Hal Briggs replaced the phone in its cradle and turned to General Elliott, who was watching the landing through binoculars from on top of the portable control tower. “Those Russian birds are still several minutes from their flyby,” he said. “Good thing our guys landed early—”
“The hell it is. They even knew when the test was supposed to terminate. If they had landed on time the satellite would’ve been right there taking pictures and there’d be nothing we could do about it.” He ran his fingers through silver hair that, Briggs noted, seemed to grow thinner every year. He turned toward Briggs. “I want you to pull out all the stops, Major.” The tower controllers as well as Briggs caught Elliott’s ominous tone. “Do whatever you have to do to find the leak on this installation. You have an unlimited budget, unlimited resources, and very little damn time. Search anywhere and everywhere. Go off-base with federal authorities to investigate — I’ll back up whatever you do. I want answers, Briggs. Fast.”
Briggs knew that at least off-base activities needed huge amounts of cooperation, hard to come by, from state and federal law enforcement. He needed some clarification, but now wasn’t the time to ask for it.
Elliott thumbed the microphone on the command frequency. “Storm Flight, taxi without delay to parking. Over.”
“Lead.”
“Two.”
Ken James had been disconnected from his fighter and hoisted out of DreamStar’s cockpit. He was wheeled to an air-conditioned transfer van that drove McLanahan, Powell and him to the project headquarters, where the special flight suit was removed from James’ sweat-soaked body. The two test pilots went to the locker room nearby, said not a word to each other. They were dressing when Patrick McLanahan walked up to them. “Both of you are off flying status as of right now.”
James exploded. “What?” There was panic mixed in with outrage, but it belonged to Maraklov the agent, not to Ken James the pilot. Lately Maraklov had felt his alter ego taking over — this pronouncement jolted him back, some …
“There’s a difference between evaluating the aircraft and pushing the limits to the danger level. You two cross it every time you fly together. I’m grounding you both until I figure out what to do about it.”
“Then give me another chase pilot,” James said quickly. “Canceling all flying isn’t the answer, Colonel.”
“You’re assuming that Powell is the problem,” and he started to walk away.
“There are a dozen guys who can fly Cheetah,” James said behind him. McLanahan turned. “There’s only one who can fly DreamStar. Me.” James realized how this sounded and tried to soft pedal … “The project doesn’t have to suffer, sir. I think we can continue …”
“Listen, hotshot, I’ve got six guys training to fly DreamStar. I’d rather put this project on hold for eight months until they’re ready than risk that machine and this project. You read me?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry …” Six guys, eight months … More of a shock … time was running out …
“Meet me in my office at two o’clock, both of you. The data tapes should be ready to review by then. General Elliott might be interested in what they show.”
Patrick McLanahan was waiting for an elevator up to his office when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned irritably. “Yeah?”
“Charming,” Wendy Tork said. “Next time I’ll do that with a pole.”
He managed a grin and kissed her.
“Long day, Colonel?”
“You could say so.”
“You had an early morning go, didn’t you?”
The elevator arrived, and Wendy cut off the exchange, knowing that Patrick would not talk about his project in an unsecure elevator. She waited until they returned to Patrick’s office and he closed the door. An electronic grid in the walls and floor, she knew, would activate when that door closed, which would offset wiretapping or any other electronic eavesdropping.
He dropped into his chair. “I’ve got two pilots butting heads.”
“I like them both, but I can see both of them being very competitive.”
“At least James comes right out and says it. He’s an excellent pilot, and he’s the only one right now who can fly DreamStar. J.C. sits there putting on an innocent and contrite act, but he’s as big a show-off as James.” He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t afford to lose either one of them, but …”
“What will happen if you transfer either one of them?”
“I can get someone to fly Cheetah — hell, I’ve got enough hours, I could probably fly the thing. If I ground James, the project gets set back six months, maybe more. I told him I have people training on DreamStar. Who can be sure when or if they’ll be ready? I exaggerated some to take him down a bit. Brad Elliott will hit the roof. The security leaks — or what seem like security leaks — are already turning him sour.”
“Are you saying you’ll have to transfer or reassign J.C. if they don’t get along?”
“I suppose. But Ken knows he’s the only guy who can fly DreamStar. That would be like giving him a veto in almost every other matter that comes up during this project from here on. I ended up grounding both of them until I have a chance to talk to the general.”
Wendy smiled. “Eight years ago you were just a captain, responsible only for a radar scope in the belly of a B-52 bomber. Your big worry was your next emergency procedures test. Now, you’re a lieutenant colonel in charge of a hundred men and women and two of the hottest jets there are … We’ll put it all on hold for a few hours. I’m here to take you to lunch. You probably don’t have time to take the helicopter to Nellis, do you? General Elliott has got to have some decent restaurants built out in this desert.”
McLanahan grabbed his flight cap. “We’ve got time to take the Dolphin into Nellis if we hurry. I’m not expected back until—” The desk phone rang. He looked at it, then at Wendy.
“Let’s go.”
She smiled, shook her head. “You’d hate me in the morning.”
He picked it up. “McLanahan … Hi, Sergeant Clinton … The data tapes are ready now? … Yeah, we had some maneuvers that may have overstressed the canards … how bad? All right, I’ll be right down.” He dropped the phone back on its cradle. “I knew it. My two hotshots may have bent DreamStar some. I’ve got to take a look and prepare a report before this afternoon’s meeting.” He circled his desk, gave Wendy a hug and a kiss. “Rain check?”
“Anytime.” Especially on flying days, she reminded herself, dates were always crap shoots. She watched as Patrick hurried off.
“Wendy?”
She turned and found Captain Kenneth James standing behind her. His bright blue eyes sparkled, as usual. He was a head taller than Patrick, less broad-shouldered but still athletically built. They looked at each other for a moment. Be honest, Wendy Tork, she told herself, Ken James is a charmer. Plus he has a magnetism, a sort of masculine grace, and he’s not arrogant or cocky or condescending. He also had this way of making a woman feel special, as if he had been waiting all his life just to say hello to her.
She had met him eighteen months earlier when he first joined the High Tech Advanced Weapons Center at Dreamland. He wasn’t like many of the other jet jockeys in and around Nellis Air Force Base. Getting an assignment to HAWC was the top achievement for any young officer, and most new test pilots seemed not to be able to let you forget it. Not Ken James. He took the time not only to get to know senior officers but noncommissioned officers as well. He seemed just as interested in the engineering and technical parts of the job as the flying. He quickly established himself as the best pilot at HAWC … a scholar of flying and aerospace, not just a participant. Quite a package. And no wonder they had become good friends.