If the tests tonight proved out, the U.S. would be a long way toward perfecting the continental missile defense system. And if it worked, it would free up assets normally occupied with mutual assured destruction, or MAD, to concentrate on the war on terrorism.
Coyote entered the compartment, and Strain moved quietly to a corner. That was another thing about the newly promoted lieutenant that Lab Rat liked, his ability to fade into the background until he was needed. Hard to do when you were Strain’s size, too.
“Your people ready?” Coyote asked. “I got to tell you, there’s a lot more riding on this test now than there was a few hours ago.”
Lab Rat ran his hand over his scalp, feeling the small bristles poking into his palm. “It’ll work. It’s got to.”
“You sound sure about that.”
“I am, Admiral.”
“Well.” Coyote stared at the computer screen showing the relative positions of all the ships in this part of the ocean. The symbols formed a neat geometric pattern on the screen, courses and speed represented by speed leaders. Too bad reality wasn’t as orderly. “The sooner we get it over with, the better I’ll feel. Especially when we COD the civilians off the ship.” He glanced over at Lab Rat. “They’re a pain in the ass.”
“Yes, Admiral. But they own the gear until we sign off on the formal acceptance of it.”
Coyote waved him off irritably. “I know, I know. As much as we’ve paid them for developing the damn thing, you think they’d be easier to get along with.” The defense contractors had been cluttering up the flag mess for weeks.
“We’ll know tonight, Admiral. As soon as it tests sat, I’ll have them secure all the gear and pack up their stuff. We’ll have them out on the next COD.”
Coyote stared moodily at the screen. “Yeah, I know.” He stood and stretched, feeling the long hours seeping into his bones. “The sooner the better. DESRON wants the ASW module back, and the techs are bitching about the power distribution panels and the new wiring harnesses, and the chief engineer is going hermitile over the voltage drop in there. That shit draws a hell of a lot of power.”
“First COD,” Lab Rat promised.
“Let’s hope that’s soon enough. Call me if there are any changes.” Coyote took one last look at the tactical plot before leaving.
Strain moved quietly to Lab Rat’s side. “I’ll go through the pre-op checklist again, sir.”
Lab Rat shook his head. “No. We’re ready. If you really want to do something useful—”
“Yes, sir.”
“—then go check on the COD availability. I have a feeling the admiral’s going to be more interested in that than another checklist.”
Tombstone pulled his cherry red muscle car into the parking lot. The office building was typical of the structures that were home to a multitude of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits. The design had been modern fifteen years ago, when defense industry money seemed to be an endless stream of cash and new defense contractors and consultants would pop up overnight. It featured an impressive foyer replete with a waterfall and large plants, marbled floors and express elevators. The entire impression of the lobby was one of luxury.
Not so for the floors farther up the sixteen-story building. At least half had absolutely no windows. The target occupants required areas that could satisfy the Department of Defense regulations for security, and the building specifications required to house top secret material. Each floor was separated from the others by a layer of steel, and the concrete brick of the structure was designed to prevent eavesdropping and electronic surveillance.
The sixteenth floor was particularly secure. The rents charged were commensurate with the degree of security the floor afforded its occupants, and ranged from merely high to absolutely outrageous. Nevertheless, the building never had a shortage of potential renters for the sixteenth-floor facilities.
That Advanced Analysis had been able to obtain a small suite of rooms was something of a curiosity to the other occupants. Normally, one spent months, perhaps years on the waiting list. How it was that Advanced Analysis had managed to move in immediately just eight months ago was a mystery. No one had ever heard of them and no one had ever worked with them before their appearance on the scene.
A few of the more knowledgeable defense contractors quietly took note of that, along with the priority given to their tenancy, glanced at the sign-in log in the lobby, and noted that few visitors ever came to Advanced Analysis. And finally, they took in the occasional appearance of two very familiar faces in the passageway and elevators: retired Admiral Thomas Magruder and his nephew, retired Vice Admiral Matthew Magruder.
While other defense contractors speculated on Advanced Analysis’s projects and complained about their intrusion into the sixteenth floor — one small computer company had wanted the spaces to expand their own operations — the wiser among them kept their collective mouths shut. They had seen this before and knew what it meant, more often in the bad old days of the Cold War than now, but the pattern was all too familiar. In all probability, Advanced Analysis was not a normal aspiring defense contractor. Not with those two men involved. Advanced Analysis was most probably a front for the CIA or perhaps another agency with an interest in certain special operations. There were always things that needed doing that no one in the established military structure wanted to be responsible for. Sure, they recognized the necessity, even suggested particular operations, but when it came down to committing forces to the operations, the enthusiasm evaporated.
The outer office and lobby of Advanced Analysis was done in traditional colors and style. Mauve and sky blue predominated, with modern pictures composed of interesting fabrics and textures gracing the walls. The waiting room had several comfortable chairs, a plastic and slightly dusty small tree in one corner, and a few outdated magazines carefully arranged on the side tables. It gave little evidence of ever being used.
To date, Advanced Analysis had only four employees: the two Magruders, another Tomcat pilot named Jeremy Greene, and a receptionist, Janice Hall. Greene was technically a civilian, and had accepted a discharge from the Navy with the understanding that if he left Advanced Analysis he would be immediately recalled to active duty. Hall was a quiet, sharp woman, adept at maintaining the outer facade of the company. She fielded incoming calls, collected the resumes dropped off by job hunters and kept the small refrigerator stocked. Of the four, only Hall had regular hours. The other three worked insane hours when a mission was prepping and stood down between missions.
Tombstone had just returned from two weeks in Africa. There had been some indications that his wife, the former Tomboy Flynn, had been taken there as a prisoner following her ejection at sea. Tomboy, as the commanding officer of VF 95, had punched out when her aircraft was fatally damaged.
A month before, a Navy captain had risked her career to provide him with photo-intelligence shots of a rebel camp. In one of them, Tombstone could clearly make out Tomboy’s face, lifted up toward the sky. It was a procedure that all aviators were taught, to expose their faces to the sky in hopes that a satellite or reconnaissance aircraft would be able to identify them. Analysis indicated that she was probably at a rebel camp in Africa. Tombstone had few contacts in the area, but that did not prevent him from going there personally and imposing on every possible government official to gain access to the interior.