I can’t afford to lose either one of them, but . . .”

 
          
“What
will happen if you transfer either one of them?”

 
          
“1
can get someone to fly Cheetah—hell, I’ve got enough hours,
I
could probably fly the thing. If I
ground James, the project gets set back six months, maybe more. I told him I
have people training on DreamStar. Who can be sure when or if they’ll be ready?
I exaggerated some to take him down a bit. Brad Elliott will hit the roof. The
security leaks—or what seem like security leaks—are already turning him sour.”

 
          
“Are
you saying you’ll have to transfer or reassign J.C. if they don’t get along?”

 
          
“I
suppose. But Ken knows he’s the only guy who can fly DreamStar. That would be
like giving him a veto in almost every other matter that comes up during this
project from here on. I ended up grounding both of them, until I have a chance
to talk to the general.”

 
          
Wendy
smiled. “Eight years ago you were just a captain, responsible only for a radar
scope in the belly of a B-52 bomber. Your big worry was your next emergency
procedures test. Now, you’re a lieutenant colonel in charge of a hundred men
and women and two of the hottest jets there are ... We’ll put it all on hold
for a few hours. I’m here to take you to lunch. You probably don’t have time to
take the helicopter to Nellis, do you? General Elliott has
got
to have some decent restaurants built out in this desert.”

 
          
McLanahan
grabbed his flight cap. “We’ve got time to take the Dolphin into Nellis if we
hurry. I’m not expected back until—” The desk phone rang. He looked at it, then
at Wendy. “Let’s go.”

 
          
She
smiled, shook her head. “You’d hate me in the morning.”

 
          
He
picked it up. “McLanahan . . . Hi, Sergeant Clinton . . . The data tapes are
ready now? . . . Yeah, we had some maneuvers that may have overstressed the
canards . . . how bad? All right, I’ll be right down.” He dropped the phone
back on its cradle. “I knew it. My two hotshots may have bent

 
          
DreamStar
some. I’ve got to take a look and prepare a report before this afternoon’s
meeting.” He circled his desk, gave Wendy a hug and a kiss. “Rain check?”

 
          
“Anytime.”
Especially on flying days, she reminded herself, dates were always crap shoots.
She watched as Patrick hurried off.     "

 
          
“Wendy?”

 
          
She
turned and found Captain Kenneth James standing behind her. His bright blue
eyes sparkled, as usual. He was a head taller than Patrick, less
broad-shouldered but still athletically built. They looked at each other for a
moment. Be honest, Wendy Tork, she told herself, Ken James is a charmer. Plus
he has a magnetism, a sort of masculine grace, and he’s not arrogant or cocky
or condescending. He also had this way of making a woman feel special, as if he
had been waiting all his life just to say hello to her.

 
          
She
had met him eighteen months earlier when he first joined the High Tech Advanced
Weapons Center at Dreamland. He wasn’t like many of the other jet jockeys in
and around Nellis Air Force Base. Getting an assignment to HAWC was the top
achievement for any young officer, and most new test pilots seemed not to be
able to let you forget it. Not Ken James. He took the time not only to get to
know senior officers but non-commissioned officers as well. He seemed just as
interested in the engineering and technical parts of the job as the flying. He
quickly established himself as the best pilot at HAWC ... a scholar of flying
and aerospace, not just a participant. Quite a package. And no wonder they had
become good friends.

 
          
“If
you’re looking for the old man . . .” he paused at the intentional slip,
smiling winningly ... “I mean, the colonel, he just left.”

 
          
“I
know.”

 
          
Maraklov
understood, as everybody did, the special relationship between Wendy Tork and
the colonel. Which, of course, was the chief reason for making her his friend.
And it was not exactly hard duty. Tall, good figure, brunette with hints of
gray, still foxy for a woman going on forty. But be careful, he reminded
himself. And helped himself do that by remembering the research on her. A
considerable dossier: Wendy Tork, Ph.D., electrical engineering. Chief of
DOPY5, the cryptic office symbol of HAWC’s Director of Penetration Aids,
Project Y5—the Megafortress Plus, the super-bomber and strategic escort
battleship. This woman had developed many of the twenty-first-century
electronic jammers used on American military aircraft, including new jammers
that could electronically defeat infrared- and laser-guided missiles. She had
built a jammer the size of a toaster that could disrupt much of the known
electromagnetic spectrum for thirty miles in every direction. Considered a sort
of outsider in HAWC because of her former independent contractor status, she
tended, except for the colonel, to keep to herself. Scuttlebutt said that
started after the mysterious Old Dog mission that she and most of the brass at
HAWC were involved with eight years before. It seemed to have affected her more
than the others.

 
          
In
any case, possibilities here, he had decided, for a special source of information.
“How about lunch?” he said easily.

 
          
“Do
you have time? Don’t you have a meeting this afternoon?”

 
          
“I
think they’d rather not have me at this particular meeting,” he said,
pretending embarrassment. “I’m sort of in the doghouse. But it’s my lucky day.
I don’t have to be back until late, and I have a pretty lady to share lunch
with. If she’ll give me a break.”

 
          
For
a moment she hesitated, then decided why not.. . they were, after all, friends.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
If
there was room on one of the shuttle helicopters that flew hourly to and from
Dreamland, it was open for anyone at HWAC to hop a ride for the twenty-minute
flight back to the “mainland,” as people from Dreamland called Nellis Air Force
Base. But Maraklov had a different plan. When he climbed aboard the Dolphin
transport helicopter he went forward and spoke briefly with the crew. Then as
the helicopter touched down on the broiling tarmac at Nellis, Ken touched
Wendy’s arm as she began to unbuckle her seat belt.

 
          
“We’re
not there yet,” was all he said.

 
          
The
helicopter lifted off once again and sped northwest. Ten minutes later it
touched down on another military-looking airfield. As they left the chopper
Wendy noticed the helicopter landing pad had been painted with a stylized
Indian thunder- bird symbol.

 
          
“What’s
this?”

 
          
“One
of the best-kept secrets in the Air Force,” he told her. “Indian Springs Air
Force Auxiliary Field. This is where the Air Force Aerial Demonstration Team,
the Thunderbirds, work and practice even though the unit is based out at
Nellis. You know, the Thunderbirds do a lot of demonstrations for the brass and
foreign dignitaries here—not to mention that the Thunderbird pilots get the
best of everything, being on the road so much—so Indian Springs is an oasis for
them out in the middle of nowhere. The base is open to all military personnel,
but that’s not widely advertised. I knew the Thunderbirds were gone so I asked
the Dolphin pilot to get us permission to land.”

 
          
They
walked past immaculately groomed desert landscaped yards and freshly painted
buildings to a Spanish-style stucco building with a red tile veranda and
cane-ceiling fans. They were seated at a table on the veranda.

 
          
“I’ve
been coming to this
area
for eight
years,” Wendy said, “and I’ve been at HWAC for three years, and I never knew
about this, or only vaguely if at all. Patrick and I are both so busy . . .”

 
          
He
nodded. “The Dolphin pilot enacts a toll for side trips—I think he’s got a
Chris Craft on
Lake
Mead
that needs
refinishing. Guess who’ll get asked to help.”

 
          
“Well,
it’s delightful and I’m glad we came.”

 
          
“You’ll
have to tell Patrick about it, if he doesn’t know.”

 
          
“Believe
me, I will. I know how important his project is to him, to all of you, but I do
wish he’d slow down just a little. Actually I don’t know if he’d take advantage
of a place like this even if he knew about it.”

 
          
“Sure
he would . . . but he is a busy man.”

 
          
Over
lunch he said, “Most people here thought you two would be married by now.
You’ve known each other for seven years? Eight?”

 
          
“Eight,”
Wendy said. “Ever since the Old Dog flight... God, has it been that long?”

 
          
“That
must have been some mission,” Ken said. “I’ve heard about it, of course, but
mostly scuttlebutt. I’d like to get the whole story from you someday.”

 
          
She
only nodded, smiled briefly.

 
          
“Well,
the colonel joined HAWC a short time after that project . . . ended. What about
you? You didn’t join HAWC until recently, a little before I came here.”