by Dale Brown
“Budget line,” said the admiral.
Delaford, who was unpracticed in the art of winning funds, hesitated and then lost his way, trying to argue for the project rather than simply giving Allen a number.
“Well, as a whole, compared to previous projects, say the probes for the Seawolf, the UUVs, it—”
“How much?”
“That would depend on the configuration, sir. And in, um, perspective—”
“What I think Commander Delaford is trying to point out, said Dog, who thought the program was worthwhile even though it belonged to the Navy, “is that you have to compare the cost to an entire weapons system. The fact that its intended to be expendable means the low per-unit cost ups the overall budget. Still, in a combat situation, the cost per engagement would be very low, since it would, by definition, be replaced.”
“Is it worth two nuclear submarines?” asked Allen.
“Well, that’s your call, Admiral,” said Dog.
“It’s not my call,” said the admiral. “But if It were, I’d take the submarines.”
“Actually, sir, at three hundred and forty million for the whole project,” said Delaford, regaining his balance, “it’s considerably less than a submarine. And tactically, it can do the job of a submarine without the exposure of, uh, risk, as the tests off Hawaii show.”
“I’m well aware of the results of the tests,” said the admiral.
Danny Freah, standing behind the admiral, suppressed a smile. Colonel Bastian belatedly realized what the visit was all about.
“Yes, the results were impressive,” continued Allen. “But once countermeasures are employed, the device will be easily countered.”
“Hardly,” said Rubeo, characteristically choosing the most undiplomatic moment to butt in. “Face it, Admiral, large ships are obsolete.”
Allen snorted. “That’s been said since galleys ruled the ocean. Colonel—I’d like some lunch.”
“I’m told it’s ready when you are,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said Allen. “I’m sorry, the colonel and I are meeting alone,” he added, as if Delaford and the others had actually volunteered to accompany them. “I’ll be back.”
“We’ll wait,” said Rubeo.
Fortunately for the scientist, Allen either didn’t hear what he said, or had a tin ear when it came to go acerbic irony. Dog led Allen back to the elevator, Captain Freah trailing behind him.
“Do we need a shadow?” the admiral asked as they got inside the car.
“I’m afraid close security is the order of the day here,” said Dog. “All visitors, no matter how high their rank.”
“Even a theater commander.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog. He could have told Danny to make himself scarce; the orders to shadow Allen were his own. But he was a bit ticked at the surprise visit, and even more so now that he suspected Allen had come to lobby him on the report. Allen seemed to mellow ever so slightly, and in fact his mood visibly improved fifteen minutes later in Cafeteria Two, a private dining area known as the Red Room because of the décor, when the airman serving them told him that Thai-infused salmon headed the menu.
“I don’t want sushi,” said the admiral.
“No, sir, of course not, sir. It can be cooked to your specification.”
“Medium then, but still moist.”
“To drink?” said the airman, with the precise intonation of a waiter in a high-class restaurant.
A true achievement, since the man was a bomb ordie on special assignment. Dog marked him down mentally for a weekend pass.
“Water,” said the admiral.
“Evian, or perhaps Dolmechi?”
“Dolmechi?” said the admiral. “The Italian mineral water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good,” said Allen. “I haven’t had that since I visited Naples.”
The waiter—who had obviously been heavily briefed by Ax—turned toward the colonel.
“I’ll have a burger,” said Dog. “And a Coke.”
“Yes, sir. Captain?”
Danny glanced at Dog. “I was thinking I might catch up on some items,” said Freah. “Since we’re not in a secure area.”
“Very good, Danny.”
“Admiral.” Danny nodded, getting up to go.
“Just a second.” Allen rose and stuck out his hand. “Some of my Marines made sure I heard about what you did in Iran for them. Good work, son.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Danny.
“You ever think of switching commands, remember the Pacific,” said Allen.
Danny smiled and nodded, then left.
“An impressive officer,” said Allen.
“One of the best,” said Dog. “That’s why he’s here.”
“And you’re wondering why I am, aren’t you?” said Allen. He smiled, showing signs that somewhere beneath the weight of command he did have a sense of self-deprecating humor.
Maybe.
“Actually, Admiral, what I’m wondering is why you didn’t give us a heads-up that you were coming,” said Dog.
“That’s not the way I do things,” he said abruptly.
The colonel looked over at the airman approaching with their drinks. He didn’t intend on getting into a pissing match with Allen, who as commander in chief of the Pacific Command (USCINCPAC) was one of the most powerful people in the military. The admiral commanded all forces in the Pacific, including Air Force and Army units as well as Navy. He also had considerable input at the Pentagon and, more important, the White House.
On the other hand, Dog wasn’t going to roll over for anyone. Allen had no more real business here than Dog did on the flight deck of his carriers.
Admiral Allen took a small, almost dainty sip from his mineral water as the waiter retreated. “Colonel. Tecumseh—can I call you that?”
“My friends call me Dog.”
Allen smiled indulgently. “Dog. How’d you earn that?”
“It’s God spelled backwards,” said the colonel, who didn’t mind telling the story on himself. “I was a flight leader with a bit too much of an attitude, and some people thought it fit. They were probably right.”
Allen laughed. “This was before you shot down the MiGs in the Gulf, or after?”
“My kills were unconfirmed,” said Dog, though there was little doubt he had indeed splashed the enemy planes.
Another indulgent smile from Allen. “Let’s cut to the chase,” said the admiral. “The Piranha report—what’s it going to say?”
“I would imagine it will say something along the lines of what Commander Delaford said—the system is ready to be implemented, and it’s ready for the next phase of tests, if that’s approved.”
“Specifically, concerning the test.”
Allen was undoubtedly worried about the details of the test engagement, which would show his Navy commanders—Woods especially—in a somewhat embarrassing light. With the proper emphasis, Admiral Woods—and, by extension, Admiral Allen—could be seen not only as enemies of the program, but as going overboard to scuttle it. In a politically charged atmosphere, such nuances could be deadly.
Or not. It was a game Dog had long ago decided not to play.
“Writing the report itself is not generally regarded as one of my duties,” said the colonel.
“You’ll sign off on it, though.”
“As I see my job, Admiral, it’s to develop weapons, not worry about egos that might be bruised because test results make them look bad. If you have a specific worry, maybe you ought to lay it out.”
“Steady there, Colonel. Steady.”
There were once more interrupted by the waiter, who brought out two dishes of fancy salad. Dog now regretted letting Danny leave; courtesy demanded someone keep the admiral company, and he didn’t feel like hanging
around to be harangued on what he considered a minor matter. He was somewhat surprised that Allen himself changed the conversation, turning to a totally neutral topic—the Megafortress.
> Allen claimed to have long admired the big bombers, and was impressed by their showing during the recent showdown with China. Politely, Dog offered to put him in a copilot’s seat on an orientation flight.
“Can’t do it, unfortunately,” said the admiral. “Ever since the flare-up, we’ve been going nonstop. I guess you heard the press is calling it the Fatal Terrain affair. Makes good headlines for them, I guess.” He smiled wryly, but then added, “I was sorry about General Elliott.”
“Yes,” said Dog. In a brief but brutal encounter between America and China known to some as the “Fatal Terrain” affair, Elliott had given his life. He’d died successfully preventing an all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and China. He was a bonafide war hero—at least to some people who criticized the maverick general. They didn’t realize how close the communists had come to running over Taiwan—and starting World War III.
“Things are still hot there. Touchy. We’ve got a lot of assets along the coast.”
“You’re probably stretched thin,” said Dog.
“Absolutely,” said Allen. “And contrary to all the talking heads, there’s still no guarantee war won’t break out. I don’t trust the Chinese as far as I can spit, even with our carriers along their coast. And, hell, even the Indians seem to be spoiling for a fight.”
“India?”
“Oh, yes,” said Allen. “Minor incidents so far. Saber-rattling. Frankly, I don’t take them too seriously. But all South Asia’s boiling.”
Dog nodded.
“Admiral Woods is an excellent man,” said Allen. “A little competitive sometimes. Especially if he thinks the Air Force is trying to get ahead of him. Very competitive.”
“How about yourself?” ask Dog.
“Never play tennis with me.”
“I meant, do you think the Air Force is trying to get ahead of you?”
“Piranha is a Navy project, Colonel.”
The accent on Colonel was sharp enough to fillet a salmon. Having to negotiate with someone so far down in rank obviously pricked at the admiral. The fact that Dog essentially answered to no one in the military undoubtedly irked him as well.
Their lunch arrived. The conversation once more tacked toward more friendly waters. Allen compared the salmon favorably to several dinners he’d had recently in Washington, D.C.—a not too subtle hint that the admiral could muster considerable political muscle if displeased.
“Extend my compliments to the chef,” said Allen as the waiter cleared the plates.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dog, if you run the rest of your ship as well as you run the mess, you’ll do well,” the admiral added.
“I can’t take the credit,” said Dog. “Brad Elliott staffed the kitchen.”
Displeasure or sorrow—it was impossible to tell which—flicked over Allen’s face. “I’d like a copy of the draft report,” he said.
“That can be arranged.” In truth, Colonel Bastian would have forwarded him one as a matter of course, since his command had been involved in the testing and had personnel involved in the development. Had Dog not taken such a dislike to Allen, he might also have noted, for the record, that Dreamland reports focused on the system under study. Personalities, and what orders they might or might not have issued during test exercises, were never included.
But the colonel didn’t see much reason for adding that.
“You have a nice little operation here, Colonel. No reason for us to be enemies,” said Allen as they walked back to the SUV that would take the admiral to his plane, which had returned after being refueled at Edwards.
“I didn’t realize we were,”
Allen only smiled.
Zen pulled his wheelchair toward Hangar A, where the UMB’s control unit was housed. Bree had promised to meet him there for lunch. He was running his standard ten minutes later—the only place he was punctual was in the air—so it was somewhat surprising when she was not standing impatiently outside the door.
Zen breathed a reassuring sigh, since she was sure to get on him for being late. Instead of justifying his tardiness, her absence presented a perfect opportunity for turning the tables on the notoriously punctual captain; he could claim he’d been here the whole time, waiting outside. He stopped a few feet from the doorway and pulled his paperback from the corner of his seat, starting to position himself as if he’d been reading in the shade.
“More Roosevelt!” said Bree behind him.
“More Roosevelt,” he said, closing the biography of the President. “Where you been?”
“I was necking with Chief Parsons around the corner,” she said. Chief Master Sergeant “Greasy Hands” Parsons was in charge of the maintenance team and old enough to be her father—or grandfather.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said.
“Oh, baloney. I saw you come up.”
“Musta been some other pimp in a wheelchair.” Zen smiled at her.
“So which book is this?”
Bree reached down and picked it up; Zen saw the opening and snuck in a kiss.
“Heavy reading,” she said. The book was Geoffrey Ward’s A First Class Temperament. “Whatever happened to Sports Illustrated?”
“I only get it for the swimsuit issue,” said Zen. His interest in Roosevelt had started by accident during his flight home from Turkey, and now he was truly fascinated by the only man to have been elected President four times—all the time confined to a wheelchair. He’d worked through several FDR volumes, and was now eyeing Kenneth Davis’s five books, the definitive tome on Roosevelt’s life. While he joked that he wanted to see how a “fellow gimp made good,” what truly fascinated Zen was Roosevelt’s ability to get along with so many people.
His charm certainly was innate. As Undersecretary of the Navy, well before being crippled, Roosevelt had practically started a war with Mexico—against the Administration’s wishes and the country’s interests. Still, his boss had treated him like a son.
How did he manage to get on with so many people after polio took his legs? Wasn’t he bitter? Why didn’t bitterness come out in his relationships, which seemed to show no trace of anger or frustration? Zen didn’t fool himself that his own relationships were on nearly so lofty a plain; at least privately, he railed about his condition every day.
“Ready for lunch?” Bree asked.
“Starving.”
“Red Room?”
“Nah, Admiral Allen’s there, and Ax says stay away.”
“Allen? Is that who landed on my runway?”
Zen gave her the gossip he’d heard from Chief Gibbs: Apparently the admiral was on a tear because his people had gotten their fannies waved during the Piranha exercises. One of Allen’s favorite commanders, Admiral Woods, had pulled some strings to alter the parameters of the test in his favor—and still lost. There was justice in the world, Zen concluded. They Navy being so damned concerned about their little egos being crushed that a top admiral had to come and personally try to soothe things over gave Zen immense satisfaction.
It wasn’t until they were at their table with full trays of food that Zen realized Bree was distracted. He made a joke about her choice—salad with a side of yogurt—then one about his—a double helping of homemade meat loaf, with extra gravy. She hardly snickered.
“Bad flight?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Something up?”
“I fly every day,” he said.
“You know what I mean. Flying a robot. It’s not the same thing.”
“Yeah,” he said. He missed a lot more than flying.
“I don’t know if I can do it, Jeff,” she said.
“You don’t have to,” he told her.
“It’s a promotion. It’s important.”
Zen slid back a little in his seat, looking at her face. Breanna was not by any definition, a worrier. Her eyes were fraught with it now.
“Hey.” He paused, not really sure what to say. After an awkward silence, he stumbled on. “There’re plenty of
different projects out there. You don’t have to take something you don’t want. But if you do take it, I know you can do it,” he added quickly. Her lips had pursed—a bad sign. “I mean you’re beyond capable of it. I mean, that’s why you got it.”
“The Megafortresses.”
A sore subject, he knew, since she had hoped to inherit Major Nancy Cheshire’s place when she left. But Merce Alou, who outranked her, had been tagged.
“To be honest with you, Bree, the EB-52, not that it’s a dead end or anything, but it’s now, uh, mature.” Zen hated using the bureaucratese, but it did essentially describe the program. The EB-52 was now a production aircraft; the advances were sure to be incremental. “The UMB. Hell, that’s the future. Or something that comes out of it. Ask anybody. But if it’s not what you want to do, don’t worry about it.”
“It’s a big adjustment, that’s all,” she said, poking her salad. She frowned, but this time at him. “You’re not going to eat all of that, are you? It’s pure fat.”
He laughed and reached for his soda—then yawped with pain.
“Problem?” she asked.
“Tooth. Geez.”
“Are you going to get it fixed or what?”
“This afternoon.” The cold soda had shot through the nerve into every cell in his skull, and his head reverberated with pain. He put down the glass and rubbed the back of his jaw on both sides hoping to ease it somehow.
“Not going to cancel this time?”
“I didn’t cancel on purpose,” he mumbled.
Bree’s manner had brightened; in fact, she seemed to be suppressing a giggle.
“I’m glad my misery is entertaining,” he told her.
“Don’t be a sissy.”
“You filled it with extra ice,” he said. “You knew I had the appointment.”
“Just a coincidence,” said his wife.
Freed from his onerous escort duty, Danny Freah took a tour of his perimeter, checking on the security post. His body still felt the lingering effects of his “visit” to Turkey, Iraq, and Iran a few months before; he’d been injured in a mission that recovered data and parts from an Iranian antiaircraft laser facility. His legs were especially bothersome—Danny had stretched and partially torn ligaments in his right knee.