The previous November, an A300 crashed after takeoff when its vertical stabilizer and rudder separated from the fuselage. The first investigation reports attributed the accident to the copilot’s overuse of the rudder controls after encountering jet wash from a 747 that had departed earlier.
“Yeah—that really chilled me. They are blaming the copilot, but when they look at the attachment, they found that the aluminum and titanium fasteners holding the fin to the fuselage were intact—but the composite lugs were broken. There will never be a straight story on this one.”
O’Malley stood up, in a better mood, but obviously still troubled.
“V. R., you know what’s worrying Bob, Dennis, and me the most? The fact that you are lined up to test-fly the Hypersonic Cruiser. It’s one thing to piss away maybe a billion dollars on a dream. It is another to kill your best friend in it. The pressure on you to fly is going to be tremendous, but I want you to know that we would all understand if you declined the honor.”
V. R. was deadly serious as he considered his reply.
“Steve, you remember Jimmy Doolittle, and how we talked about him at the funeral. He was known as the ‘master of the calculated risk.’ Well, I’m no Doolittle, but I’m going to be doing a lot of calculating. You know that nobody hates the fanatical Muslims more than me, and that nobody thinks they are a bigger threat than me—always excepting you, maybe. I want more than anything to prove the Hypersonic Cruiser by test-flying it; I want to save the money we’ve all poured into the project, and I want to put a weapon in the hands of the government that will help it win the war on terror. And I will do it—but only as long as I calculate the risks and believe I have a good chance of success. You can always crash in any airplane, from a Cub to a Concorde, but we know that. What I don’t know is what the margin of error is for me in the Hypersonic Cruiser. I’ve been analyzing it as we’ve gone along, and right now I think it is slightly in my favor. I think that for the most part, I’ll be like the first astronauts, but instead of being locked, controlled by a ballistic trajectory, I’ll be locked in, controlled by preprogrammed computer inputs until I get over the target area. But—and I never have said this before, and I should have—if I think it’s a suicide mission, I will not go. Call me chicken, call me quitter, whatever, I’m not going unless I think I have a better than even chance of coming back.”
“Jesus, V. R., I’ve chided you for saying some dumb things over the years, but I have to say this is the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Can I pass this on to Bob and Dennis?”
“No, I should have said this a long time ago. Let me do it. To be honest, I never thought we’d get this far along. I thought that the challenge was worth taking up, but that even Bob couldn’t do it. Now that it looks like we might have a shot at it, I’ve taken a closer look, and I want to tell the other guys myself. We all have our fortunes invested in this, but I know you all well enough to know you don’t want a kamikaze test pilot. It’s only money, and we all know it’s a gamble.”
Obviously vastly relieved, O’Malley grabbed his arm.
“You up for some tennis? It’s still early, we could play a couple of sets and still get out to the plant before Bob finishes his rounds.”
December 15, 2002
Mojave, California
BOB RODRIQUEZ CURSED under his breath. He had just been examining a very positive report on the hypersonic cruise missile, and now he couldn’t find it. This happened more and more often to him. He would get up, march smartly over to a file cabinet, and then forget what he was looking for. Like everyone else he was frightened of growing old, particularly now when so much depended upon his ability to bring the missile projects to fruition. As he searched for the report, he pushed a massive pile of paper off his desk. It cascaded to the floor next to an overflowing wastebasket and he realized that it was time for the monthly office cleanup.
He began, as he always did, with the papers stacked under the phone. He would work methodically across his desk, across the credenza, then move to the three folding tables that formed a U around his desk, then to the tops of the file cabinets. In the center of the U was a fifty-five-gallon trash barrel, a plastic bag in place. In another world, another time, there would have been a secretary to help him, but only he knew where things should go and what to throw out, and even though it cost him at least one day and sometimes two days’ work, only he could do it.
There was a benefit to it. Doing the filing, creating order out of chaos, always had a soothing effect on him, permitting him to think randomly, instead of following the usual hard, prescribed, mathematical protocols that he used for his work. For the most part he thought about the war that now seemed inevitable. Bush was calling for a regime change in Iraq. It was an ultimatum, one that Saddam Hussein would refuse. So there it was, war in the Middle East again, probably within a few months.
Rodriquez had spent years undercover, several of them in Iraq, and knew how difficult it would be. On the one hand the creation of a democracy in Iraq would be the most fantastic diplomatic coup of all time, far eclipsing anything that Metternich, Talleyrand, or any other great intriguer had ever accomplished. As such, it was certainly worth trying, particularly given the fact that Saddam had already used weapons of mass destruction, and would use them again, if he had them, and everyone said he did. But democracy in Iraq was an oxymoron. The only possible solution was the forced domination of two factions by one—Sunnis over Shiites and Kurds, as at present, or some other, less likely but no less disagreeable combination. And then there was the American military budget, always huge and never enough. To make matters worse there were “managers” such as the Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld in charge. They were determined to somehow transform the existing forces into something leaner and more efficient, and most of all, less expensive—even as they were going into a war. It was sheer madness, utter nonsense, obvious to anyone who had ever managed a company or fought a war, but it was so salable politically that it was inevitable.
He laughed to himself. It was no more mad or nonsensical than RoboPlanes trying to create a world of hypersonic vehicles on its own. But if RoboPlanes failed it meant only that there were some enormous personal fortunes lost. If Bush and Rumsfeld failed, the United States, the world, was in mortal danger. A defeat in Iraq would ratify all that the terrorists had done for the past thirty years, and would clearly chart Muslim course to ultimate victory.
His thoughts turned to V. R. Shannon, and his unexpected decision on not flying the Hypersonic Cruiser if he did not feel the odds were right. “Calculated risk!” he spat the words out. “What the hell does that mean? Life is a calculated risk, every day is a risk, combat is a risk, and you cannot calculate if some goddamn gook MiG pilot is a beginner or a honcho any more than you can tell if a Muslim is a good joe carrying nothing but a handful of dates or if he’s a fanatic ready to blow himself up.”
Reining himself in, Rodriquez realized this was unfair. When Shannon had given him the message, he had immediately protested that he understood and approved. But he had not. It seemed to him that Shannon was waffling, after they were half a billion dollars into the project, with another half billion sure to be committed. It put Rodriquez in an impossible situation. He could not urge Shannon to fly, nor could he turn to find another test pilot, not before Shannon made up his own mind. And if Shannon declined to fly the Hypersonic Cruiser, who on earth could then be persuaded to try it? It was particularly vexing that they had already created the simulator and software to simulate flying the Cruiser under all conditions. It wouldn’t be like stepping into a completely unfamiliar aircraft.
There was always the possibility of testing it in an unmanned configuration, and they could do that even now, if they made the right decision, and diverted even more funds to the program. It would take some redesign, of course, but there would be some trade-offs for that. An unmanned Hypersonic Cruiser would have utility, but it wouldn’t be what they had planned from the start. He would have to raise the
issue soon, perhaps on New Year’s Eve, at the traditional party in Palos Verdes.
His desk was clear. He pulled the bottle of compressed air from the desk drawer and carefully cleaned his keyboard, the printer, the scanner, and the telephone. Then he pulled out a bottle of Pledge and a rag and polished his desk. He stepped back and admired it. Ready for another month’s work. He turned to the credenza and started the process over, filing, shredding, and thinking. Maybe he could fly the Hypersonic Cruiser. He was old, his reflexes were not what they were when he was shooting down MiGs in Korea, but the thing would be programmed . . . no, it was a joke. Even thinking about it was another warning sign of senility creep. V. R. should have declared himself earlier. All this talk about killing Muslims, and now he was backing down. He shrugged, knowing in his heart he was being unfair.
He looked down at a box of memorabilia that he had been shifting from one office to another for years. It had his military records, his decorations, all in their leather presentation cases, the citations beautifully done. He had never worn them, not even the ribbons. There was the Form Five that recorded every hour of his flying time from flight school on, and some completely nondescript items—a key chain, a cigar wrapper—that had meaning only for him, souvenirs from his days undercover. There was no room in the office for another file cabinet. With another shrug he tossed the memorabilia into the fifty-five-gallon drum. If the Hypersonic Cruiser was a success, he’d never need them. If it wasn’t, he’d never want them.
December 31, 2002
Palos Verdes, California
“WELL, DENNIS, I guess you’re happy? The Endeavor mission went off without a flaw.”
Steve was baiting him, as usual; the Space Shuttle had experienced the usual spate of difficulties prior to launch, on the mission and prior to landing, but they were all inconsequential, and O’Malley knew it.
“Yeah, it went pretty well. The weather delayed the landing for a couple of days, but nobody’s complaining. The Space Shuttle’s just like an airplane—any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”
The group kept up the long tradition of New Year’s Eve gatherings in the house Vance Shannon built, even though there were as many bad evenings as good to remember. Just getting it done had become a problem. Harry’s wife, Anna, was no homemaker. Mae Rodriquez was always conscious about not presuming, and so didn’t take the initiative, and all the warmth had gone out of Nancy Shannon’s hospitality. As a result, it fell to the O’Malleys to do the buffet, and Sally’s heart was not in it. She saw the Shannons as the architect of their fortunes, and Rodriquez as a time bomb threatening to destroy it. It was difficult for her to play the role of happy hostess. Steve gave up on her making much of an effort and so paid a caterer to come in and put out the standard canapés and buffet that you might expect at a gallery opening. The food was fine, but it had no soul, and of course the alcohol was always backpedaled, out of deference to Anna. There was plenty to drink if you wanted it, but few people bothered, and the evening now broke up on the stroke of midnight, where in the early years it might have gone on all night.
Jenkins went out of the room, searching for Harry to pay his respects and see how he was doing. At eighty-four, Harry was not in the best of health. Amazingly, Anna now seemed to be thriving, although Dennis understood that she still occasionally fell off the wagon.
Harry was back in the library, leaning back in a recliner, a wellwatered Jack Daniel’s in his hand. It surprised Dennis, and his look must have shown it.
“No problem, Dennis. Anna’s dressing, won’t be out for a half hour or more, and I thought I needed a drink before we start listening to O’Malley and V. R. go on about the coming war. Join me—the bottle’s over there on the bar.”
Jenkins went behind the bar and pulled out the same bottle of Johnnie Walker that was there the year before. It looked curiously light in color and he poured a sip into his glass and tasted it.
“Watered?” Harry asked. “She does that pretty much to all the bottles. Usually I empty them out once they are opened, but if I forget she takes a few drinks and waters them down a bit. She seems to be handling it pretty well. I actually think it’s a pretty good method of controlling her drinking. We don’t spend much time here, anyway, and when we do, she never has a chance to have more than one or two snifters. I think she enjoys the illicit nature of the drinking as much as the whiskey.”
Bemused, Dennis opened a new bottle, poured a shot of unwatered Jack Daniel’s, and sat down next to Harry.
“At our age it doesn’t make much difference, Dennis. We’ve just about reached the point where nothing matters. I’m just hoping that we live to see the results of this hypersonic folly we’re engaged in. It seems pretty improbable right now.”
They clinked glasses and Harry went on. “You know Bob’s upset about V. R.’s decision on taking only a well-calculated risk.”
“I know something’s wrong, and guessed that was it, but he hasn’t said anything. He is so close to the program that he cannot see the wisdom in V. R.’s decision. It wouldn’t make sense to make a sacrificial flight; this isn’t the movies where everything is going to turn out right in the last scene.”
The door swung open and O’Malley and V. R. came in, talking earnestly. Harry looked at Dennis and winced. They were trapped. It was the kill-the-Muslims hour.
O’Malley started it, saying, “I tell you, Harry, when this war starts, it’s going to make the last war in the Gulf look like a Christmas party. I wish Tom were alive to see it; they’re using the term ‘shock and awe’ to describe what the Iraqis will feel. They’ll feel a hell of a lot more than that.”
V. R. waved his arms. “What a miserable time to be out of the Air Force! All those young guys are going to have the time of their lives, going in with the F-117s, the B-1s, the B-2s, even the B-52s. They are going to level Baghdad in the first twenty-four hours.”
Harry said, “Do you think it will go that far? Surely Saddam Hussein won’t try to fight.”
“Damn straight it’s going to go that far. I think Saddam thinks Russia and France are going to save his ass somehow, and I think he thinks he can fight a war of attrition in the desert. They are already talking about America finding ‘another Vietnam.’ They don’t think we have the staying power to fight a long war. They are probably right, but this is going to be the shortest war on record. I see them taking out all the air defenses on day one, then going on to take out the cities, one after the other. The war will be over in a week, and the ground troops can just drive in and take over.”
V. R. nodded agreement but Dennis said, “I can’t believe the Army, the Navy, and the Marines will agree to this being an Air Force show only. Sure, the Air Force will soften them up, but there will still have to be one hell of a land battle, just to make sure the Army keeps its share of the appropriations. And the Navy’s got to use its fighter bombers and missiles, or it will get cut, too.”
O’Malley shook his head. “No, listen to me. The term is shock and awe, and that’s what you are going to see. We’ll probably kill Saddam in the first couple of nights, and the vice president, what’s his name, the oily guy?”
Jenkins said, “Tarik.”
“Yeah, Tarik will be quick to surrender. He’s no fighter like Saddam.”
The door opened again, and Rodriquez walked in with Mae.
“Come on, let’s break up the warmongering and come on back to the kitchen. Sally told me to get you, everything’s ready to serve.”
Harry got up slowly, whispering to Dennis, “We got off easy. If Rodriquez hadn’t come in, the two of them would have gone on for an hour. What do you think is going to happen?”
“I think Saddam will cave at the last minute. He can go to any Arab country in the world as a hero, and he’s already a multibillionaire. He doesn’t need any more money, he’s supposed to have it squirreled away in bank accounts all over the world.”
“Do you think we could get him to invest in the Hypersonic Cruiser?”
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br /> Dennis laughed, pleased that Harry still had the Shannon sense of humor.
The rest of the evening passed uneasily, for it was evident that Rodriquez had something on his mind. The women thought he was just preoccupied, as always. The men knew it had to do with V. R. and his reluctance to commit to flying the Hypersonic Cruiser until much later in the program.
About 11:30 the women left them to talk, and Rodriquez got down to business.
“Look, we all agree that V. R. has every right to reserve his decision about flying the hypersonic plane until he feels he is comfortable with it. But it does put a burden on me and the program. There are a couple of ways to finesse it. One is to seek out an alternative test pilot, some professional we could bring in now and get him started on the simulator training, and working with us in the shop as the Cruiser comes together. Another is to decide now to make it an unmanned vehicle. Doing that would set us back maybe six months and another few hundred thousand dollars.”
V. R., obviously troubled, spoke up. “Bob, just suggesting this puts me on the spot. Worse, it confirms my fears that you all think I got us into this thing by not being upfront at the beginning. The problem was that I didn’t know what the hazards were then, and I was somehow sure we’d solve them. Now even you have some doubts about the success of the program. How is that supposed to make me feel?”
Rodriquez snapped, “I don’t doubt the success of the program, not one bit. I’m convinced that we are on the right path, and all the data proves it. And I would never consider letting anyone fly it, much less you, if I didn’t believe that the first flight would be completely successful. Surely you believe that. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but cold-blooded murder is not one of them.”
Rodriquez’s face flushed, realizing that this was a blatant lie and that there was no way to backpedal from it. He had assassinated several men in his undercover role. They were all enemies of the state. He had killed them all in the line of duty. But he had killed them, nonetheless.
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