by Susan Slater
Hap was a little irked when his querulousness didn’t ruffle the general. If the truth were known, Hap was sick and tired of the “new” military. You had to take courses in interpersonal relations for God’s sake. Men were born leaders—either you were one or you weren’t. These guys were better suited to boardrooms, than in-the-field tactics. And all these warnings about what you could or couldn’t say—women this, minorities that. The military could hand down whatever edict it wanted concerning “special groups,” but the majority of old-timers would never change.
“Indian land is sovereign territory,” the general continued. “We do not have jurisdiction over this area. We are forced to tread softly, follow protocol, seek direction from the Indian leaders. It is our understanding that this area is sacred to the Navajo. These people have a proud history of service in the United States military—”
“So we’re just pussy-footing around waiting for the right moment to saunter over for a look-see? And whatever we find out tomorrow morning or next week will be just that much more stale for the waiting?” Hap continued his bullying.
“Not exactly.”
Hap marveled at the general’s constraint. He wasn’t sure he’d have that kind of patience.
The general took a deep breath before he added, “Bear with me on this. We may not have a thorough ground report, but we do have a preliminary one, and we’re lucky enough to have some aerial film that will help put the crash in perspective. Some of the shots aren’t half bad. Ready, John?”
The general signaled to the man in the projection booth behind the wall at Hap’s back. He proceeded to fold down the protruding neck of the overhead projector and scoot the machine to one side just as the lights in the room dimmed. A screen descended from the ceiling.
There was a “no smoking” sign on the back of the door but three people lit up anyway, their smoke hanging in the soft light, wavering upward in layers sucked ceiling-ward by the ventilation system. In times of stress, rules could be broken.
The crash site flickered across the screen, then steadied as the projectionist focused.
“Who’d you say filmed this?” Hap asked.
“Part of a TV crew out of Farmington. We have their tape. When they realized what they had, they got it to us right away. These guys came up with some pretty good footage—not that the tape doesn’t raise questions, but we’re lucky to have anything at all. This was plain ol’ blind luck. These jokers are flying around in a twin-engine Cessna trying to verify the report of a UFO some viewer had called in when they see what looks like a flare—apparently it was so short-lived, it took them a while to pinpoint the site.”
“Sounds like someone was alive out there,” a colonel in back noted.
“Initially. But this frame shows the plane and surrounding area. As you can see—John, blow up this shot for the group.” With a whine of equipment, the blackened mass in the center of the photo grew until the outline of an aircraft emerged. “Here and here you can make out the wing and cockpit of the F-117A. Due to the smoke it’s difficult to clearly see anything else …” The pointer tapped away on the screen. “Notice that fire is coming from the mid-section, the forward fuselage, and from this angle the underside of the fuselage.”
“Explosion upon impact?” Hap asked.
“We don’t think so. But more on that later. Let’s have the close-up of the cockpit.” Again the whine from in back of him and Hap saw a different, clearer view showing an empty cockpit nose cone intact. Almost intact, that is. Hap leaned forward. It looked like someone had taken a can opener to the metal skin, then neatly pulled it away from the forward fuselage in chunks. And the pilot? Hap couldn’t be sure but from the obscure grayness of the shot, it didn’t look like there was anyone in the cockpit. Before he could ask, the general pointed to what might have been a pair of legs, from the knees down, sticking out from under the plane at the bottom of the frame.
“This would appear to be feet; again, we presume they belong to the pilot. It would appear that he was able to reach the ground and release one flare before collapsing.”
The next series of shots had captured the plane engulfed in flames. As new and larger balls of fire were recorded on film, the F-117A seemed to melt frame by frame. The kid in the booth let the film run then quickly worked back through the shots until there was only billowing black smoke drifting across the desert.
The general stepped to the right of the screen. “From this point on, I don’t think there’s any new information. Nothing, that is, that will shed light on why we lost the plane. But that’s the singularly odd thing about all this. Other than the fighter being tipped on its side, there is no evidence of it impacting the earth—not in a way that would suggest a crash. John, hold on that shot, please.”
The general pulled out the pointer to its full extension. “For instance, there …” The tip of the pointer trailed along the lower left hand side of the screen under the mass that had been the fighter. “There’s no crater gouged out by contact.” The general paused to let this information sink in before he added, “The pictures seem to indicate a crash landing, maybe something intentional, possibly a fuel problem or some malfunction that gave the pilot time to assess his options and bring her down.”
The room erupted with rapid-fire questions.
“Are we assuming then that the pilot didn’t have time to get away? Leave the area before the plane went up?”
“Surely he would have known his options while in the air and once on the ground could have reacted accordingly.”
“Or was there a problem with the pilot in the first place—maybe leakage of toxic fumes and he was overcome?”
The assemblage was acting like a think tank, brainstorming their hypotheses.
“All possibilities, gentlemen,” the general said. “The one thing we can be thankful for is that this region is so remote. If we have to lose one, it might as well be out here—little or no threat to human life. We’re hoping we won’t have to deal with anyone succumbing to chemicals, anyway.”
General Stromburg shuffled some papers in front of him before picking up one sheet and clearing his throat.
“However, we can’t be certain about that. I’d like to add that we were able to deploy a single scout to verify what you’ve just seen, a little search and rescue mission that must be kept under wraps. We cannot, I repeat, cannot indicate to the leaders of the Navajo that we trespassed. We need their cooperation. This is not going to be a simple in/out investigation.
Hap blinked trying to adjust as the lights in the room came up. The general took a chair on the dais next to the audio-video control panel. His tightness of jaw belied his otherwise calm exterior.
He cleared his throat before adding, “The initial report of one person on the ground verifies the death of the pilot. We’ll dust the area in the morning with the Navajo’s permission, but the fire looks to have made easy answers impossible. The lab will have a challenge on their hands.” Then as an afterthought, “Oh yes, our boy found a pickup parked about fifty or sixty feet from the crash site. Engine was still warm, but no driver. The truck is registered to a Brenda Begay. Nothing turned up on a background check. However, we’re not taking any chances. We’ll try to locate her. Our guess is that she’s an eyewitness. But it’s also possible that this woman was injured.”
Hap tilted his head. “You don’t suspect any direct involvement?”
“You know the answer to that, Hap. Keep an open mind. At this point in time, there’s nothing to suggest that she was more than an innocent bystander. We found these school materials in the cab.” The general held up a spiral notebook and two texts. “Nothing in here to indicate she was anything but a student on her way home … wrong place, wrong time. Of course, we’ll want to interview her and possibly the family.”
Hap straightened. This made things sticky—a dangerous new wrinkle and one that was potentially damaging. One that could quickly put an end to tests over the reservation. An unaccounted for possible eyewitness
? What had she seen? Had she died trying to help?
The general leaned over to punch the button that would raise the screen then hesitated and asked, “Anyone want a repeat of any shots?”
“Rerun the beginning of the cape,” Rolly called out. Hap thought the general’s glance Rolly’s way was appreciative, a little knowing nod. The general also must have thought there was something to see in those initial frames.
John quickly stopped on the first frame, focused the equipment and then enlarged the shot. Once again the hazy cockpit of the fighter filled the screen.
“I’m not sure I really saw anything. Smoke seems to have risen level with the rubber seal on the canopy. But what about that bare spot in front?” Rolly asked.
“Good question. That sheared piece in front of the cockpit suggests that the pilot had some difficulty in the air.” The general added, “If he did lose a part of the forward fuselage, it would explain a lot. Hopefully, tests will get us closer to an answer. Wouldn’t you agree, Colonel Anderson?”
Hap nodded slowly. He knew what the general was getting at. This was the first test of the electronic package that boosted the plane into the next decade when it came to know-how, but if something went wrong there’d be no time for correction.
“Any timeframe for when we can have a closer look?” a colonel in the front row asked.
“As I said earlier, a lot depends on the Navajo. I’ll have a team out in the morning to talk with their leaders. In the meantime, I’ve asked Colonel Anderson to share with you just why this crash is such a loss.”
Hap reached for his briefcase. He’d given this same presentation a number of times—at the Pentagon, for the CEO’s of various companies, the biggies at the lab—all the time jockeying for an ironclad position in someone’s budget, someone who would see the potential, realize that this technology meant the difference between winning and losing in the future.
Hap walked to the back and handed John a disk—the top secret PowerPoint presentation. Now it was show time. His show. And it would be good, impressive; he knew that. And this was just one more part that he’d miss in retirement—the front and center attention. He paused for dramatic effect and then began.
“This could be a busman’s holiday for those of you who have had men go through the cockpit demonstrations here on base. We’ll continue to run groups through this training over the winter. But we’ve also started to incorporate certain aspects of the F-22 prototype electronics in F-117A fighters, and yes, the plane that was lost tonight was fully equipped with computer and display technology not previously tested in flight.” Hap poured a paper cup of water, took a sip and quietly added. “We cannot rule out the possibility that it was the equipment that caused the accident.”
Hap nodded at John in the control booth and turned to the screen now filled with three range models simulating an air battle. The left-hand mock-up was marked defense display, followed to the right by a tactical display and lastly, an attack display. Lines of red, blue, green and yellow sharply outlined the symbols that set up the playing field against a black background.
“This, gentlemen, is exactly what the pilot sees on his control panel. His onboard receivers collect radar signals from fighters in the area and any surface-to-air missiles or SAM sites are identified with a red pentagon.” Hap pointed to the two symbols in the first display window. “Not only are threats identified, but the distance at which those threats are likely to detect the F-22 is also calculated. I might add that the F-22 is not as stealthy side and rear, and the pilot needs to know this range to give him an advantage.”
“In the second panel you’ll see three targets on the hit list while over to the side these four aircraft are shown as ‘friendlies.’ We refer to this bit of heads-up information as ‘situational awareness,’ the ability to spot potential danger while it’s still out of range. I don’t need to tell you how this can separate the men from the boys and tip the old playing field in someone’s favor very quickly.”
Hap waited for the appreciative murmurs to die out then continued. “The best, however, is yet to come. In the far right panel, the attack display gives the pilot the data needed to take out a threat in a forty-mile range. The bar on the left shows the target’s altitude while the notches on this scale …” Hap ran the pointer down the right side of the screen. “This shows the maximum range of the F-22’s missiles and the distance at which he can fire and break away in safety. This graphic also gives a read on the range of the hostile missiles.” Hap paused and scanned the audience for questions before moving on. No questions and they were in the palm of his hand. What he was presenting impacted every person in the room. It felt good to be up front with all eyes center.
“You’ll notice that the display symbols differ in shape as well as color. Pilots wear an anti-laser visor which blocks certain colors. This allows for instant identification and a low rate of confusion.”
“Are you saying that all three screens use identical symbols?” Rolly asked.
“Exactly. And show the scene from the same orientation unlike today’s cockpit displays. Look at the symbol representing the plane in each of these screens. The pilot always views his own fighter from the God’s eye view, top down, with its flight path pointed straight up through the center of the screen.”
“What’s the power behind all this?” the general asked.
Hap grinned, “Nothing small. Try two banks of 32-bit computer cards packed into the forward fuselage the calculating power of a supercomputer.”
“And this is the package that we lost?”
“Sorry to say that it is.” Hap brought up the lights in the room and took a chair to the side of the dais close to General Stromburg. “I think it puts new emphasis on the first aerial photo that shows what appears to be a part of the fuselage torn away. That rip in the skin is directly over the guts of the computer and could have wreaked havoc with managing the plane in the air. If, in fact, that’s what happened and we may not be able to prove it conclusively—I believe it warrants grounding any further test efforts.”
“I second that,” the general broke in. “I’ll speak to the labs in the morning. Of course, the 49th Fighter Wing at Holloman has been notified and successive tests put on hold. Any other discussion?”
Rolly’s head perked up. “Well, the dead of night probably rules out the pilot trying to moon someone.” The laughter that followed was entirely his. Hap didn’t even flinch. The son-of-a-bitch wasn’t worth causing a scene over. But it did strike Hap that now might be a good time to offer his assistance.
“I’d like to volunteer to lead the evaluation team. I’ve been working on the Lab’s transfer of rights to state-of-the art video technology with two Navajo owned companies out of Window Rock. I’ve made a few friends in the area. At least, I’m a familiar face—maybe I can expedite things.”
“Good idea. You’ve got the job. I’ll name someone to work with you. In fact, let’s set this up now.”
“I’d like in,” Rolly volunteered.
“Col. Bertrand? Good by me. You’ll support Hap on this one. Be in my office at 0600. I’ll notify everyone present of our progress, in the meantime, gentlemen, get a good night’s rest, what’s left of it.”
Hap didn’t look at Rolly but he was relieved when his new partner didn’t follow him out to the parking lot. He’d had enough of him for one evening. It rankled that Rolly had been assigned to the project—volunteered no less. He didn’t need him tagging along. Watching his every step. But it might work out all right. It was better not to speculate. He’d deal with having to work with him in the morning. At least he hadn’t punched him out, and he had given a good presentation that placed him right in the center of the action; this had the smell of redemption about it. All in all, it had been a good night’s work. He patted the Jag and didn’t stop the grin that pushed back the corners of his mouth.
CHAPTER FIVE
3:10 a.m., September 15
Pansy was home when Amos half crawled, half wal
ked up the dusty lane that wound back around the pens and the well to their hogan. She was sitting in the rocker that he’d bought at the high school rummage sale that raised money for new football uniforms. Pansy had dragged it outside and sat there pushing back and forth. She couldn’t really rock. The rockers had been worn smooth. And that was just one more thing that Amos had intended to do—replace those curved pieces of wood so that she could work up some momentum. But Pansy didn’t seem to notice she wasn’t going anywhere, and she seemed soothed.
He put a hand to his head. The blood was dry now, caked at the crown but the pain dulled the vision in his right eye. In fact, the right side of his face twitched involuntarily when he tried to focus. It had been one heck of a wallop.
He sat down by the rocker on the dry sandy earth. He felt better when he didn’t move. He told Pansy about the Thunderbird but something told him she’d seen the bird, too—a slight nod of the head, maybe, but she didn’t stop her almost frantic movement. Amos looked closely at her face. She sat transfixed staring into nothingness.
He pulled himself onto his knees. Pansy was never one for inactivity. Even the spells of late were loud, filled with yelling and arm waving. But the wife in front of him was in a trance. He pulled back. What had happened out there? What had the Holy Ones done to his wife? Was she being punished for selling the sand painting? He thought so. Or maybe the money from the hogan & breakfast. The Thunderbird had spoken to her and had rendered her a statue.
It was like the lesson last Wednesday night at the Hosanna Pentecostal church, the white trailer with a wooden cross nailed above the door. God had turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt for not following his bidding. Amos almost wet his finger and touched Pansy’s arm, but he didn’t.
He leaned against the rocker and closed his eyes. He awoke with sunlight washing over his body. He was stiff and cramped from sleeping sitting up. Pansy was nowhere in sight, but Amos smelled the piñon scent of a cook fire wafting from the hogan. His head throbbed and felt heavy on his shoulders. He slumped down, then rolled out flat with arms outstretched, soaking up the sun’s warmth, and watched the mesas turn pink while his thoughts drifted to the night before.
