Battle Born (14 page)

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re going to have to prove to this squadron that you can handle it, that you can follow orders, that you can be part of a team and not think about yourself.”

“I damn well can be part of this squadron, Beck!”

“Shut up and listen,” Furness broke in angrily. “I’m not going to fire you unless directed by higher headquarters
or unless I feel your membership here is dragging this unit’s performance and morale down. Both situations are out of my control. It’s going to be up to you to prove that you can fly with Aces High.”

Furness grabbed the flight authorization form, scanned it, then signed it. “You can fly again, Seaver—we can’t spare the manpower to keep you sitting on your ass for another two weeks. I want you to do a full annual check ride, including open-book, closed-book, orals, sim, pubs check, and flight evaluations.”

“No sweat, boss,” Seaver said confidently. “I’ve already talked with Scheduling, and I got a crew and a plane penciled in. I’ll be ready for a flight check by the end of the week.”

“You better be,” Furness warned. Long shook his head and snorted as if saying “No way,” but they both knew that if any member of the squadron could be ready for a flight check in less than seven days, it was Seaver. “If you pass, you can accompany us to our pre-D work-up—but I’m not going to let you try to requalify until I’m positive your head is on straight and you’re ready to do your job.”

“Hey, boss, give me a break,” Seaver said. “I’ll be mission-ready and up to speed before we go to pre-D. All I ask is for a chance to qualify.”

“I’m not worried about you, Seaver,” Furness said bitterly. “I’m worried about the morale of this unit if we fail the pre-D. I choose the crews that qualify, and right now I don’t think you’ll be ready in time.”

“But . . .”

“Do me a favor, Seaver, and shut up and listen. This entire unit has been through hell the past several weeks. We’re all hurting, not just you. But what do we see? You’re in here cooking up wild excuses for the crash.”

“They’re not wild excuses, boss. I think I know . . .”

“You don’t get it, do you? You might have the answer, you might not. But it doesn’t matter. Right now we don’t want to find out that someone screwed up. We all just need to know it’s gonna be okay, and everyone needs to pitch in, including you. You should start thinking about ways you can help this squadron pull itself together, rather than worrying about clearing your precious reputation.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do, boss?” Seaver asked hotly. “Give everybody a big hug? Serve tea and cookies and explore everyone’s feelings? Flog myself with a horsehair whip?”

“You do whatever you have to do to make this squadron believe you’re one of us, Seaver,” Furness responded. “If you do it, everything will eventually get back to normal. If you don’t, we’ll be on our way to being disbanded. Think about it. Now get the hell out of here and go home.”

There was silence for a long moment. That was Seaver’s indication that he was dismissed.

After he left, Long shook his head. “Fucking weasel,” he said. “He’s sticking to his lame-ass story.”

“Ease up on him, Long Dong,” Furness said. “Whether he’s going to make it or hit bottom, let him do it on his own. I just hope that if he doesn’t make it, he doesn’t pull this unit down with him.”

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF THE AIR FORCE,
THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C.
LATER THAT SAME DAY

I
am getting ready to go overseas for a major military exercise,” Secretary of the Air Force Stuart Mortonson raged, “and now you drop this on me. General
Hayes, you’d better have a real good explanation.” This, Mortonson thought, was definitely one of those times when being the chief civilian officer of the nation’s youngest military service was a totally thankless job.

Mortonson, formerly a dean at Stanford University and lieutenant governor of California, got his post in the Pentagon as a gift for helping win California in the last presidential election. The position meant a boost for California’s aerospace industry and lots of grant money for California institutes and universities, which were two good reasons why Mortonson was being groomed to run for the Senate or for governor of California. But except for making a few speeches or visiting a few bases, no one ever saw or recognized the secretary of the Air Force—unless something went wrong. Then everyone knew your name.

First, it was the B-1 bomber crash in Nevada back in April. Technically, it was a Nevada Air National Guard plane, not an Air Force plane, but that kind of hairsplitting was useless from day one—it was and always would be an Air Force problem. The Navy squawked about how reckless the crew was, complained about all the violated rules of engagement, and demanded the Air Force clean up its act. Mortonson took the scolding from the secretary of the Navy and the chief of Naval Operations, got the third-degree stare-down from the secretary of defense, and loudly promised everyone to get to the bottom of the incident and kick some butts.

But now a new controversy had surfaced, and again it involved the Navy. During a scheduled antimissile weapons test over the Pacific Ocean, some very odd things had happened, and the Air Force guys on the scene, including the Air Force’s chief of staff, were being very,
very
closemouthed about it. The Navy, which had some ships in the area, squawked again, accusing
the Air Force of testing a new warhead—possibly even a nuclear device—on a Navy range with Navy personnel in close proximity without informing anyone or setting up proper safeguards.

Air Force Chief of Staff Victor Hayes fired off an e-mail message to the secretary of the Air Force less than an hour after the test, asking for an immediate secure video-or phone conference. Mortonson was out of the office and didn’t have access to a secure phone. Hayes arrived back at the Pentagon just a few hours later, asking for an immediate face-to-face meeting with the secretary and with Major General Gregory Hammond, director of the Air National Guard Bureau. Hammond was in charge of the office that interfaced the secretary of the Air Force and the chief of staff of the Air Force with the governors and adjutant generals of the states that had Air National Guard units. But by then the shit from the Navy had hit the fan, and Mortonson changed his schedule and took this meeting.

Of course, all this was going on in the middle of one of the biggest military exercises of the year: Team Spirit 2000 was going to kick off in less than two months. Often the controversial political football in peace negotiations between North and South Korea, Team Spirit 2000 had become the largest joint war game in the Pacific. Land, naval, and air forces from the United States, South Korea, and Japan were going to participate in the three-week-long exercise, practicing and demonstrating joint military maneuvers over a broad conflict spectrum and geographic area.

This was the first year that Japan was going to be a full participant instead of an observer or support entity. Because it was in the midst of near-collapse, with a severe government downsizing and financial reorganization program in effect, and still suffering the aftermath of the nuclear detonation in Yokosuka Harbor
three years earlier, everything possible was being done to include Japan in major Asian defense events so as to try to keep that nation from sliding back into isolationism or extreme anti-American nationalism. Its ban on all combat-armed American warships in its territorial waters and its threat to close all U.S. military bases were ominous signs that such fears were valid.

About a year after the explosion—which had killed and injured only a handful of Japanese citizens and caused very little damage to Japanese property—Japan had begun buying frontline high-tech surplus military equipment from Russia as if it were dollar day at the Goodwill store. Ex-Russian MiG-29 fighters and Sukhoi-33 fighter-bombers were now flying alongside American-made F-15 fighters in the skies over Japan. It was a clear message that Japan wanted to rearm and assume more of the responsibility of defending itself—and it wanted to do so
now
. The threat of an economically unstable, ultranationalistic, and rearmed Japan was a serious concern to Washington.

To try to present a unified front, the Vice President of the United States, Ellen Christine Whiting, accompanied by several of the service secretaries and chiefs of staff, was going to tour some of the foreign players’ military bases in the region. Of course, that was not the only reason Mortonson was going along; his main task was to try to talk the Japanese out of buying so much Russian hardware and into buying more American equipment. Mortonson was armed with joint development contracts, licensing agreements, incentives, loan packages, and grant money—everything short of an out-and-out bribe to try to get Japan to buy American again.

The pressure was already on. He didn’t need his own troops adding more gray hairs, wrinkles, and bags under his eyes.

“I’ve got the secretary of defense, the President’s national security adviser, the director of Central Intelligence, and the chief of Naval Operations ready to shit on my desk!” Mortonson shouted after the door to his office was closed. “What in hell went on out there, General?”

Hayes told him—and Mortonson was scared. Stunned, angry, incredulous, yes—but mostly scared.

The secretary of the Air Force was a politician and bureaucrat by trade, not an engineer, scientist, or soldier like some of his predecessors. The politician in him said this was so damaging to the administration, not to mention the Air Force, that the President’s opponents might not even wait until the November elections—they could all be out of a job within days. At a time when the threat to America’s security was at its greatest, and the perceived readiness and ability of the military to fight a major conflict was very low, the last thing the White House or Pentagon needed was an unauthorized test of some unknown weapon.

“General Hayes, I hope you realize the consequences of what you did,” Mortonson said ominously.

“Of course I do, sir,” he said. “I’m also prepared to brief you with results of our tests.”

“Are you prepared to lose your job? Have your career destroyed?” Mortonson asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen to you, and most likely to me, when I report this to the rest of the Joint Chiefs and the White House. They’re going to blow a gasket.”

“Sir, the thing works,” Hayes said. “The Air Force’s antimissile hunter-killer system works. Forget the plasma-yield warhead for a moment, sir. No harm, no foul. The Navy still doesn’t know what kind of warhead we used, and in my estimation they’ll never figure it out unless someone tells them.”

“You’re giving me this ‘no harm, no foul’ nonsense,
Victor?” Mortonson asked incredulously. “You expect me to go in front of the Joint Chiefs and the President and say something like ‘no harm, no foul’? Are you crazy?”

“Sir, what I’d prefer you say is that we have the antiballistic missile system the White House and Congress have been clamoring for,” Hayes said earnestly. “Lieutenant General Terrill Samson at HAWC demonstrated an air-launched antimissile system that is almost as effective as the airborne laser program but that we can field in just a few months. You told me to find a way to fit ABL into the budget—here’s how we do it. I respectfully suggest, sir, you tell the Navy to stuff it.”

“I think we will be fighting to keep from getting
our
asses stuffed, General,” Mortonson said. He paused, staring across the room for a moment. Then: “It was our range, right?”

“The range is administered by the Navy, and a naval officer was the controlling authority,” Hayes said, “but we were paying for it.” Mortonson closed his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. Hayes was indignant. “Sir, we
paid
for that range and everything in it. We paid for those ships, we paid for the target rockets, we paid for the antiair missiles, we paid for security, and we would’ve paid any claims in case of an accident. The Navy insisted we accept responsibility for everything. In my mind, that gives us the right to use the range however we want.

“The Navy never gave us any limits on what weapons we could use, only that we not overfly any of their ships with our missiles. We briefed which weapons we’d use and we used what we briefed—except for the plasma-yield warheads. All of the Navy ships were well outside the warheads’ kill radius, which we knew with great precision because that’s a property of the weapon. The Navy knows all about the weapon because they
intend to use it on their Aegis Tier Two and Three antiballistic missile weapons. It was perfectly safe. No Navy personnel were in any danger, and they know it.”

“You’re deluding yourself with that argument, General,” said the secretary of the Air Force. “They are going to nail our hides to the wall over this. What was the closest detonation to any ships?”

Hayes checked his notes: “The rocket intercept was thirty miles downrange and at an altitude of seventy-four thousand feet—that’s over twelve nautical miles high,” he replied. “The launch barge was over nine miles from the nearest warship. The explosions didn’t cause a ripple in the water. They didn’t detect any radiation until they sailed right over to ground zero and recovered a piece of the barge, and radiation levels were well below danger levels. The closest nonmilitary vessel was twenty-three miles.”

Hayes was heartened to see Mortonson stop to think again. Good, he thought, maybe he wasn’t ready to concede defeat over this. “All right, General,” Mortonson said finally. “I’ll back your play. I’m going to need a briefing file on the plasma-yield warhead and on the missiles you launched. I’m sure we’ll all take a few turns roasting on the spit, but I think I can keep us from getting completely cooked.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hayes said gratefully.

“Don’t thank me yet, General—if the CNO or the White House wants someone’s ass, it’ll be yours, mine, and Samson’s. We’re not out of the woods by any means. All this means is you have an advocate. It may not do us a lick of good.”

“Then, if you’ll permit me, I suggest you don’t go in there with your hat in your hand, sir,” Hayes said.