Power Curve (18 page)

When the lead fighter had closed to thirty miles in front of the SR-71, the radar controller issued a command in Chinese that roughly translated as “go for the celestial squeezings.” The Chinese pilot pulled back on his stick and zoomed, trading whatever airspeed he had for altitude, trying to get high enough to launch an air-to-air missile at the high-flying intruder. He didn’t even come close. Then the next fighter in line repeated the maneuver with the same lack of success.

Even though the Habu was over international waters, the Chinese were willing to salvo missile after missile in the hope of getting a shoot-down. Under normal circumstances, that equated to wishful thinking. But if they were lucky, they would argue about the where and who got the bodies later.

Greg used the Habu’s standard defensive tactic and went faster and higher. On the good side of the equation, they got better gas mileage. On the bad side, it increased the
strain on the Habu, and it became more irritable. A mongoose going after a cobra instinctively understands the situation. But Greg Stein and Dick Robards were a little slower, and strange things can happen while flying at Mach 3.2 at 83,000 feet. They were literally flying faster than a speeding bullet when the right generator fell offline. “Right generator failure,” Greg said over the intercom. The checklist told them they had to abort the mission. But where? They were still between the Chinese mainland and Taiwan.

The Habu solved the problem for them by failing the left generator. Normally, the emergency AC and DC power kicked in automatically, but the Habu was being difficult and the automatic relay did not close. Before Greg could hit the switch, manually activating standby electrical power, the fuel-boost pumps stopped pumping fuel to the engines. That caused a flameout, Habu dirty talk for big trouble. Without power, the SR-71 had the flying characteristics of a lump of coal. They were going to abort straight ahead.

They were descending through 60,000 feet and in the envelope where a fighter could engage them when Greg got one engine started and a generator back on-line. The defensive electronic systems started to stir with partial power. “We got a hostile lock-on!” Dick screamed. The RSO did something he rarely did in the backseat: He looked out his window. He wished he hadn’t and totally blew his cool, which, in the world of strategic reconnaissance, is worse than dying. “Bandit! Ten o’clock on us! We’re going to die!” The mission recorder system dutifully recorded his words for posterity and the mission debrief—if they had one.

“Shut up,” Greg answered, his words labored and slow, “and die like a man. Do your job.” The RSO did, and his fingers danced over the buttons of the defensive electronic system while Greg got the second engine relit. The Habu’s second generator came on-line, the bus-tie closed, and the Habu coughed up a burst of electrical power. Finally, the defensive electronic system could do its job as designed and hit the attacker’s radar with a barrage of electronic magic that told the Chinese pilot to do a physically impos
sible act. “Come on, baby,” Greg coaxed, inching the throttles into max afterburner. “Let’s go home.”

The Habu responded, and they climbed into the sky, reaching 94,000 feet before Greg felt the need to level off. “Where are we?” he asked.

Dick recycled the inertial navigation system and updated the moving map display. “Abeam Fuchow,” he answered.

“That’s where we were supposed to go,” Greg answered. He turned to the east, heading for Okinawa.

“Do you think we should slow down?” Dick asked. His airspeed indicator was reading Mach 3.6.

“Hell no,” the pilot answered. “Did the cameras come on?”

The RSO checked the power and sensor control panel. “They’re on now,” he answered.

“I hope to hell they were on when they should have been,” Greg said. He checked the fuel remaining and made an emergency radio call for a tanker to meet them as soon as possible.

Martini was on Perimeter Road when the SR-71 entered the landing pattern. He pulled into the parking lot on top of Habu Hill and, like any pilot, watched it land, critically bisecting the other pilot’s performance. Like any commander, he felt a touch of relief when one of ‘his’ aircraft was safely recovered. Because it would be almost an hour before the 700-foot-long film from the bird’s technical objective cameras started to come out of the processing unit, he decided to ‘howdy’ the pilot and RSO. He drove to the Physiological Support Division where they stripped off their pressure suits, the first step in a long mission debrief.

“How’d it go?” he asked Greg.

“Pretty much your standard mission,” the pilot answered. “We had a small problem with the generators and got a flameout on both engines when we were in the straits. There were a few bandits around, trying to cause trouble, but it was a piece of cake.”

“Right,” Martini deadpanned. He knew.

The RSO grinned at them. “According to the mission recorder, we set a new speed and altitude record for a 2,000-nautical-mile flight.”

“Sure,” Greg muttered. “But who’s going to know about it.”

“The Chinese,” Martini said. “Fast forward the mission recorder tape to the flameout.”

An unhappy RSO did as Martini commanded, and he blushed brightly when they reached the part where he proclaimed their impending death. Greg stopped the tape and laughed. “We’ve been working on that line for weeks,” he explained. “I never thought I’d have a chance to use it.”

“Right,” Martini deadpanned. He knew.

The film was coming out of the processing unit and Lieutenant Colonel Pete Townly, Martini’s chief of Intelligence, was with the hunch-shouldered captain when Martini joined them. “Talk to me,” Martini said.

“Great resolution,” Townly said.

“The KA-102B may be an old camera,” the captain explained, “but we’re getting image resolution of less than two inches from 80,000 feet.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Martini growled. “What have you got?”

Townly and the captain exchanged worried glances. “I can’t be sure until analysis and mensuration is complete,” the captain said. “But I think the Chinese fleet has sortied out of Fuchow and is coming this way.”

“How sure are you?” Martini asked. The captain gulped and didn’t answer. He looked at Townly for help.

“Damn sure,” Townly replied.

Martini nodded. He had no trouble accepting bad news. “You got a secure line to the command post?” The captain pointed to a STU-V, the latest version of a portable secure telephone, and Martini dialed his command post. “I’m declaring Condition Scarlet,” he told the controller on duty. “This is not an exercise. Expect an attack within six hours.”

“Sir,” the controller protested, “an actual Condition Scarlet can only be declared by CINC PAC.”

“Want’a bet?” Martini barked. “Do it. And make sure CINC PAC and the Pentagon knows about it in the next ten seconds.” He banged the phone down and turned to
Townly and the captain. “Get this on the wires to Offutt and the DIA ASAP.” He glanced at the wall clocks that were set to different times around the world. It was 5:10 Saturday afternoon on Okinawa and 3:10 Saturday morning in Washington, D.C. “I hope to hell someone’s awake over there,” he grumbled.

Okinawa, Japan

B
ob Ryan collapsed on the floor of his BOQ and vowed never to play another Saturday afternoon game of touch football. The base league was the creation of a captain from the Security Police, Terrence Daguerre, who had played pro football at one time and delighted in maiming people. The phone rang, and Ryan groaned loudly as he collected what was left of his body and answered. It was a recall ordering all personnel to their duty stations. He went directly to the command post and found his seat in the glassed-in Battle Cab that overlooked the main floor. Besides the center position for Martini, there was a position at the long console for each of the group commanders who made up the Eighteenth Wing: Operations, Logistics, Support, Civil Engineer, and Medical.

Unlike the other group commanders, the commander of the Medical Group chose to send a representative, in this case Ryan, to the command post when the battle staff was activated. Ryan checked the bank of telephones in front of him and opened the black loose-leaf binder in front of him.

What the hell is an Emergency Actions book?
Ryan thought.
Is this the book I’m supposed to read?
He glanced at the other commanders. Each had a similar book and was going through it, checking off action items as they made phone calls. Even Martini was reading his. Ryan
flipped to the first page of his book and read the first item: “Perform communications check.”
This is stupid
, he thought.
The telephones are working
. He checked it off and went on to the next item: “Determine state/stage of alert and notify Medical Center on secure telephone.”
What a waste of time
, he thought.
The Med Center always knows what the state/stage of alert is during an exercise. This is so typical of the military—make work to keep people busy. Just like all the crap over the Personnel Reliability Program Martini dumped on me
.

He checked that item off. He ran through the rest of the checklist and closed the book. He took some satisfaction that he was the first finished. From his vantage point in the Battle Cab, Ryan could see every status board and position in the command post, including inside the glassed-in Control Cab against the opposite wall where the controllers manned a huge communications bank. He was fascinated by the purposeful activity on the main floor as people streamed into the command post, answering the recall to the Condition Scarlet. The Support Group commander sitting next to him finished his emergency action checklist.

“The general is going to be in a world of hurt if CINC PAC cancels Condition Scarlet on him,” the colonel ventured. Ryan said he didn’t understand. The colonel gave him a studied look, then forgave his ignorance because he was a doctor. “Martini declared Condition Scarlet on his own authority. He can’t do that.”

“So why did he do it?” Ryan asked.

“Who knows?” the colonel replied. “I guess he thought the base is coming under attack within six hours. That’s what Scarlet is for: to get us hunkered down as quick as possible.” Ryan nodded. This was the perfect place to study Martini in a stressful situation. The colonel glanced at the Emergency Actions Status board on the far wall. “Everyone but the Med Group is showing a green light,” he told Ryan. “You had better build a fire under the Med Center before Martini builds one under you.”

Ryan looked confused. “Oh, my God,” the colonel muttered, “you haven’t got a clue. What the hell was your boss thinking of?” He grabbed Ryan’s secure phone and
punched up the Med Center, updating them on the stage of alert. The colonel broke the connection and gave Ryan a quick lesson on how the Air Force went to war at the operational level. He worked his way through Ryan’s Emergency Action book, demonstrating how it was Ryan’s job to get the Medical Group configured to a wartime footing through a series of actions all directed from the command post. It was a revelation for the doctor, but unfortunately, it came too late.

“Major Ryan!” Martini bellowed. “What the hell is going on with the quacks? Everyone is in the green except them.”

“Tell him the truth,” the Support Group commander muttered.

Ryan gulped. “I was late in notifying them, sir.”

Martini waved his hand, and the Battle Cab quickly emptied. Ryan wanted to sneak out with the four colonels, but Martini’s hard look told him that he was the reason the cab had been emptied. Ryan was a post—baby boomer who had lived a charmed life, pampered by his parents, the school system, and even the Air Force because they needed doctors. He had never been held personally accountable for a screwup. It had always been the fault of the system or someone else. Like everyone else, Ryan was only a victim. Unfortunately, Martini did not subscribe to that philosophy.

“Ryan,” Martini said when they were alone, “in a Condition Scarlet, we need every available second to get ready for an attack. When you did not understand what was happening, you should have asked for help. Because of your inaction, we have not used our time wisely. If we are attacked and the Med Center is caught unprepared, I will court-martial you and recommend that you be sentenced to Leavenworth. Count on it. Regardless of what happens, I will fire your boss for gross stupidity. He shouldn’t have sent you here in the first place. Do you understand every word I have said?”

Martini had never suffered from a lack of credibility, and Ryan panicked. He withered under the general’s intense stare and his head twisted from side to side, a trapped animal looking for a place to hide. He shot a
furtive glance at the Emergency Actions Status board, willing the light beside the Med Center to change to green, anything to divert Martini’s wrath. The light flashed from red to green, and for a brief moment, Ryan truly believed in guardian angels. “Sir,” he said wildly gesturing at the board.

Martini never took his eyes off the doctor. “I’m waiting for an answer,” he growled.

What was the question? Ryan couldn’t remember, and his panic hit a record high. Then it came to him. “Yessir, I understand every word you said.”

Martini’s head turned slowly to look at the Emergency Actions Status board. “Good,” he said. “It appears your court-martial has been put on hold for the time being. Now, give me one good reason why I should
not
fire your boss.”

Ryan swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat. It was painfully obvious that Martini believed in personal accountability, and there would be no passing the buck. “Sir, because what happened here was my fault. I requested this assignment and told my boss that I was ready for it. He believed me and assigned me to be his representative on the battle staff.”

“So you lied to him.”

Ryan wanted to protest that he had not lied, only misunderstood what was required. An inner alarm warned him that was the wrong answer. “Yessir, I lied.”

“Actually,” Martini said, “you’re probably suffering from the disease of the doctors.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular condition, sir.”

“It’s delusional,” Martini told him. “You think being a doctor makes you a genius in everything. Being a doctor simply makes you a doctor. Nothing else.” He scanned the boards, concerned about the progress of the loadout on his F-15s. “You will work here until Condition Scarlet is canceled and it is safe to move around outside. Then I want someone here from the Med Center who has a clue.”

Ryan nodded. “Sir, are you still going to fire my boss?”

“I’m still thinking about your answer,” Martini replied. He gestured for the other colonels to return, and Ryan retreated back to his seat.

The Support Group commander was back in his seat next to Ryan. “Have a religious experience?” the colonel asked. There was no answer. “I happen to like your boss, so if you listen, I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Unknown to Ryan, two senior NCOs in the Med Center had saved him from the wrath of Martini. After responding to the recall, no further messages had come from the command post. That worried the sergeants. Because they did not have access to the secure line to call Ryan in the command post and find out what was going on, they back-doored the information through a buddy NCO in the Security Police shack. The moment they discovered Condition Scarlet had been declared, they initiated the actions that Ryan should have started. When they finally got the official word from the command post, the Med Center was almost ready. It was the way sergeants took care of each other and a lesson Ryan would never learn.

Ryan sat in the command post and did a slow burn.
It is so obvious
, he thought,
even a child could figure it out
. Martini was trying to even the score because of his testimony to the Safety Investigation Board about the accident. He mentally composed a new section for his case study on Martini:

Ego and Fear: Operative Factors.

Ryan smiled to himself, feeling much better. If the Condition Scarlet was canceled by CINC PAC, who would be getting court-martialed? Better yet, would the investigators be interested in the documented observations of a recognized expert about Martini’s mental stability?

Washington, D.C.

The phone call came at 5:10 Saturday morning and woke Bender from a sound sleep. His response was automatic, honed from years of command, and he answered on the first ring. “Bender here,” he said, instantly awake and alert.

It was the duty officer at the NMCC. “Sir, I’m glad I didn’t wake you. General Charles said there is a message that requires your immediate attention.”

Bender hated talking around a subject on an unsecure telephone. “Tell General Charles I’ll see him in thirty minutes.”

“Sir, it would be better if you went to your office.”

The DIA has upgraded the WATCHCON III
, Bender thought,
and no one at the White House is responding
. He moved quickly and was dressed and out the door without disturbing Nancy. He would shave later. He was backing out of the driveway when he saw a police car parked in front of his house, its engine idling.

Patrolwoman Elena Murphy unlimbered from the car and walked toward him. Bender rolled down his window. “Shalandra,” Murphy said, pointing to the patrol car. “She ran away from her foster home and came to the hospital. She’s not hurt and I was comin’ off duty, so I brought her here.”

He could see the girl sitting in the backseat. “It’s OK. Ring the doorbell. My wife will help you.”

Murphy shook her head. “She wants to talk to you.”

Bender was stunned. He hadn’t said a dozen words to Shalandra before she left on Thursday morning after spending one night.
Nancy should have never brought her here in the first place
, he thought.
This is her problem, and she’ll have to handle it
. “I’m sorry, but there’s an emergency. I’ve got to go.” Murphy nodded and stepped back. She understood emergencies.

The early-morning traffic was very light, and he made it to the White House in less than twenty minutes. He cleared the west gate and walked quickly into the West Wing, surprised at the activity around him. The White House was responding this time, and he wasn’t needed.
But lacking information, he went directly to Shaw’s corner office. “Good morning, General Bender,” Alice Fay said. “Mr. Shaw is expecting you. Please go right in.”

“Glad you got the word,” Shaw boomed from behind his desk.

“Not really,” Bender answered. “What’s happening?”

“The DIA has declared a WATCHCON I for the Far East,” Shaw told him. “And the NIO agrees this time.”

“Why the sudden change of heart by the CIA?” Bender asked. Shaw handed him the warning message.

“How’d you like that last bit?” Shaw asked, not expecting an answer. “You got to give those boys credit for covering their backside.”

“You’ve notified the president?” Bender asked.

“And activated the Sit Room,” Shaw added. “She’ll be there in a few minutes for a situation brief and the NSC is meeting at seven-thirty.” Shaw grinned at him. “I do like to honor the threat.”

Bender stared at him for a moment. “Have you?” Before Shaw could answer, he was out the door and headed for his office. The corridor outside the Situation Room was full of the same uniforms and suits as before. He pushed through the crowd to his office. Lacking anything to do, he retrieved his shaving kit, turned over his office to the admiral’s aide who was already there with a secure telephone, and retreated to the locker room in the gym
where he showered and shaved.
This is going to be one long day
, he told himself.

A White House usher was waiting for him when he came out of the locker room. General Overmeyer wanted to see him immediately. The usher’s quick pace warned Bender that the crisis was reaching criticality, the moment a mass of fissionable material could sustain a chain reaction and explode. The chairman was pacing the floor of a small office, talking to the chief of Naval Operations and General Charles. “The president wants you to attend the NSC meeting,” he gritted.

“Sir, there’s no reason for me to be there. I’ve only seen the WATCHCON message and I’m totally out of the loop.”