“Tartan coming up.” Keegan’s first officer called the position as the 727 approached another waypoint. In a previous existence Earl “Hearty” Boharty had been an E-2 copilot, accustomed to landing Hawkeyes on carrier decks. Compared to that, driving a 727 across the Atlantic was almost a no-brainer. As another Tailhook orphan, he shared Keegan’s low opinion of both naval leadership and the Republican Party.
Boharty fingered the next reporting point on the aeronautical chart, perhaps symbolically labled “Tartan.” Over water, the 727 was mostly out of VHF range so voice communication was accomplished via high frequency. Therefore, Keegan switched from Ocean Control to Shannon for clearance into British airspace.
The pilot adjusted his headset and winked at Boharty. Few passengers ever knew — or cared — that Keegan had adopted the callsign of Helicopter Antisubmarine Squadron Two. “Shannon, Hunter One One. Position fifty-four north, ten west, flight level 370. Estimating Tartan at 1825. SelCal Bravo Alfa Sierra Whiskey. Static air minus forty- two, winds 256.”
The controller’s Irish brogue came through the earphones. “Ah, roger Hunter. Squawk 2462.”
Once Shannon had Hunter One One’s transponder code, the jet would be funneled into a Standard Aviation Route for its ultimate destination. The flight crew knew that with the Selective Calling code, the controller could contact them with an audible tone that otherwise acted as call screening in the sky.
In the passenger cabin, Frank Leopole began rousing Red and White Teams. He reckoned that Blue was not far astern in the Falcon.
After closing time, Derringer invited Catterly to the office. The sun was setting beyond the office buildings, casting long shadows across the concrete and glass edifices. Derringer poured their respective favorites and extended a glass to his golf partner. “Well, they’re off, Phil.” They clinked glasses.
“God speed the work,” Catterly replied. “You can be proud of your people, Mike. All of them, not just the navy.”
Derringer leaned back in his comfortable chair. He looked around, as if just noticing the sparse memorabilia on the walls and shelves. He took a long sip of his Wild Turkey, squinting slightly. Catterly knew the signs. Mike Derringer was about to become philosophical. “You know, Phil, there’s no such thing as
“Now, logically you’d expect the warfighters to rise to the top. Not so. The Navy is the only branch that’s ever had five consecutive noncombatants as service chief, mostly submariners. In comparison, eight of the nine Air Force chiefs since Vietnam were combat veterans. Now, God love ‘em, I like bubbleheads as much as anybody. Hell, I spent years earning my pay by chasing them around the Pacific. But the plain fact is, they haven’t intentionally killed anybody since 1945, and over the decades far too many submariners developed an engineering emphasis. Managing a nuclear reactor has very little to do with fighting a war at sea, which is why the Brits make propulsion a separate career track. That makes enormous sense to me.
“Well, the interest on the U.S. Navy’s engineering debt came due in 1991. CNO was a submariner who naturally did what bubbleheads do in a hostile situation: he dived deep and ran silent. Thousands of innocent aviators were persecuted — and I use the word advisedly — in the Tailhook witch hunt. The aviation community had just made a major contribution to winning Desert Storm, but the warfighters became political targets.”
Derringer leaned forward, visibly gaining momentum as he warmed to his subject. His friend did not try to interject any comments.
“You know what? That’s the best thing that could’ve happened to SSI. The avoidable failings of the administration in ‘91—’92 drove hundreds of good men out of the Navy and Marines. We could only take on so many, of course, but we got the cream of the crop, and not just pilots. Nearly all those guys are still with us. You know why? Because in this company, loyalty works both ways. Our people know that, and they’re devoted to SSI because my corporate policy emphasizes loyalty down.” He shook his head, smiling slightly. “What a deal. The services spend hundreds of thousands of dollars training smart, motivated people, then drive them out. So we turn around and charge top prices for the government to hire those same people with those same skills.”
He spread his hands into an eloquent shrug. “My father said, ‘Son, always remember that we are ruled by ambitious hypocrites.’ He was right, of course. It just took me awhile to realize it.” He took another drink.
Catterly had heard similar sentiments before, but seldom as vehemently expressed. “Well, Mike, sometimes I admit I don’t know how you career men stood it. I mean, no matter how high you went, you were never going to be your own boss.”
Derringer slowly nodded, glancing outside at the yellow glow on the offices across the plaza. “Yeah, I know. For a long time I told myself that I couldn’t expect anything else. I spent years working under people who weren’t as smart or as ethical as I was. But I had faith in the system, you know? There were usually enough good men to make it work. Then…” His voice trailed off.
“So now you don’t have that problem.”
Derringer snorted, then grinned self-consciously. “Well…” Then he laughed. “You know what? Now I call nearly all my own shots, taking jobs that appeal to me or that help the company grow, and I’m
“Way of the world, my friend.”
A silence wrapped itself around the room; it felt like an old, familiar blanket. Catterly finished his three fingers of scotch and set down the glass. “You still up to a game Saturday morning?”
Derringer looked up. “Ah, no. No thanks, Phil. I’m going to sit on this until…”
Catterly wondered,
“… until the guys come back.”
6
Carolyn Padgett-Smith made a conscious effort to appear relaxed before the all-male audience. She was long accustomed to stares from men, and years of rock climbing and mountaineering had inured her to patronizing males. But her professional life usually included older men. This bunch ranged from approximately her age to twelve years younger. Her female receptors sensed the atmosphere as equal parts admiration, curiosity, and resentment.
Frank Leopole had introduced the immunologist to the three teams: thirty-six operators plus Keegan’s two flight crews. There had been polite conversation with coffee, tea, and crumpets before Padgett-Smith got down to business.
She stood beside the screen, holding the slide carousel’s remote button in one hand. After a few seconds to let things quiet down, she began. She thought:
“Gentlemen. I wish to acquaint you with your enemy. This short briefing does not deal with our mysterious Pakistani doctor, but rather with the weapon he deploys.” She clicked the button.
On the screen was a photo of a filovirus enlarged seventeen thousand times. Its long, ropey tendrils ended in a curlicue that might have been a pronounced shepherd’s hook.
“Ebola virus contains seven proteins, identifiably different and strung together lengthwise. Three proteins are partially decoded but the others remain unknown. It’s not clear what their function is. The virus attacks the immune system, somewhat like AIDS, but Ebola is far more aggressive. AIDS takes years to kill; Ebola takes days.
“That’s not all. Ebola travels much faster than AIDS. The filovirus is like influenza; it can circle the world in as little as six weeks.
“Marburg likely began in monkeys but it’s what we call a traveler: it jumps from one species to another. The
