Fatal Terrain

by Dale Brown

force anymore. Let the Navy take care of the Strait-let's

  prove to the brass and the White House that we can hold the

  line."

  Elliott stopped in the staircase, looked at his young prot6g6,

  sniffed, and worriedly shook his head. "C'mon, Muck, don't

  tell me you've bought this 'jointness' crap, all this bullshit

  about how the U. military can't do anything unless every

  branch of the service does it together?" he asked derisively.

  "The service chiefs, especially the Navy, whine about the lack

  of 'jointness' whenever any of the other services, especially

  the Air Force, shows 'em up. The Navy was aced out in Desert

  Storm and they whined because we weren't sharing the target

  load. The Navy was embarrassed in the Celebes Sea against

  'China, and Balboa whined because we supposedly weren't co-

  operating. Now Balboa almost loses the Lincoln in the Arabian

  Sea to an Iranian cruise missile, and he whines because a

  stealth bomber takes out the Iranian bomber base. Balboa

  doesn't want us to support the naval forces, Patrick. He wants

  us to step aside and let him and Allen and the Navy take on

  China single-handedly. He doesn't want 'joint' anything."

  "Brad, you may be right, but I'm not in it, so I can thumb

  my nose at the Navy or wave the Air Force banner over the

  108 DALE BROWN

  burning hulks of Red Chinese warships," McLanahan said. "I

  want to prove how good the Sky Masters's Megafortress con-

  version is to the Air Force."

  11 Good answer, Patrick," Jon Masters interjected. "I knew

  you had the proper point of view."

  " And I'm interested in showing what the heavy bomber can

  do no matter who's in charge," McLanahan went'on. "If we

  gei into the game as support forces, good-at least we're still

  in the game. But your goal seems to be to rub Balboa's nose

  in our bomber's jet exhaust. We don't need to do that."

  Hey, Colonel, I'm trying to do the same as you-get our

  bombers into the fight where we can do the most good," Elliott

  retorted testily. "But you're not paying attention to the poli-

  tics. Balboa and Allen and all the brass squids at the five-sided

  puzzle palace don't care about jointness and cooperation-

  they care about fiunding.

  "Look. We're trying to get a six-hundred-million-dollar

  contract from Congress and the Pentagon to convert thirty B-

  52s to EB-52 Megafortresses. That's one-third the cost of a

  new Arleigh Burke--class destroyer. Destroyers are good on

  the open seas, frigates are good in the littoral regions-shal-

  lower water, within a nation's territorial waters-but we know

  in today's tactical environment that a long-range stealth

  bomber with precision-guided standoff weapons is the most

  effective weapon in the arsenal, in any combat area, with lower

  costs and much greater mobility. Balboa knows all that, but

  he doesn't care-he just wants that new destroyer, so maybe

  they'll stick his name on it someday. Is that 'joint' thinking?

  Hell no. He doesn't care about joint anything. Neither should

  we. Maybe if we started naming bombers after Joint Chiefs of

  Staff chairmen, he'd want more of them."

  :'I disagree," McLanahan insisted. "I think we should-'

  'Patrick, I've got a lot more experience dealing with the

  Gold Chamber and White House types than you, so how about

  letting me handle Balboa and Pacific Command, and you han-

  dle the hardware and the crews?" Elliott said in a light but

  definitive voice. "We'll show the brass who can do the job.

  Trust me."

  It was good to see the old fire and fighting spirit in his old

  boss, McLanahan thought, as they made their way to the wait-

  ing limo that would take them to Andrews Air Force Base to

  catch the flight back to Sky Masters, Inc.'s, headquarters in

  FATAL TER RA I N 109

  Blytheville, Arkansas. But the old fighting spirit also meant

  the old antagonisms, the old competitiveness, the old victory-

  at-any-cost attitude.

  They were back in the fight-but could they prove to the

  brass that they deserved to stay?

  ARKANSAS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

  BLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS

  LATER THAT EVENING

  The Sky Masters, Inc., team was whisked by limousine from

  the White House to the Washington Navy Yard, helicoptered

  to Andrews Air Force Base, then flown by military jet trans-

  port directly to its headquarters in northeastern Arkansas. Ar-

  kansas International Airport was the civilianized Eaker Air

  Force Base, where B-52 Stratofortress bombers and KC-135

  Stratotankers of the old Strategic Air Command had once

  pulled round-the-clock strategic nuclear alert for many years.

  Despite its grandiose name, Arkansas International Airport had

  had no aviation facilities on the field after the Air Force had

  departed until Jon Masters built his new high-tech aerospace

  development center here shortly after the base closed. -Now it

  was a thriving regional airport, which acted as a reliever fa-

  cility for passenger flights and overnight shipping companies

  from nearby Memphis. The civilian and commercial operations

  were on the east side of the field; Sky Masters, Inc., occupied

  brand-new buildings and hangars on the west side of the

  11,600-foot-long concrete runway.

  While everyone else slept on the flight back from Washing-

  ton, Jon Masters was on the phone; and, still bouncing with

  'boyish energy, he was the first one off the plane after it taxied

  to a stop in front of the corporate headquarters. Patrick

  McLanahan's wife, Wendy, was just pulling off her ear pro-

  tectors as Masters lowered the C-21's airstair door. "Wendy!

  Nice to see you!" Masters shouted over the gradually dimin-

  ishing turbine noise. "I need you to get me the latest-"

  Wendy McLanahan held up a hand, then slapped a blue-

  covered binder into her boss's hands. "Latest faxes from

  Guam-both our DC-10 tanker and DC-10 booster aircraft

  110 DALE BROWN

  arrived code one. One NIRTSat booster had an overtemp

  warning when they did a test. They need a call from you

  ASAP. Munitions are being off-loaded."

  "Good," Masters said excitedly. "Great. Now, I need to

  see- 11

  She slapped five more binders in his hands-and she had a

  dozen more binders ready. "Airframe reports for your review.

  Better take a look at -030 and --040-1 don't think they're

  going to make it, but you might be able to work your magic

  on them. Everyone else is ready to fly." She piled the rest of

  the binders into his arms. "Revised flight plans, engineering

  requests, prelaunch reports, invoices you need to initial, and

  things I think you need to think about before we get the flying

  circus in the air. Look 'em over."

  "But I need--

  "Jon, you got what you need-here's what I need," Wendy

  said, as her husband stepped off the plane. She gave him a

  long, deep kiss as Patrick pulled his wife into his arms. Jon

  was going to ask her for something else, but the kis
s lasted

  longer than his level of patience, so he ran off yelling for

  someone to get him a phone. after their

  Masters did not see Patrick pat his wife's tummy

  kiss parted. "How's our new crewdog?" he asked in a low

  voice.

  "Fine, Daddy, just fine," Wendy replied, punctuated with

  another kiss. "A little stretch now and then-" T,

  "Stretch? You mean cramps? Are you in pain

  "No, worrywart," she said with a reassuring smile. "Just

  enough to let me know that things are happening down there."

  "You -feeling all right?"

  "A little indigestion in the evening, and a sudden rush of

  sleepiness about every other hour," Wendy replied. "I close

  the office door and take a nap."

  -I think about you all the time, sweetie," Patrick said.

  'Working around jet fuel and rocket chemicals and transmit-

  ters, pulling long hours, on your feet all day."

  -I stay away from manufacturing and the labs, I take lots

  of naps, and I find working on the couch with my feet up just

  as effective as working at my desk," Wendy said. "Don't

  worry, lover. I'll take good care of your child."

  "Our child."

  I WI-

  FATAL TERRA I N

  "Our what?" Brad Elliott said, as he met 'up with the cou-

  ple.

  "Old married couple talk, Brad," Wendy said, giving her

  ex-boss a peck on the cheek. With Wendy between both men,

  they walked arm in arm into the admin building. "How was

  the meeting at the White House?"

  "Good," Patrick said.

  "Shit, Muck, it went great-we're a got" Elliott said ex-

  Citedly. "The President approved our plan. They want us to

  get ready to fly out in the next couple days-and they want

  us armed. Fully operational, offensive and defensive. We wa-

  tered their eyes but good! The only lousy part is we gotta play

  nice-nice with the squids."

  "Oh, God, no!" Wendy said with mock horror and plenty

  of sarcasm. "Now, that's just totally unacceptable. Why

  would we ever want to be backed up by five thousand highly

  trained sailors and seventy aircraft? Nothing bad ever happens

  in our missions.' I

  " 'Old married couple' is right-you're sounding more like

  your old man every day," Elliott said. "We don't need the

  Navy, and we sure as hell don't need 'em telling us what to

  do."

  "Well, that's the way it's going to be," Patrick said, rub-

  bing his eyes wearily. "We've got to rechannelize the planes

  to new Navy fleet frequencies-Admira-I William Allen, com-

  mander in chief of U. Pacific Command, is taking charge of

  the mission, with Terrill Samson as his number two."

  "That's good news, isn't it, Brad?" Wendy asked. "Gen-

  eral Samson is one of us."

  "Hey, the Earthmover might speak bombers, -but he's just

  feathering his nest and looking for a soft place to land-he's

  got his eyes on a fourth star and a cushy job at the Pentagon,"

  Elliott said with a sneer. "He's afraid to go toe-to-toe with the

  suits. Because of him, we won't be able to clear off for relief

  without calling CINCPAC first."

  "Brad, you've been bitching ever since we left the Oval

  Office," Patrick said wearily. The exhaustion in his voice was

  obvious. "The only thing the Navy's asked us to do is re-

  channelize our radios."

  I IAnd they want to have a remote 'check fire' datalink to

  our attack computers, don't forget that," Elliott intedected.

  "They not only want to tell us when, where, and how to fly

  112 DALE BROWN

  our nussions, but they want to be able to electronically inhibit

  any weapon releases, even for defensive weapons."

  "Can we do that-should we do that?" Wendy asked.

  "We already told them we can't tie into the computers, and

  wouldn't even if we could," Patrick said. "We're going to

  put the datalink in, but it's simply a communications link, not

  a remote control. That was the end of the discussion. Brad

  wants us to tell the Chief of Naval Operations where to stick

  his datalink. "

  "I just wish we had someone a little stronger than Samson

  out there sitting with Allen in that command post, someone

  not interested in playing politics," Elliott scoffed.

  "Terrill Samson is precisely the guy we should have in the

  command center," Patrick said. "Now, can we please termi-

  nate this discussion? The Navy's on board and running the

  show, period. You're going to get the avionics shop going on

  the rechannelization and the datalink, right, Brad?"

  "Yeah, yeah," Elliott said resignedly. "But I tell ya, Muck,

  you've gotta get tougher with those Navy bastards. They're

  not interested in seeing us succeed. They're only-'

  "Okay, Brad, okay, I hear you loud and clear, so just drop

  it. Enough. "

  Wendy grasped both men's arms and steered them toward

  the stairs leading up to the second-floor executive offices.

  "Both you guys are suffering from hypoglycemia-I'll bet

  you haven't had anything except coffee since this morning.

  I've got hot soup and sandwiches set up in the little conference

  room. Let's go."

  Both men let Wendy lead them upstairs, but outside the

  conference room, Elliott said, "I think I'll pass on the mid-

  night snack, Wendy. Wrap up a couple sandwiches for me and

  leave 'em in the fridge, and I'll have them in the morning. I

  want to brief the day shift on the prelaunch checklist."

  "Okay, Brad," Wendy said. "I figured you were going to

  be up early, so I made up the sleeper sofa in your office. Flight

  suit's cleaned and pressed, too."

  Elliott gave Wendy a kiss on the forehead and gave Patrick

  a friendly punch in the shoulder. "You are one lucky son of

  a bitch, Muck. Thanks, lady. See you in the morning. You

  going to go running with me at five A., Colonel, or do I go

  by myself again?" Elliott laughed-he already knew the an-

  swer to that one.

  FATAL TER RAI N 113

  "Good night, General," Patrick said with mock irritation.

  He found a seat in the conference room, while Wendy poured

  him a cup of chicken noodle soup and fixed a turkey and

  tomato sandwich. Patrick remained stiff and uneasy until he

  heard the door to Elliott's office close down the quiet hallway.

  "Christ, it's like trying to handle a hyperactive three year-old

  sometimes."

  "Don't tell me-Brad Elliott on the warpath in the halls of

  the White House'.-

  Patrick downed the soup in hungry bites and began to attack

  the sandwich. "I think he's out to prove that the government

  made a huge mistake by forcing him to retire and closing his

  research facility," he said. "Everybody is a target-Samson,

  the Navy, the President, even me. He's got a chip the size of

  the Spruce Goose on his shoulder. The more people resent his

  arrogant attitude, the more it delights him, because it proves

  how right he is. And you know what the biggest problem is?"

  "Sure," Wendy Tork McLanahan replied, sitting beside her

  man and g
iving him a kiss. "He's your friend, your mentor-

  and you need him."

  Brad Elliott simply left his suit, shirt, shoes, and underwear

  on a chair in the outer office-here in the corporate world

  someone took care of cleaning and pressing and stuff like that

  He usually took the time to hang up his suit neatly, bag his

  underwear, and spit-shine his shoes before hitting the rack, but

  why waste the time?-someone would do all that for him in

  the morning no matter how neatly it was all put away. He said

  11 someone." He assumed it would be his "assistant"-they

  didn't use the term "secretary" anymore, and the more mili-

  tary titles "clerk" and "aide" were usually met with round

  eyes full of shock. It didn't matter anyway, because he spent

  little time in the office, preferring to be in the labs or on the

  flightline, and he didn't even know his "assistant's" name. He

  didn't even know that the sofa in his office was a sleeper,

  because he never sat in the damn thing.

  The sofa bed had stiff fresh sheets and an old thick green

  wool blanket, and Wendy had left an apple and a glass of milk

  on the table next to the sofa. What a sweetheart she was, Elliott

  thought. Years ago, back when she was a civilian contractor

  working on new high-tech defensive electronic countermea-

  114 DALE BROWN

  sures systems for heavy bomber aircraft, she had been such a

  serious, technoid cold fish. But then she'd met Patrick Mc-

  Lanahan at the Strategic Air Command Bomb Competition

  Symposium at Barksdale Air Force Base, and she'd come back

  an entirely new woman. Now, as a wife-and a mother, Elliott

  guessed, although neither McLanahan had announced anything

  yet, and Wendy tried her best to hide it-she had been trans-

  formed into a caring, loving woman as well as a brilliant elec-

  tronics engineer.

  Unfortunately, Elliott thought, now her husband Patrick was

  the technoid cold fish. He showed no life, no spark, no drive.

  Sure, he'd been brilliant as ever on the secret B-2 stealth

  bomber project. Sure, he'd worked hard to get Sky Masters's

  new B-52 modification program signed and funded. But he

  seemed to have lost a lot of his killer instinct since his vol-