Tiger's Claw: A Novel pm-18

by Dale Brown

  “Colonel Hoffman doesn’t like me,” Brad said. “He gives me stupid busywork stuff to do. He knows I’m here to fly, but he gives me menial errands to do instead.”

  “Brad, remember our conversation about me working for the board of directors of Sky Masters?” Patrick asked. “Just like the board, Colonel Hoffman is the boss—he can treat you any way he likes and tell you to do anything he wants. He’s providing flying, simulator, and classroom time in exchange for work. If you don’t like the way he treats or teaches you, you’re an adult and you have a vote: you vote with your feet. Just politely quit, pack up your stuff, give me a call, and we depart the fix and go home. I think you’d be squandering a great opportunity, but if you’re truly unhappy here, you should get out before you get fired or start making others just as miserable as you are. I’ll help you figure out what your options are after that.

  “Because you’re an adult, I’m not going to tell you what to do, just give you my advice: if you’re going to stay here, you should work to become a team player and a trusted, valued employee. Start acting like a team member and maybe Colonel Hoffman will treat you better.”

  Several minutes later, Tom Hoffman came out of the main hangar with a single suitcase. “The wife is infinitely better at packing than I am,” he said. “Brad, Jerry Melton is in charge until I get back. Get with him if you have any questions about the calendar. Sondra will be in charge of your flying, ground school, and test calendar.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brad responded. As Hoffman was hurrying past him, Brad caught a glimpse of his father’s expression, and he looked back at Hoffman’s lone bag. It took only a few moments for Brad to catch on. “Don’t you need your laptop on this trip, Colonel?” he asked.

  Hoffman shook his head in disgust of his own forgetfulness. “Damn, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed onto my neck,” he said.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Brad said. Patrick’s mood brightened considerably. “I’ll grab some bottles of water for you too for the flight back to Battle Mountain. Do you want a Thermos of coffee for the flight, sir?”

  “Yeah, coffee sounds good,” Hoffman said distractedly as he searched his pockets for something else he thought he might have forgotten. “The Air Force coffee they serve on the plane is probably crap.”

  “Got your wallet, sir?” Brad asked.

  Hoffman touched the rear pocket of his slacks where the wallet should have been. “Oh, cripes. It’s probably in the console of my pickup.”

  “I’ll get it,” Brad said. “Oh, one thing, sir: the wireless router we’re using on the east side of the main hangar is an older dash-G model.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s second generation, but the newer ones are much better,” Brad went on. “I can get us a newer WIMAX 4G router for practically nothing. It has better range through the metal walls and much faster speeds. It’ll extend network coverage even out to the parking lot and the ramp.”

  “I don’t know about routers—all I want is for my wireless to work,” Hoffman said gruffly. “Tell Rosetta what you just told me, and tell her I want you to fix it by the time I get back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Brad shot a sly smile at his father, then trotted off.

  Hoffman noticed Patrick looking directly at him with a smile. “What are you grinning at, General?” he asked.

  “Nothing, you old fart,” Patrick said, his whole day suddenly bright and shiny. “Nothing at all.”

  OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE NEXT MORNING

  “Welcome back to the White House, General,” said retired Army general and former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff William Glenbrook, President Phoenix’s national security adviser. “You need to get to Washington more often.” Glenbrook looked to Patrick exactly how he remembered him back six years ago, tall and burly with a powerful handshake and a ready smile, although now he wore tailored suits instead of Army green.

  “Thank you, sir,” Patrick said, trying not to grimace as he and Glenbrook shook hands. Patrick had been a special adviser to President Kevin Martindale on new long-range strike technology, and he and Glenbrook rarely saw eye to eye. Patrick had been a strong advocate for the militarization of space; Glenbrook thought the technology was vastly too expensive for its limited capabilities. Profligate spending on unproven, futuristic space technology was one of the reasons stated by critics—and echoed by Glenbrook—for the economic meltdown and the unceremonious end of the Martindale administration.

  “Nah, it’s Bill around here, Patrick,” Glenbrook said casually. “Or sometimes it’s ‘Say Again,’ like when I give the president some advice he didn’t expect, which is more often than I care to admit.”

  “I know the feeling, Bill,” Patrick said. “I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Thomas Hoffman, Air Force retired, owner of Warbirds Forever Inc., and to Dr. Linus Oglethorpe, chief scientist and engineer at Sky Masters Inc. These two gentlemen are the architects and foundation of the XB-1 project. Gents, William Glenbrook, U.S. Army, retired, the president’s national security adviser.”

  “Thanks for the introductions, Patrick,” Glenbrook said as he shook hands. “When we were in President Martindale’s administration I didn’t see Patrick that often, squirreled away down in his office in the White House basement or blasting off to Armstrong Space Station all the time, but I could definitely tell when one of his ideas was put into motion—this place became even more chaotic, and back in the Pentagon I had to scramble to figure out what in hell he did.” He turned to the towheaded, bespectacled, nerdy-looking man standing behind him. “Gentlemen, meet Dr. Gerald Murth, undersecretary of defense for acquisitions. When your proposal was kicked up from the Air Force to the secretary of defense’s office, he was assigned to review it. The secretary of defense was briefed yesterday. Now it’s my turn, and I thought you’d want to be here.” He waved them all to seats, and an aide brought in a tray of coffee, which Hoffman nearly pushed others out of his way to get at. When they were all settled, Glenbrook waved to Murth. “Dr. Murth, proceed.”

  “Thank you, General Glenbrook,” Murth said in a high-pitched, rather squeaky voice. “If you’ll allow me, General?” He turned to look directly at Patrick. “Sir, I have to tell you, I’ve followed your exploits over the years with a real sense of . . .” He paused, afraid of offending, then resigning himself to speak his mind: “ . . . astonishment.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Undersecretary Murth,” Patrick said.

  “You must admit, General, that you have a certain . . . reputation,” Murth said, obviously enjoying a slight pause before uttering the last word in his sentences, especially if they were meant to be direct and not complimentary. He noticed Patrick’s uncomfortable body language and was evidently pleased to have elicited it. “A reputation that leaves senior officials and military commanders I know and respect with a feeling that they have no idea what you will do next, except that whatever it is, it will be . . . bombastic. Globally so.” Patrick said nothing. “I must tell you, sir, that when your proposal reached my desk from the Air Force, I was not prepared to be objective. Your reputation and service record fills me with a great sense of . . . trepidation.”

  “Very honest of you to say so, Mr. Undersecretary,” Patrick said. “However, I think we’d all be better served if you left personalities and nonrelevant history out of the evaluation, and let the project stand on its own merits.”

  “Dr. Murth is well known in the Pentagon for speaking his mind, Patrick,” Glenbrook said with a wry smile. “Frankly, I think Dr. Murth is the Pentagon’s designated project assassin. But he has the highest recommendation from Secretary Hayes. Proceed.”

  “I was directed to examine the proposal, despite my . . . reservations,” Murth went on. “I was directed to report back to Secretary Hayes with my honest assessment of your proposal and a recommendation on whether it merited any more of the Pentagon’s . . . consideration.”

  “Let�
��s get on with it, Murth,” Tom Hoffman said irritably. Murth’s head snapped around, and he looked at Hoffman with undisguised surprise and indignation, obviously not accustomed to be spoken to like that. “We’ve got work to do.” Glenbrook’s only reaction to the outburst was a thinly disguised smile, the index finger of his left hand on his lips—obviously he was going to let the arguments fly from both sides.

  “Yes, of . . . course,” Murth said, giving Hoffman an irritated scowl and getting an even deeper, darker one in return. “You are Colonel Thomas Hoffman, the one who will train the air and ground crews? You are the”—Murth looked him up and down quickly—“flying teacher?”

  “Twenty-six years in the Air Force, fifteen years in B-1B Lancers, over six thousand hours’ flying time,” Hoffman said. “Initial instructor cadre in the B-1, aircraft and simulator instructor, wing and division chief of Stan-Eval. I have an airline transport pilot rating and type ratings in ninety different aircraft. I’ve trained astronauts in how to fly the Gulfstream modified to fly like the Space Shuttle. FAA master flight instructor in Nevada for the past six years. I can fly and instruct in anything from a Piper Super Cub to a Boeing 787. I’ll also be helping train the maintenance and ground crews.”

  “I’m sure that’s a very impressive résumé, Mr. Hoffman,” Murth said dismissively. “My experience has been: those that can, do; those that can’t . . . teach.” Hoffman’s eyes and cheeks flared, and Patrick thought he would have to physically restrain him. “Flight instructors are certainly a step above other teachers but then again, you are just a teacher. Your military record is unremarkable, and your current business is based in Reno, Nevada—not exactly a world center of aviation.”

  “Ever hear of the National Championship Air Races, bub?” Hoffman asked. “I instruct in every one of the planes that race at the Reno Air Races, and I take care of a number of them.”

  “Yes, in fact, I have heard of that event. It’s the one where an older pilot killed ten spectators and injured over seventy in a crash a few years ago? Did you train that pilot, Colonel Hoffman?”

  Hoffman averted his eyes, but when he raised then again, they were blazing with indignation of his own. “Yes, I did,” he said. “He was my friend, and one of the best pilots on the planet. There was a technical malfunction.”

  “I love that term: ‘technical malfunction,’ ” Murth said. “I hear it quite often. It tends to invalidate all other actual reasons for . . . mistakes.” He looked Hoffman up and down again. “How old are you, Mr. Hoffman?”

  “I’m sure you know exactly how old I am, Murth,” Hoffman said irritably. “Don’t play games with me.”

  “You wouldn’t be considering using age as a reason to deny or invalidate this project, would you, Mr. Undersecretary?” Patrick asked.

  “General McLanahan, I don’t need a reason to deny approval for this project: all I need is the stroke of a pen,” Murth said. “That’s my . . . responsibility.”

  “We’re all anxious to get back to work, Murth,” Tom Hoffman repeated. Patrick cast Hoffman a warning glance but said nothing. “We have our technology presentation ready to show you if you’d like, or we can answer any questions you may have.”

  “My staff and I have seen your presentation, and it is quite . . . unbelievable,” Murth said. “Frankly, General McLanahan, no one here . . . believes you can do it.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Undersecretary, we can,” Linus Oglethorpe said evenly. Born in England but now a U.S. citizen, Oglethorpe had been Jonathan Colin Masters’s understudy and protégé for almost two decades at Sky Masters. He had an impossibly high forehead, blue sparkly eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses, and large ears that protruded Yoda-like from his head. “We invented the process and have demonstrated it with two airframes. The aircraft are better than new, sir.”

  “All we need are the airframes, engines, avionics, fuel, and weapons,” Patrick said. “We charge a flat fee to operate the aircraft under the Air Force’s direction. We’ll supply the work and the manpower. In two years or less, we’ll have a wing ready to deploy.”

  “Airframes, engines, avionics, fuel, and weapons—isn’t that like building a plane?” Murth asked. “The taxpayers are footing the bill for the whole machine, plus paying you a . . . fee?”

  “True, Mr. Undersecretary, but the difference is: the taxpayers have already paid for all that,” Patrick said. “The taxpayers have already purchased the engines, weapons, avionics, and fuel—we’re just taking what we already have off the shelf. At our expense, not yours, we’re assembling your bought-and-paid-for parts onto airframes that have not just been paid for but have already been fully capitalized and are just sitting in the Boneyard, and we’re making them operational for a tenth of what it would cost to build a similar plane. The technology is already there: we’ve been refurbishing B-1 Lancers like this for years. And you’re not paying for the labor to refurbish the planes. After they’re assembled, the Pentagon can always train its own crews to man them. But until they’re ready, the Pentagon pays Sky Masters a fee to operate them.”

  “How will we know if any of this really . . . works?”

  “We’ve already got two flying birds, all ready for weapon tests and instructor and ground maintenance training,” Patrick said. “Sky Masters pays for the refurbishment, aircrew and maintenance techs training, and upkeep. As I said, Sky Masters developed the refurbishment program years ago, and several mothballed planes were successfully modified using our plans.”

  Murth looked skeptical in the extreme, and he silently told Glenbrook so. “It’s a lot of money,” Murth said. “If it fails . . .”

  “If it fails, Secretary Murth, the government is not out anything—Sky Masters is investing heavily in manpower and resources,” Patrick said. “All we’re asking for is access to the hardware; we do the rest. In less than two years we’ll have a fleet of heavy bombers that can perform a wide range of tasks at distances far in excess of any other aircraft in the arsenal. If it fails, the government gets its hardware back, and you put it back on the shelf.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Murth said. “I’ll meet in private with General Glenbrook and Secretary Hayes and give them my report. They may want to meet with you some time in the future, but I . . .”

  At that moment there was a knock on the door to Glenbrook’s office. Before he could tell whoever it was to go away, his assistant opened the door . . . and Vice President Ann Page entered the office. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said gaily. All the men in the office shot to their feet, shocked expressions on their faces. “I heard the best of the best was back in town. The president thought I might want to sit in on this meeting.” She went over and gave Patrick a warm hug. “Nice to have you back in the White House, Patrick,” she said. “The place feels better with you here. The president sends his regards and would like for you and your companions to join him and me for dinner tonight in the residence.”

  “I’d be happy to, Miss Vice President.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Patrick made introductions again, and they all found seats. Ann Page motioned to William Glenbrook. “When President Phoenix first took office, he made me his national security adviser, which I greatly appreciated, but I’m glad to have General Glenbrook at the helm of the national security staff. Well, Undersecretary Murth, I understand you have studied General McLanahan’s proposal,” Ann said. “What do you think?”

  Murth was quite taken aback by Page’s sudden appearance and her warm welcome for Patrick, but he quickly shook it off. “Miss Vice President, my recommendation to General Glenbrook is the same I made to Secretary Hayes: the plan is a waste of money and resources and should not be approved under any circumstances.”

  “Tell me why, sir.”

  “General McLanahan proposes to turn an aircraft designed over forty years ago into a multirole long-range aircraft that can operate and survive in the battlespace of the twenty-first century, ma’am,” Murth said. “It is simply not credible. You simply cann
ot take a vintage car, bolt a big engine and fat tires on it, and turn it into a dragster.”

  “Excuse me, Undersecretary Murth,” Ann said, raising a finger with a smile. “You’re far too young to appreciate this, but when I was a teenager, that’s exactly what my brothers and I did, with everything from Model A Fords to ’57 Chevy Bel Airs, and we raced the hell out of those things.” She smiled at Patrick. “General McLanahan here is not a gearhead, though—he’s a techhead. He probably would’ve taken my souped-up Model A dragster and made it fly, or even shot it into space. Is that your plan, Patrick—take a Model A dragster and make it fly?”

  “The B-1 Lancer is not a Model A, Miss Vice President,” Tom Hoffman interjected. “It was far ahead of its time and was the most potent aircraft in the bomber fleet. The general’s plan makes it even better.”

  Vice President Page turned to Tom Hoffman. “I was told you are a plain-spoken and no-nonsense guy, Colonel Hoffman,” she said. “So tell it to me straight, sir: What do you think of this whole plan?”

  “I told General McLanahan that the Pentagon would never buy it, ma’am,” Hoffman said immediately. “It’s a good plan, but it won’t sell.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Pentagon wants the latest and greatest, and to hell with operational necessity, budgets, and out-of-the-box ideas,” Hoffman replied. “The bean counters like Murth here think that if it’s not absolute state-of-the-art, it’s a waste of money. I rebuild dozens of World War Two–, Korea-, and Vietnam-era planes every year, and they are fully certified and able to do the job—they are far better than they were when they were first built, and that’s how the XB-1 Excaliburs will be. When General McLanahan approached me with this plan to train crews to fly refurbished B-1 bombers, I signed on immediately. But I told General McLanahan he’d be wasting his company’s money because the government would never commit to fielding forty-year-old bombers.”