"It is a problem," admitted Jaeger. "But we have some of the best people at Livermore looking at it. We'll have an answer…"
"…real soon now," completed Fitzduane. He got to his feet. "Unreal," he said, and left the room.
Calvin Wellbourne saluted. "Colonel," he said.
Fitzduane looked around. No one saluted on the team. Either Calvin had been out in the sun too long or some conventional green army type had sneaked in. Bad news either way. This was supposed to be a restricted area, and just because you had rank did not entitle you to access.
There was no one there. He turned back to face Calvin. He was still saluting.
"Are you feeling all right, Calvin?" said Fitzduane, concerned. He did not want to lose the man.
"You put your hand up to your forehead and bring it down again, Colonel," said Calvin, "otherwise I'm stuck like this indefinitely."
Fitzduane acknowledged the salute.
He smiled. "Calvin, you're up to something. You never salute."
"This is a historic day, Colonel. I'm going to fly."
"Well, of course you are, Calvin," said Fitzduane benevolently. "I can see your wingtips sprouting as we speak."
"This way, Colonel," Calvin beckoned.
He followed Calvin.
A long U-shaped tube stood outside. Under the tube was a ruggedized wheeled suspension. If Fitzduane had been told it was a car trailer specially designed to carry something long and thin like a canoe, he would have believed it. As it was, the damn thing looked extremely unlikely to fly. There was nothing around that looked remotely like a pair of wings.
"Hop in, boss," said Calvin, climbing into the passenger seat of the Guntrack that was linked to the tube. Fitzduane climbed in beside him and Calvin took off in the aggressive style that had become normal for many mobile operations in the Guntracks. Either you were creeping along silently in stealth mode or else it was foot to the floor and taking the concept of maneuver warfare all too literally.
"We've got to put a sick bag in these things," said Fitzduane as they hit a bump and Guntrack and trailer rocketed into the air and then crashed to the ground.
The ride continued, and then Calvin slewed to a halt in open space.
"The point," said Calvin, "is that the aircraft and trailer are robust. They are designed for this kind of unfriendly treatment. But would you believe me? No sir! So I had to demonstrate it. Believe me, boss, these things are tough! MilSpec is not in it. This aircraft is designed for the real world where shit happens. Bang them, bash them, shoot holes in them, and they still fly. Outstanding aircraft, wouldn't you say, sir?"
Fitzduane tried to catch his breath. "Possibly," he said, "if I could see an aircraft."
"Ah!" said Calvin. He leaped out of the vehicle and ran around behind the long trailer. The process was rather like assembling a frame tent, only faster. The entire happening took only about five minutes. At the end, there was a rigid fabric wing kept taut by stiffeners, and slung below it on poles a two-person open cockpit with a triangular suspension. A pusher propeller – which meant that the propeller was behind the occupants – provided power.
"Hop in," said Calvin.
"I don't like aircraft," said Fitzduane. "I'll jump out of them no problem, but I fly in them as little as possible. Further, Calvin, I'm far from sure this even qualifies as an aircraft. It looks like something your grandmother knitted. Jesus, the wings are scarcely tied to the superstructure. This thing is full of holes. It's a horrible device."
Calvin looked hurt. "Colonel, it works. It has a wing, something to sit in, and an engine. What more can you want?"
To stay on the ground, Fitzduane thought firmly. But then he weakened. Calvin looked depressed.
Fitzduane climbed gingerly into the pointed baby bath that passed as a cockpit. The side came up to his lower hip. If he sneezed, he was going to fall out. Why did people invent these things! He looked for a safety harness and found one with relief and clipped it on. This maniac was probably going to loop the loop. He thought about parachutes, but it was too late.
"Tally-ho!" shouted Calvin. Fitzduane flinched as the propeller cut in behind them, and seconds later they were airborne. They had needed minimal runway. It was remarkable. Up they climbed like a rocket in slow motion.
"This thing is all wing," said Calvin into the boom microphone attached to his helmet. "Phenomenal lift – but because the wing is made of fabric coated with radar-absorbent material, there is almost no radar signature."
"Speed?" said Fitzduane.
"Well, it's not exactly an F-16," admitted Calvin. "Say, eighty kliks flat out. But speed and acceleration are not the idea. This is an aerial advantage you can carry with you. Open the trailer, clunk-click, and you are airborne. Simplicity itself. Better yet, there is a miniature FLIR, and if you want to fly solo, you can carry some firepower."
"Can you silence the engine?" said Fitzduane.
"Sure," said Calvin. He flicked a switch and the decibel level dropped dramatically. "You lose some power, but if we were flying at night, we would be inaudible – and invisible – above a thousand feet."
Fitzduane was silent. This beast was terrifying, but it was interesting. It would be more interesting still if they could land in one piece.
"Let's head for the floor," he said.
"In a few minutes," said Calvin. "First, Colonel, I've just got to show you what this baby can really do." He sideslipped and then put the baby aircraft into a steep dive. Seconds later they were flying upside down.
"This is horrible," shouted Fitzduane. "And what the fuck use is it being upside down?"
There was a long pause, and then suddenly they were the right way up again. "I never thought about that," said Calvin.
17
Fitzduane slowed to a halt, stood absolutely still, and then seemed to merge with the surrounding trees.
He had been running for an hour in full camouflaged fatigues and combat equipment, and despite the relative chill of the predawn air, he was drenched in sweat.
He wanted to wipe his face.
He remained immobile, his Calico submachine gun now ready to fire. There was a hundred-round magazine on the weapon and six more in his load-bearing vest. He was carrying a further arsenal in his belt pouches. Training so heavily loaded was not the most comfortable way to start the day, but the unit trained hard and the tone was set from the top.
People normally noticed movement itself before identifying what it was that was moving.
What had he seen?
There was some light in the sky, but the tree cover made visibility at ground level a somewhat inexact business. It was somewhat better in the clearing, but not much.
There was another quick movement, and Fitzduane focused in on it.
There was a tree stump in the tree line at the edge of the clearing roughly facing the entrance to his hut.
Someone was sitting on it, almost completely concealed by the surrounding trees. If he had not moved, Fitzduane would probably to, he considered, have seen him.
A threat? Not only were they inside the perimeter of Grant Lamar's Son Tay estate, but there was additional security around the training camp itself. Further, a potential attacker would not normally sit on a tree stump, albeit under some cover.
Still. A visual decoy was an old trick. You saw the one and forgot to consider the others.
At that moment, the figure stood up and stretched. Then it turned around to look in Fitzduane's direction.
The face was hideous, distorted, grotesque.
Then a hand came up and peeled the face away.
It was Grant Lamar, as elegantly dressed as always, the night-vision goggles dangling from his hand. He was smiling as he handed Fitzduane an envelope.