Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10
Page 19
“Generators and alternators, huh?” Kelsey asked.
“This is an airplane, Kelsey, not a spaceship. What do you want on board—fuel cells? A nuclear reactor?”
She looked at him with a silent “Why not?” expression.
“You want to put a nuclear reactor on board a B-52?”
“You have one, don’t you?”
“A nuclear reactor? Are you craz—?” But then he stopped—he was doing that a lot, as if the ideas that flooded his brain used so much energy that he was unable to budget enough brainpower to move his lips. “We ... we can’t do that!” He didn’t sound too convincing, even to himself.
“Sure you can. We’ve had megawatt-power generators smaller than my mommy’s car for years.”
“Sure—fission reactors.”
“Right.”
“Well, you can’t put a nuclear reactor aboard an aircraft!”
“Why not?”
“Why not? It’s ... it’s . ..” Jon couldn’t think of a reason why right away. “Because ... because no one wants a plane with a nuclear reactor flying over their homes, that’s why.”
“I guess,” Kelsey said. “We’ve had ships with nuclear reactors sailing past our homes for a long time—but an airplane is different, I guess.” She continued to study the inner plumbing of the fuselage. “But the LADAR is a diode-pumped solid-state laser, right?”
“Sure. But it’s only one-tenth the power of the SSL— not enough to destroy a ballistic missile at the ranges we want to engage at.”
“But if we had more power?”
“The smallest diode-pumped laser in the one-megawatt range that I know of is the size of a living room, and it has its own transformer farm to power it.”
Kelsey looked up at the B-52 bomber. “This plane is a lot bigger than a living room, Jon,” she said with a grin.
“We can’t do that kind of engineering with .. .” But he stopped—again—as his mind began to race. “I wonder ... if we used a different pumping system . .. ?”
Kelsey turned around and pointed to the Lancelot missile. “We can take your plasma-yield warhead,” Kelsey said, “and use it to pump the laser.”
“Pump a laser with. .. with plasma?” Jon gasped. “I.. . I’ve never heard of that before.”
“You thought of it years ago, Jon,” Kelsey said. “I read about it in one of the magazine articles you wrote. You were going to use lasers to create a plasma field— Lawrence Livermore built their inertial confinement plasma generator based on your ideas—and then you talked about the feasibility of using a plasma discharge to pump a laser. The system would have generated its own power and its own fuel—a virtually unlimited power supply. Why don’t we do it? Take similar SSL arrays you use for the laser radar. You have four arrays on the Dragon. How many laser emitters in each array?”
“Three hundred and forty.”
“Oh, boy,” Kelsey cooed happily. “We shoot the lasers into an inertial confinement chamber loaded up with deuterium and tritium fuel pellets and then channel the plasma field into the laser generator. What was the power level of the one they built at Lawrence Livermore?”
“Fifty trillion watts for a billionth of a second,” Jon said breathlessly. “That’s fifty thousand watts per second. We need at least seven hundred and fifty thousand.” His eyes darted aimlessly as he started to fill in details in his mind. “But that’s using only one ion generator ...”
“And a solid-state ion generator is much smaller than your diode laser pumps,” Kelsey said. “How many can we fit in the Dragon?”
“Hundreds,” Jon said. “No ... thousands. One generator of neodymium disks could have over a thousand in it alone. We could fit... we could fit over a dozen generators in a B-52. Over ten thousand ion generators, pumped by a plasma field... my God, Kelsey, we’re talking about a ten-million-watt laser!”
“That’s two million watts per second,” Kelsey said proudly. “Almost double the size of the Air Force’s chemical laser.”
“My God,” Jon muttered. “A plasma-pumped solid-state laser—on board an aircraft. Incredible! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You did, remember?” Kelsey giggled.
“The plasma-yield warhead ... can we confine the fusion reaction to the laser chamber?” Jon started mumbling to himself, the others forgotten. “How much power will we need for that?” It was several moments later before he realized that Kelsey was holding a school notebook up to him— with preliminary figures already calculated. “Kelsey!”
“I don’t know all the details on your plasma-yield warhead, Jon,” she said, “and I need to look at the schematics of the oscillator and laser generators. But a plasma field of this approximate size and of this density will need only this much laser power for the inertial confinement process in the fusion chamber, and then will require approximately this much power in the magnetic field to channel the plasma to the laser generator. I think we can do it.”
“You think you can do it? Kelsey, you've just done it! This is it!” Jon exclaimed breathlessly, looking at the formulas with ever-widening eyes. “This is the answer! I can take this to the engineering department and have them start building the fusion chambers right away! We’ve got so much work to do—reconfiguring test article number two, getting the engineering going . ..” To Jon’s great surprise, Kelsey started heading for the door. “Kelsey? Anything wrong? Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I can help with the engineering after I get done.”
“Well,” Helen remarked with a smile, “that’s certainly something you don’t hear every day from a world-class engineer.”
At that moment, Jon’s secure cell phone beeped. He looked at the caller’s ID number, smiled broadly, then punched in a descrambling code. “Patrick!” he said happily. “Is that you?”
“Hi, Jon,” Patrick McLanahan said. Kelsey and Cheryl Duffield looked on with great interest as they heard the name of the man they most wanted to meet at Sky Masters.
“How are you? Any news about Wendy?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Patrick replied. “Are you secure?”
“I’m here with our new partners,” Jon said.
“Then buzz me once you’re by yourself.”
“I can’t do that, Patrick,” Jon said. “They’re our full partners now—they’ve got to be told about what we’re doing. They have the proper clearances. I have no choice.”
Patrick paused for a long moment; then: “All right, Jon. We’re going to turn up the heat a little. I need some gadgets to fly a mission.”
“You got it,” Jon replied. “Just tell me where, when, and how much.”
“What about your new partners?”
“I said I have to tell them—I didn’t say they had a vote,” Jon said. “Don’t worry about it. Whatever you want, you get, as long as it helps bring back Wendy.”
“It will either help bring her home—or punish the ones that took her,” Patrick said. “I’ll transmit the order of battle to you in a few minutes. They’ll need to launch within the next sixteen hours.”
“I’ve had the crews standing by ever since this went down,” Jon said. “Everything will be ready. If your .. . benefactor can keep the feds off our back while we generate, it’ll be much better for us.”
“Getting a lot of heat out there?”
“Ever since the new partnership deal, we’ve been getting shit on...Jon looked sheepishly at the Duffields and shrugged an apology. Cheryl Duffield looked mad enough to scold him for the rest of the day, Kelsey just giggled. “Yes, we’ve been getting a lot of attention—from everyone.”
“Our benefactor should be heading off most of the heat,” Patrick said. “Hang in there.”
“We’ll do whatever we need to do to get Wendy back. You just watch yourself. We’re praying for you.”
“Thanks, Jon.”
“Good luck, Patrick,” Jon said. “We’ll be ready. Count on it.” He closed up the phone.
“I’ll explain everything on the way back to Blytheville,” Jon replied. On the cell phone, Jon said, “Paul? Listen, we’re expecting— You got it already? Good. Any problems ... ? Excellent. We’re heading back now. We should be there in four hours.” He hung up the phone, then made another call to the flight crew of the corporate jet, then to the driver of their car waiting to take them back to Tonopah Municipal.
“Kelsey? Where is Kelsey?” Cheryl asked. The sound sent chills through everyone—especially through Sandy, the security guard ... ,
... because it wasn’t until just then that she noticed that Sasha wasn’t right beside her. “Sasha!” she shouted. “Aspetta! Fermi! ”
They found the two of them moments later—sitting in front of each other, with Kelsey leaning up against one of the AL-52 Dragon’s huge main landing gear tires. “Kelsey!” Cheryl Duffield shouted. “Get away from that dog!”
“But she’s nice, Mom. . ..”
“Don’t move, little girl,” Sandy said. “Sasha, basta! Adesso! ” Despite her commands, however, the dog stayed right with Kelsey. “I don’t understand this.. ..”
“I think the dog likes Kelsey—and not as a snack, either,” Jon said with a smile. “Don’t take it personally— your dog didn’t rip a stranger to shreds.” Kelsey gave Sasha a big hug and a tickle on its head between its flattened, contented-looking ears before she was slowly, carefully taken away by her mother, and Sasha was led away with a string of sharp admonitions in Italian from Sandy.
Once they were back in the Suburban on the ninety-minute ride back to the airport, Cheryl Duffield finally asked in between a flurry of cell phone calls, “Okay, what’s going on, Jon? Who’s going to launch what?”
He looked at her, then at Kelsey, with a little apprehension. He then shrugged. “I promised I’d tell you everything at the appropriate time—I guess this is it,” he said. And he started explaining. The explanation continued well past the ride to the airport—in fact, it continued well after takeoff. Kelsey listened to each and every word, sitting impassively, her little hands folded on her lap as usual.
Cheryl Duffield, however, was not as patient. “Do you mean to tell me, Dr. Masters,” she finally stormed after Jon had finished his explanation, “that Sky Masters Inc. has been involving itself with unsanctioned, illegal military missions all over the world? You have been investigated and are currently under surveillance by the FBI because of these activities? And—let me get this perfectly straight— your vice president in charge of research, General Patrick McLanahan, is right now planning an operation in Libya, and you are going to help him—by sending an aircraft loaded up with experimental cruise missiles and launching them against Libya?”
“Cheryl, that’s not the half of it,” Jon said in response.
“This is outrageous! This is .. . this is unacceptable!” she thundered. “You didn’t reveal one bit of this in days of contract negotiations! This is fraud! This is criminal! This is a major breach of contract! We will not be a part of it!”
“Cheryl, I warned you each and every day of our negotiations that we are involved in things that you might not want to be part of,” Jon said earnestly. “You looked at our books. You interviewed our personnel... .”
“All except the McLanahans—they were the ones we wanted to talk with! Now we see why—they were busy blowing up missile bases in Libya!”
“We couldn’t tell you anything until your security clearances came through, and by then it was too late—the operation was already under way,” Helen said.
“We will not stand by and watch our company be destroyed by this .. . this lunacy!” Cheryl shouted angrily. “You didn’t answer to a board of directors when you started this wild escapade—but you have one now, and they have the power to oust you, the McLanahans, and everyone else involved in this crazy scheme right out of the company. And that’s exactly what I want to see done!”
Jon was still busy on the telephone, coordinating launch activities with his Blytheville headquarters. He ignored Cheryl Duffield until there was a lengthy pause on the other end; then: “Cheryl, I don’t really care what you’re going to do—go cry to the shareholders, sue us, close us down. I don’t care. But I’m going to do everything in my power to support the McLanahans and the team out there in Egypt. I’ll do as much as I can for as long as I can. In less than ten hours, our planes will be airborne. In twelve hours, it’ll all be over—either we’ll be successful, or folks will die. Either way, it won’t matter what you say or do. You can’t stop it.”
“Oh, I will stop you, Dr. Masters,” Cheryl retorted. “Maybe not this time, but after this day, you won’t be able to order a pizza, let alone an air strike. I guarantee it.” And she got up and disgustedly walked off to the front of the aircraft. As she moved forward she half-turned, waiting for Kelsey to join her. Their two gazes met. Cheryl saw something in her daughter’s eyes, a request or a plea: Whatever it was, Cheryl recognized it. She obviously didn’t like it, but she accepted it. She shook her head, her lips taut, and continued forward.
“Mommy’s pretty mad,” Kelsey said.
“I’m sorry about all this, Dr. Duffield,” Helen said. “We had no choice but to keep this information from you. Too many lives are at stake.”
“The McLanahans—are they in danger?” Kelsey asked.
Helen looked at Jon. He looked at Kelsey, wondering whether or not to answer. Most times, it was so difficult to remember that Kelsey Duffield was still a nine-year-old and not just a world-class, superintelligent, fully adult thinker. He always wanted to treat her as an adult, a peer—but most times he usually ended up treating her like a smart little sister. That time, Jon realized, was just about past.
He told his caller that he would get back to them, hung up the phone, and then looked seriously at Kelsey. “Yes, Kelsey—the McLanahans are in terrible danger,” he said. “In fact, Wendy McLanahan is missing, and General McLanahan’s brother Paul is dead.” Kelsey’s eyes widened in fear, becoming shiny with tears, but she said nothing. “General McL—Patrick, is trying to force the Libyans to turn Wendy over to him.”
“What will he do?” Kelsey asked.
“He is going to attack some key military targets inside Libya, places that are vital to Libya’s defenses,” Jon replied. “All he has to help him are two men, Hal Briggs and Chris Wohl, with Tin Man battle armor; some soldiers, one or two aircraft.. . and us. The Libyans have over one hundred thousand troops, a very big air force, and nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons.”
“What will you do?”
“Patrick wants me to launch several Wolverine and FlightHawk missiles against targets in Libya,” Jon replied. “Once the targets are destroyed, he’ll be able to fly in and attack more vital targets from the ground. He plans on attacking more and more targets in Libya until the president of Libya turns over Wendy and the others. We’ll launch two attack planes, twelve hours apart.”
“What if Wendy is dead?” Kelsey asked, her face drawn with fear.
“I don’t know,” Jon replied. “I hope Patrick will come home. He has a little boy, you know—his name is Bradley. He hasn’t seen Bradley in a long time.”
To Jon’s complete surprise, Kelsey Duffield started to cry. It was the first time he had ever seen her display any emotions at all, let alone such utter sadness. But then another completely unexpected thing happened: Jon Masters reached over and hugged the little girl. For several long moments, the two stayed in each other’s arms. Her weeping got more intense, deeper, and for a moment Jon didn’t know if he could maintain his composure—before he realized that tears were running down his cheeks too. Helen put her arms around her husband, and they shared that terrible moment together—the first time in their short but close relationship that they shared anything more than business together.
After a while, the li
ttle girl’s weeping subsided but they stayed in their siblinglike embrace. Finally, Jon asked, “Are you going to be okay, Kelsey?”
“I think so,” Kelsey replied, sniffing. She was silent for a moment; then: “Jon?”
“Yes?”
She sniffed away a tear again, still holding Jon Masters tightly, and asked, “What warheads are you going to put on the cruise missiles?”
“W . . . what?”
“What are you going to arm those Wolverines and FlightHawks with?” the sad little girl asked. Slowly but surely, Jon could hear the familiar business-like steel returning to her voice as she added, “I have some ideas that might help. . .
CHAPTER 4
OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA, OFF THE COAST OF LIBYA
THE NEXT AFTERNOON
The flight had originated from Arkansas International Airport, Blytheville, Arkansas. The crew had filed an ordinary IFR flight plan with the FAA, with Bangor, Maine, as its destination and McDonnell Douglas DC-10 as its aircraft type. About twenty minutes before reaching Bangor, with unusually good weather all across the northeast United States, the crew descended below eighteen thousand feet, canceled its Instrument Flight Rules flight plan, and elected to proceed using Visual Flight Rules. The handoff was routine. Once the flight descended below three thousand feet it disappeared off radar, lost in the ground clutter of the White Mountains of eastern New Hampshire. As far as American air traffic controllers were concerned, it was a successful and completely routine trip. They did not check to see if the flight made it to Bangor, nor were they required to do so.
In fact, the aircraft never descended at all. The crew was able to electronically alter the Mode C altitude readout of its air traffic control radio transponder, making the controllers think it had descended for landing. The controllers never had a “skin paint,” or hard radar return, on the aircraft—they were relying only on the transponder to get the aircraft’s position. The aircraft actually stayed at thirty- nine thousand feet, heading eastward on a great circle route to take it over the north Atlantic Ocean.