Ikon (5 page)

‘What do you do, Uncle Willy?’ asked Susie, frowning.

‘Do? I’ll tell you what I do. I get up there in my F-15, fully armed with a 20mm M-61 multi-barrel gun with 960 rounds of ammunition, plus four AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air missiles and four AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, and I track those wooden spoons on my radar until I’ve locked right on to one, and I’m ready to blow it right out of the sky, and then I fire one of my Sparrow missiles, and then what happens?’

‘You’re telling us,’ Daniel reminded him. He sneezed, twice.

I’m glad that’s not my breakfast,’ said Willy, caustically. ‘Just tell us what happens,’ Daniel told him.

‘Okay - I’ve fired the missile. It’s really hot stuff, this missile. Radar-guided, with a PD capability and lock-in up to 10 db clutter in the look-down mode.’

Daniel turned over the strips of bacon one by one, setting up a tremendous sizzling chorus. Lannie Watts from the Globe Trucking Corporation would be pressing his nose to the diner’s window in five or ten minutes from now, demanding his breakfast. Lannie always ate seven strips of bacon, three eggs, toast, and a heap of hash browns, but he insisted on drinking grapefruit juice with it to keep his weight down.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Willy demanded. ‘Sure I’m listening,’ said Daniel. ‘Listen, I’m listening. But I’m not at all sure what the hell you’re talking about. What’s this “clutter”?’

‘Just shut up,’ insisted Willy. T fire the missile, the missile locks on to the woden spoon, here it comes - ‘ he traced an unerring missile-track through the dusted flour ‘ - it’s two hundred yards away, one hundred, fifty, and then what happens? ‘ - his finger sharply veered away -‘it misses. Just like that.’

‘It misses? You mean, every time? You’re trying to tell me the US Air Force is equipped with missiles that miss?’ ‘It’s a one’-in-a-million flaw,’ said Willy, with satisfaction. ‘If it hadn’t have been for the tests I was running on X-band radar, I doubt if anyone would have discovered it.’ ‘But surely they’ve tested these missiles?’ Daniel told him. They worked during their tests, didn’t they?’

‘Oh, sure,’ Willy agreed. ‘And they still work now, when they’re tested on the Air Force ranges. But what you have to realize is that we never test them against real Soviet airplanes. We usually use a PQM-102 RPV, which is a pilolless Delta Dagger. Now, each airplane has a different and distinct radar signature, do you understand me? and although our radar is obviously happy to lock-on to the signature of a Delta Dagger, or any other US target plane, it seems to have a widespread aversion to Soviet signatures.’ Daniel forked out Lannie’s bacon. This is really true?

This isn’t just some one-off error in one particular piece of equipment?’

Willy shook his head. ‘I’ve run diagnostic programmes through the armoury computer on three different radar systems. Each system failed in exactly the same way, at exactly the same moment. But, of course, if a pilot didn’t realize that his radar was snafu, he’d simply believe that he’d missed. Mind you, if he was in a real damn combat situation, he wouldn’t have too long to worry about it, since I doubt if the Soviet air-to-air missiles have a similar aversion to hitting our planes.’

‘But it’s insane,’ said Daniel. ‘How can a whole Air Force be equipped with missiles that don’t work?’

‘What can I say?’ asked Willy, blowing flour off the table. ‘It’s the greatest damn scandal in the history of the Air Force. And I mean the greatest. Heads will start rolling, believe me.’ ‘Jesus,’ said Daniel.

‘I have more tests to make,’ Willy added. ‘I want to take a look at the IR seeker nose on the Falcon; and maybe check the laser-beam proximity fuse, too.’ ‘Don’t befuddle me with technicality,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m simply telling you that I want to check the guidance and detonation systems on other missiles, too. Every missile has its own fancy new system, and some of them are so far out you’d hardly believe them. Some of the latest ground-to-air missiles have phased-arrayed radar that’s capable of surveillance, acquisition, track/engage and guidance. They can do everything except serve up lunch.’ ‘None of which is any use if they don’t hit the airplanes they’re supposed to hit,’ said Daniel. ‘Precisely,’ Willy agreed. Susie sneezed, because of the flour. ‘Leave it,’ Daniel told Willy. ‘Cara will clean it up.’ ‘Oh, Cara, that’s her name? Nice name, considering she comes from South Dakota. Usually, they’re called Way-nette or Laurene or Trixie.’

‘Or Candii?’ said Daniel, purposely trying to embarrass him.

Willy made a face. ‘Sure. Or Candii.’

There was a shuddering knock at the front door of the diner. That must be Lannie Watts, wanting his breakfast. Daniel said to Susie. ‘Go let Lannie in, will you? Tell him I’m just cracking his eggs.’

When Susie had gone through the plastic-strip curtain to the diner, Daniel said seriously to Willy, ‘This thing you’ve found out. It’s pretty serious, isn’t it? I mean, it could be trouble.’

‘Just like I said, Daniel, heads will roll.’

‘You’re sure it won’t be your head? You know what Kawalek’s like, all jokes apart. And Kawalek’s only a colonel. There have to be plenty of generals and top brass at the Pentagon who won’t particularly feel like being embarrassed by a know-it-all major from Williams training

base.’

Willy said, i have to do what’s right, Daniel.’

‘Of course you do. But you also have to protect yourself. Whoever designed those missiles, whoever ordered them, whoever passed them as okay for active duty, all those people are going to want you out of the way. You just think to yourself how much money changes hands in a successful missile contract. Billions. Well, people get killed in the streets for pennies. So, be warned.’

‘Daniel, insisted Willy, ‘it’s all a question of fact, that’s all. The missiles don’t work against Soviet radar signatures and that’s it.’

Daniel wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘You want some

breakfast?’

‘You don’t want to talk about it?’

‘Get yourself some more information, that’s all, Daniel told him. ‘Don’t go breezing into Kawalek’s office with something you can’t totally substantiate. And before you go, leave a copy of whatever it is you’ve been working on here with me. Or somebody else you trust.’

Willy pushed back his chair, and stood up. Susie came into the kitchen and announced, ‘Lannie says please move your hindquarters with his breakfast.’ Daniel smiled, and nodded. ‘Okay.’

Willy said, ‘I guess I’ll go home and catch myself a couple of hours’ shuteye. Then I’ll go back to the armoury and run the last of those programmes. I’ll meet you at ten for a drink at Hank’s. Is that okay?’

‘That’s okay. But you’ll leave your findings with me before you go talk to Kawalek?’

‘So that you can sell them to the Russians, and make yourself rich?’ joked Willy.

‘Willy,’ Daniel cautioned him.

Willy came over and flung an awkward arm around his shoulders. I know, Daniel. I know, Discretion is the better part of valour. Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.’

Daniel, one-handed, cracked two eggs. They had played racketball together, he and Willy. They had talked for hours, all night sometimes, until they knew each other like brothers, or maybe closer. Daniel had never been to Omaha, but he could have found his way to the hollow tree in Fontenelle Park where Willy used to hide his catapult and his Tom Mix plastic ‘look-in’ TV set as if he had played there himself.

They were buddies, in the curiously old-fashioned sense of the word. Astrologically, psychologically, and physically. But now Daniel had the unsettling feeling that the responsibilities of the real world were about to come between them; and although he tried to smile, he couldn’t. His face was fixed like rapidly-cooling glass.

Four

Titus had seen Joe Jasper’s Cadillac approach through the willows, its amber marking-lights dipping and bouncing

through Beahms Grove; and so by the time Joe had awkwardly parked by the bank of the river, and picked his way in his highly-polished Bejan shoes through the rough muddy grass that sloped down to the water’s edge, Titus had been able to wade twenty or thirty yards further into midstream, still near enough to hear what Joe might shout out, in case it was anything interesting, but far enough to pretend that he was out of earshot, in case it wasn’t.

It was a silent foggy afternoon in the Shenandoah Valley, a few miles upstream from Front Royal, overlooked to the east by the Blue Ridge mountains, and to the west by the Massanuttens; old Civil War country. Titus was taking his first fishing vacation in three years, and whatever Joe Jasper had to say, it couldn’t be half as absorbing to Titus as the deep swirl of the Shenandoah River, or the distinct dripping of condensation from the overhanging trees, or the call of vireos and thrushes. Titus, after three-and-a-half years as Secretary of State, and five-and-a-half years of marriage to Nadine, was awarding himself three days and three nights of complete peace; peace that was punctuated only by the stitching-up sound of a fishing-reel, or the whirr of nylon line.

‘Titus!’ called Joe. He was teetering on a boggy clump of grass, desperately trying to keep his $200 shoes out of the mud. But Titus kept his back to the bank, and puffed at his corncob pipe, even though it had died on him almost twenty minutes ago, and generally tried to look occupied with the current, and the weather, and the fish. He’d often heard that the greatest actors could communicate volumes of Shakespeare through their turned backs, although he wasn’t quite sure how. What he was trying to communicate now was: get the hell out of here, Joe, unless it’s something really good.

Titus!’ Joe called again. He had a thin voice, like a whippet. Titus, can you hear me?’

Titus took two or three steps further into the stream. The water-level was uncomfortably close to the top of his waders, but he stayed where he was, deaf as a rock, occasionally turning his head upstream to make it look as

if his pose were natural, whistling too for a moment but then forgetting to keep it up.

‘Mr Secretary, this is absolutely vital!’ Joe yelled. ‘It’s too sensitive to shout out to you; you’ll have to come in to the riverbank and listen close!’

There was a long pause. The river gurgled and flowed. Titus stayed where he was, his fishing-pole held up numbly, his eyes closed. Of all the instincts that Joe could have appealed to, his curiosity was the most easily aroused. He could stay here, pretending to be inextricably absorbed in the Shenandoah and her fish, chilled to the thighs; or he could admit that he had heard Joe calling, and wade back, and listen to what this sensitive news might be. It was too damned exasperating for words, especially since Joe would say nothing at all about his apparent deafness, but gloat silently, and make him feel angrier than ever.

He was still trying to make up his mind when he heard water splashing close by. He turned around, and to his complete astonishment, Joe was wading right up to him in his $750 Christian Dior suit, his thin triangular face fixed in the kind of expression you might expect to see on a man who has had an entire bowl of lime Jell-O emptied slowly into his jockey shorts.

‘Mr Secretary!’ he gasped.

Titus was so surprised that he forgot to pretend that he hadn’t heard Joe calling before. ‘Why the hell didn’t you stay on the bank? You gone crazy or something?’

Titus, Mr Secretary, this is urgent.’

They stood facing each other, nearly waist-deep in the river. Titus took the corncob pipe out of his mouth, then stuck it back in again, and started to wind in his line.

‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you for anything, Titus,’ said Joe. ‘But I think we’ve come up with the answer to the RING problem, accidentally, fortuitously, and I knew you’d want to be the very first to know.’

‘How can I be the first to know when you already know?’ growled Titus, reeling in his line as if it were his vacation, prematurely over, wrapped up and wound up

like everything else he tried to do that wasn’t connected with the State Department, or Nadine, or Nadine’s nauseating children.

‘What I mean is, you’re the first VIP to know,’ Joe corrected himself. ‘And, well, what we decide to do about it depends entirely on you.’

‘Do you realize you’re soaking?’ Titus asked Joe. T mean, do you realize that you’re absolutely fucking soaking wet?’

‘Yes, sir,said Joe. Then, more lamely, T have another suit in the car.’

Titus fastened his hook and then began to make his way slowly back to the bank of the river in deep, rhythmical strides. ‘That’s typical of you, Joe. Do you know that? Heroism without inconvenience. You’re always prepared to get your hands dirty, provided there’s a handy pack of Wet Ones around.’

Joe sloshed after him. He reached the edge of the river and stood in the mud with water running out of his suit in a noisy cascade. Titus opened up his fishing bag to put away his diptera fly and his hook, and dismantle his expensive carbon-fibre pole. Nadine had given him the pole as a present when they were married. This was the first time he had taken it out. The walls of his library were crowded with trophies from his younger days, stuffed and mounted river fish from Virginia to Colorado, badges and medals and certificates; but he hadn’t added a single decent fish to his collection since he had left the Army and sought greater glory in politics.

Joe said, ‘It was one of those real breaks. One of those real one-in-a-million breaks.’

‘Why don’t you change your suit before you tell me?’ Titus snarled at him. ‘You might as well be comfortable.’

‘Well,said Joe, trying to be self-deprecating.

Titus walked across to the Cadillac and climbed into the passenger-seat unbidden, tossing his fishing-bag on to the back seat. The leather upholstery was virgin white, and his waders were very muddy, thick with that black silty Shenandoah bottom-mud; but he figured it would do Joe

good, to have to sit there and watch his pristine custom-upholstered car being gratuitously besmirched, without being able to do anything about it. Good for his soul.

Joe changed into his fresh suit behind the upraised trunk. Titus put down his window and called, ‘Don’t be too long about it. Any man without pants is considered fair game in West Virginia.’ Joe reappeared in less than a minute, tucking in his shirt-tails, tightening his tie, sweating and discomfited.