Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (30 page)

 
          
“Good
luck, Patrick,” Jon said. “We’ll be ready. Count on it.” He closed up the
phone.

 
          
“Was
that General McLanahan?” Cheryl Duffield asked. Jon nodded as he opened the
phone again and dialed a number. “Where is he? What’s going on?”

 
          
“I’ll
explain everything on the way back to
Blytheville
,” Jon replied. On the cell phone, Jon said,
“Paul? Listen, we’re expecting— You got it already? Good. Any problems ... ?
Excellent. We’re heading back now. We should be there in four hours.” He hung
up the phone, then made another call to the flight crew of the corporate jet,
then to the driver of their car waiting to take them back to Tonopah Municipal.

 
          
“Kelsey?
Where is Kelsey
?” Cheryl asked. The
sound sent chills through everyone—especially through Sandy, the security guard
... ,

 
          
...
because it wasn’t until just then that she noticed that Sasha wasn’t right
beside her. “Sasha!” she shouted. “
Aspetta!
Fermi!
”

           
They found the two of them moments
later—sitting in front of each other, with Kelsey leaning up against one of the
AL-52 Dragon’s huge main landing gear tires. “Kelsey!” Cheryl Duffield shouted.
“Get away from that dog!”

 
          
“But
she’s nice, Mom. . ..”

 
          
“Don’t
move, little girl,”
Sandy
said. “Sasha,
basta! Adesso!
” Despite her commands, however, the dog stayed right with Kelsey. “I don’t
understand this.. ..”

 
          
“I
think the dog likes Kelsey—and not as a snack, either,” Jon said with a smile.
“Don’t take it personally— your dog didn’t rip a stranger to shreds.” Kelsey
gave Sasha a big hug and a tickle on its head between its flattened,
contented-looking ears before she was slowly, carefully taken away by her
mother, and Sasha was led away with a string of sharp admonitions in Italian
from
Sandy
.

 
          
Once
they were back in the Suburban on the ninety-minute ride back to the airport,
Cheryl Duffield finally asked in between a flurry of cell phone calls, “Okay,
what’s going on, Jon? Who’s going to launch what?”

 
          
He
looked at her, then at Kelsey, with a little apprehension. He then shrugged. “I
promised I’d tell you everything at the appropriate time—I guess this is it,”
he said. And he started explaining. The explanation continued well past the
ride to the airport—in fact, it continued well after takeoff. Kelsey listened
to each and every word, sitting impassively, her little hands folded on her lap
as usual.

 
          
Cheryl
Duffield, however, was not as patient. “Do you mean to tell me, Dr. Masters,”
she finally stormed after Jon had finished his explanation, “that Sky Masters
Inc. has been involving itself with unsanctioned, illegal military missions all
over the world? You have been investigated and are currently under surveillance
by the FBI because of these activities? And—let me get this perfectly straight—
your vice president in charge of research, General Patrick McLanahan, is
right now
planning an operation in
Libya
, and you are going to help him—by sending
an aircraft loaded up with experimental cruise missiles and launching them
against
Libya
?”

           
“Cheryl, that’s not the
half
of it,” Jon said in response.

           
“This is outrageous! This is .. .
this is
unacceptable
!” she thundered.
“You didn’t reveal one bit of this in days of contract negotiations! This is
fraud! This is criminal! This is a major breach of contract! We will not be a
part of it!”

           
“Cheryl, I warned you each and
every day of our negotiations that we are involved in things that you might not
want to be part of,” Jon said earnestly. “You looked at our books. You
interviewed our personnel... .”

           
“All except the McLanahans—they were
the ones we wanted to talk with! Now we see why—they were busy blowing up
missile bases in
Libya
!”

 
          
“We
couldn’t tell you anything until your security clearances came through, and by
then it was too late—the operation was already under way,” Helen said.

 
          
“We
will not stand by and watch our company be destroyed by this .. . this lunacy!”
Cheryl shouted angrily. “You didn’t answer to a board of directors when you
started this wild escapade—but you have one now, and they have the power to
oust you, the McLanahans, and everyone else involved in this crazy scheme right
out of the company. And that’s exactly what I want to see done!”

 
          
Jon
was still busy on the telephone, coordinating launch activities with his
Blytheville
headquarters. He ignored Cheryl Duffield
until there was a lengthy pause on the other end; then: “Cheryl, I don’t really
care what you’re going to do—go cry to the shareholders, sue us, close us down.
I don’t care. But I’m going to do everything in my power to support the
McLanahans and the team out there in
Egypt
. I’ll do as much as I can for as long as I
can. In less than ten hours, our planes will be airborne. In twelve hours,
it’ll all be over—either we’ll be successful, or folks will die. Either way, it
won’t matter what you say or do. You can’t stop it.”

        
   
“Oh, I will stop you, Dr. Masters,” Cheryl
retorted. “Maybe not this time, but after this day, you won’t be able to order
a pizza, let alone an air strike. I guarantee it.” And she got up and
disgustedly walked off to the front of the aircraft. As she moved forward she
half-turned, waiting for Kelsey to join her. Their two gazes met. Cheryl saw
something in her daughter’s eyes, a request or a plea: Whatever it was, Cheryl
recognized it. She obviously didn’t like it, but she accepted it. She shook her
head, her lips taut, and continued forward.

 
          
“Mommy’s
pretty mad,” Kelsey said.

 
          
“I’m
sorry about all this, Dr. Duffield,” Helen said. “We had no choice but to keep
this information from you. Too many lives are at stake.”

 
          
“The
McLanahans—are they in danger?” Kelsey asked.

 
          
Helen
looked at Jon. He looked at Kelsey, wondering whether or not to answer. Most
times, it was so difficult to remember that Kelsey Duffield was still a
nine-year-old and not just a world-class, superintelligent, fully adult
thinker. He always wanted to treat her as an adult, a peer—but most times he
usually ended up treating her like a smart little sister. That time, Jon
realized, was just about past.

 
          
He
told his caller that he would get back to them, hung up the phone, and then looked
seriously at Kelsey. “Yes, Kelsey—the McLanahans are in terrible danger,” he
said. “In fact, Wendy McLanahan is missing, and General McLanahan’s brother
Paul is dead.” Kelsey’s eyes widened in fear, becoming shiny with tears, but
she said nothing. “General McL—Patrick, is trying to force the Libyans to turn
Wendy over to him.”

 
          
“What
will he do?” Kelsey asked.

 
          
“He
is going to attack some key military targets inside
Libya
, places that are vital to
Libya
’s defenses,” Jon replied. “All he has to
help him are two men, Hal Briggs and Chris Wohl, with Tin Man battle armor;
some soldiers, one or two aircraft.. . and us. The Libyans have over one
hundred thousand troops, a very big air force, and nuclear, chemical, and
biological weapons.”

 
          
“What
will you do?”

 
          
“Patrick
wants me to launch several Wolverine and FlightHawk missiles against targets in
Libya
,” Jon replied. “Once the targets are
destroyed, he’ll be able to fly in and attack more vital targets from the
ground. He plans on attacking more and more targets in
Libya
until the president of
Libya
turns over Wendy and the others. We’ll
launch two attack planes, twelve hours apart.”

 
          
“What
if Wendy is dead?” Kelsey asked, her face drawn with fear.

 
          
“I
don’t know,” Jon replied. “I hope Patrick will come home. He has a little boy,
you know—his name is Bradley. He hasn’t seen Bradley in a long time.”

 
          
To
Jon’s complete surprise, Kelsey Duffield started to cry. It was the first time
he had ever seen her display any emotions at all, let alone such utter sadness.
But then another completely unexpected thing happened: Jon Masters reached over
and hugged the little girl. For several long moments, the two stayed in each
other’s arms. Her weeping got more intense, deeper, and for a moment Jon didn’t
know if he could maintain his composure—before he realized that tears were
running down his cheeks too. Helen put her arms around her husband, and they
shared that terrible moment together—the first time in their short but close
relationship that they shared anything more than business together.

 
          
After
a while, the little girl’s weeping subsided but they stayed in their
siblinglike embrace. Finally, Jon asked, “Are you going to be okay, Kelsey?”

 
          
“I
think so,” Kelsey replied, sniffing. She was silent for a moment; then: “Jon?”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
She
sniffed away a tear again, still holding Jon Masters tightly, and asked, “What
warheads are you going to put on the cruise missiles?”

 
          
“W
. . . what?”

 
          
“What
are you going to arm those Wolverines and FlightHawks with?” the sad little
girl asked. Slowly but surely, Jon could hear the familiar business-like steel
returning to her voice as she added, “I have some ideas that might help. . .

 
          
OVER
THE
MEDITERRANEAN
SEA
, OFF
THE COAST OF
LIBYA
 
THE NEXT AFTERNOON

 
          
The
flight had originated from
Arkansas
International
Airport
,
Blytheville
,
Arkansas
. The crew had filed an ordinary IFR flight plan with the FAA, with
Bangor
,
Maine
, as its destination and McDonnell Douglas DC-10 as its aircraft type.
About twenty minutes before reaching
Bangor
, with unusually good weather all across the
northeast
United States
, the crew descended below eighteen thousand
feet, canceled its Instrument Flight Rules flight plan, and elected to proceed
using Visual Flight Rules. The handoff was routine. Once the flight descended
below three thousand feet it disappeared off radar, lost in the ground clutter
of the
White
Mountains
of
eastern
New
Hampshire
. As far as American air traffic controllers were concerned, it was a
successful and completely routine trip. They did not check to see if the flight
made it to
Bangor
, nor were they required to do so.

 
          
In
fact, the aircraft never descended at all. The crew was able to electronically
alter the Mode C altitude readout of its air traffic control radio transponder,
making the controllers think it had descended for landing. The controllers
never had a “skin paint,” or hard radar return, on the aircraft—they were
relying only on the transponder to get the aircraft’s position. The aircraft
actually stayed at thirty- nine thousand feet, heading eastward on a great
circle route to take it over the north Atlantic Ocean.

 
          
Once
the transponder was turned off, the aircraft became invisible—because it was
not really a DC-10, but a modified U.S. Air Force B-52H Stratofortress bomber
nicknamed the EB-52 Megafortress, owned and operated by Sky Masters Inc. as a
government research and testing aircraft, designed as a stealth technologies
demonstration aircraft. Its skin and major structural components were made of composite
fibersteel, not metal, covered with radar-absorbent materials; instead of a
large cruciform radar-hungry tail, its control surfaces were smaller, swept
backward, and radically tilted in a low V-shape to minimize radar reflections.
Even though the aircraft weighed nearly half a million pounds and its wingspan
was longer than the Wright Brothers’ first airplane flight, it had the radar
cross-section of a bird.

 
          
A
few hours later, the Megafortress rendezvoused with a real Sky Masters Inc.
DC-10 aircraft that was modified for aerial refueling. Within half an hour, the
B-52 was fully topped off with fuel. With the DC-10 in loose formation, the
B-52 made its way across the north
Atlantic
,
using bursts of its Laser Radar system to be sure it was well out of visual
range of other aircraft. The DC-10 was on a standard over-water flight plan, en
route to
Glasgow
,
Scotland
. About an hour prior to landing, the B-52
again hooked up and filled its tanks from the DC-10. The big converted airliner
headed immediately for landing in
Scotland
—it was now dangerously low on fuel, even
though a conventional DC-10 can make the trip across to
Europe
easily with plenty of fuel reserves. Its
stealth wingman had nearly sucked it dry.

 
          
The
EB-52 continued right across
Europe
, overflying
countries without clearance. The reason was simple: No conventional radars
could see it, so no one knew it was up there. It flew across a dozen western
and central European nations without a hint of its presence. Even in crowded
airspace, it was able to keep its distance so no other aircraft could see it,
changing altitudes or maneuvering far enough away to keep out of sight.

 
          
John
“Bud” Franken, Commander, U.S. Navy, Retired, thoroughly enjoyed the danger of
what they were doing. As the aircraft commander aboard the Sky Masters test bed
aircraft, he had seen his company’s planes do some amazing things—but even when
the EB-52 was doing nothing but flying straight and level nearly seven miles
above the Earth, it was still amazing. Franken was a former U.S. Navy test
pilot and test squadron commander, and he had flown in every Navy aircraft
design, both operational and ones that never made it past “black” status, over
the past twenty years—but he was truly awestruck by the EB-52.

 
          
In
his soul he would always be a Navy fighter pilot, but his heart now belonged to
the experimental EB-52 Megafortress.

 
          
His
mission commander, sitting in the right seat across the wide cockpit, was as
young as Franken was old, as operationally inexperienced as the pilot was
combat-tested. Twenty-five-year-old Lindsey Reeves was simply a natural-bom
systems wizard. It didn’t matter if the system was a complex, high-tech flying
battleship like the EB-52 Megafortress or her pride and joy—a 1956 Aston-Martin
DB4 GT Sanction I convertible, which she restored herself, including rebuilding
the engine—she could look at it, experiment with it for a few minutes, and
instantly figure out how it worked. Sky Masters Inc.’s worldwide team of
headhunters had recruited her at the age of sixteen at a county science fair in
her hometown of
Madison
,
Wisconsin
, where she had won the competition by
modifying a radio receiver to pick up Global Positioning Satellite navigation
signals—at a time when GPS was still a classified military program.

 
          
Franken
was a systems guy too—you had to be to fly the Megafortress. It was so
different from all other aircraft that it was best to let the computers do the
flying, watch the computers like a hawk, and be ready to take over if they
rolled over and died. But Lindsey was from another dimension when it came to
machines. She wasn’t much of a fli
_er
—
_s
he got airsick at
the slightest hint of turbulence and used almost every non-narcotic airsickness
remedy known, from wristbands to ginger tablets, to help her get through it.
But when it was time to go into action, she was ready—usually.

 
          
“Three
minutes to low-level entry point,” Lindsey reported. She had two overhead air
vents blowing cold air on her face, plus she was breathing pure oxygen to try
to settle her stomach. “All birds reporting ready.”

 
          
“Then
try to relax a little, Lindsey,” Franken suggested. “Take off the gloves and
loosen your fingers.” Lindsey always wore gloves—she said it was easier to find
them that way in case she needed something to throw up in. “You’re too tense.”

 
          
“I’ve
never flown into ... into combat before,” she murmured.

 
          
“The
exercises we do back in the ranges are much more intense than we’ll see here,”
Franken assured her. “You’re a good crew dog, Linds. Relax and take it easy.”

 
          
“Okay,”
Lindsey said. But it was no use—a few moments later, she was holding a barf bag
at the ready. She was nervous, Franken thought—usually within three minutes
time-to-go, she was fine.

 
          
“Give
me the leg brief, Linds,” Franken said.

 
          
“I
don’t feel so good....”

 
          
“The
leg brief, MC,” he ordered sternly. “Right now.”

 
          
The
voice got her attention, and the discipline and routine got her mind off her
churning stomach. “First heading one-nine-five, leg time twelve minutes fifteen
seconds, auto TF descent,” Lindsey recited. “Level-off altitude two thousand
feet... set and verified. The SA-10 site at SAM is our first threat. I’ve got
only air traffic control search radars up now.”

 
          
At
the initial point, Franken issued voice commands to the EB-52 Megafortress’s flight
computer, and the big aircraft responded—it started a
ten-thousand-foot-per-minute descent, automatically retarding the throttles to
keep the airspeed under the red line. All he had to do was monitor the
computers, keep up with his ears as the cabin pressurization changed, and watch
out for floating objects as the fast descent created some negative Gs, almost
like being weightless. Franken kept an eye on Lindsey—if she was going to hurl,
it would be now. But she was wearing her combat face now, and nothing would
interfere with it—he hoped.

 
          
The
pilot’s side of the instrument panel had
three sixteen
-color multifunction displays (MFDs) that
showed the route of flight, flight instruments, engine instruments, and system
status readouts; Franken could switch between the displays with simple voice
commands. Three more MFDs in the center instrument panel had fuel, electrical,
hydraulic, pneumatic, threat, and weapon status readouts, with conventional
backup instruments and gauges underneath. The mission commander’s instrument
panel was dominated by a supercockpit display, a huge one-by-two- foot computer
screen that showed a variety of information, all selected by the mission
commander and controlled by voice commands or by a trackball on the right side.
Two more MFDs on either side of the supercockpit display showed systems
readouts and warning messages.

 
          
Their
course was depicted on Lindsey’s display as a roadway, with the road as the
computer-recommended altitude. Symbols showed known and detected threats and
obstacles. Two large upside-down green cones either side of course represented
the search radars in eastern
Libya
, with the “roadway” threading precisely
between and underneath the edges of the cones; more cones represented Egyptian
and naval search radars. Colored symbols all along the Libyan coastline
represented the location of known antiaircraft threat sites, but so far none
were active.

 
          
“Our
first threat is an SA-10 site,
two o’clock
, forty miles,” Lindsey reported. “We should
be underneath it in five minutes. We’ve got two Egyptian Roland sites at
eleven o’clock
—search radars only. We should be outside
detection range.
Egypt
also has a Patriot site at extreme range,
nine o’clock
, fifty miles—we should be well clear. No
fighters detected yet. LADAR coming on—our course is clear so far. We might
have Libyan fighters at
three o’clock
, seventy miles—they’re moving pretty fast,
but they don’t have radars on so we can’t identify yet.” Lindsey kept up a
constant litany of reports and observations. Although Franken had all that
information right in front of him as well, it was reassuring to hear Lindsey
reciting it all—two pairs of eyes scanning the instruments was always better
than one, especially when the action got hot and heavy.

 
          
The
computer-generated “road” started to rise up to meet the aircraft depiction on
their navigation displays, so both crew members monitored the level-off
carefully. They performed a fast terrain-following system check, verified that
everything was working normally. They were over water right now, forty miles
off the Libyan coast. The Libyan coastal air defense sites were all around
them, but right now they were quiet—no radar emissions at all.

 
          
“Want
to step it down, Bud?” Lindsey asked.

 
          
Franken
studied the threat display. They knew the position of the nearest SA-10 site—it
just wasn’t transmitting yet. At two thousand feet, they were right at the edge
of lethal coverage at this range. They could descend well below the missile’s
engagement envelope, but then risk being heard from the ground. Only government
and military aircraft were allowed to fly at night over
Libya
, and a big plane like a B-52 flying low to
the ground well away from an airport would certainly attract attention. “Let’s
leave it here for now,” Franken replied. “We’ll give it a few minutes and
then—”