as they flew.
A few more acrobatics and it was on to the simulated missile run. The Sabres dropped precision-guided bombs — small warheads of high explosive. These were 38 and 67- pound bombs, designed to destroy targets without causing a lot of collateral damage. They could blow up anything smaller than a main battle tank without a problem — as they demonstrated on a helpless Bradley.
Mission complete, it was back to the runway for a coordinated landing.
“Ground to Tigershark One, you’re looking very good,” said Colonel Harvey “Rocks” Johnson, coming on the radio just as Turk was about to tell control he was ready to land. “What’s your situation?”
“Tigershark is about to head back to the barn, Colonel.”
“I wonder if you could take that crisscross over the review stand again. The Sabres were a little sluggish.”
The colonel phrased it as a request, but Turk knew that Rocks would make his life difficult if he didn’t burp precisely on command.
“Tigershark weighed fuel out pretty carefully, Colonel.”
“My gauge says you have enough for a pass.”
Turk checked. The Tigershark’s instruments were duplicated on the ground. There was enough for a pass — but only just.
“Yeah, roger that. We’re lining it up.” Turk clicked off the radio mike. “Computer, Sabre Control Section: Sabres, follow-on for prebriefed maneuver A–1. Devolve from that to landing pattern Baker. Acknowledge.”
“Sabre Commander: Sabres Acknowledge,” said the computer. The commands appeared in his HUD.
Turk slid back to the starting point for the fly-by. The Sabres came around and executed their part of the show perfectly — just as they had earlier. Turk banked, called in to the tower to land, and got into position without any more interference from Rocks Johnson. The Sabres lined up behind him, aiming to fly over and then land.
He was less than 1,000 meters from touchdown when a proximity warning sounded in the cockpit. One of the Sabres was moving toward his tail at 500 knots.
“Sabres, knock it off, knock it off,” said Turk. In that same second he pulled the throttle down, killing his speed. The aircraft flattened, losing altitude precipitously. But the unending runway was created just for such emergencies. He came in hard and fast, but had acres in front of him; the Sabres jetted harmlessly overhead.
“What the hell just happened?” he yelled.
“Tigershark, abort landing,” said the computer controller, belatedly catching up to the emergency. “Abort. Abort.”
“Thanks,” muttered Turk, checking his instruments.
The knock-it-off command should have sent the Sabres into a predesignated safe orbit at 5,000 feet, southwest of the runway in a clear range. But the radar showed them circling above and approaching for a landing.
“Ground, what’s going on?” said Turk. On the ground the Tigershark was as vulnerable as a soccer mom minivan, slow and not very maneuverable. He moved off the marked runway toward the taxi area, unsure of where the Sabres were going — a very dangerous position.
“Ground, what the hell is going on?”
“We have control, we have control,” sputtered Johnson. “Get off the runway.”
“Yeah, no shit,” grumbled Turk over the open mike.
“The engineers think there was an error in one of the subroutines when they were landing,” Johnson told Turk when he reached him at the prep area. The crew had taken over the Tigershark and were giving her a postflight exam. “They think Medusa defaulted into the wrong pattern.”
“ ‘Think’ is not a reassuring word,” said Turk.
“That’s why we test this shit out, Captain. Your job is to help us work things out.”
“Maybe if I controlled the planes from Medusa, rather than handing them off to you—”
“The test protocol is set,” said Johnson, practically shouting.
“You don’t have to get angry with me, Colonel,” snapped Turk. “I’m not the one that fucked up.”
“Nobody fucked up here.”
“Bullshit — the Sabre flight computer almost killed me. It’s supposed to be hands-off to landing.”
“You should have watched where the hell you were.”
“What?
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on?” said Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, stepping in between them.
Johnson ignored Greasy Hands, pointing at Turk. “You remember you’re in the Air Force, mister,” he told him. “I don’t care who your boss is. At the end of the day, your butt is mine.”
Johnson stalked away.
“I swear to God, if you weren’t here, I woulda hit him,” said Turk.
“Then you’re lucky I was here,” said Greasy Hands. He laughed.
“Blaming me for that? What a bunch of bullshit.” Turk was still mad. His ears felt hot because of the blood rushing to them. “He almost killed me. He’s supposed to override manually immediately if there’s a problem. Not wait for me to call knock it off. Not then. Shit. I get hit on landing, that’s it.”
Greasy Hands was silent.
“Damn,” said Turk. He shook his head. It was typical Johnson: bluster and blame on everyone except for himself.
“Come on,” said Greasy Hands. “I’ll buy you a beer at Hole 19.”
Hole 19 was a club at Dreamland.
“I gotta finish the postflight brief,” said Turk.
“I’ll finish it with you.”
Turk smiled. Greasy Hands was old-school, a former chief master sergeant now working for the Office of Technology. He’d served at Dreamland for years. Now he was Breanna Stockard’s assistant, a kind of chief cook and bottle washer who solved high-priority problems. He was a grease monkey at heart, a tinkerer’s tinkerer who could probably have built the Tigershark in his garage if he wanted.
“I’m OK, Chief,” said Turk.
“I’d like to tag along.”
“All right, come on. Boring stuff, though.”
“Boring’s good in this business,” said Greasy Hands, patting him on the back.
18
The obvious next step was to disinter the bodies in the small cemetery and see if the records were wrong and one of them was Stoner’s.
Danny had no stomach for the job and was more than a little relieved when Reid said he would arrange for a CIA team to do it. He thanked the police chief and his son for their hospitality, buying them a late-morning breakfast at the town restaurant. Then he drove back to Balti, where he returned the Renault in exchange for a ride to the airport. The rickety old helicopter took him to Chisinau in forty nail-biting but uneventful minutes.
Nuri and Flash were waiting for him when he returned. They’d just come from the Russian bank, where they opened accounts with electronic access. They also scattered a dozen bugs around the place, all with video capacity. The bugs transmitted data to a receiving unit stashed in a garbage bin behind the building, and from there to the satellite network MY-PID used.
“Hey, boss,” said Flash. “Cool helo.”
“Don’t let the paint job fool you,” said Danny. “It rides like a washing machine with a switchblade for a rotor.”
“We have some leads,” said Nuri, leading them toward the car he’d rented. “Some better than others.”
The best involved a doctor who specialized in sports medicine, and was quoted in the
