Tiger's Claw: A Novel

to other air bases, including Andersen and Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean; Wishbone commanded the two B-2A Spirit stealth bombers currently based at Andersen. “When will we find out if we’re cleared to load?”

“No idea,” Cutlass said, “but unless I miss my guess, it’ll be days and days of waiting and not knowing anything, followed by a mad hurried dash to get loaded planes in the air. That’s why I’d like to load up at least one bomber from each squadron.”

“Can’t we call it a munition-loading exercise or something and just do it, sir?” Oroz asked.

“Things are tense enough already at PACAF—I don’t want to be playing games with live ordnance,” Cutlass said. “We’ll play this by the book. I submitted a plan and I’ve got my crews on the starting blocks—let’s see if or when the brass wants to shoot the starter’s pistol.”

Cutlass again looked at the others around the conference table. Faces were somber—the gravity of the situation was starting to sink in. “Okay, guys and gals, this might be the real thing, so I want you to make sure your crews are situated properly, rested, and completely up to speed,” he said. “Like I said, if this happens, I’m betting it’s going to be a mad scramble to get planes in the air, and I don’t want any avoidable mistakes. When the call comes, let’s lean into it and hustle, but let’s do it smoothly and professionally. Get ready to do some flying.”

FOUR

NORTHERN NEVADA INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

LATER THAT DAY

Late that afternoon, Patrick drove out to his airplane hangar and found Brad inside on a stepladder, wiping bugs off the leading edge of his father’s turbine-powered Cessna P210 Centurion’s wings. “Hi there, Brad,” he called out.

“Hey, Dad,” Brad said over his shoulder. He was using a nylon scrubbing pad to remove bugs from a bright metal panel on the leading edge of the wings. This panel had thousands of tiny laser-drilled holes, through which deicing fluid was pumped to keep the wings free of ice in winter—the holes were easily clogged and had to be meticulously cleaned after every flight. “I think I flew through the planet’s largest swarm of insects.”

“Good Angel Flight West flight?”

“Everything went great.” Angel Flight West was an organization that matched up needy medical patients with volunteer pilots to fly them for medical treatment; both Brad and Patrick were command pilots.

“Where did you go?”

“Sacramento Executive,” Brad said. “It was a three-leg relay: one pilot flew a mom and her son from Wyoming to Salt Lake City; another flew them to here; and I flew them to Sac Exec. The son was a burn victim.”

“No mission assistant?” A mission assistant sometimes came along to help the pilot with the passengers so the pilot could concentrate on flying.

“Not this time. I’ve flown this family a few times before, so they know the routine.”

“Good. Need help?”

“No. Just about done.” Patrick waited until Brad finished cleaning the wings; he noted that the windshield, propeller, and stabilizer deicers were already clean. When he was done, Brad put away the stepladder and bagged up the cleaning supplies. “Finis.”

“Good. I need to talk with you.”

“Sure, Dad.” They went over to the desk in the rear corner of the hangar. Brad got a couple bottles of water out of a little refrigerator and handed one to his father. “What’s up?”

“I’m really happy with the work you’re doing around the airport,” Patrick began. “The pilots and techs say the same thing. You’re putting in a lot of hours, and you volunteer for lots of overtime. And I’m also happy you’re doing all these Angel Flight West missions. I’m sure the patients really appreciate the time you’re putting in.” He pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket. “But frankly, son, I think you’re flying way too much. We can’t afford the fuel bill. I hate to say it, son, but it’s breaking the bank. The credit card bill is through the roof.”

“But it’s a charity,” Brad said. “Aren’t the expenses tax-deductible?”

“They are to a certain extent, son, but we still have to pay the bill, and we just don’t have the cash,” Patrick said.

“But you run Sky Masters. You’re the chief operations officer and a vice president, right?”

“I guess I never explained the situation to you, Brad,” Patrick said. “My salary is just enough to pay household expenses every month—that’s all. There’s no money at the end of the month.”

“There’s not? Why?”

“Because as CEO part of my job is to make sure the company has money, and every dime past what we need every month is money the company can’t use,” Patrick explained. “My job is to make sure the company makes money, not me.”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” Brad said. “The company has shareholders, right? They make money, don’t they?”

“If the company makes money, the shareholders earn dividends and profits when the price of their shares goes up,” Patrick said. “We are shareholders of the company, you and I. If the company makes enough of a profit, I get a bonus at the end of the year, but most of that is reinvested in the company by purchasing stock or stock options.”

“I thought all COOs were rich,” Brad said.

“We’re not broke, Brad,” Patrick said. “But we don’t have a lot of spare cash, either. I feel it’s important to invest in the company rather than take a big salary. The company directors and shareholders like that, so they’re more likely to keep me around.”

“ ‘Keep you around’?” Brad repeated, the astonishment evident in his voice. “Dad, you’re Patrick McLanahan. You’re a retired three-star Air Force general. You’ve commanded bombing missions all over the world and even in space. They’re lucky to have you. Why would they even consider not having you as part of the company?”

“Because business is business, Brad,” Patrick said. “I get what you’re saying about me, son—and thank you for saying it—and I think the company president and chairman of the board of directors would agree with you, but at the end of the day it really doesn’t matter who I am if I’m not doing everything I can to help the company make a profit. If I wasn’t doing the job and doing everything possible to make them money, they would politely but firmly show me the door. They might even be nice enough to hold it open for me so it didn’t bang my ass as I depart.”

Brad just shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s all about making money? You do all this stuff, come up with all these ideas, put in all these long hours, and end the month with zero in the bank . . . just to make other people rich? It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, son,” Patrick said with a smile. Brad wasn’t smiling—in fact, he appeared very disillusioned, almost angry. Patrick touched his son on the shoulder to get his attention. “But let’s get a few things clear first. The company’s objective is to make a profit. My job is to see to it that I do everything possible to achieve the company’s objective. But my objective is not to make money for Sky Masters. My objective is to raise a happy and well-adjusted son and to produce high-tech systems to help defend the United States of America. The company has the resources to help me meet my objective—if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

“The deal is simple, Brad: I use what skills I have to help the company meet its objective—earn a profit—and the company contributes its resources to help me meet my objective—build stuff to help defend the nation,” Patrick went on. “There’s a simple agreement between the company and me: as long as we’re meeting our mutual objectives, we stay together. If either of us feels our objectives aren’t being met, we’re done, and it’s over. We have no written contract. We signed this agreement with nothing more than a handshake. The instant either one of us feels we’re not meeting our objectives, the deal is over, and we part ways.”

“You mean . . . you could get fired tomorrow?” Brad asked incredulously. “They could ask you to leave, anytime, and we’d have to go?”