being an aggressive, competent manager, a man who got things done.
Commander “Smoke” Judy was an F-14 pilot. Like all the com- manders, he had had a squadron command tour. Smoke was short and feisty. He looked like a man who would rather fight than eat The joyous competitive spirit of the fighter pilot seemed incarnate in him. A fire-eater — no doubt that was the origin of his nickname. which had probably ceased to be a nickname long ago. Jake sus- pected that his wife and even his mother now called him Smoke.
Dalton Harris was an extrovert, a man with a ready smile. He grinned nervously at George Wilson’s humor and glanced at him expectantly every time it seemed Wilson might become inspired. He was a lithe, compact man, as full of nervous energy as Judy. An alumnus of the EA-6B Prowler community, he was an expert in electronic warfare- He even had a master’s in electrical engineering from the Naval Postgraduate School.
The other two commanders, Aeronautical Engineering Duty Of- ficers, were equally interesting. Technical competence was their stock-in-trade.
An excellent group, Jake decided as the conversation wound down, good shipmates. Harold Strong and Admiral Dunedin had chosen well. He glanced at his watch with a start; they had been talking about the A-12 for two hours. In parting he told them. “I want a complete inventory of the accountable classified material started tomorrow. Every document will be sighted by two officers and they’ll both sign the list.”
“We did an inventory after Captain Strong died. Took two weeks.”
“You’d better hope I don’t kick the bucket any time soon or you’ll be doing it a couple more times.”
Jake spent five minutes with each of the other officers, saving Moravia and Tarkington for last. He saw them together. After the preliminaries he said, “Miss Moravia, I’m going to be blunt. You don’t seem to have any test- flying experience other than Test Pilot School.”
“That’s right, sir. But I can do the job. Try me and see.”
Moravia was of medium height, with- an excellent figure and a face to match. Subtle makeup, every hair in place. Her gold naval aviator wings gleamed above the left breast pocket of her blue uniform. Try me and see — that fierce self-confidence separated those who could from those who never would.
Tarkington seemed to treat her with deference and respect, Jake noted wryly. “Ever flown an A-6?”
“About two hours or so at Pax River, sir.” Jake knew how that worked. During the course of his training at Test Pilot School— TPS — each student flew anywhere from twelve to seventeen differ- ent kinds of aircraft. The final examination to qualify for gradua- tion consisted of writing a complete flying qualities and perfor- mance evaluation of an airplane the student had not flown before. The student was handed a manual, and after studying it, was al- lowed to fly the airplane for four flights or six hours’ flight time, whichever came first. On the basis of this short exposure the stu- dent then wrote the report. Rita Moravia was an honors graduate of that program.
Try me and seel
“I want you and Tarkington to leave for Whidbey Island tomor- row morning. The folks at VA-128 are expecting you.” VA-128 was the replacement training squadron for A-6 Intruders on the West Coast. “They’re going to give you a crash course on how to fly an A-6. Report directly to the squadron skipper when you get there tomorrow. Mrs. Forsythe in the admiral’s office is getting you or- ders and plane tickets.” He looked again at his watch. “She should have them for you now,”
“Aye aye, sir,” Moravia said and stood up. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Remember that nobody at Whidbey has a need to know any- thing. You’ll be asked no questions by the senior people. The junior ones will be curious, so just say the Pentagon sent you to fly. That’s it. Learn everything you can about the plane and its mission. And don’t crash one.”
Miss Moravia nodded and left, but Toad lingered.
“Uh, CAG,” Toad said, “I’m a fighter type and this attack, puke stuff—“
“The admiral says that anyone I want to get rid of can winter over in Antarctica. You want to go all the way south?”
“I’ll take Whidbey, sir.”
“I thought you would.” He picked up some paper on his desk and looked at it, signaling the end of the interview. “Oh,” he added, looking up again, “by the way, you stay the hell away from Moravia. Absolutely no romance. Keep it strictly business. You’d mope around here like a whipped puppy after she ditched you. I haven’t got the stomach for another sorry spectacle like that.”
The office emptied at 5:30. Jake stayed, sorting through the paper that had accumulated in Strong’s in basket. Most of it he threw in the waste can under his desk. Memos and letters and position pa- pers that looked important he saved for later scrutiny.
When he finished with the in-basket pile he began rooting through the desk drawers. Unbelievable! Here at the back of the wide, shallow drawer above his knees was an old memo on army stationery, dated 1956. Where had they gotten these desks? And what else was in here? Maybe he would find an announcement from the War Department that Japan had surrendered.
Alas, nothing so extraordinary. A two-year old date book, most of the pages blank. Some matchbooks from a restaurant — perhaps Strong liked to drop in there for a cup of coffee. Three envelopes addressed to Strong in a feminine hand: empty envelopes with the stamp canceled, no return address. One broken shoelace, a button that didn’t look like it came from a uniform, two rubber bands, a collection of government pens and #2 lead pencils. He tried the pens on scrap paper. Most of them still worked. Some of the eras- ers on the pencils were pretty worn.
So Harold Strong had been murdered.
And Admiral Henry had throttled the investigation even before it started. Or so he said.
He shook his head in annoyance. Those problems were not his concern. His job was to run this project. With the A-12 still in the prototype stage, many major decisions remained to be made. Jake already knew where he would throw his weight, what little he had. For too long, in his opinion, the military had been stuck with airplanes designed to accomplish so many disparate missions that they were unable to do any of them well. If they wanted an attack plane, then by God he would argue like hell for a capable attack plane.
Every aircraft design involved inevitable trade-offs: fuel capacity was traded for strength and maneuverability, weapons-carrying ca- pacity sacrificed for speed, maneuverability surrendered for stabil- ity, and so on, because every aircraft had to have all of these things, yet it needed these things in degrees that varied with its mission. But with stealth literally everything was being compro- mised in varying degrees to achieve invisibility, or in the jargon of the trade, survivabihty.
For two hours this afternoon the commanders and experts had argued that a plane that could not survive over the modern battle- field was not worth having. Yet a plane that did survive but could not fight was equally worthless. Somewhere between these two ex- tremes was a balance.
The other major consideration that had been tossed around this affternoon was a conundrum that baffled politicians and generals as well as aircraft designers. What war do you build your airplane to fight? World War III nuclear? World War II conventional? Viet- nam? Anti-terrorist raids against Libya? The answer, Jake be- Keved, had to be all of them. Yet achieving survivability over the European battlefield might well mean trading away conventional iron-bomb-carrying capacity that would be essential in future brushfire wars, like Vietnam. Megabuck smart missiles were cur- rently in vogue but the nation could never afford enough of them to fight any war that lasted longer than two weeks.
This job was not going to be easy, or dull.
“She-it,” Jake Grafton said aloud, drawing the word out slowly. When you looked at Tyler Henry and listened to him he seemed okay. But if all you did was listen to the words — well, it sure did make you wonder. Spies? Murder investigations put on hold? Was Henry some paranoid wacko, some coconut schizo on the naked edge who ought to be locked in the bowels of St. Elizabeth’s with- out his belt and shoelaces?
The first thing I ought to do, Jake told himself, before I go see the ultimate war machine manufactured by some greedy Gyro Gearloose in a garage in California, is check out Henry. It would be nice to know that the big boss has all his marbles. It would be damn nice to know if he doesn’t. Dunedin wanted Jake to salute and march.
“A fellow never gets very far marching in the dark. anyhow,” Jake said aloud. “Too much stuff out there to trip over.”
He used one of the black government pens from Strong’s hoard to write a note for the senior secretary’s desk. What was her name? Mrs. Pulliam. There were just two secretaries, both civilians.
The note informed all and sundry he would be in late tomorrow, after lunch. He had a moment of doubt.
