Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  Thoughtfully, the FBI man nodded to himself.

  “Trouble on the number one engine, Boomer,” Rogers said abruptly. Both men swung toward him. “I’ve got a shutdown indicator,” the gray-haired remote pilot reported. His voice was remarkably relaxed. His fingers flew across his displays and controls. “Boosting power on number two and cutting back on three and four. I’m going for an emergency engine restart.”

  “Christ,” Boomer muttered. He turned around again, staring out the control-tower window. There, far off in the distance, the XCV-62, now wobbling visibly, disappeared behind another jagged ridge. The numbers on the electronic data block were unwinding at a rapid pace. He glanced back at Rogers. “You’d better abort, Tom,” he said worriedly. “Get some altitude and then bring her straight back to the barn.”

  “Roger, Boomer,” Rogers told him. His eyes were narrowed, quickly flicking back and forth between his displays, but his voice was calm and measured. “Number two’s gone now,” he said a few moments later, as matter-of-fact as if he was telling his wife that her toast had just popped out of the toaster. “Fuel pressure dropping. I’ve got failure readings on both the primary and secondary port-wing fuel pumps. My airspeed and altitude are both dropping fast.” There was a moment of strained silence. Boomer and Sattler watched in horror as more and more red indicators started to blink, and then they heard computerized terrain warnings . . . but only for a few seconds, and then Rogers breathed, “Oh, shit.”

  A bright flash erupted from behind a ridge off to the west, lighting up the rapidly dimming sky for a brief moment. Low-light TV sensors automatically zoomed in to the area.

  The remote pilot looked up from his console with a sour expression. “LOS, Boomer. Sorry.”

  “LOS?” Sattler asked. “What’s that?”

  “Loss of signal,” Boomer said tiredly. “Tom, dump the telemetry to the secure server, then get up, take a break, and start making notes about your session. Not your fault, dude.”

  “What ‘secure server,’ Doc?” Sattler interjected. “You can’t withhold anything from us, Boomer.”

  “Relax, Sattler,” Boomer spat, obviously upset. “I’m not withholding shit from you. The standard procedure is to collect all of our telemetry data and store it. The storage is secure, but it doesn’t mean it’s restricted. I can grant access to anyone.”

  “I want access as soon as it’s uploaded, Boomer,” Sattler said. “I want immediate access.”

  “I need to make sure I have the data first, Sattler,” Boomer said. “Then I’ll pass it out. But I need to know I have it all first.”

  “That’s not how it works, Boomer,” Sattler said. “When you get it, I get it. That’s the deal. You know it; I know it. Do it. What you have, I have, all of it, right now. Clear?”

  He nodded toward the pillar of black smoke now curling up from behind the distant ridge on the monitors. “I just crashed a hundred-million-dollar prototype, Sattler,” Boomer said, his voice breaking and his eyes distant. “I just lost a hundred mil. You want to share some of that loss? Be my friggin’ guest.”

  XCV-62 RANGER CRASH SITE, WEST OF BATTLE MOUNTAIN

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  FBI special agent Raymond Sattler swallowed hard as the twin-engine Bell 412 helicopter tilted sharply, circling low over the floodlit crash site. Always uneasy in the air, he found this hurried flight high into the craggy, pitch-black foothills west of Battle Mountain nerve-racking. Seeing Hunter Noble’s grim features did nothing to calm his fears. Even knowing the Sky Masters aerospace-engineering chief was probably more worried about losing his job than he was about dying in a helicopter wreck wasn’t much comfort.

  A pattern of five small green beacons appeared ahead through the cockpit windscreen.

  Sattler heard their pilot though the headphones he’d been given before takeoff. “I have the LZ in sight. Hang tight, guys. This may be a little bumpy.”

  Oh, swell, the FBI agent thought.

  Slowing fast, the Bell helicopter flared in and landed on a rutted dirt track that ran along the ridge, close to where the Sky Masters stealth aircraft had crashed. It bounced once on its skids and then settled. Up front, in the cockpit, the pilot flicked a few switches. Immediately both engines began whining down.

  Following Noble, Sattler climbed out of the helicopter and moved off into the darkness, climbing uphill toward an array of dazzling lights marking the downed aircraft. A chill wind out of the northwest seemed to cut right through the jacket he’d borrowed. Clouds were rolling in, gradually blotting out the stars.

  The portable lights rigged up by Sky Masters emergency crews revealed a tangle of blackened, smoldering wreckage strewn across the slope. Men and women in silvery fire proximity suits moved through the debris field, using handheld extinguishers to put out small blazes or taking pictures and making notes.

  To the FBI agent’s untrained eye, it looked as though the batwinged stealth plane had slammed nose first into the ground and then exploded. He turned toward Hunter Noble. “Shouldn’t your guys wait to start checking things out until one of the NTSB’s investigative teams gets here?” The National Transportation Safety Board’s “Go Teams” were groups of specialists charged with investigating major aviation accidents. Members on the duty rotation were expected to be reachable twenty-four hours a day, ready to head to any crash site as fast as possible.

  Noble shook his head. “The NTSB won’t be investigating this crash.”

  Sattler frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because its investigators don’t have the necessary security clearances, Agent Sattler,” the other man said, with a sigh. He nodded toward the wreckage. “We built that XCV-62 with advanced stealth materials and dozens of other top-secret components. There’s no possible way DoD could vet the NTSB guys in time.”

  The FBI agent nodded slowly, knowing he was right. Obtaining Top Secret security clearances could take between four and eight months. “Okay, then why not call in an accident team from the Defense Department? They must have specialists with the right clearances.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Hunter Noble agreed. He shrugged his shoulders gloomily. “But the Ranger wasn’t flying as part of an active military procurement program or competition.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “It means the Pentagon won’t waste a dime figuring out why the XCV-62 augured in,” Noble said. “As far as they’re concerned, we just lost an aircraft they never asked us for anyway. All they’ll care about is that we secured the site and recovered every piece of our stealth materials and technology.”

  “What about your corporate insurer?” Sattler asked. “They’ll demand an impartial investigation, won’t they?”

  The other man smiled wryly. “Nobody insures experimental prototypes, Agent Sattler. Not at prices anyone wants to pay. Even Lloyd’s of London laughs in our face, and they insure dancer’s knees and opera singer’s vocal cords.” Moodily, he scuffed at the ground with his boots. “Nope. Nobody else is going to want a piece of this action. Not even the Lander County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Why not?” Sattler asked, confused.

  “Because the Ranger was unmanned, so nobody was hurt or killed in the wreck. On top of that, this is all Sky Masters–owned land,” Noble explained. He winced. “No, this was a bet we made all on our own. So now we get to try figuring out what went wrong . . . using our own money. Which is going to make the board of directors really, really unhappy.”

  FIFTEEN

  WOLF SIX-TWO, OVER UTAH’S GRAND STAIRCASE–ESCALANTE NATIONAL MONUMENT

  THAT SAME TIME

  Brad McLanahan couldn’t help grinning like a maniac as the XCV-62 swooped and soared, climbing and diving as it streaked low over a broken, bewildering landscape of canyons, cliffs, buttes, and mesas at 450 knots. “This must be the world’s longest roller-coaster ride,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Sweet, isn’t it?”

  “You do know how to show a girl a good time,” Nadia Rozek agree
d dryly. She was sitting in the cockpit’s right-hand seat, acting as his copilot and systems operator.

  Brad laughed. Like the XF-111 Super Varks he’d flown into combat last year, the Ranger prototype was equipped with a digital terrain-following system. Between the detailed maps stored in its onboard computers and short, periodic bursts from its radar altimeter, they could speed across the ground at an altitude of just two hundred feet—even in this otherwise baffling maze of natural wonders.

  He tweaked his stick slightly left, following the glowing visual cues displayed on his HUD. The Ranger banked slightly, racing past a sheer-walled mesa that rose high above them. It vanished astern in seconds.

  An icon began flashing on Nadia’s left-hand MFD. “We’re receiving an encrypted transmission via satellite,” she said crisply, tapping virtual “keys” on the display to decode the compressed signal. “Message reads: ‘I owe you twenty.’” Puzzled, she looked across the cockpit at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means our deception plan worked,” Brad said, with a sudden feeling of relief. “Boomer bet me ten bucks at two-to-one odds that it wouldn’t.”

  In truth, even though it had been his plan, he was almost surprised that they’d actually pulled it off. I must have shared more of Hunter Noble’s skepticism than I realized, he thought. In theory, setting up the fake crash had been comparatively simple and straightforward, but making it succeed in real life had required precise timing . . . and depended far more on luck than was usually wise.

  First, they’d loaded up a C-130 with an assortment of aircraft components—bits and pieces from earlier XCV-62 mock-ups, four turbofan engines of the right make, and a couple of impact-resistant drop tanks full of fuel and rigged with command-detonated explosives. Then, while the real Ranger taxied out of Hangar Five, supposedly “remote-piloted” by Tom Rogers, the Hercules had flown low over a preselected point out of sight of McLanahan Airport and dumped the “wreckage” out of its cargo hold.

  Once that was done and the real XCV-62 was in the air, the rest was comparatively easy. Brad had pretended to lose power to one of their engines and dropped behind the ridge. Triggering the explosive-rigged drop tanks after they’d flown past the crash site had created a nifty fireball, making it look as though the Ranger had slammed straight into the ground.

  Nothing about their phony crash would have fooled an experienced accident investigation team. Not for very long, anyway. But Brad had insisted it would look convincing enough to fool the FBI agents keeping tabs on Sky Masters’ activities, and it seemed he’d been right about that.

  The navigation cues on his HUD slid sideways, indicating the start of their planned turn to the south-southeast. He toggled the stick, following the glowing cues until they were centered again.

  “Next stop, a scenic stretch of sand across the border in Mexico,” Brad announced.

  Nadia checked her computer-generated map. They were heading for an improvised airstrip and refueling point set up by Scion operatives deep in the desolate Chihuahuan desert. From there, they would fly south across Mexico and then on to a tiny airfield on Colombia’s Pacific coast, where they would fuel again and grab some much-needed crew rest.

  She clenched her jaw. They were still half a world and more than twenty hours of total flight time away from her besieged homeland. Although she’d been frantically busy trying to learn the systems of this remarkable Sky Masters aircraft, she’d seen enough news to know that her country’s situation was going from bad to worse with every passing day. Her parents assured her they were safe and well, but how much longer could that last as the Russians systematically crippled piece after piece of Poland’s vital infrastructure?

  OFFICE OF JASON RICHTER, SKY MASTERS AEROSPACE, INC., BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

  THAT SAME TIME

  Sky Masters CEO Jason Richter opened the door to his office and saw that all the lights were on and all of his window blinds were drawn tight. His mouth thinned. So he had company.

  He went in, not entirely surprised to find Kevin Martindale already there waiting for him. As usual, the former president was accompanied by a hulking bodyguard.

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home, Mr. President,” Richter said pointedly. “Too bad I didn’t know you’d be dropping by tonight or I would have arranged for some refreshments.”

  Martindale smiled. “You have my apologies, Dr. Richter,” he said, with a perfunctory shrug. “But I thought it best to keep a very low profile on this visit. Since I suspect you would prefer to avoid any unnecessary federal entanglements, that’s as much for your company’s sake as it is for my own.”

  The Scion chief glanced at his bodyguard. “You can wait outside, Carl. Mr. Richter may be irritated with me, but he is not homicidal.”

  The big man nodded silently and left, closing the door behind him.

  “Where do you find those guys?” Richter asked. “Goons ‘R’ Us? Rent-a-Praetorian?” Martindale ignored his crack. He settled himself in one of the office chairs. Sighing to himself, Richter did the same. “Okay, Mr. President,” he asked. “What can I do for you?”

  “Now that the XCV-62 is safely on its way, I wanted to discuss our other big problem,” Martindale replied.

  “Patrick McLanahan,” Richter realized. The other man nodded. Richter grimaced. “I’ve been analyzing the biometric data you’ve sent me over the past week or so.”

  “And?”

  “I could have e-mailed you my findings,” Richter said quietly.

  “Certainly,” Martindale agreed. His expression was somber. “But let’s just say that I would prefer to hear bad news about a close friend and longtime colleague in person.” He looked up. “And the news is bad, isn’t it?”

  Richter nodded slowly. “Yes, it is.” He frowned. “There’s no way to sugarcoat this, so here goes: I’m certain the general is in grave danger. As is everyone around him.”

  “In what way, exactly?” the other man pressed.

  “Piloting a Cybernetic Infantry Device may be keeping the general alive and physically healthy, but I believe it’s also inflicting more and more psychological damage on him,” Richter said flatly. “The mental strain and emotional impairment involved in living entirely inside a machine, without real, meaningful human contact, has to be enormous.” He shook his head. “We designed CIDs for combat use, not as permanent habitats. Except for Patrick McLanahan, no human being has ever run one for more than twenty-four hours straight. So I have precisely zero data to use as a comparison.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Martindale said.

  Richter nodded. “Just so you understand that I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, Mr. President. My background is in cutting-edge engineering, especially robotics—not in medicine or psychiatry.”

  “Consider your stipulations and caveats accepted,” Martindale told him. “But medical doctor or not, you know more about CIDs and the stresses involved in piloting them than anyone else in the world.” Slowly, reluctantly, Richter dipped his head, acknowledging the other man’s point. “Is Patrick McLanahan insane?” Martindale asked bluntly.

  “Not yet,” Richter said. “At least not completely.” He shook his head. “But I’d say he’s headed that way. And fast.”

  He looked squarely at the other man. “I found evidence in the data you supplied that the general is overriding the CID’s health-monitoring software. He’s deliberately preventing the robot from stabilizing his brain and body chemistry more and more often.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?” Martindale asked.

  “My guess would be that General McLanahan believes he benefits from faster reaction times and reflexes.”

  “And does he?”

  “In combat? Sure,” Richter said. “But over the longer term, screwing around with your body chemistry and neurotransmitters like he’s doing is pure, unadulterated poison.”

  Martindale sat silent for a moment, absorbing this news. “What can we do to stop this from happening?” he asked
at last. “To keep him sane?”

  “You have to pull him out of the robot,” Richter said matter-of-factly. “And soon. Because if you wait too long, you’re liable to have a hell of a mess on your hands.” His expression was grim. “Imagine what could happen if General McLanahan lost the ability to control his emotions. Or to distinguish between friends and foes.” He saw Martindale wince, obviously visualizing the political damage Scion and the whole Alliance of Free Nations would suffer if it became clear that one of their vaunted combat robots was in the hands of a madman.

  “But if we pull him out of the CID, he’ll die,” the Scion chief pointed out grimly.

  Richter nodded. “Yes.” He frowned. “Or he may just slip into a permanent vegetative state.”

  “Which is as close to death as makes no real difference,” Martindale said.

  “True,” Richter agreed.

  Martindale scowled. “And we have no other option? There’s nothing else we can try first?”

  Richter hesitated, unsure of whether or not he should go any further down the road that had suddenly popped into his mind. Ethically speaking, experimenting with people’s lives without their permission was strictly taboo. On the other hand, he thought, what did Patrick McLanahan really have to lose? He was pretty sure that the general would never knowingly want to risk losing his mind and putting others in danger.

  “There is an alternative, isn’t there?” Martindale said, watching his face.

  “There may be,” Richter admitted slowly. “But it’s one hell of a long shot.”

  Martindale eyed him carefully. “I submit that our mutual friend’s situation may be bleak enough to warrant taking chances. Even extreme chances,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve kind of been tinkering around with something new,” Richter said slowly, frowning in thought. “Although really the device I’m working on is more for the civilian medical market. As far as I can tell, there aren’t any military applications that make sense.”