by Doug Beason
The men unfastened their strappings as Krandel and Weston moved around to the side of the TAV mock-up. As the slidewalk raced past the opening, Morales stood in the hatch. The corporal grabbed the sides of the opening and crouched.
Balcalski put his mouth to Krandel’s ear. “The slidewalk is moving at fifteen miles per hour in front of the opening. When the men jump, they hit the mat and roll. It’s the closest thing to having a moving TAV that we can get. This way the men can train for any exit speed by rolling to the ground and getting in their positions.”
Balcalski was interrupted by Morales’ yell. “Exit, Smilers!”
Morales leapt out, hit the slidewalk, and rolled to the ground in a modified parachute-landing fall.
One after another the marines exited, all hitting the slidewalk and rolling away, until the last man successfully left the craft. Balcalski allowed himself a hidden smile and said, “Finished, sir.” He glanced to his stopwatch. “Fifty-six seconds—slightly under two seconds per man.”
Krandel raised his brows. “Impressive.”
Weston nodded. “Good work, Sergeant. But work on it. I want them all out in forty seconds. Every second saved will mean that much more time to accomplish the mission.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He turned to Krandel. “Anything else, Colonel?”
“No, thank you, Gunny. Carry on.”
Balcalski saluted, then spun and left to join the men. Krandel turned back for the jeep.
Krandel spoke half to himself. “Your men looked impressive, Harv.”
“Thanks. Alpha squad is the best I’ve got. Bravo and Charlie will probably be out here all tomorrow afternoon until they get it right.”
“Do you go through the mock-up with them?”
“I go with Delta squad; they’ve usually got the fourth TAV. We’re coming out tomorrow morning, if you’d like to watch.”
“I think I might do that. What would I need to do if I wanted to join you on the mock-up?”
“Join us?” Weston stopped. He looked surprised.
“Sure, why not? The battalion CO should be qualified in TAV landings if he’s going to lead his men, shouldn’t he?” They stood by the jeep and turned back toward the TAV mock-up. Krandel’s driver stood at parade rest at the other side of the jeep, quietly ignoring the conversation.
Weston put a foot up on the jeep and answered slowly. “Well, sir … I suppose so. But won’t you be going in with the rest of the battalion? They won’t be using TAVs to get to the combat area. My platoon is the only one that uses the TAV.”
“There’s always a chance I could come with you.”
Weston chewed on his lip. “You’re going to have to run through PLF training to get checked out first.”
“Well, set it up. I want to be able to go with your squad tomorrow morning.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Look, Harv. If I’m going to have any credibility telling your men to risk their lives in a TAV landing, I’ve got to be able to do the same things they do.”
Weston answered skeptically. “I understand. I’ll call HQ and have them ready the course. One hour?” Krandel nodded. Weston pulled out his cell and made his request. Finished, he clicked off the phone and said, “Let’s go on over, sir. They’ll be ready when we get there.”
Krandel grunted his reply and climbed into the front of the jeep. Shaking his head, Weston climbed into the back and they sped off.
Edwards Air Force Base, California
The TAV crew chief leaned over the nose of the craft. Supported by an elevated roller, the master sergeant pulled back from the potpourri of electronic gear and wiped a hand across his brow. Even in the shade of the sprawling hanger the temperature climbed above one hundred degrees; the only respite was the relative absence of humidity.
Major Robert Gould climbed up the shaky steel ladder to the top of the portable roller and squinted at the guts of the TAV. The heart and soul of the Trans-Atmospheric Vehicle lay in front of him. Mega myriad light fibers, some not more than fractions of an inch long, connected the brain of the TAV to the rest of the craft.
Gould pulled his head out of the nose section and quizzed the crew chief. “Any idea on how much longer it’s going to take?”
The master sergeant wiped his hands on his fatigues; the heat had forced him to strip down to a V-necked T-shirt. “No, sir. Depends if we can get the avionics hooked up.” He reached past Gould and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. He shook the pack and offered one to Gould. Gould shook his head. The sergeant took one out and stepped back from the equipment before lighting up, careful not to get any debris into the control system.
Gould said, “What’s taking so long?”
The crew chief drew on his smoke before answering. He pointed with his cigarette. “See them fibers, sir?”
Gould glanced at the spaghetti mess of color-coded wires. “Yeah.”
“Well, when we finally tracked down that glitch you found, Material Command let a contract with MacDac to upgrade the avionics to fiber optics. They tore out all the electrical wiring and replaced it with those fiber bundles—after, of course, they sold the air force a couple of million-dollar conversion units to transmit and receive the light impulses. The light fibers are EMP-proof; that way you won’t have to worry about your baby going down in a nuke war—as if we’re ever going to have one. Anyway, Material Command knew that AMC would never have grounded their TAVs to install the upgrade. So when we brought the birds in to find the glitch, the engineer types jumped all over us, wanting their new bells and whistles installed.”
“Great.” Gould pulled back and moved to the side of the roller. The gashes where the JATO units could be attached barely disrupted the sleek aerodynamic lines of the craft. Even though the crew chief seemed optimistic, it seemed that more and more problems kept popping up. Gould was getting frustrated. Flying was his job—not waiting around for some newfangled engineering gizmo to adorn his craft.
Gould had lobbied Colonel Mathin and had managed to convince the higher-ups to let some of the TAV pilots take up one of the F-35s. He argued that keeping pilots grounded was just asking for trouble. And the F-35s weren’t being used, so why not let the TAV pilots take them up for a spin? Blowing off steam was always good for the soul.
Gould didn’t know exactly why Mathin went along with his request, but thank goodness he did, because half his squadron would have been climbing the walls right now without some sort of diversion.
Even so, it was getting old. He wanted to get back to some real flying.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Montoya shook the last hand and waved goodbye. He ducked into the Red Room and nodded to the Secret Service agent guarding the doorway. The agent voiced a polite “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” but was really much too busy watching the door to continue the pleasantries. Montoya continued up the stairs, thinking that unlike New Mexico, the D.C. area was certainly not the land of mañana. He felt a fleeting longing for the old days in Santa Fe when he was governor and nothing was so important it couldn’t wait until the morrow. Blue-corn enchiladas at the Shed for lunch, margaritas and nachos at the Pink Adobe before dinner, opera parties at Chimayo …
But those days were gone, and all the wishing in the world couldn’t bring them back. But still, sometimes he wondered. He kept thinking that since Nixon had resigned and had gotten a pension, then maybe … just maybe he could do the same. But of course, he wasn’t willing to put up with a Watergate debacle just to take an early retirement.
Grantland Percival Woodstone, the vice president of the United States, was waiting for him in the Oval Office. The vice president stood—not entirely because he wanted to, but because the others in the room did—when Montoya entered. Montoya nodded a greeting. This was probably the best benefit of the job: forced respect.
And with someone like Woodstone it felt good to take advantage of the system. Not that he didn’t like the man; Montoya just didn’t trust him. After all, Woodstone was the only ou
tsider in the White House clan, the only gringo, the only one not from the southwest.
Montoya felt uneasy around the Harvard-educated vice president, but the voting support Montoya got from the Northeast more than made up for the feeling. If he could just get used to that damned nasal drawl.…sometimes Montoya felt as though Percy was amused by him. It made him uneasy.
Montoya rounded his desk and sat; the others took their seats as soon as he was settled. Chief of Staff Baca cleared his throat. “How did it go, Mr. President?”
“The opposition’s luncheon? Fine, I suppose. That is, if you care for speaking to a nest of busy bodies for forty-five minutes. What’s on the agenda?”
Baca glanced at his notes. “Cabinet meeting at two, then the House Whip has a special favor to ask at four-thirty—”
“That damned military budget again. Can’t you keep him off my back until the Senate tears it apart? Once they get a hold of it, he’ll be begging on his knees to have me pass my budget.”
“I think that’s what he had in mind, Mr. President. He wants to, uh, head you off at the pass, if you will. If he wasn’t from the biggest military-industrial state in the union, I think he’d be backing off.”
“Fine, then. Go ahead and let him in, but pull him out after fifteen minutes. Anything else?”
Baca shot a wary glance at the vice president, then said, “The annual Russian-Israeli trip is all set up, sir.”
“Good. Any flak from the Brits for me not showing?”
“No, sir. At least, not as much as we expected. I still have to brief Mr. Woodstone, and the Secret Service has coordinated with the NSA to set up the advance team.”
The vice president looked up and spoke with a slight but noticeable nasal drawl. “Trip? What trip is this?”
Baca drew in a breath. “The Russian-Israeli trip the President is going on in three weeks.”
Woodstone looked pleased. “Oh, yes. That one—your annual trek of appeasement.” He turned to Montoya. “Now, Sandy, I’m sure everything will be all right while you’re away. I’ll just have to rearrange my plans so I won’t be in Connecticut that week. Is there anything else you might want me to do? I’m heading off to Florida for the National Committee meeting tomorrow. They’re drawing up the new platform and wanted me to open the thing for them. With the rest of my schedule, I probably won’t see you until right before you take off. Any problem with that?”
No problem at all, except I won’t trust you while I’m out of the country, thought Montoya. “No, just keep in touch. We’ll have to take the usual precautions before I leave. By the way, Manuel will be staying here to help you out; Amador will accompany me on this trip.
“Anything else, gentlemen?” No one spoke. Montoya nodded toward the door. “Well, it’s Cabinet time.” He stood. “Lead on, Percy—I’ll follow you in this time.”
As they left Montoya felt much better. He knew that Grantland Percival Woodstone hated to be called Percy.
Foggy Bottom, Washington, D.C.
The bar was full, but not crowded. The singles scene at the Tombs was dying; school was out, and the coeds from Georgetown that usually frequented the hangout were conspicuously absent. In addition, smoke wafted through the air, getting into Yoli Aquinaldo’s eyes. The steward rubbed his face and turned to his roommate. “Ramis—we try next door?”
“Aiah.” The other steward nodded. “Leave tip?”
“I’ll get it.” Yoli dug through his trousers and pulled out a ten. It was easy to forget that only a few years ago he was shining shoes at the American Club in Bagio; at the time, ten dollars would have been an unexpected windfall: a nice dinner, and a jeepney home, to boot.
Signing on at the old Subic Bay naval station with the U.S. Navy was the best thing he’d ever done. He’d signed a few decades after the United States had left the PI. Clark, Subic Bay, and Mactan were all closed now, and for the first time in years the American presence was not wanted in the P.I. Still, the U.S. Navy was good to him. They’d taken care of him, fed him, clothed him.…he even had enough money left over to send some home every month.
And it was true about hard work bearing results in the U.S. He’d worked his tail off as a steward and was selected just six months ago for duty with Air Force One. Yoli Aquinaldo—twenty-four years old—had already reached the pinnacle of his naval career. When he retired and returned to the P.I., the tales he’d have would keep the barrio talking for years. It was not every day that one could claim to have served the President of the United States as a steward.
Yoli left the ten-note on the table and pushed his chair back. As he got up, a stranger moved to the table and smiled at the two. “Good evening.” The words came in Tagalog.
Yoli looked up with a start. “Hello! It is not often one hears the tongue of home.” The stranger was definitely a fellow countryman, but the features were strangely different. Yoli couldn’t quite place it, but the man was not a full-blooded Filipino.…
“I was just about to have a drink when I overheard you speaking: I thought you were one of my countrymen. It is an unexpected discovery. May I buy you a drink?”
“Aiah. And my friend?” The stranger nodded. Yoli motioned for Ramis to sit back down. He held up a finger to the waitress. “Please, again.”
The stranger smiled. “If you don’t mind, I, too, have a friend that would like to join us.” He turned and motioned with his head toward the door. A dark-complexioned man came from the corner and smiled at the group as he pulled out a chair and sat. “This is my good friend, Du’Ali.”
Yoli offered a greeting, but the newcomer just nodded and smiled; this one was not Filipino, but he was his fellow countryman’s friend. Yoli shrugged it off. He was too polite to pry. And after all, a free drink is a free drink.
Chapter 4
2200 ZULU: MONDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER
If you make people think they’re thinking, they’ll love you: but if you really make them think, they’ll hate you.
Anonymous
Edwards Air Force Base, California
“Any other questions, Major Gould?”
“Just tell me once more, this time in plain English, how much clearance I’ll have with the JATO units.”
The aeronautical engineer looked puzzled; then his eyes grew vacant, as if they were focused to infinity, and his face grew slack. Only after a moment of thought did the youngish captain speak. “Well, if your TAV was loaded to the gills, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hades of taking off. On the other hand, if she was completely stripped down, she’d shoot up so fast you’d probably be able to kick in the scramjets as soon as you rotated.”
Gould shifted his weight to his right foot and said with a slight bite, “I know that, but what if I were taking off with a higher-than-normal load? What could I expect out of her?” He slapped a ream of paper on the briefing table. Charts and tables filled the pages. “I’ve spent the last day and a half on alert trying to figure out what this stuff means, but I can’t make heads or tails out of it. I don’t want to understand it—just tell me what I need to know.”
The aeronautical engineer looked surprised. “Oh, sure. Just a second.” The vacant look came back over the captain’s face, but this time he was reading the papers that Gould had slapped down.
Damned aero engineers, thought Gould. The air force is full of non-rated pukes—non-pilots—who think they’re God’s gift to mankind. You ask them what time it is and they tell you how to make a friggin’ watch.
Gould bristled at putting up with the aeronautical engineers that populated Edwards. He’d heard that back in the good old days—the Yeager days, that is—the pilots wouldn’t put up with this crap. The entire preflight checklist consisted of the test pilot running out to the bird, “kicking the tires, lighting the fires,” and he was airborne. None of this nonsense of having some non-rated nipple-head, whose only operational experience was going to graduate school, telling him what to do.
After all, it is the air force, isn’t it? Not the Uni
ted States Engineering Corps.
The TAVs were retrofitted with JATO units and now had the capability of taking off on their own in emergencies—instead of being dropped from a 747 mothership. But up to now, all of Gould’s takeoffs with JATOs had been made with the TAV empty of any cargo. All he wanted to know was how much weight he could safely take off with. He never could get a straight answer from an engineer. If they told him just once what he needed to know, he’d be happy.
The captain pushed his glasses back to his forehead with a finger. He pointed at a sail-like diagram on the paper. “Well, if you were carrying a full complement—”
“Full complement of what?”
“Of anything—people, equipment, fuel, cows—whatever.” The captain sounded impatient. He pointed at the diagram again. “Look. If your TAV was packed with, say, just people—and only people—then the JATOs would barely be able to get the TAV up to three thousand feet, plus or minus fifty feet. From there, you’d have enough fuel so that if you dove at the ground, you’d gain just enough airspeed at about one hundred feet to kick in the scramjets. After the scramjets kick in, you wouldn’t need the JATO units anymore, and you could go semiballistic.”
Gould lifted an eyebrow. “One hundred feet.”
“You wanted to know the limits of the envelope, didn’t you?” He put down the paper, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “You know, Major, I’d never try it myself. You’d be pushing the TAV to the max, and with the ground effect at that altitude, I’m really not sure if the scramjets could handle it.” He put his glasses back on and smiled.
Gould swept up the papers on the briefing table. He smiled back, just sweetly enough to look sarcastic. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Captain. I’ll remember you said that when I’m saving your butt. You engineers are going to be an endangered species if you let a little problem like scramjet capability worry you.”
The captain dropped his smile and turned slightly red. “Good day, Major.”
As he turned to leave, Gould made a quiet kissing sound after him. “Good day, Captain.” Couldn’t these non-rated guys take themselves a little less seriously? He gathered up the material and made his way back to the alert facility.
