Game Boy marveled at the exhibition. “You’ve got nerve, pakana, I’ll give you that. Less than twenty miles and we’re home free.” He checked the TA display. “Uh oh. I’m painting a solid ridgeline in ten miles.”
Frank glanced at the threat status. “Still got MiGs in search above us. You sure there’s nowhere to hide?”
“No. We gotta climb.”
Frank pushed the throttles forward and eased back on the stick. He knew they’d be vulnerable as they crested the ridge. He only hoped the MiGs were reaching their limit in range and endurance.
“THREAT TRACK . . . MISSILE LAUNCH!”
“Shit!” Game Boy yelled. “Where are they?”
Frank swiveled his head in all directions. He realized they might be an instant away from impact. He had to react.
He picked the most likely shooter from the threat display and maneuvered. As he banked sharply to the left, a bright streak of fire flashed above the wing. It passed beyond them and slammed into the steep side of the ridge. The explosion lit up the interior of the canyon.
In the instant of illumination, Frank could see he was too low to clear the ridge. He yanked back on the stick and rolled hard right in time to see a second missile launch. The shooter was only a few thousand feet behind.
Game Boy’s visor reflected the bright flash of light. “That’s a heater,” he yelled.
Frank ripped the throttles to idle and dove for the ground. He hoped to confuse the missile’s infrared seeker with the heat radiating from the surface rocks. It was desperation.
“Pull up!” Game Boy’s call coincided with a high-pitched tone warning of imminent ground impact.
Frank pushed it as far as he dared. He pulled hard on the stick and snapped back into the missile’s flight path. The B-2 shuddered as it pitched up into the night, straining to reach the heavens above.
Chapter 31
Senator William Tolnert stood upon the Capitol steps and savored the view. Before him stretched the magnificent green expanse of the Washington Mall. Punctuated by the linear elegance of monument and memorial, it was a testament to the order and purity of the American system. In the distance, the Potomac River sparkled under the bright morning sun. Pink cherry blossoms lined its banks, inviting citizen and visitor alike to bask in the splendor of true democracy.
The Senator’s vision was not so distant. His focus lay upon the horde of cameras, microphones and reporters arrayed about his feet. Their chaotic presence served as both a symbol and an instrument of his power. It was an ungainly instrument, but one he wielded with uncommon skill. He carefully surveyed the crowd, ensuring the network cameras were ready, before he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This morning the Senate will begin debate on the defense authorization bill. But before we do so, I want to take a moment to echo the President’s sentiments. In his address to the nation this morning, the President announced the complete annihilation of North Korean nuclear and long-range missile capabilities. This triumph over terror was secured by a single B-2 stealth bomber. Like a shadowy spirit, it over flew the enemy undetected and unmolested, striking its targets with pinpoint accuracy. It then returned to its home base in Missouri, completing a thirty-two hour mission. No other aircraft in the world could perform such a feat. It attests to the technological might of American industry and the skill and bravery of our Air Force pilots. Today I stand in awe of this capability, as does the rest of the world. It is one we must fight to sustain to counter future threats to world peace and stability. My committee intends to do its part to ensure we never lose this capability.” The Senator paused to acknowledge each camera and signal his readiness for questions. He was pleased with the statement. At just under a minute, it should be perfect for the evening newscasts.
“Senator!” a local television reporter yelled. “Can you give us the names of the pilots who flew the mission?”
Senator Tolnert shook his head. “For security reasons and their own personal safety, I cannot.” Though he found the question slightly irritating for its stupidity, he did make a mental note to visit Whiteman Air Force Base within the next few days. It would make an excellent photo opportunity.
“Senator. Do you think this mission will guarantee the reopening of B-2 production lines in your home state?”
The Senator smiled. This was the direction he hoped the questioning would go. “My committee has voted to do what is in the best interest of the defense of the United States,” he said carefully. “I am sure the full Senate will do the same. If that means expanding the existing B-2 fleet, then that will be part of this defense bill. I’ve said for a long time that this country needs a strong and modern bomber force. I think the B-2 has proven it should be the backbone of that force.”
The questioning continued for several minutes before the Senator broke it off. He headed back up the Capitol steps with his aides in tow. He had about ten minutes before he would introduce his committee’s bill to the Senate for debate. Passing his office, he was intercepted by his secretary.
“Senator, you have a phone call.”
“It will have to wait, Stacy,” he said, waving his hand.
“Sir, you’ll want to take it. It’s the Air Force Chief of Staff.”
The Senator stopped and looked at his secretary uncertainly. “He called just now?”
She nodded.
“How the hell . . .” Sometimes he thought the general monitored his movements with a spy satellite. “All right, but interrupt us in two minutes.”
He stepped quickly into his office and picked up the phone. “Hello, General? I’ve got to tell you I do not have much time.”
“I understand that,” General Morgan replied. “You have an important debate starting today. That’s why one of my men is coming to bring you a document you might find of interest.”
“What would that be?” the Senator asked impatiently.
“It’s a draft of the final safety report from the B-2 accident. In particular, you’ll want to look at Part Two of the report. It contains privileged information about the B-2 airframe.”
“Well, I’ll put my staff right on it.”
“No you will not,” the general warned. “This is privileged information for your eyes only, Senator. It is not releasable to anyone without a need to know. I encourage you to personally review it.”
“Very well,” the Senator relented. “I will look at it this afternoon.” He was in no mood to argue with the general on this day. He wished his secretary would break in. “Is there anything else, General?”
“Yes. I want to remind you that the Air Force hasn’t changed its position on acquiring more B-2s.”
“After what the jet did yesterday?” The Senator was amazed. How could General Morgan hold such stubborn opposition to the inevitable? “The B-2 was a complete success, General. Even theWashington Post is calling for an expanded fleet. You must see that.”
“Make no mistake, Senator. My pilots made that mission a success. But I’ll talk to you again after you’ve read the safety report. Good day, Senator.”
Senator Tolnert calmly hung up the phone. He knew he could pass his bill without Air Force support. All he needed was public support and, right now, the B-2 had it. The Congress would follow.
As he stepped from his office, he glanced at a plastic piggy bank on the corner of his desk. It had wings like a B-2 with the words “Spirit of Pork” stenciled on its back. It had been a gag gift from the Congressional Budget Office years before. As was his habit, the Senator dropped a few coins into the pig’s belly for good luck. It was nearly full now. He strode confidently to the Senate chamber, oblivious to the small crack on the underside of his bank.
Chapter 32
Frank pulled into the Auger Inn parking lot and slowly rolled to a stop. A fine cloud of dust swirled about his truck, blanketing the windshield and hood with a thin, powdery layer. He opened the door and was hit with a lung-scorching blast of hot air. Summer had come early to the desert.
He shi
elded his eyes against the outside glare and strode quickly to the front door. A dust devil, kicked up by the late afternoon winds, forced him to cover his nose and mouth with his shirt collar. It danced across the hot asphalt and disappeared into an open field of sun-baked creosote and joshua trees. It was so good to be home.
He stepped inside the Auger’s door and stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He noticed the usual Friday afternoon crowd, seated about the bar and shooting pool. An old black and white TV hung from the ceiling, entertaining the customers with an endless stream of airplane crash videos. In the background, the Eagles’ “Hotel California” played on the jukebox.
“Frank! Over here!” Melissa waved to him from a corner table. She was seated beneath the YB-49 wreckage.
Frank made his way to the table and sat down heavily. “It’s a good day for a cold beer,” he said, signaling to the waitress. “At least the wind chill only makes it feel like a hundred outside.”
Melissa smiled apologetically. “I wish you had told me sooner you were coming back today. We’d have had a little welcoming party.”
“That’s OK. After a week at Whiteman, it’s nice just to come back and see a friendly face.”
“Did you have to stay to debrief the mission?”
“Yep. Three solid days.” Frank shook his head in frustration. “That was tougher than flying the mission. I spend a day and a half in the jet with Game Boy—that’s the other pilot I flew with. And then we’re cooped up together in a vault for hours on end with a bunch of intel folks. I’m not sure they were pleased with everything we told them.”
“The news reports made it sound like the jet performed perfectly.”
Frank looked around the room and then stared blankly at Melissa. “Officially, it did.”
Melissa looked surprised. “Then why did the Senate vote against building any more?”
“They did?” It was Frank’s turn to be surprised.
“Yeah. I heard it this morning. Mister B-2 himself, Senator Tolnert, voted against his own committee’s recommendation. Nobody could understand why.”
Frank sat back in his seat while the waitress set a bottle of Mojave Red in front of him. He took a long drink and tried to decipher what his mission must have meant to the rest of the world. It was something he had not had much of a chance to do.
He glanced at the TV and caught a particularly spectacular crash in front of a crowded air show. He thought of something General Morgan told him: “Congress always picks the prettiest bride. But if there’s a wart under the veil, they won’t hesitate to move on to the flower girl.” He leaned toward Melissa. “I think I know why,” he whispered. “Let’s go outside.”
He led Melissa out the back door and onto a fenced in patio. They sat under a shelter against the far wall, protected from the wind and sun.
“While I was at Whiteman,” he began. “General Morgan sat in on one of our debrief sessions.”
Melissa’s eyes opened wide. “The Chief of Staff came to see you?”
“He wanted to hear first hand how the mission went and, particularly, how the B-2 performed. He also brought something to show me. It was a draft of the final safety report.”
“The B-2 flight control problem,” she said anxiously. “Did what I told them make it in?”
Frank had a hard time matching her enthusiasm. “Yes,” he said flatly. “It’s all there—and you were absolutely right.”
Melissa’s look of excitement quickly changed to concern. “OK,” she pleaded. “Tell me what really happened on your flight.”
Frank leaned back and gazed at the dust-choked sky. He forced himself to relive the mission one more time. “Overall,” he admitted, “the jet performed great. The weapons worked. The defensive system worked. Even the stealth worked—until one of our weapon bays doors stuck open.”
“They saw you?”
Frank nodded. “That forced us low level. We hit turbulence and, just like you said, we lost the beaver tail first. So, I uncoupled the autopilot and flew manual TF. Then we—”
“Wait a second.” Melissa looked at him like he was insane. “You flew manual TF at night?”
Frank shrugged. “I had no choice. We had to stay low. But I do owe you. If it hadn’t been for all the work you did trying to improve the B-2’s low level maneuverability, we never could have avoided the missiles.”
“Missiles?” Melissa rolled her eyes. “The news reports didn’t say anything about missiles!”
“Bottom line, we got away and I saw first hand what caused me to lose control of the other jet. I also gave that information to General Morgan. It matched what he had already read in the draft safety report.”
“And he believes what is in the report?”
“Yes. Apparently, as did Senator Tolnert. Especially since it was all confirmed by American Aero.”
Melissa’s jaw dropped. “American Aero admitted the B-2 has a flight control problem?”
“Yes. It’s all in Part Two of the safety report.”
“Well, that’s great,” she said happily. “Now everyone will know the truth.”
“No,” Frank shook his head. “They won’t.”
Melissa struggled to understand. “How can that be?”
“Because what the contractor reveals to a safety board is protected by an agreement of confidentiality. That way, they are encouraged to reveal aircraft problems because they can’t be held liable for them. The information is strictly used for preventing future accidents. The official cause of the accident will be attributed to a number of factors, but the real cause will remain a secret.”
“Then we should go to the newspapers and give them the real story.”
“That’s illegal. We can’t reveal what is in Part Two of a safety report.”
Melissa threw up her hands in disgust. “So the B-2 will be allowed to continue to fly low level?”
“No,” Frank said calmly. “The Whiteman leadership will read Part Two of the report as well. They will no doubt continue to fly the jet only at high altitudes. Besides, I guarantee Game Boy will let all his buds know what a fun ride the B-2 can be down low.”
Melissa still seemed angry. “Frank,” she said quietly. “I’ve heard that American Aero is drawing up plans for a B-2 follow-on. Are they going to be rewarded for their mistakes with the B-2 by getting a whole new contract?”
Frank considered this. Now he completely understood the Senator’s vote. “He’s moving on to the flower girl.”
“What?”
“Senator Tolnert. He sees building more B-2s is a lost cause. But a whole new replacement? That could be a much more lucrative proposition.”
“More jobs?” Melissa asked.
“Yes. And he would have the Air Force on his side this time. I told General Morgan what Ernest Walker said about the original B-2 high altitude design. He agreed that should be the key attribute of any future bomber, along with stealth. The Senator’s not stupid. I’m sure he’s steering American Aero in that very direction.”
“So, more work for test pilots and engineers?” she offered hopefully.
“Probably not. General Morgan also said he would like the next bomber to be unmanned. So, looks like only program managers like Byron Schmidt will remain employed.”
“Not Byron,” Melissa said with a hint of satisfaction. “I forgot to tell you he’s under criminal investigation for lying to the safety board.”
Instead of satisfaction, Frank felt strangely sorry for Byron. Byron had devoted his entire life to getting the B-2 through its test program. His mistake was trying to cover up a design problem that he had no control over anyway. Still, Frank realized Byron’s single-minded devotion to the B-2 was not much different from Ernest Walker’s or his own. In a way, he and Byron had a lot in common.
“Frank,” Melissa said, tapping him on the shoulder. “I thought you’d be happier.”
Frank absently rubbed the scar under his chin. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I feel like
nothing’s really changed.”
“But we discovered the problem with the B-2,” she said hopefully. “We did our jobs, and because of that, maybe the next bomber will be better.”
“I know. But now I’m back here, and I wonder what I’m going to do next, and . . .” He stared at the wall beside them. “Nothing’s changed.”
Melissa looked at the wall as well. It was covered with drawings, quotes, and signatures from the hundreds of flyers that had ever served in the profession of flight test at Edwards. They’d come to the Auger on a Friday afternoon to tell their stories and leave their marks. She immediately picked out the object of Frank’s attention. Printed on the wall were the names of Dale, Rachel, Ethan, and Emily Walker. They were enclosed within a large pink heart, drawn by the hand of a child. Beside it was Frank’s name. It was enclosed within a detailed schematic of the B-2.
Frank reached out to touch the heart. “It’s still hard to accept,” he said hoarsely. “Everything I thought was important went down with that jet. Everything I had worked so hard for all my life—it became meaningless. I look at what Dale lost, and I realize I had nothing to begin with.”
Melissa had never seen Frank so distraught. “You’ve been through so much the last two weeks,” she said. “I don’t see how you’ve held up through it all. But you must know you have good friends.”
“I know,” he said. “But Dale had a wife and children who showed him their love every day. And he had a father who is devastated because he didn’t.” Frank shook his head. “I don’t want to end up so empty. While I was back in North Carolina, I started searching for what had been missing from my life. Searching for what could fill the void. And I found her.”
This caught Melissa completely by surprise. “You met someone while you were home?”
“Yes. For the first time in my life, I was happy about something other than flying. And then I saw the accusations in the newspaper. I wanted to clear Dale’s name because I thought it might mean something to his family, so I left. But that didn’t matter to them. Dale’s dad even tried to tell me so. But I felt I had to do something.”
Spirit Flight Page 18
