Fatal Terrain

by Dale Brown

  make my life miserable."

  "Fortunately, it's all tied together, Elliott," Balboa said. "I

  get to shit-can you and your friends all at once-and you

  brought it all on yourself. All you had to do was obey orders

  and stay out of the fighting, but you didn't, and now I've been

  ordered to make sure that you don't screw up again. Here are

  your new orders, folks, and if you disobey them, you will find

  yourself in prison and your company shut down, buried in tax

  liens so deep you'll need a bulldozer to get out from under

  them:

  "Unfortunately, since you are the only ones who know how

  to fly those things you've been screwing with, I can't confine

  you in the custody of federal marshals until you return to the

  States. Within three days, you are to make repairs to your

  aircraft sufficient to make them airworthy, and then you will

  return all of the aircraft leased from the government directly

  to the Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Center at Da-

  vis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona-the Bone-

  yard. -

  "You can't do that, sir," McLanahan said quickly. "Those

  planes are out on a long-term lease with Sky Masters, Inc. The

  money's been paid."

  "Well, that explains a lot, McLanahan-you only care

  about your contracts, your money, not about obeying orders,

  or preserving national security, or selling out the commander

  in chief," Balboa said. "Forget the money, McLanahan-your

  company will never see it, and anything already paid will be

  seized by the government. The lease will be canceled. The

  money we'll seize will be used to pay for the federal marshals

  I've assigned to guard the aircraft and to keep you and the

  folks from Sky Masters, Inc., under surveillance."

  "But those planes belong to Eighth Air Force and Air Com-

  bat Command," McLanahan said. "I signed for them myself

  286 DALE BROWN

  from General Samson and ACC. they're not fragged for the

  Boneyard. They still have assigned hangar space and a project

  office at Edwards."

  "Not anymore they don't," Balboa said. "I recommended

  they be dismantled and the program canceled, and the Chiefs

  will agree.

  "If the aircraft are not flyable, the aircraft will be destroyed

  in place, wherever they are, and the costs of the destruction

  and cleanup will be charged to Sky Masters, Inc., in the lawsuit

  that will be filed that same day. Written orders will be trans-

  mitted to you shortly. That is all." The computer announced

  that it had cut off Guam from the videoconference.

  "Shit, I can't believe it," Elliott swore. He got up slowly,

  massaging his left arm and shoulder. He popped a couple of

  antacid tablets and washed them down with a cup of coffee.

  "Balboa's an asshole. He always was. He's probably still

  carrying a grudge from our days at the National War College.

  He can't stand to lose face. He'll blame everybody else for

  the smallest failure and take away anyone else's accomplish-

  ments."

  Patrick McLanahan opened the door to the command post

  battle staff room, which signaled Jon Masters and Wendy

  McLanahan that they were permitted to enter. He saw the

  looks on their faces, and knew that they had been listening in

  to the entire communication-after all, Jon Masters had de-

  signed the satellite-based communications system they were

  using, so he would know how to bypass the Pentagon security

  encryption routines. "I can't believe this-it's like a night-

  mare," Wendy said, as she came over and put her arms around

  her husband. "They can't do this! You risked your lives for

  this project, and now he wants to throw you in jail?"

  "I believe he can do it," Patrick said. "He's got my atten-

  tion. Jon?"

  "Already called home plate, and the legal beagles are on

  their way-plus they're filing injunctions in D. and in Ar-

  kansas federal court, trying to prevent Balboa from canceling

  the contract without a performance review," Jon Masters said.

  "But Balboa moved even quicker-he's already got Navy SPs

  from Agana Naval Base guarding the planes. They've got the

  ramp shut down-nothing's moving.

  "The lawyers say we can probably keep ourselves out of

  court, maybe even get the contract money, but they think Bal-

  FATAL T ER R AI N 287

  W

  boa can thro us in jail just by uttering the magic words 'na-

  tional security,' and they're positive he can have those planes

  chopped up into little pieces anytime he wants. He's got my

  attention too."

  "Let me call in my markers, Muck," Elliott said earnestly.

  He had found a seat and was leaning forward, elbows on his

  knees, hands holding his head. "Balboa's got plenty of skel-

  etons in his closet, and I know the boys who can take 'em out

  and put 'em on display. He'll back off pronto, I guarantee it.

  If it doesn't work, we'll go right to the White House-heck,

  Muck, you and me, we got dirt on Martindale that I know Will

  make him squirm."

  "Brad, I told you already, I'm not interested in fighting the

  Pentagon over this," McLanahan said. He studied Elliott for

  a moment, and decided that he felt much worse than Elliott

  looked right now. "We've lost. We've invested millions in the

  project, but it just won't get on track with brass like Balboa

  fighting us from the top. We just can't do it. It's not fair to

  ourselves, it's not fair to our loved ones, and it sure as hell

  isn't fair to the shareholders."

  " Why in hell are you so concerned about shareholders, Pat-

  rick?" Elliott said angrily. "Jeez, have you completely lost

  your entire spine?"

  "My damned priorities are different, Brad," McLanahan

  said. "I work for Jon now, not the U. government. I've sold

  everything I own to invest in Sky Masters, Inc., and help this

  company, and I don't want to see Balboa and the federal courts

  drain our capital and our life savings fighting lawsuits. If we

  cooperate and let the government hide us, we can walk away

  with our company intact, ready to develop more technology

  and compete for more contracts. But if we fight them, they'll

  sic federal marshals and lawyers and judges on us for the next

  ten years-and we can still lose. I don't want my child to have

  a father in a federal penitentiary."

  "Listen to yourself!" Elliott shouted, jumping to his feet.

  "We did good out there, Patrick. You're letting bozos like

  Balboa make you think that you screwed up. Nobody screwed

  up here-not you, not Denton, not me. We did what we knew

  was right. Balboa is trying to make us believe we did the

  wrong thing and that we deserve to be punished-next, he'll

  be telling us that we're not going to jail because he interceded

  on our behalf. It's bullshit, Patrick! Don't fall for it! If you

  288 DALE BROWN

  give up, if you let assholes like Balboa chop up nearly ten

  years of hard work, we lose-just as surely as if we lost a

  one-hundred-million-
dollar lawsuit."

  "Forget it, Brad," McLanahan insisted. "It's not worth the

  fight, not worth the aggravation. We did some good jobs in

  the Megafortresses, but the Pentagon doesn't want them. We

  can't fight them all."

  "At least we'll give it a fighting chance," Elliott said.

  McLanahan shook his head and headed for the door to the

  battle staff room. "Dammit, McLanahan, I already lost one

  organization because I let the pencil-ppshers and brown-nosers

  tell me that I couldn't cut it. Now it's happening again-except

  you're letting it happen."

  "Brad, I'm tired. I've been shot at and yelled at and kicked

  around all day," McLanahan said. "I'm getting out of here."

  Elliott blocked his path. He was almost a head taller than

  McLanahan, but in size and physical strength, he was no match

  for his young prot6g6-but that didn't stop Elliott from getting

  into his longtime colleague's face. "What's the matter, Muck?

  You ready to hang up your spurs and turn your back on your

  friends just because you're too scared or too tired to stand up

  to someone? You want to just sit back on your ass at your

  desk and push papers and collect your salary and pension,

  while jerkoffs like Balboa screw Jon and everyone else in this

  project?"

  "Brad, give it a rest."

  "I want to know exactly what you plan on doing about this,

  Mr. Mission Commander, Mr. Corporate Executive," Elliott

  shouted, sweat popping out on his forehead in large glistening

  drops. "Answer me!"

  "Brad, c'mon," Wendy tried.

  "No, wait just a sec, Doc," Elliott said. "Let the corporate

  big shot here tell us what he intends to do. How are you gonna

  sell us out? You gonna hide behind Masters's lawyers?"

  McLanahan was glaring at his old mentor and friend, his

  jaw tight, his blue eyes blazing. Wendy saw the building rage

  in his eyes and tried to hurry him to the door. "Brad. .

  "You forgetting about Cheshire, and Atkins, Denton and

  Bruno, the ones who volunteered for the project?" Elliott said.

  He was almost nose to nose with McLanahan now, his breath

  ragged and excited, his eyes blinking from the tension, veins

  pulsing in his neck from the anger. "Are your lawyers going

  FATAL T E R RAI N 289

  to help them out? Or are they going to be chewed up and spit

  out by Balboa and his JAGs?"

  "Brad, let's table this discussion for later," Wendy said

  resolutely, taking Patrick's hand and leading him to the door.

  "Talk some sense into your old man, Doc-hey, don't you

  walk away from me! You show me some respect, mister!"

  Elliott shouted-and then he made the mistake of trying to

  pull McLanahan around to face him. Instead, he shoved

  Wendy in the back, and she lost her balance and crashed

  facefirst into the door that Patrick had just half opened.

  Patrick McLanahan caught Wendy before she sagged to the

  floor, stood her back up on her feet, made sure she was going

  to stand on her own, saw that she wasn't hurt-and then turned

  on Elliott. With never-before seen quickness, Patrick had Brad

  Elliott's neck in his hands and slammed him back to the wall.

  "You old son of a bitch! " he snarled in a low, menacing

  voice. "You ever touch Wendy again, I'll break your neck!"

  "I'm all right, Patrick!" Wendy said. "Let him go!"

  Patrick felt hands on his arms right away-Cheshire and

  Atkins, ready to pull him away from Elliott-and the anger

  dissipated immediately when he heard Wendy's voice. He

  loosened his grip on Elliott's neck-but Brad still seemed to

  be choking. When he released him, he immediately collapsed.

  Patrick was able to lower him gently to the floor and noticed

  his shortness of breath, the panicked look in his eyes, and the

  contortions and spasms in his left arm.

  "Christ, I think he's having a heart attack!" he shouted.

  "Get an ambulance-now!" Nancy Cheshire was already on

  the phone, dialing the paramedics at the base hospital. Mc-

  Lanahan unzipped Elliott's flight suit, exposing his chest, pre-

  paring to give CPR if necessary. "Hang in there, Brad,

  goddamn it," Patrick McLanahan said. He felt crushed inside,

  thinking that the last words his best friend might have heard

  from his lips were words of anger and hate. "C'mon, Brad,

  you old warhorse, hang in there. . .

  290 DALE BROWN

  YOKOSUKA NAVAL 13ASE, MIURA PENINSULA,

  REPUBLIC OF JAPAN

  SATURDAY,21 JUNE 1997, 0644 HOURS LOCAL

  (FRIDAY, 20 JUNE, 1644 HOURS ET)

  "Can't the damned harbor police do anything about this?"

  U. Navy Captain Davis Manaus complained. "Where the

  hell are they?"

  They're out there already, skipper," U. Navy Captain

  Sam Anse replied, scanning the area with his binoculars.

  'Every harbor patrol, prefecture police, and Maritime Self-

  Defense Force unit stationed in the Bay is out there."

  It was not hard to understand why it was impossible to be-

  lieve that fact. Admiral Manaus's ship, the American aircraft

  carrier USS Independence, was surrounded by what one look-

  out estimated as two thousand boats of every shape, size, and

  description, all decked out in white sheets and flying white

  flags. Most of the people on each ship were dressed in white,

  with white bandannas with the red "rising sun" of Japan over

  their foreheads. Interspersed among the white-clad protesters

  had to be another several dozen boats with camera crews from

  all over the world. The police and Navy security units had

  been circulating around the Independence all night and all

  morning, keeping protesters away from the carrier's hull; many

  of the protesters were carrying buckets of red paint, obviously

  destined to decorate the ship's hull.

  It took several more hours and much restrained but angry

  appeals all the way to the office of the prime minister, but

  eventually the tugs were allowed to be brought into position,

  and the Independence was moved away from the wharf and

  into the bay. Protesters on loudspeakers and bullhorns tried to

  convince the tugboat captains and harbor pilots not to assist

  the carrier out, and for a brief moment it appeared as if their

  appeals might take hold, but seemingly by inches the great

  warship was under way and heading out into the Gulf of Sa-

  gami.

  The Independence, now with its escort group assembled and

  in formation-three anti-submarine warfare frigates, two Aegis

  guided-missile cruisers, and a replenishment ship-was about

  twenty miles south of the tip of the Miura Peninsula, roughly

  in the middle of the Gulf of Sagami, when it was safe for

  FATAL TE R RAI N 291

  fixed-wing flight operations to get under way again. There

  were still a few protesters shadowing the carrier group, but

  they were not allowed croser than three miles from the carrier,

  well outside the perimeter established by the escort frigates.

  The battle group had accelerated now to flight ops formation

  speed of twenty-seven kn
ots, so very few of the smaller pro-

  tester's vessels could keep up.

  The first aircraft to launch were the rescue helicopters, two

  huge Sikorsky SH-311 Sea Kings with two pilots and two res-

  cue swimmers on board. Next were the E-2 Hawkeye radar

  planes, which could extend the radar "eyes" of the battle

  group out almost 400 miles. The Hawkeye's crew would act

  as the long-range air traffic controllers for the carrier, vectoring

  incoming aircraft toward the carrier until the final approach

  controllers on board the carrier itself took over. One KA-61)

  aerial refueling tanker then launched, followed by four F-14A

  Tomcat fighters on outer perimeter air defense patrol, with two

  more Tomcats positioned on the number three and four cata-

  pults on alert five status, ready to launch and help defend the

  carrier group.

  The first aircraft to arrive was the least attractive but most

  appreciated aircraft of all-the twin turboprop C-2A Grey-

  hound, known as the "COD," for Carrier Onboard Delivery.

  The COD ferried crewmembers, passengers, supplies, spare

  parts-and. most importantly, the mail-on and off the ship

  several times a day. Ungainly and slow when "dirtied up"

  and ready for the "trap," or landing on the carrier, the COD

  was cleared to land, reporting its landing weight as 48,000

  pounds, just two thousand shy of max landing weight-it was

  loaded to the gills with crew members who hadn't made the

  departure, extra crew members, a few civilian passengers par-

  ticipating on a "Tiger Cruise" for a few days, and a pallet of

  mail sacks.

  The approach was a little high, and that spelled trouble right

  away. Nailing the airspeed, nailing the initial approach and

  rolling in on final at the right altitude to capture a centered

  Fresnel glide path landing indicator, called the "ball," then

  nailing the desired angle of attack, making very slight correc-

  tions to stay on centerline and stay on glide path-that was

  the key to a successful --trap.- Corrections in a heavyweight

  COD had to be made very, very carefully --- crew members

  describe it as "thinking" throttle movements rather than ac-