Tiger's Claw: A Novel

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 resume, 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 protege 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 cannot 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-