Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  “Well, thanks for the encouragement, General,” McLanahan said. “My sixth sense or whatever the hell it is tells me to bail out of this project before Colonel Disaster plows us into downtown Las Vegas.”

  “You’ll be doing it some other time, Patrick,” the general said. “Or maybe not at all.” Elliott flipped the interphone switch. “Colonel Anderson, this is General Elliott. The rest of today’s session is canceled. I need to speak to everyone back at the mission center as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Anderson said. “Colonel Ormack and myself will be back in two hours. I expect everyone in the mission center when we arrive.” Everyone else acknowledged Anderson’s instructions, and the data/voice link went dead.

  “What’s up, General?” Briggs asked. He looked worried and pale in the dim red lights of the downstairs compartment. McLanahan, for some reason, was suddenly very calm, serene. General Elliott seemed to notice the change, and he frowned a bit before continuing.

  “You’ve been shelved, Patrick,” Elliott said. “I’ve been informed that the Old Dog project has been ordered to stand down.”

  “That means . . .”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t mean going home,” Elliott said. “I’ve managed to get your temporary duty extended here at Dreamland. I can’t do the same for the civilians, unfortunately, so it’s going to be real quiet around here. But—well, let’s call it a slowdown. They don’t have the same all-fired need for the Old Dog’s data as before. We’ll keep busy, I assure you.”

  McLanahan looked skeptical. “Sorry, my friend,” Elliott said, “can’t explain it better than that. Let’s go and get a cold one while Anderson and the others zoom back.”

  “I heard that” Briggs said happily.

  “I meant McLanahan,” Elliott said. The three climbed out of the Old Dog’s fibersteel belly. Outside, an army of workmen were surrounding the

  Old Dog with engine inlet covers and defueling equipment, and weapons dollies were being pushed over to the Megafortress.

  Elliott stood and watched for a moment as the workmen completed the task of plugging up and taking apart the Old Dog. He then led the group quickly out of the building.

  10 Fifty miles east of Kavaznya, in the North Pacific

  A lone figure huddled against a steel mast on the wildly-heaving deck of a hundred-foot fishing vessel bobbing in the rough North Pacific seas. The man, wearing layers of fur-lined jackets under his oilskins, braced himself and tried to chop ice from a large winch bolted onto the mast. His mitten-clad hands were covered with freezing rain and ice; only the thick leather thong on the handle kept the rubber mallet he was using from spinning off into the icy sea.

  A wall of water crashed against the gunwale and showered the deck. Bits of instantly frozen water penetrated the face mask he wore and cut into his cheeks. He no longer worried about slipping on the pitching deck, unless his boots somehow came off—he was anchored by a quarter-inch of ice to the steel deck.

  A deep howl penetrated the roar of the wind and waves around him. He took a better grip on the winch with his mittened right hand and reluctantly turned his eyes seaward. The sting of the wind shot a rod of pain deep into his eyeballs. He squinted against the icy gusts and searched the horizon, trying to follow the howl which was rising in intensity.

  There it was. It descended out of the racing clouds and horizontal sheets of freezing rain like a giant bird of prey. It leveled off, seemingly only a few scant feet above the icy foaming waters, and flew directly at the fishing vessel.

  The man let the mallet drop on its thong, reached into a pocket of the oilskin, and withdrew a small walkie-talkie. He turned his face away from the wind and the oncoming predator, bent down a bit, lifted his ski mask and keyed the microphone.

  “Bridge, Marceaux. Here comes that Bear, full on the port beam.” The man heard a feeble voice come over the radio, but couldn’t understand it.

  No matter. They heard him. He couldn’t stand another few seconds with his face uncovered anyway. He dropped the radio back into his pocket, made sure the pocket cover Velcroed closed, and turned to watch the plane.

  It was a Russian “Bear” bomber, one of several that had been dogging the fishing vessel in the past few days. This one had the guts—or the poor judgment—to drop below the scuzzy cloud cover and risk direct visual identification of the vessel.

  It was truly an imposing sight, especially the turboprop engines. Two massive, ungainly engines hung underneath each huge wing. Each engine had two large four-bladed propellers, an unusual sight on so large an aircraft. The propellers made the aircraft unusually quiet—its low whine did not get louder as it approached. Even in the poor visibility, the large red stars under the wings could easily be seen. This Bear had two radomes on the underside of its fuselage, marking it as a highly modified Bear-F maritime reconnaissance aircraft. Its other notable modification was the addition of two plyons, one on each wing and each loaded with six AS-12 air-to-sea antiship missiles, direct copies of the U.S. Navy’s Harpoon antiship missiles.

  The bomber didn’t need that many, the seaman named Marceaux thought. Just one could send this old tub to the bottom.

  The Bear flew right over the U.S.S. Lawrence’s bow—a violation of international maritime law and a direct warning to the ship. Its size made it look much closer, but Marceaux estimated the bomber was at one thousand feet above the ship, the internationally legislated minimum. Despite the relatively quiet turboprops, the roar of the bomber passing overhead cut through the howl of the storm. It seemed to drive the storm before it, adding to its fury.

  “Cochon, ” Marceaux said, but the curse was lost in the roar of the Bear’s engine. A moment later the bomber lumbered skyward and disappeared again into the scuz. Marceaux waited until he was sure the Bear was gone for good, then slowly and carefully made his way along the icy deck toward the midships hatch and the welcoming warmth below.

  Sheets of ice dropped off Marceaux’s oilskin as he unbuttoned the jacket and stowed it in a locker in the crew’s bunkroom. As he peeled off the fur jackets, the ship’s chief petty officer passed by and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Intel,” he said. “Before anything else.”

  “Zut! I’m freezin’, Chief,” Marceaux said. “I’ve been up there for—”

  “Intel, ” the CPO said behind him. “On the goddamned double.” Marceaux reluctantly bypassed the galley and the scent of hot coffee and made his way to the ship’s hold.

  The Intelligence section of the disguised fishing vessel Lawrence was formerly the fish processing hold. Indeed, the front one-fifth of the area still held some fish-slicing and freezing equipment—all inoperable, in place for disguise purposes only. The Intel section was now a mass of electronic sensors, radios, maps, computers, and humorless men.

  The chief of the Intel section, Commander Markham, passed Marceaux in the doorway. He carried a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Well, Marceaux?”

  It was obvious to Markham that Marceaux’s attention was elsewhere. He passed the cold seaman the cup of coffee. Marceaux drained half of it in one gulp, his breath exhaling as long wisps of steam.

  “Now. Fill me in, then fill out a hostile contact log.”

  “Mercy, Commander,” Marceaux said. “Bear-F, maritime antiship configuration, no numbers that I could make out. Two radomes, one forward, one aft. Observation blisters in the middle and aft, but I couldn’t tell if they were manned. K-7 camera door open on the belly. Refueling probe, iced over badly. Useless, I’d say. Twelve total AS-12 missiles, six on each wing, maybe stations for two more on each pylon. Bomb bay closed but not sealed. Ice all over the wings. The pilot had tres grands bouettes, I’d say.”

  “Altitude? Speed?”

  “One thousand feet right on the dot, although he flew right over the bow. Speed two hundred knots but no flaps hanging. Low and slow.”

  “He radioed a warning,” Markham said. “Said we were too close to Karanginsky Island.”

 
Marceaux shrugged. “It is a warning he could back up. Definiment. ”

  “Those AS-12s will drop into the sea if he tries to launch ’em,” Markham said, heading back to the Intel section’s small galley for more coffee. “He might send some naval buddies out after us, but I doubt it. This is the ugliest weather I’ve seen out here.”

  “Is he still out there, sir?” Marceaux asked.

  “No. He headed home in a hurry. Probably getting iced over pretty bad. Like you said, he had to have king-sized balls to fly around in freezing rain like that.”

  “Think he made us?”

  “They made us as an intel ship days ago,” Markham said, filling a mug. “But they’re nervous about something. Risking a Bear like that . . . something’s going on . . .”

  As Marceaux refilled his mug from the pot, Markham wandered over to one of his signal operator’s consoles. He studied several oscilloscopelike displays on the console.

  His attention focused on a pair of ten-inch signal display scopes, manned by a gray-haired Navy signalman. Markham looked over his shoulder, sipping his coffee. The two signals on the man’s scopes, although much different from each other, were perfectly synchronized—when one wave on the scope became active, the other did also. When one stopped, the other stopped.

  “Any change, Garrity?” Markham asked the sensor operator. Garrity shook his head.

  “They’re linked, that’s for sure, sir,” Garrity replied. He handed Markham a computer printout, then pointed to the left of his two main displays. “That’s complete computer verification—frequencies, timing, the works—coded and ready to transmit. Kavaznya is getting stronger. This one”—he pointed to the right oscilloscope—“is still weak but in perfect sync.”

  “Identification?”

  Garrity adjusted some controls on his board, then sat back.

  “Wild, wild guess,” he said. “A satellite data link.”

  “A satellite?” Markham whistled. “That radar at Kavaznya is talking to a satellite?”

  “Maybe two satellites,” Garrity said. “Now this is really wild, I know, but I keep on seeing an embedded data signal in the Kavaznya radar transmission. It’s slightly out of sync with these two signals . . .”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning these two, Kavaznya and this second—whatever it is—may be talking.” Garrity rubbed at his eyes and went on. “Kavaznya is talking to something else, though. Not a radar signal. A data signal.”

  “What kind of data?” Markham asked, trying to make some sense of what the operator was telling him.

  “Hey, I’m just guessing here,” Garrity said, shaking his head.

  “Guess some more.”

  Garrity rubbed once again at his eyes. Then: “Steering signals.” As Markham bent forward to study the signals, Garrity pointed at his displays and explained: “Here and here. Kavaznya and Joe Blow satellite. Simple transponder-type signals—interrogate and reply. That means azimuth and elevation ...”

  “Position data,” Markham said.

  “It has to be,” Garrity said. “Kavaznya telling Joe Blow here where he is and vice versa. But then Kavaznya sends this blurb out.”

  Garrity drew a circle on a sheet of notebook paper. He recreated the Kavaznya oscilloscope signal as best he could. “Right here. I see it every now and then.” He drew a squiggle almost parallel to the Kavaznya signal, but much smaller and of a slightly different frequency, or shape.

  “The timing is the most critical difference,” Garrity explained. “The timing between Kavaznya and the second party is clear, but Kavaznya tells someone else something. And it’s not just position data. I think it’s a steering signal.”

  “Steering what?” Markham asked.

  “Don’t know,” Garrity replied. “I’ve never seen anything like it—hell, I’m not even sure if I am seeing it. A data signal embedded in a radar emission?” He shook his head. “I’ve been on duty for eighteen hours. I might be seeing beeps and buzzes in my dreams.”

  “Code it,” Markham said.

  Garrity looked at him in surprise. “Code what?”

  “Exactly what you told me,” Markham said. “Everything.”

  “I told you a fairytale,” Garrity said. “A wet dream. I don’t have anything concrete. The computer hasn’t verified any of my inquiries about the second signal destination.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Markham said. “They told us to report any findings of significance in the Kavaznya area. I heard that request came from very high. Code it and send it up for the Old Man’s signature, then send it.”

  “This isn’t a finding,” Garrity protested. “It’s an opinion ... a guess. It’s not really even an educated guess—”

  “Listen, Garrity,” Markham said, “something screwy is going on. The Russians risk a fifty million ruble bomber in a freezing rainstorm to scare us away. Now Kavaznya is active ...”

  “It’s been active for days,” Garrity said.

  “Then how come you haven’t seen these side data signals before?” Garrity had no answer for that.

  “Something’s going on, and we’re right on top of it,” Markham said. “Code exactly what you told me, then send it.”

  Garrity shook his head. “You’re the boss. But do I need to put my signature on it? They’ll laugh me right outta the Service.”

  “They might give you a goddamned medal,” Markham said. “If you’re right.”

  11 Vandenburg Air Force Base, California

  A single green and gray camouflaged locomotive wound around a curve on a deserted railroad siding. It pulled a quarter-mile-long train of long, six-sided rail cars, moving easily at about twenty miles an hour.

  Eight miles away in an underground control center, a group of Air Force officers were being briefed by another group of civilian contractors on the test that was about to take place.

  “Range reports ready, Mr. Newcombe,” a technician said.

  Newcombe, the chief civilian contractor, nodded. “Tell them to stand by. General Taylor, gentlemen, the range has just reported ready. All of the Air Force tracking stations from here to Guam are ready for the first operational test launch of America’s newest strategic weapon—the GLM- 123 Javelin Small Mobile Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or, as the press has so fondly christened it, ‘Midgetman.’ ’’

  “What can I tell you about her that you don’t already know?’’ Newcombe searched the faces around him. Taylor shook his head and smiled, lighting a briar pipe. These Air Force generals had been working with him for years. Major-General Taylor, the chief of the Strategic Development Branch, Aerospace Systems Division, Air Force Logistics Command, was an old friend. This test—its success an almost foregone conclusion, after seven previous successful launches—would ensure Taylor’s third star and another promotion. Of course, Newcombe’s new position as senior vicepresident of the Javelin’s prime contractor was already in the bag.

  “The train orbiting the test track is typical of a normal Javelin mobile rail deployment,” Newcombe said. “Six cars in all—the locomotive, two missile cars, two security cars, and the launch command and control car. Each car is super-hardened against EMP—that’s electromagnetic pulse effect, for you neophytes—caused by nearby nuclear explosions.’’

  “The new arms-elimination agreement have you worried, Ed?” one of General Taylor’s aides asked Newcombe. “Javelin would be the first to lose research and development funding.”

  “Of course, we all want to see world peace,” Newcombe said. “The arms-elimination treaty would be a great breakthrough. But I feel it’s just as important to continue with serious research and development. This will mark the culmination of those tests—the birth of a new kind of strategic weapon for the United States.

  “The Javelin is the most versatile weapon of its kind in the world,” Newcombe continued. “Our quick-reaction rail launch test today demonstrates just one possible way it can be deployed; we’ve done other deployment tests that you won’t believe.

&
nbsp; “The Javelin is small enough to be carried aloft on cargo aircraft, such as a C-5B or even a modified Boeing 747, dropped via parachute, and successfully air-launched—no silo, no launch vehicle or submarine needed. Versions of the Javelin have successfully accomplished what we’ve called ‘telephone pole’ tests. We’ve rolled a Javelin missile off the deck of a Navy destroyer. In the water, it floated into a perfect upright launch attitude and was successfully fired by remote control.

  “Its potential is unlimited. The Javelin has an advantage over other small tactical or strategic nuclear vehicles—despite its small size, the Javelin carries three warheads, not just one or even two. In addition, the Javelin is designed to carry the new maneuverable reentry warhead, which makes the Javelin ’s business end many times more survivable should the Soviets decide to redeploy antiballistic missile defenses in the future. It might be worth it to replace cruise missiles and gravity weapons with Javelins if the arms-elimination treaty is ratified.” Interested nods from General Taylor—he was already planning on star number four.

  Newcombe walked over to a map of the Vandenburg Air Force Base rail test track. “The Javelin missile has been riding Vandenburg’s track for only a few hours. In a few moments we’ll demonstrate the ability of our Javelin to launch within sixty seconds of a launch order.

  “We’ve ‘leaked’ it to the Javelin test crew that the launch will be sometime this afternoon. The crew is completely isolated and has no idea that we’re about to stage the test.

  “When the order is given, the train stops right where it is. A continually-running ring laser gyro navigation unit instantly feeds position and gyro alignment data to the missile guidance system. By the time the rocket is ready for launch, the erector has raised it to firing position and the crew has authenticated the President’s launch order.”