Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (26 page)

 
          
It
was almost eight-thirty, so he put the meeting out of his mind. He took a sip
of coffee and was discarding most of the small pile of mail in his box when J.
C. Powell appeared in the doorway.

 
          
“Ken,
where you been?”

           
“I just got in. What’s up?”

           
“You missed the meeting.”

           
“I just heard about it. What was
it?”

           
“I’ve been trying to reach you all
weekend. Your phone’s been off the hook or something.”

 
          
“They’re
installing videophone in my apartment complex,” he lied. “The phones have been
screwed up ever since.”

           
“Patrick’s in his office. We better
go see him.”

           
“Now? What’s the big deal?” He took
another sip of coffee. It was pretty unusual to see Powell so wound up. “The
Rooskies declare war or something?”

 
          
“Worse,”
J.C. said. “They’ve canceled the DreamStar project.”

           
James promptly poured a mouthful of
coffee down into his lungs and nearly fell out of his chair.
“What
. . .
?”

           
“You heard me. Let’s go.”

 
          
They
hurried down the hallway to McLanahan’s office and burst in on the project
director as he was signing a stack of letters.

 
          
“Glad
you could be with us today, Ken,” Patrick said, finishing his paperwork and
dismissing the squadron clerk. He studied James for a moment. “You look like
hell, Captain. Hanging out in the casinos all night again?”

 
          
Powell
dropped into a chair to watch the spectacle. James blurted out, “What’s this
about the DreamStar project being canceled?”

 
          
“If
you’d check your mailbox or put your phone on the hook you’d hear about these
minor news flashes—”

           
“What the hell are you joking around
about?” James’ hands were on the colonel’s desk. “Who canceled the project?
Why?”

           
“The project was
officially canceled by the Air Force this morning,” McLanahan said wearily. He
picked up a red-colored folder containing a single message-letter. “There are
too many gaps in the scientists’ knowledge of ANTARES to justify funding ... at
least in the opinion of the top brass. The flying phase of the project is being
canceled until the gaps get filled in . . .”

 
          
James
stared at McLanahan. “What do you mean, gaps? I can make it work. I don’t get
it . . .”

           
“The bottom line is that there’s
still only one person who can fly DreamStar—and that’s you. J.C. can’t fly it,
at least not past anything more complicated than takeoff and landing. I’ve been
trying to learn how to use it and I flunked. Carmichael and his lab can’t really
say why it works with
you
and so far
not with anyone else. After my last flight in the ANTARES simulator, I—”

 
          
“You
were flying in the simulator?” He
sounded as if the colonel had committed a major trespass on
his
territory, his baby. “You tried to
fly ANTARES? Why? I’m DreamStar’s pilot, you’re the project director, you—”

 
          
“I’ve
been training in ANTARES for several months. I thought I had it down, but—”

 
          
“That
wasn’t a very smart idea, Colonel,” James said. His voice was not sympathetic.
“ANTARES can be very unpredictable . . .”

 
          
“Yeah,
it damn near killed him,” Powell put in.

 
          
“So
you submitted a report saying that ANTARES was dangerous, and headquarters
canceled the project?”

 
          
“That’s
not
the way it went down, Ken. The
project was slated to lose its flight-phase funding at the end of this fiscal
year. The cancellation was going to happen anyway. My . . . accident only moved
up the timetable a few months.”

 
          
James
turned away, tried to control himself, but his mind was working overtime in its
reaction to this information. He had just told Kramer and Moffitt that
everything was going as planned, that he was even going to countermand the
KGB’s order to steal DreamStar . . . Now the project was going to be canceled.
The KGB would never believe that he didn’t know about the cancellation. His
credibility would be totally destroyed—they would think he was double-crossing
them for sure.

 
          
“Sorry,
Ken,” McLanahan was saying, “but it seems like they only needed an excuse to
shut it down ...”

 
          
“What
will happen to us?”

 
          
“We’re
reforming the Cheetah ATF program. J.C. will be the senior pilot. I imagine
they’ll ask you to stay on in the ANTARES project. They’ll want to continue
their research in the laboratory . . .”

 
          
“I
won’t fly any more?”

 
          
“Only
enough for flight-time currency. You’ll get your required twenty hours a
calendar quarter in the T-45A trainer, plus a lot of time in the ANTARES
simulator. You’ll . .

 
          
“You
mean I’ll be reduced to a guinea pig?”

 
          
“I
don’t think you have any choice, Ken,” Powell said. “Being the only guy who can
fly DreamStar can be a curse as well as a blessing. Carmichael and his people
need you to continue their research. They can’t figure out how to teach others
to learn the ANTARES interface unless they figure out how
you
accomplished it.”

 
          
Things
were going to hell very, very quickly, James thought. “How soon before we stop
flight operations? Will there at least be time for one more flight?” And added
quickly, “I hate to see it go out this way ...”

 
          
McLanahan
rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “I had to fight like crazy to get
Air Force to agree to let us complete the weapons-mating test. They wouldn’t
buy off on any more flight tests, though. Absolutely no way.”

 
          
“But
they are going to finish the mating test?”

 
          
“They’ve
been working all weekend on it,” Powell said. “They should have it finished by
tonight or tomorrow morning and then start offloading the Scorpion missiles
right after that. I wanted to get some pictures of DreamStar with Scorpion
missiles on it—it may be the only time we’ll see that for years.”

 
          
The
weapons-mating test—James had his answer . . . “What a waste, Colonel,” he
said, trying hard to act more subdued while formulating his plan . . . “An
incredible waste. All this time, all this effort ...”

 
          
McLanahan
started shuffling papers, a wordless signal to both pilots that the meeting was
over, he had nothing more to say.

 
          
“One
thing’s for sure,” Powell said to James as they headed for the door. “You’ll go
down in the books as the first pilot of a thought-controlled aircraft.”

 
          
James
only murmured something and nodded. His mind was a long way away—on plans for
the last flight of DreamStar.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Unlike
most times, it was still light outside when McLanahan returned home that
evening. Still more unusual was finding that he had actually beat Wendy
home—but then he heard a faint sound from the bedroom. He opened the door and
found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, her arms pulling her knees to her
chest. She had the shades drawn and the room was in darkness—she must have
overriden the automatic lights.

 
          
“Wendy?
What’s wrong? How long have you been here?”

 
          
“Not
long . . . how do you feel?”

 
          
“I
feel fine . . . anything wrong?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
No
tears in her voice, no sadness, but it was hardly like her to coop herself up
like this. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

 
          
“Thinking.”

 
          
“About
what?”

 
          
She
remained curled up, staring toward the windows.

 
          
He
put the light switch back on
AUTO
and
the lights snapped on. He sat down beside her. “All right, Wendy. What’s going
on?” Still no answer. “Something at work? Something with the Old Dog project?”

 
          
“.
. . I had my flight physical this morning.”

 
          
The
smile disappeared from his face. “All right, enough damn mystery. Out with it.”
And then saw the pamphlet in the wicker wastebasket beside the bed. Even upside
down and crumpled he could read the title: “Facts About Your . . .”

           
“Pregnancy? You’re
pregnant?”

           
She looked apologetic. “Patrick,
this is all wrong . . . I’m sorry
—“

 
          
“Sorry?
What are you
sorry
about?”

 
          
“This
. . . that . . . oh, damn . . .”

 
          
“Wendy,
you’re babbling. Tell me what in the world you’re so sorry about.”

 
          
“I
don’t want you to think that I ... I did this on purpose, trapping you or
something—”

 
          
“Of
course I don’t think that.” He slid over and put his arms around her. “Don’t be
silly, I’m trying to absorb it, but I’m delighted—”

 
          
She
seemed to stiffen. She backed away and looked at him, hard and long. “Do you
mean it? Because if you’re just saying it—”

 
          
“Of
course I do. Hey, I love you . . .”

 
          
She
collapsed in his arms. “I was so worried . . . afraid you’d think I was trying
the last dodge—”

 
          
He
shut her up by kissing her. “Like I said, I happen to love you, I want you
and
I want our son . . . daughter . . .”
And he began to kiss her again.

 
          
She
pulled herself free. “I want you to make sure, Patrick. This is so important—”

 
          
“Then
it’s settled. Let’s go.”

           
“Go? Go where?”

 
          
“Downtown.”

 
          
“Downtown?
Why do you want to—?” And then she understood.

 
          
“We’re
living in Las Vegas, a lot of people get married here every year, some even at
nine o’clock on a Monday evening—”

 
          
“What
about . . . ?”

 
          
“Family?
My mother’s gone, and my brothers and sisters will be thrilled—relieved I
finally got my act together and married you after all these years. What about
your
parents? You need to decide, Wendy.
It’s up to you ...”

 
          
Her
answer was to reach out to him and draw him to her ... all the answer he
needed.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
At
eleven o’clock, Maraklov left the Silver Dollar casino on Las Vegas’ Fremont
Street and made his way to the taxi stand down the block near a
twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. He searched up and down the long line of
taxis, then carefully checked around him. Satisfied, he ambled down the line of
taxis until he was beside one that had its roof light off, signifying that it
was already hired.