Toad wasn’t fooled.
At five hundred feet above hostile terrain on a stormy night with the tracers streaking over the canopy and the missile warning lights flashing, this bombardier-navigator business was going to be a whole different ball game. The pilot would be slamming the plane around, pulling on that stick like it was the lever to open heaven’s gate. And the BN had to sit here delicately tweaking the radar and infrared and nursing the computer and laser while trying not to vomit into his oxygen mask. Toad knew. He had been there in the backseat of an F-14. The best way to learn this stuff was by repetition. Every task, every adjustment the correction for every failure—it all had to be automatic. If you had to think about it you didn’t know it and you sure as hell wouldn’t remember it when you were riding this bucking pig up the devil’s asshole.
At five in the evening Jenks drove him back to the BOQ. “Tonight you study the NATOPS.” NATOPS—Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures—was the Book on the airplane, the navy equivalent to the air force Dash One manual. “Learn the emergency procedures. Tomorrow you and Moravia will be in the simulator together. We’ll run some attacks and pop some emergencies and failures. The next day you fly the real airplane. Study hard.”
“Thanks, sadist.”
“You’re all right, Tarkington, even if you are a fighter puke.”
Toad slammed the car door and stomped into the BOQ. He was whipped, drained. Maybe he ought to go jogging to clean the pipes. In his room he changed into his sweat togs. The wind coming in off Puget Sound had a pronounced bite and the sun was already setting, so he added a second heavy sweatshirt.
He was leaning into a post supporting the roof over the walkway leading to the officers’ club when a gray navy pickup pulled up in front of the BOQ and dropped Rita Moravia. She was wearing an olive-drab flight suit and flight boots.
“If you’re going running,” she called, “will you wait for me?”
“Sure.” Toad continued to stretch his right leg, the one with the pins in it. He hopped around and trotted in place a few steps. The leg was ready. On the grass was a bronze bust: Lieutenant Mike McCormick, A-6 pilot killed over North Vietnam. The BOQ and officers’ club were named for him.
Toad was standing beside the bust watching the A-6s in the landing pattern overhead and listening to the throaty roar of their engines when Moravia came out. She had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Which way do you want to run?” she asked.
“I dunno. How about north along the beach?” They started off. “Were you flying today?”
“Yes. Twice.” She picked up the pace to a fast trot.
“How’d you like it?”
“Old airframe, not as fast and agile as the Hornet, of course, but with better range and more lifting capacity. More complex.” An A-6 went over and she waited for the roar to fade. “It’s a nice plane to fly.”
On the western side of the road was a beach littered with driftwood and, beyond, the placid surface of the sound. Just visible in the fading glow of the sunset was an island five or six miles away—it was hard to tell. Silhouettes of mountains stood against the sky to the southwest. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. Wait till you see it from the air.”
“Why’d you get into flying anyway?”
She shot him a hard glance and picked up the pace. He stayed with her. She was going too fast for conversation. The paved road ended and they were on gravel when she said, “Four miles be enough?”
“Yep.” Well, he had stepped on it that time, got it out and dragged it in the dirt and tromped all over it. What’s a pretty girl like you doing in this dirty, sweaty business anyway, sweetie? Ye gods, Toad, next you’ll be asking about her sign.
On the inbound leg they stopped running several blocks short of the BOQ and walked to cool down. “I got into flying because I thought it would be a challenge,” Rita said, watching him.
Toad just nodded. In the lobby she asked, “Want to change and get some dinner?”
“Thanks anyway. I gotta study.”
As he showered Toad realized that somewhere on the run he had jettisoned his nascent plan to bed Rita Moravia. The Good Lord just doesn’t have any mercy for you, Toad, my man. Not the tiniest pinch.
6
The admiral can see you in thirty minutes, sir.”
“Thanks.” Jake Grafton cradled the phone and doodled on his legal pad. It was almost 10:30 and Smoke Judy was at his desk. He had said good morning to Jake and spent an hour on the phone, and now seemed to be busy on the computer with a report, but he hadn’t mentioned his sojourns of yesterday. Jake had toyed with the idea of questioning Judy about where he was yesterday, then decided against it. Whatever answer Judy gave, truth or lie, what would that prove? Would a he incriminate him? In what? A murder? Espionage? If Judy told the truth, what would the truth be? That he went to West Virginia yesterday—so what? And if he denied it—what then? No, Jake didn’t know enough to even ask an intelligent question.
Vice Admiral Henry, however, was in a more interesting position. His fairy tale about deflecting a murder investigation left him vulnerable. Vulnerable to what? To more questions. He would have to answer reasonable questions or…? Or?
I can’t recognize truth when I hear it, Jake mused. What the hell kind of job is this? Can I trust the admiral?
Do I have a choice? He tossed the pencil on the desk and rubbed his eyes. He knew the answer to that one. He had no choice at all. He stood and stretched. His doodles caught his eye. Airplanes. Gliders. Long wings.
In front of the breezeway between JP-1 and JP-2, he caught the shuttle bus and rode it over to the Pentagon. The chief offered him a cup of coffee, which he accepted. Then he waved him in to see Henry, who was busy locking his desk and office safe.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning. Don’t sit. We’re going to a meeting with SECNAV.”
“Okay.” Jake had never met F. George Ludlow, but he had heard a lot about him. Scion of an old New England family—was there any other kind?—Ludlow was in his early forties, a Vietnam vet with a B.S. from Yale and a business doctorate from Harvard. He had spent ten years knocking around the gray-suit defense think tanks before being tapped as Secretary of the Navy three years ago by his father-in-law, Royce Caplinger, the Secretary of Defense. Nepotism, fumed the Senate Democrats, but they confirmed the nomination anyway: Ludlow’s credentials were as bluechip as his family connections and dividends from the family investment trusts.
“What this meeting about, sir?” Jake asked as he and the admiral walked the outer ring of the Pentagon—the E-ring—toward Ludlow’s office.
“Don’t know. When Ludlow wants you, he summons you—now.”
It was common knowledge that Ludlow had vigorous hands on the throttle and helm of the navy. He had firm ideas about what ships and weapons systems the navy needed, how they should be acquired, how they should be employed. With his insider’s knowledge of Washington and the upper reaches of the defense establishment he outargued most admirals. Those he couldn’t win over he shuffled off to sinecures or retirement. Unlike the usual dilettante who spent a year or two as a service secretary on his way to a bright political future or the vice presidency of a major defense contractor, Ludlow behaved exactly like a man whose present job was the fulfillment of a lifelong quest. If Ludlow had any other political or business ambitions, no hint of them had percolated down to Jake’s level. His saving grace, or so it appeared to the rank and file, was his strong commitment to the navy as an institution, to its people and its traditions. This was probably one of the reasons for unease at the flag level, since the admirals were unwilling to defer to anyone as keeper of the faith, the role in which they cast themselves.
The corridor in which the secretary’s office was located was decorated for the general public. Large oil portraits of naval heroes of the past were prominently displayed; Farragut, Dewey, Halsey and many others. The old admirals stared dourly at Jake and Vice Admiral Henry
as they went to their appointment to discuss the navy of the future.
Ludlow’s large office was paneled in dark wood, the real thing, not veneer, Jake noticed as he took his first, curious look—and nautical memorabilia were everywhere, on the desk, the credenza, the little sitting desk. Oil paintings of famous naval scenes—also original, Jake noted—adorned the walls. The chairs were black leather. One of them was occupied by a fat gent in his mid-sixties whose skin looked as tough as the chair covering. Jake recognized him from his picture—Senator Hiram Duquesne, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Ludlow was behind his desk and didn’t rise from his chair.
“You gentlemen know the senator,” Ludlow said after Admiral Henry had introduced Jake.
Duquesne eyed Jake speculatively. “Aren’t you the pilot that strapped on El Hakim last year?”
“Yessir.”
“Sit down, gentlemen. Please.” Ludlow gestured to the chairs. Jake ended up on Henry’s left, Duquesne on the admiral’s right. Ludlow’s executive assistant sat on the sofa with a legal pad on his lap, ready to take notes.
The senator and the two naval officers faced the secretary across his massive mahogany desk strewn with paper. Ludlow had one leg draped over his chair arm, revealing hairy skin in the gap between the top of his sock and his trouser leg. In his hands he held a rifle cartridge that still contained a bullet. He worked the cartridge back and forth between his fingers as he spoke to Jake. “Senator Duquesne wanted to meet you when I informed him you would be doing the testing and evaluation of the ATA prototypes.”
“Now, as I understand it, George, you people are not going to do your usual T and E routine,” Senator Duquesne said. T and E was Test and Evaluation.
“No way to keep the lid on or meet our time goals if we did it the usual way.”
“You a test pilot?” Duquesne shot at Jake.
“No, sir.”
Ludlow’s leg came off the arm of his chair. “He’s an attack pilot,” the secretary said mildly, “one of the very best we have. He knows carrier aviation as well as anyone in uniform.”
“What d’ya know about stealth?” the senator demanded.
“Very little, sir, but I’m learning.”
“Horse puckey! What does the navy need for an attack plane at the turn of the century? What about range, payload, survivability, maintainability? How much should the navy pay?”
“I—” Jake began, but Ludlow was also talking: “Senator, policy is my—”
Senator Duquesne raised his voice. He thundered at Ludlow. “I’ll say this again with these gentlemen present. I’m not happy about this whole thing, George. Not happy. You have a program here that you will want funded for three hundred and fifty airplanes at about fifty million each, seventeen and a half billion dollars’ worth, and you intend to make the decision on which prototype to buy based on Captain Grafton’s quick and dirty recommendation?”
“You overstate it, Senator. We—being me, CNO, Vice Admirals Henry and Dunedin—we propose to make a recommendation to SECDEF based on the needs of the navy. We will look closely at Captain Grafton’s evaluation to help us determine which of the two prototypes best meets those needs. And his evaluation will be quick but it won’t be dirty.” The senator twisted in his chair. The secretary continued, relentless. “No captain determines the needs of the navy, Senator. I do that. The President and SECDEF—”
Duquesne stopped him with an upraised palm. “Don’t lecture me, George. And don’t patronize me! Major weapons systems procurement gets shrouded in secrecy, taken out of the normal channels where Congress can look things over, and major decisions get made on the basis of one document generated by one of your junior subordinates which no one can confirm or refute. And you tell me to relax? Seventeen billion dollars for a plane that may or may not be adequately tested, that may or may not do what we’re buying it to do? Plus ten more billion for spare parts and simulators and all the rest of it. No dirt, huh? Goddamnit, Ludlow, I don’t trust you any further than I could throw a scalded cat! You’re trying to make Congress a goddamn rubber stamp!”
Ludlow leaned forward in his chair. “I never said for you to relax! You people agreed to the classification level of these black stealth projects! You people understood the problems involved and approved the administrative shortcuts! Now you—”
“I said don’t patronize me! And quit pointing that fucking bullet at me!”
Henry rose hastily and Jake followed. “Talk to you later, Mr. Secretary,” he said, and Ludlow nodded as he fired another volley at the senator.
“Jesus,” Jake muttered when they reached the hallway and the door closed behind them.
“Yeah,” the admiral agreed.
“How come Duquesne is so upset when the decision hasn’t been made?”
“That’s just it. One of the prototypes was manufactured in his home state. He’s fought hard on the Hill for stealth and he wants his plane to be chosen and the air force didn’t buy it. Now, if the navy doesn’t…Well, you get the idea.”
“Uh-huh,” Jake said as the full dimensions of his new position came into much better focus. So Henry had asked for him to run the ATA project, eh? No doubt his name had been discussed with Ludlow and the Chief of Naval Operations as well as Vice Admiral Dunedin—NAVAIR. They could praise him to the skies for his report or ease him right out of the navy. They needed a man they could dispose of if necessary. And they found me, Jake thought bitterly. A gilt-edge reputation, my ass!
In Henry’s office, Jake said calmly, “Better make sure your anti-bugging devices are on.”
The admiral did so while eyeing Jake. When he was seated, Jake said, “I took a little drive yesterday, sir. Saw a state trooper up in West Virginia named Keadle. Read an accident report.”
“So?”
“Passed one of the guys from my shop on my way back here yesterday afternoon. He was on his way to West Virginia.”
“Oh?”
“Admiral, why don’t you tell me what really happened in West Virginia after Harold Strong was killed?”
“Are you suggesting I haven’t?”
“I can’t do my job, sir, unless you play straight with me. I play straight with you, you have to play straight with me.”
Admiral Henry looked out his window a while, examined his fingernails and finally directed his gaze back to Jake. “I think you had better discuss any concerns you have with Admiral Dunedin.” He picked up a sheet of paper and began to scan it. The interview was over.
“Aye aye, sir,” Jake said, and left the room. He retrieved his hat in the outer office and caught the shuttle back to Crystal City.
As the little bus wound its way from the parking lot, Jake looked back at the Pentagon. It appeared low and massive from this perspective. Endless rows of windows. It also looked gray under this overcast.
Admiral Dunedin was in conference. Jake didn’t get in to see him until almost 3 P.M. He got right to it. “I went to West Virginia yesterday to see what I could find out about Harold Strong’s death. On the way back here I passed one of the people from my shop heading the other way.”
“Who?” said Dunedin, apparently genuinely curious.
“Smoke Judy.”
“How about that,” Dunedin muttered.
“Admiral, I’m a little baffled. Vice Admiral Henry briefed me on some of the events surrounding Strong’s death, but this morning when I mentioned this incident to him, he didn’t even ask who it was from my office that passed me. I get the distinct impression I’m being mushroomed.”
Dunedin lifted an eyebrow, then apparently thought better of it and went back to deadpan. He apparently knew about mushrooms: you kept them in the dark and fed them shit. “I guess everyone is a little baffled,” he said carefully. “Strong’s death was a tragedy. Nothing we can do about it, though.”
“Well, I could sure use a little more infor—”
“Who couldn’t? But I don’t have any information I can share with you. Sorry.” His tone made the apo
logy a mere pleasantry. Before Jake could reply, he said, “There’s a meeting at sixteen-thirty hours in the Under Secretary of the Navy’s office on next year’s budget. We’ve got a billion dollars for ATA buried in there under carrier modernization and enhancement. You go to the meeting and represent me. If they try to cut that line item or slice it down in any way, you call me.”
“Yessir.” The admiral selected a report from his in basket and began to read. Jake left.
After he told the secretary that he was going to a meeting, he walked to the officer personnel office, where he had to wait until two other officers had finished before he could talk to the chief petty officer. “Do you have my service record in here?”
“Last four digits of your social security number, sir?”
“Oh-six-oh-seven.”
It took the chief just half a minute to pull it from the drawer.
“Chief, how about you ginning up a request for retirement for my signature?”
The chief yeoman’s eyes showed his surprise. “Okay, sir, if that’s what you want. It’s gotta be effective on the first day of a month between four and six months from now.”
Jake eyed the wall calendar. “September first. When can I sign it?”
“Monday okay?”
“See you then.”
“Any particular reason you want stated, sir?”
“The usual. Whatever you usually say.”
Dashing the four blocks to Dr. Arnold’s office after her eleven o’clock class on Friday was always a hassle for Callie. A student or two usually buttonholed her to clarify a point or comment made during class and it took several minutes to satisfy them without being rude. Then came the four-block march which crossed two avenues hub to hub with noon traffic.
She was perspiring slightly when Arnold’s receptionist nodded at her. Two minutes early. Of course, a few minutes late wouldn’t hurt, but Arnold ended the sessions precisely at ten minutes before the hour and the fee was $105 regardless. She sank onto the couch and once again tried to decide if the fifty minutes was worth the cost.
The Minotaur Page 9
