Tombstone wished he were on the Jefferson. Things were escalating out there; the latest word was that a PLA destroyer had been damaged by an explosion in Victoria Harbor, and the Chinese immediately accused the United States of planting a mine. It was a messy situation, and getting messier.
But at least you knew who your enemies were.
Tombstone had been grilled for a half hour now — or, rather, been warmed up for grilling by being asked to clarify a few points from his preliminary report.
There was a moment of silence, then the man in the suit leaned across the table. “Tell me, Admiral,” he said. “Who do you think might want to shoot you down that way? Not in combat, but over American soil?”
“Shoot me down?” Tombstone raised one eyebrow. “Well, let’s see. The North Koreans, the Chinese, the Russians, the Ukrainians, the Indians, the Cubans, the — ”
The man in the suit held up a hand and smiled blandly. Everything about him was bland. “You miss my point. This wasn’t a normal terrorist-style attack, or even a military assault. There are conventional surface-to-air missiles that could have done the job.”
“Not to mention car bombs,” the DARPA kid said. He had his tennis shoes propped on the armrest of a vacant seat. “Or a bullet in the back of the head while you’re asleep in your bed.”
Tombstone looked at him, then back at the suit. “Maybe the wreckage from the bogey will tell you something. There must be something left. I assume you’ve found it.”
“That’s being taken care of,” the Air Force rep said.
The Navy rep scowled. “Don’t be coy, Foster. He’ll figure it out soon enough on his own; plus we owe him as much information as we can spare. It was his ass on the line yesterday. Could happen again tomorrow.” He transferred his blue gaze to Tombstone. “We found the impact site, yes. We’re in the process of recovering the wreckage now, but it’s a hell of a job working in that muck. Especially with environmental groups screaming to high heaven in the background. Could take a while.”
Tombstone nodded. “Thank you.” He looked back at the suit. “Surely there aren’t that many governments capable of building an RPV like that. Maybe the CIA could narrow down our list of suspects for us.”
The suit shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Now, what about markings? Did this vehicle have any kind of national or manufacturer emblems on it? Words? Symbols?”
“It was moving a little fast to be sure, but no, I didn’t notice anything like that. Just marine camo paint.”
“And it didn’t resemble any aircraft or missile you’re familiar with, is that right? You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. It not only didn’t look like anything I’m familiar with, it didn’t fly like anything I’m familiar with. You’ve got a drawing of it right in front of you; what’s it look like to you?”
“A paper airplane with another paper airplane stuck up its ass,” the DARPA kid said. He poked at his copy of the drawing. “My question is, what makes you so sure this was a Remotely Piloted Vehicle in the first place?”
Tombstone frowned. “Do you see a cockpit there? Or any room for one? Also, I repeat: This bogey’s flight characteristics were well outside the envelope of survivability for a human pilot.”
“Unless the pilot were prone,” the Air Force rep said. “The human body can take a lot of extra g’s that way. Jack Northrop once developed a flying wing fighter like that.”
“Which crashed during a test flight,” the DARPA kid said, still poking at his drawing.
Tombstone shook his head. “This aircraft was unmanned, gentlemen. Based on the way it was flying, I assume it was remotely piloted as well.”
“Piloted from where?” the kid asked. “An RPV isn’t like a radio-controlled model, you know; you’d have to have some kind of command post, a power supply…”
Tombstone frowned at him. Two years ago this kid was probably building plastic model airplanes; now he worked for DARPA, the government agency responsible for dreaming up the military’s most exotic hardware: the SR-71 spy plane, the F-117 Stealth Fighter and the B-2 Bomber, not to mention fiascos like Star Wars. And who knew what else? A vast slurry of DARPA’s funding came out of the “black budget,” money protected from Congressional oversight.
“Maybe the command post was on a boat,” he said. “How’s that? There were plenty of large pleasure and fishing craft around. Or didn’t you read my report?”
“Not really. Not enough pictures.”
Tombstone leaned forward. “Tell me something, young man. Do you fly airplanes?”
“Not the kind I have to actually get into.”
“Then I suggest you keep your smart-ass comments to yourself, you little twerp.”
“Whoa.” The kid sat up. “Whoa. Whoa.”
“You want to be flippant,” Tombstone said coldly, “that’s fine. After you’ve flown against an unidentified aircraft that’s trying to knock you out of the sky, shoot off your mouth all you want. Until then, if you don’t have something constructive to say, shut up.”
The kid looked around the table. No one came to his defense. He sat there blinking behind his glasses, then slumped deeper in his chair and picked up his pencil. Started doodling on the bogey drawing. “Whatever,” he muttered.
“This brings us back to what’s supposed to be the main point of this briefing,” the Navy rep said. “Admiral Magruder, even if we’re able to reconstruct something useful from the vehicle’s wreckage, we’ll still need your impressions about how the thing actually flew.”
“And how you got away from it.” The Air Force rep picked up his copy of Tombstone’s report. “It says here you started turning snap rolls. Are you sure you don’t mean barrel rolls?”
“I know the difference, Colonel. No, it was snap rolls. They seemed to disorient it.”
“Disorient it?” the Air Force rep said.
“That’s right. It would be tracking me, I’d start snap-rolling, and the bogey would miss. Then it would start circling and come back at me again.”
The Air Force rep glanced at the DARPA kid, who just kept doodling on his drawing of the bogey without looking up.
“Perhaps I should be asking these questions,” the Navy rep said. “The Admiral and I are both Naval aviators. We speak the same language.”
“I’m sure you do,” the Air Force rep said. “But since the Navy doesn’t have an RPV program, I think I’m better qualified to determine the flight characteristics of — ”
“Nothing!” the DARPA kid shouted. He raised his face, lips curled in scorn. “Remember the Mig-29? Remember how American military intelligence, that famous oxymoron, didn’t believe the Soviets could possibly produce a truly competitive all-weather fighter? Oops! What a big surprise.” He fixed his gaze on Tombstone’s face. “Admiral, you want some advice? Here’s some advice: Don’t go flying again until I examine what’s left of your bogey. And one other thing.”
“What’s that?” Tombstone asked in a flat voice.
The kid smiled. “I’d carry a gun if I were you. Somebody’s got it out for you real bad.”