Alpha Kat

by William H. Lovejoy

  The room reflected the soul and the essence of Lon Pot, Lon Pot thought. It was progressive, with clean lines, and bright spots of creativity.

  There were six bedrooms, with at least four of them occupied at all times by visiting young beauties of Burmese or Thai ancestry.

  For guests, there were four guest houses in the compound. Each of his chief deputies were also provided a house.

  This compound of houses was a refuge for him and his lieutenants.

  It was also an island of solitude on the high plateau, but solitude was no longer what he craved. He had built the compound years before at a time when he might have been considered an outlaw, yet now, in most of the region, he was the law. His words alone directed the energies of thousands of people.

  Lon Pot had already achieved his first objective. He was a man of immense wealth, and the accumulation no longer had the same importance it had once had. He had come to realize that he was more than a man, and as such, he had to give more of himself to his people. His existence, his very core, was meant to serve a higher cause.

  He had determined that he would help his people, and he would help them in the most efficient way he could. He had read The Prince, after all.

  He turned from his contemplation of the garden and faced the four men seated on two of the red sofas. They were his most trusted advisors and subordinates: Dao Van Luong, Micah Chao, Vol Soon, and Henry Loh.

  “I feel that soon I must live in a city,” he said.

  The four men nodded their agreement.

  “Then let us make it so.”

  All four men rose from the sofas and left the room to make it so.

  Which was the way Lon Pot preferred to accomplish his objectives.

  *

  The Kappa Kat, piloted by A.J. Soames, and carrying mechanics Tex Brabham and Elliot Stott along with Conrad Billingsly as air controller, had taken off from Sky Harbor International fifteen minutes before.

  The six Alpha Kats were parked in one row, surrounded by their pilots and the ground crewmen who weren’t going along and were therefore understandably sullen. Kimball stood with Sam Eddy McEntire and Susan McEntire next to zero-eight.

  “You’re the acting president,” Kimball told her.

  “Hell, hon, you’re the whole damned acting corporation,” McEntire added.

  “Do I get an acting salary?” she asked.

  “You can have mine,” Sam Eddy told her.

  “You’ve already borrowed against yours into the next century,” she said, then leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Be very careful, Sam Eddy.”

  “Just for you,” McEntire said, gave her a thumb’s up, and headed for Alpha Kat one-five.

  Kimball had never been very nosy about relationships, and the ebb and flow of tensions between the McEntires could easily confuse him.

  “Watch him, Kim,” Susan said.

  “What?”

  “Watch him closely. For me.”

  “Sam Eddy can take care of himself pretty well, Susie.”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll watch him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May I ask —”

  “No,” she said. Emphatically.

  Abruptly, she rose on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. There was a lot of heat behind it, and she held the kiss for some time.

  Kimball gripped her upper arms to stabilize himself physically and mentally.

  She pulled away.

  “Most important, you take care of yourself, Kim.”

  She spun away, headed for the hangar, but not before he saw the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Jesus. There’s not enough time in a lifetime to understand women.

  Kimball swung around to his plane and went up the ladder. Eight minutes later, he was buckled in, hooked up, and turning the turbofan.

  Ground control gave him permission to use Runway 9-R, and he led the other five eager fighters into position just off the runway.

  “Phoenix, Alpha Kat zero-eight with a flight of six.”

  “Got you, zero-eight. Let me get a UPS freighter off, then it’s all yours.”

  “Appreciate that, Phoenix.”

  “When you get airborne, zero-eight, I’d like a squawk from all of you. All modes and codes.”

  “Roger, Phoenix.”

  The squawk-ident — or for the military, the Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) — transponders aboard aircraft identified their blips on the screens of ground radars. Depending on the modes set on the transponder, various data, such as altitude, were also displayed. Since they were stealth aircraft, the KAT aircraft mounted modified transponders that also sent a signal that created a radar blip in the first place. The FAA was conscientious about wanting to know what was in the air, especially when it was civilian.

  Sixteen minutes after takeoff, they rendezvoused with the Kappa Kat.

  In the clear skies over the Arizona desert, with day fully broken at their altitude, Kimball saw the controller craft from several miles away.

  He used Tac Two. “Hawkeye, Bengal One.”

  “You took your sweet time, Cheetah. I want the lead. Form on me in echelon,” Billingsly said.

  “You got it, Papa. Bengals, let’s put the odds on the left.”

  Kimball drifted upward until he was slightly above the Kappa Kat and flying behind and to the left of its left wing. Bengals Three and Five formed up on him. The three Alpha Kats with even codenames took up stations off the Kappa Kat’s right wing.

  Below, the shadows of the mountains were getting shorter, but they were too high to distinguish the bright colors of wildflowers and cacti.

  “Bengals,” Billingsly said, “we’re going to stay at angels two-zero and heading zero-eight-seven. But we’re going to goose it to Mach one-point-two. Everybody stay with me.”

  Kimball eased his throttle forward as the Kappa Kat accelerated. He easily maintained his position until the HUD readout, switching from a reading of knots when they crossed through the sonic barrier, displayed 1.2.

  He looked over the formation, and he couldn’t help but feel an elevated sense of pride in its appearance. The craft appeared lethal and agile, and he was responsible for that, for the initial design. Others had contributed in many ways: electronics, weapons systems, and engines, but the Alpha Kat was his in her beautiful heart and soul.

  The dark bronze tinting of the canopies prevented him from distinguishing the identities of specific pilots, but he knew them all, and he was proud of them, too. They were the kind of men he could trust.

  “Okay, Bengals, I’m giving you a data feed. Just in case you missed your naps.”

  “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, Papa,” McEntire said.

  “Except for Irish. He needs the exercise,” Billingsly responded.

  Sam Eddy had picked up the nickname of “Irish Eyes,” not for his surname and his good-humored handsomeness, but also for his reputation with the ladies. In his Air Force days, there had been many waiting for him at every base.

  The autopilots aboard the Alpha Kats were rather rudimentary when used stand-alone. They maintained the course, speed, and altitude input by the pilot. When connected to the Kappa Kat by data-link, they were as sophisticated as anything in the skies. The AWACS craft’s navigation system interfaced with at least three or four of the satellites in the Global Positioning System, providing it with navigational accuracy that was within a few feet of geographical position and a few knots of speed. Coupled with input from the Kappa Kat’s radars, the data fed to the fighters provided them with navigational information that was just as accurate.

  Kimball activated his primary data-link receiver, the frequencies determined at the pre-flight briefing and set during the cockpit check. He cut in the autopilot and felt the control stick tremble as the computer took over. If he turned on his data-link feedback transmitter, the Kappa Kat could also fly his plane for him. It was considered a backup system. If a pilot became disabled — something none of the pilots
talked about — there was a possibility that the Kappa Kat air controller could get him back on the ground in one or two pieces by remotely operating the autopilot.

  In the center of the instrument panel was an eight-inch cathode ray tube, and Kimball switched it on, then pressed the keypad for navigational display. Immediately, the screen showed him the seven blips in the formation, all in blue. His blip was in the center of the screen and blinking, and at the bottom of the screen, blue lettering displayed his geographical coordinates. In a tense combat situation, Billingsly’s computer would paint the opposing aircraft red, to help track friend and foe.

  “In case any of you are lost,” the AC said, “I’m going to give you a map overlay.”

  The Kappa Kat’s computer disk reader would accept mapping information stored on small hard disks, each disk containing data for various parts of the world. That kind of information was good, and often essential, for flying in unknown regions or flying close to the terrain during invasions.

  Using data relayed from the Kappa Kat, the screen showed the overlay of map grid lines, each five miles apart. The entire screen displayed the current setting of the Kappa Kat’s ninety-mile scan. Several of the major highways were shown, to aid in orientation. At the top right of the screen, the city of Globe was shown. Globe was east of Phoenix, but on the screen appeared to be north. That was because the top of the screen was always the direction of travel, 087 degrees magnetic currently.

  Kimball loosened his harness a bit, took his feet off the rudder pedals, and relaxed. He squirmed a bit to settle into the survival and parachute packs of his seat, then reached between the seat and the fuselage wall and found his leather portfolio. The leather wasn’t as good as that of the attaché case Wilcox had given him, and was scratched and stained from fifteen years of use.

  Opening it on his lap, he studied the itinerary that had been finalized only two days before:

  July 16: N’Djamena, Chad

  July 18: Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  July 21: Islamabad, Pakistan

  July 23: New Delhi, India

  July 26: Dacca, Bangladesh

  July 28: Rangoon, Burma

  July 31: Bangkok, Thailand

  August 3: Manila, Philippines

  Andrea Deacon had had to do some rescheduling when Kimball had finally firmed up the last demonstration dates, for Riyadh and Dacca, but it was all in place now.

  In some cases, Susan McEntire had had to secure separate lines of credit from local banks to cover their fuel and other expenses, but there hadn’t been many obstacles. He and Susan had always been compelled to pay enough on the Kimball Aero billings by the time they were due in order to maintain an excellent credit rating.

  Below the itinerary sheet were slim file folders containing information about each site’s landing and parking conditions, the hotel and meal accommodations, and other practical matters. Each of the aircraft command pilots had aeronautical charts and local regulations for each stop along the way.

  Also in each of the folders in Kimball’s portfolio were profiles and background information on influential members of the nation’s defense ministries and military. They had been compiled by Soames and McEntire, often with information supplied by Ben Wilcox. Wilcox had been very helpful in a number of areas, coming up with arcane information about the bribability and sexuality of many important military and civilian leaders. Kimball had been cautioned to destroy the profiles before landing at each destination.

  There were also short summaries of the economic, military, and political climates of each nation.

  Kimball pulled the file labeled for Chad and began reading.

  The French have long supported administrative and military objectives in Chad, particularly in regard to occasional incursions from Libya. It can be expected that French companies such as Dassault-Breguet will resist the potential loss of sales revenues, and that they will be supported by French sympathizers in the administration.

  However, a cadre of new administration and military people is beginning to emerge, and …

  At 10:15 A.M., they were on the ground in Atlanta after a three-and-a-half hour flight from Phoenix.

  The tanker trucks were nearly finished with the refueling of booth Starlifters.

  Gander and Vrdlicka stood near the nose of Gander’s aircraft, out of the mild breeze wafting the stench of JP-4 across the tarmac. The humidity was like a soft, sopping washrag, oozing from the cracks in the concrete. Heat waves flickered over the hot metal of the wings. The sweatband of his Stetson was already permeated.

  “Just another measly seventy-five hundred miles to go,” Vrdlicka said.

  “It’s a piece of cake, Mel. A piece of boring damned chocolate cake.”

  Loaded the way they were, the C141s had a range of 4,500 miles, and straight lines being what they were when the curvature of the earth interfered, they were headed next for England for refueling before taking on the last leg to N’Djamena, Chad. Spain had refused them a refueling stopover.

  “You know what Hamilton and Carl Dent are doing in the back of my buggy?” Vrdlicka asked.

  “What?”

  “They put a sheet of plywood on some crates, and they’re running a ping pong tournament.”

  “No lie? Who’s winning?”

  “I don’t think anyone is. The ball does funny things when the plane changes attitude.”

  Back by the hatchway, Gander’s hitchhikers were standing around stretching their legs. As he looked at them, one of the Customs agents stuck his head out of the hatch.

  “Mr. Gander?”

  “Yo.”

  “You want to come here a minute?”

  Trailed by Vrdlicka, Gander walked back and climbed through the hatch.

  “Do you have a key for this locker, Mr. Gander?” the officer asked, pointing to one of the tall and narrow hanging lockers for crew use.

  Uh oh.

  “Sure.”

  He shoved his hat back on his head, dug his keyring out of his Levis, and found the one for the Masterlock padlock. The lock popped open readily, and he swung the door back.

  Four M-16 assault rifles leaned into one corner of the locker, and two Browning 9-mm. automatics in holsters were stashed on the top shelf. Boxes of ammunition and a dozen loaded magazines were stacked at the bottom.

  “What’s this?” the Customs officer asked.

  “M-16s and automatic pistols.”

  “I can see that. What for?”

  “We’ve got a hundred million dollars’ worth of airplanes that are going to be parked in some exotic locations,” Gander said. “We provide our own security.”

  “Uh huh, yeah,” the agent said. “You have a clearance for this, of course?”

  “Should be in the bunch of paper I gave you.”

  “I don’t have anything like that.” He held up his clipboard.

  Gander glanced at Vrdlicka standing in the hatchway. Vrdlicka spun away toward his own plane. Maybe he had the damned release.

  “Look, Officer, we’ve got a schedule to follow, and we need to get in the air. The flight plan’s already filed.”

  “Then you’d better suspend the flight plan,” the man told him.

  Gander shook his head in disgust. Damned paper was going to be the downfall of humanity.

  *

  Ben Wilcox had a copy of Clive Cussler’s Sahara with him as cover, but he had found himself getting caught up in the story a couple of times, forgetting to keep an alert eye on the activities taking place at the general aviation section of the airport.

  He had spent much of his morning on the observation deck level of Hartfield-Atlanta International Airport. Two gooey donuts he didn’t need had already been consumed, and he was on his third cup of styrofoam-encased coffee.

  The two C-141s, distinctive with their high-set stabilizers, hadn’t moved since landing. They were a distance away, and the people moving around them looked like oversized ants. The airport’s tanker trucks had departed some time before, and the air
craft engines still hadn’t been started.

  Some kind of problem.

  He didn’t need problems.

  He glanced back at his book. Dirk Pitt was getting roped into something he …

  “Mr. Ben Wilcox, please go to a white paging telephone.”

  The soft-spoken monotone almost didn’t register until the second repetition. Wilcox got up and looked for a white telephone, carrying his book and coffee with him.

  The voice on the other end of the phone told him to call a Washington number.

  He found a real telephone on which to dial it.

  “Happy Hour.”

  “This is Montrose,” he said, providing the code name.

  “Donegal reported in.”

  “And?”

  “Phase One is under way.”

  “Damn.” Much earlier than expected. “Did Donegal say it was going the way we’d discussed?”

  “Donegal did not elaborate,” the disembodied voice told him.

  Wilcox hung up and went back to his seat.

  He sipped his coffee and watched the inaction around the transport airplanes. The itinerary that Kimball had faxed him would barely make the deadline that Wilcox had imposed. Now, that deadline may have been advanced.

  He couldn’t take many delays.

  Especially if Lon Pot had jumped the gun on his starting date.

  Just thinking about that made him more antsy. He wished he had talked to Donegal himself.

  He looked across the field at the dormant transports and almost decided to interfere.

  But he wouldn’t.

  If Kimball and his people couldn’t pull themselves out of the crap, the Agency wasn’t going to do it for them. Not from here on in. If or when Kimball got in trouble, the Agency would be looking the other way.

  That was the only way it could be.

  Nine

  Atlanta appeared on the horizon just before eleven, eastern standard time. Kimball had already advanced the secondary chronometer on the instrument panel, as well as his watch. The primary chronometer was always set to Zulu, Greenwich mean, time, so that the computers didn’t become confused.