Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (3 page)

 
          
VECTORED-THRUST NOZZLES
—Nozzles and
louvers on special fighter aircraft that can direct engine exhaust in many
different directions, including side to side, downward, and forward. These
nozzles improve takeoff and landing performance, enhance maneuverability, and
can act as speedbrakes or drag devices.

 
          
X-29—An
experimental aircraft developed by Grumman Aircraft Corp. in the early 1980s,
featuring forward-swept main wings, canards, strake flaps and aeroelastic
computer-controlled wing surfaces in place of conventional flaps and ailerons.
Used as a technology demonstration aircraft to explore the problems and
advantages of forward-swept-wing aircraft. Airflow on a forward-swept-wing
aircraft is channeled along the fuselage, increasing maneuverability and
performance over conventional aircraft.

 
          
XF-15F
(FICTIONAL)
—Modified two-seat
McDonnell-Douglas F-15E fighter, designed as test-bed aircraft for the U.S. Air
Force’s Advanced Technology Fighter program. First fighter to combine SMTD,
mission-adaptive wings and supercockpit technology in one operational aircraft.
Capable of air-to-air and air-to-ground missions.

 
          
XF-34A
(FICTIONAL)
—The first fighter
aircraft to combine forward- swept-wing technology, vectored-thrust engine
systems, mission- adaptive wings, and artificial intelligence computer systems
that allowed digital neural transfer of information from the aircraft’s systems
to the pilot and back.

 
          
ZSU-23—A
highly mobile Soviet anti-aircraft artillery weapon system on a fast-tracked
vehicle, composed of four radar-guided twenty- three-millimeter cannons. Range
of one mile, capable of firing eight hundred total rounds per minute against
all kinds of low-flying aircraft.

The
Connecticut
Academy
,
USSR

Saturday, 2 May 1985
, 0748 EET

           
“KEN JAMES”
stamped his feet on the half-frozen dirt, rubbed his
hands together quickly, then wrapped them around the shaft of a big Spaulding
softball bat.

           
“C’mon, dammit,” he yelled to the
tall, lanky kid on the pitcher’s mound.

 
          
“Wait,”
yelled the pitcher, “Tony Scorcelli.” James made a few test swings, hitching up
his jacket around his armpits. Scorcelli pounded the softball in his glove,
then carefully, as if trying to toss a ring over a Coke bottle, threw the ball
underhanded toward home plate.

 
          
The
ball sailed clear over Ken’s head.

 
          
“What
do you call
that?”
James stepped away
from the plate, leaned on the bat, shaking his head at Scorcelli.

 
          
The
catcher, “Tom Bell,” trotted back to retrieve the ball. When he picked it up from
under a clump of quack grass along the backstop he glanced over at the bench,
noting the displeasure of the school’s headmaster, “Mr. Roberts,” who was
making notes on a clipboard. The catcher knew that meant trouble.

 
          
All
the Academy’s students were serious about these once-a- week softball games.
Here, even before
perestroika,
they
learned competition was necessary, even desirable. Winning was all, losing was
failure. Every opportunity to prove one’s superior leadership, physical and
intellectual skills was monitored and evaluated.

 
          
“All
right,” James said as the catcher Bell tossed the ball back to Scorcelli. “This
time open your damn eyes when you pitch.”

 
          
Scorcelli’s
second pitch wasn’t much better than the first, a high Gateway Arch that dropped
almost straight down on top of home plate, but James bit on it, swung the bat
with all his strength and missed.

 
          
“Hey,
hot shot, you’re supposed to
hit
the
ball . .

 
          
James
swung even harder at the next pitch, clipped it foul up and over the chain-link
backstop.

 
          
“One
more foul and you are out,” the first baseman “Kelly Rogers” sang out.
“Intramural rules—”

 
          
“Shove
your intramural rules up your ass, Rogers,” James yelled at him. The first
baseman looked confused and said nothing. Roberts made another notation on his
clipboard as Scorcelli got ready for the next pitch.

 
          
It
was low. James wound up, gritted his teeth . . . then stopped his swing,
clutched the other end of his bat with one hand. He held the bat horizontally,
tracked the ball as it came in and tapped it. It hit the hard ground in front
of home plate, bounced once, then rolled out between home plate and the
pitcher’s mound and died. James took off for first base. Bell stood up from his
crouch, stared at the ball, then at James, back to the ball, then at
Scorcelli—who was looking on in confusion. James had reached first base and was
headed for second before someone finally yelled to throw the ball.

 
          
Bell
and Scorcelli ran to the ball, nearly collided as they reached for it at the
same time. Scorcelli picked it up, turned and threw toward the second baseman.
But it was a lob, not overhand, and instead of an easy out at second, the
softball hit the ragged mud-choked grass several feet in front of the second
baseman, did not bounce and skipped off into shallow right field as Ken James
headed for third. The right fielder charged the rolling ball, scooped it on the
run, hesitated a second over whether he could make the throw all the way, then
threw to “Johnston” at third base. Johnston corralled it with a careful
two-handed catch. A perfect throw. James wasn’t even halfway to third.

 
          
Johnston
stepped triumphantly on third base, tossed
the ball “around the horn” to second base, held up two fingers. James, though,
was still running. Johnston tapped James’ shoulder as he ran. “Makin’ it look
good for Mr. Roberts, aren’t—?”

 
          
“You idiot, ” Bell was yelling to Johnston.
“You’re supposed to tag him out ”

           
The second baseman understood and
threw the ball to
Bell
at home plate.

 
          
By
now James was getting winded. The throw was right on target, and Bell caught
the ball with James still fifteen feet from home plate. Bell extended his
glove, crouched down, anticipating a slide into home. James liked to do that
even if it wasn’t necessary—he once did it after hitting a home run.

 
          
But
James wasn’t sliding. As Bell made the tag, James plowed into him running at
full bore, arms held up in front of him, elbows extended. The ball, Bell’s
mitt, his hat and most of his consciousness went flying.

 
          
Scorcelli
threw his glove down on the mound, ran over to James, grabbed him by the neck,
and pinned him up against the chain-link backstop. “Are you crazy?” The others,
including a dazed Tom Bell, began to cluster around them. Scorcelli spun James
around, wrestled him to the dirt.
“Vi
balshoy svey- nenah
...”

 
          
The
others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed—even Scorcelli seemed to
forget that he had his hands around James’ neck.

 
          
“Enough.
” Mr. Roberts walked through
the quickly parting crowd and stood over the two on the ground. Scorcelli got
to his feet and stood straight, almost at attention, hands at his sides, chin
up. James, his chest heaving, also stood up quickly.

 
          
Roberts
was a short, squat man with dark brows obscuring darker, cavernous eyes. His
rumbling voice commanded instant attention.

 
          
“James
deliberately ran into Bell to make him drop the ball,” Scorcelli began.

 
          
“It’s
in the rules, pea-brain—”

 
          
“He
ran right into him,” Scorcelli went on. “He did not even
try
to slow down or get out of the way! James is a cheater—”

 
          
“No
one calls me a cheater—”

 
          
“Enough. ”
Roberts ordered.

 
          
But
James ignored the order. “I fight my own battles. If you knew the rules,
Scorcelli, you’d know I have the right to home plate as much as the catcher. If
he stands in front of it, I can run him down. And if he drops the ball, even
after making the tag, the runner is safe and the run scores.”

 
          
“What
about when you tapped the ball like that?” Scorcelli fired back. “Were you
trying to get hit by the ball? You are supposed to swing the bat, not—”

 
          
“It’s
called a
bunt,
you fool.” That
revelation brought a number of blank stares.

 
          
Eyes
turned toward Mr. Roberts, who stared at Ken James, then announced the period
was over and ordered them to report to their next class.

 
          
*
 
*
 
*

 
          
The
students Ken James and Anthony Scorcelli were standing before their
headmaster’s desk. Jeffrey Baines Roberts was behind his desk. His secretary
had put two file folders on his desk. She ignored Scorcelli; favored James with
the hint of a smile before leaving.

 
          
“Mr.
Scorcelli,” said the headmaster, “tell me about your brother Roger.”

 
          
Scorcelli
stared at a point somewhere above Roberts’ head. “I have four siblings, sir,
two brothers and one sister. Their names—”

 
          
“I
did not ask about your other siblings, Mr. Scorcelli. I asked about your
brother Roger.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir . . . Kevin and Roger . . .” He seemed to be talking to himself, then said
aloud, “Roger is two years older than me, a freshman at Cornell University.
He—”

 
          
“Where
was your mother born?”

 
          
“My
. . . mother . . . yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse, New York. She has two
sisters and—”

 
          
“I
did not ask you about her sisters.” Roberts ran an exasperated hand down his
forehead. “Are you not familiar with the rules of baseball, Mr. Scorcelli?”

 
          
“I
was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his friends and fellow
players—”

 
          
“The
proper term is a
battery,
Mr.
Scorcelli.
Assault
is the threat of
physical harm. Is it a battery if Mr. James’ actions are a legal part of the
game?”

 
          
“It
may not be a battery, sir, but I believe Mr. James took great pleasure in the
opportunity to knock over Mr. Bell—”

 
          
“Bullshit,”
James said.

 
          
“I
also think, sir, that if Mr. James could legally find a way to hit me over the
head with one of those bats from that stupid game, he would do it with the same
enthusiasm and—”

 
          
“Right,
asshole . . .”

 
          
“That’s
enough,” Roberts said, his voice calm. Actually he had to strain to keep from
smiling. Scorcelli would be right at home in a large corporation’s boardroom or
in a court of law; James would be at home in an active situation. A dangerous
one with courage and physical stamina. And an ability to adjust. James was not
a team player. He either led or he would choose to operate on his own. He could
also be ruthless . . .

 
          
“I
will not have athletics in this institution become a private battleground
between students,” Roberts said. “Mr. Scorcelli?”

 
          
Scorcelli
hesitated, turned to face James and stuck out a hand.

 
          
“Apology
accepted, Mr. Scorcelli,” James said with his winning smile—a smile that
infuriated Scorcelli.

 
          
“I
assume you have no intention of changing your playing habits,” Roberts said.
“You will continue to take advantage of each opportunity to denigrate your
compatriots, even in a baseball game?”

 
          
Ken
James looked puzzled. Scorcelli may have believed he was wrestling with a moral
dilemma. Roberts knew better, but was surprised when James replied: “Sir, I
will take advantage of every rule and every legal opportunity to win.”

 
          
“No
matter the consequences?”

 
          
“No
matter, sir.”

 
          
Roberts
expected and desired nothing less. “You are dismissed, Mr. Scorcelli. Mr. James
will remain ... so, Mr. Scorcelli?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir?”

 
          
“Vi balshoy sveynenah. ”

           
Scorcelli did not look blank, as
required. Only flustered.

 
          
“Get
out,” Roberts said, and Scorcelli hustled away, closing the door behind him so
gently he might have been closing a door made of fine china.

 
          
Ken
James waited impassively. Roberts motioned him to a seat. Roberts watched him
unbutton the top button of his sports coat and seat himself. “You even swear
like one of them, Mr. James.”