“Umm.”
“I think those assholes already know what was given away. So they’re in no rush for us to put a list together.” Dreyfus flicked his lighter and puffed several, times. “Somebody in Moscow has gotta be telling them.”
“Maybe,” said Luis Caroacho, weighing it “Or maybe they’re hoping this whole thing will crawl into a corner and die quietly without becoming a major embarrassment. Budgetary blood feuds in Congress, some big-ticket military programs on the chopping block, Gramm-Rudman — hell, they’d be less than human if they didn’t try to play ostrich for a while.”
“So what are we gonna do about Smoke Judy?”
“What would you suggest?”
“That shithead is shopping secrets to defense contractors. He wants more than a military pension. What’d the boss say when you told him this morning?” His voice had a belligerent, bitter edge.
“Hang loose. Keep an eye on him.”
“Fuck us! The same old story. No matter what we turn up, we get the same answer from ol’ brass ass. Be cool, guys!”
“Calm down, Dreyfus. You’ve been around long enough—“
“How much shit you gonna eat, Luis, before you decide you don’t like it? Right now X is busy figuring what secrets to give away next and scribbling another little love letter to the Russian ambassador. Terry Franklin is still running around loose, you’re sneaking code words from friends in the Pentagon — we’re doing some dynamic drifting but our investigation is going no- where. You know that! And the sickening thing is the committee is quite comfortable with that state of affairs.” His voice had risen to almost a shout. “I’ll tell you what I think — I think the guys on that committee are laughing themselves silly. I think they’re tickled pink that the fucking Russians are seeing this stuff. That’s what the hell I think.”
“I think you’re an idiot, Dreyfus, with a big mouth and a piss- ant’s view of the world- I’ve heard enough. Now get back to work.”
Dreyfus bounced to his feet and rammed his right hand out in a Nazi salute. “Ja wohl—“
“You son of a—“
“Don’t bullshit yourself, Luis-I know you’re doing the best you can. But, goddamn, I’m sick of this fucking around!” Camacho jerked his head at the door and Dreyfus went.
13
The Naval Weapons Center, China Lake, lies in the desert of southern California east of the range of mountains that form the eastern wall of the San Joaquin Valley. The air at China Lake is clean, hot, and dry. Tuesday after- noon Jake Grafton dragged in lungfuls of it as he walked across the baking concrete toward the air terminal with Helmut Fritsche and Samuel Dodgers. Behind them, still trading quips with the female crew of the T- 39 that had flown them here from Andrews AFB in Washington, via NAS Moffett Field where they had collected Dodgers, Toad Tarkington and Rita Moravia supervised the load- ing of the luggage into a navy station wagon.
An hour later Dr. Dodgers lifted his ball cap and scratched his head. He was standing with Grafton and Fritsche in a hangar that was empty except for an A-6E Intruder. Sentries were posted on the outside of the doors with orders to admit no one.
The men were examining grease-pencil marks placed on the plane by Fritsche. These were the locations he recommended for the special antennas of Dodgers’ Athena system. And Sam Dodg- ers was scratching his head as he surveyed Fritsche’s artwork. “Well,” he said unenthusiastically, “I guess these spots will work okay, after we tweak the output of each antenna. But …” His voice trailed off. Jake glanced at him without curiosity. He had already discovered that Dodgers’ enthusiasm came in uneven drib- bles.
“It’s the left side of the airplane only,” Fritsche said firmly. “Fourteen antennas. Side of the tail, fuselage, left outboard pylon, under the cockpit rail, forward on the nose… and one on the left wingtip in place of the position light.”
“You really need one in front of the left intake, where that flat plate is. That plate is probably the biggest single contributor to the plane’s RCS when viewed from this side — makes up maybe half of it.”
“Can’t put one there. Might get broken off by the airflow and go down the intake. It’d destroy the engine.”
“How about in front of that plate?”
They discussed it. Yes.
“This jury rig is just for test purposes,” Fritsche told Jake. “An operational Athena system for an aircraft will have to have con- formal antennas, ’smart skin’ in the jargon of the trade. Literally, the antennas will be part of the aircraft’s skin so they won’t con- tribute to drag or ever be broken off.”
“How much is that going to cost?”
“Won’t be cheap. Conformal antennae are under development, but they’ll be new technology and aren’t here yet.”
“Forget I asked.”
Jake wandered over to where Tarkington and Moravia stood with Commander L. D. Bonnet, the commanding officer of the A-6 Weapons System Support Activity, which owned the airplane. AU three saluted Jake as he approached and he returned the gesture with a grin. “So, L.D., are you going to let these children fly your plane?”
“Yes, sir. They appear sober and reasonably competent.”
“I appreciate your letting us borrow the plane and hangar for a few days.”
“Admiral Dunedin’s very persuasive.”
Jake flashed a grin. L.D. must have hesitated a few seconds before he agreed to the Old Man’s requests. “Here’s what I’d like to do. Fritsche and Dodgers are going to take a day or two to install some little antennas on the left side of the plane. They’ll use glue and drill a few holes, then install a tiny fairing in front of each antenna. They’re going to need the help of a couple of good, capa- ble airframe technicians who can keep their mouths shut.”
Bonnet nodded.
“Then Rita and Toad will fly the plane up to the Electronic Warfare range at Fallen since the EW range here at China Lake is out of service this week. Fritsche and I will fly up there ahead of them. Dodgers will stay here to work on the gear in the plane. Rite, I want you to keep the plane under three hundred knots indicated to minimize the airflow stress on these antennas. They’re gang to be jury-rigged on there with a little bubble gum and Elmer’s glue.”
“Aye aye, sir,” she said.
“L.D., I need you to loan me a couple of young officers with at least ten pounds of tact each. They’ll alternate duty, so that one of them will be with Dodgers day and night. They’re to escort him to work, stay with him all day, escort him to the head, take him back to the BOQ, eat with him, see that he talks to no one but them. And I mean no one.”
After discussing the details. Commander Bonnet departed. Jake Grafton explained to Rita and Toad exactly what he expected of his flight crew. He finished with a caution. “This device, the proj- ect name, everything, is classified to the hilt. Admiral Dunedin tells me he has cells reserved at Leavenworth for anyone who vio- lates the security regs. I don’t want you to even whisper about this in your sleep.”
“I love secrets,” Toad said.
“I know. Just my luck, I get one of the world’s great secret lovers. Keep it zipped. Toad.”
Jake went back to watch the installation process, so Toad and Rita set out on foot for base ops to plan their nights to and from Fallen, Nevada. As they walked along, Rita asked, “What was it that Captain Grafton wanted you to keep zipped. Toad? Your mouth or—“
“Never ask a question if you think you might not like the an- swer. That’s Tarkington’s Golden Rule for survival in Uncle Sam’s navy.”
They grinned at each other. Her hand slipped into his for a fleeting squeeze. Instinctively they both knew to
