Final Approach (53 page)

“Yes?”

“Mr. Bayne? John Walters in Dallas. I've got everyone looking for Ron Putnam, and I'll switch him into this call when we can find him.”

“What's up, John?” Visions of airplanes in pieces on the ground filled his mind's eye. With such a buildup, the news must be terrible.

“It might have been radar interference that brought down Flight 255 after all,” Walters told him, filling in the details of Tarvin's galvanizing visit, and the implications.

Ron Putnam was located in Tampa and hooked up to a conference call, the three of them urgently exchanging details and ideas.

“I've got to tell you two,” Bayne said at last, “I'm very relieved, because I was getting damned worried that you fellows had lost control of your people.” Bayne said it almost light-heartedly, but his words chilled both Walters and Putnam.

“What do you mean, David?” Ron Putnam asked, caution flags fluttering in his mind.

“Well, I was beginning to think, after that disastrous hearing, that the mistake you two made in hiring and not supervising Timson had caused it all. I was about convinced he'd caused the crash, God knows how. But now, the flaws of our chief pilot will be eclipsed when this breaks … and I want this to break immediately.”

“Shouldn't we take this to the NTSB first, David? John's got the man on hold here in Dallas.” Putnam's voice sounded tentative.

“Hell no! We've got the goods. Call a news conference and let's go for it! That bastard Farris and his people can read about it in the
New York Times
. Or, better yet, call someone we want to cultivate on the
Dallas Times Herald
and give them an exclusive for their afternoon edition, then break it on the evening news for tonight. Don't worry about the NTSB. They should have found this poor SOB before we did.”

By 6
P.M.
the nation was hearing North America Airlines's senior vice-president Ron Putnam announce that new evidence had all but solved the crash of Flight 255. The phone calls began immediately between members of the NTSB and Joe's staff in particular, lacing an urgent web of communication among startled people instantly venting feelings of outrage against North America. “The damned airline didn't even have the common courtesy to call and let us know the media had this story!” Andy railed at Joe. “And I don't even know who this man Tarvin is.”

Within an hour of getting the news by phone from Joe, Dean Farris had told the IIC to do nothing while he, Farris, called David Bayne. Only John Walters could be located, however, and his attitude was disgustingly smug, in Farris's estimation. He had been authorized, he said, to pass along the information on just who John Tarvin was and where he could be found, but the NTSB would have to ask their own questions.

“You realize you people have breached traditional duty and courtesy in accident investigation by taking this to the media first, don't you?” Farris was almost sputtering into his home phone. “We have rules against this sort of thing, and you are a party to this investigation.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Walters answered, laconically, “I did what I was told to do. You'll have to take that up with
my
chairman, David Bayne. He apparently assumed you should already have known about Tarvin.” Take that, you sanctimonious bastard, Walters said to himself, his treatment at the hands of the NTSB at the hearing burning for redress.

In different parts of the Washington, D.C. area, Joe Wallingford, Susan Kelly, Andy Wallace, and Barbara Rawlson—among others—sat stunned before their telephones and tried to adjust to this latest twist. As Joe had moaned to Andy, “I suspected it was the radar unit, but goddammit, this investigation keeps playing out on the national news! If we don't like this conclusion, just wait another twenty minutes and someone will uncover another one.”

Dean Farris called Joe back by 7
P.M.
, Washington time. “Joe, I want you to get someone to Dallas to talk to that man, but do not say anything to the media. I've talked to a very highly placed source in our government in the last ten minutes who assures me the man is mistaken, that the unit couldn't have been transmitting anything harmful. They say North America went off half-cocked, and is going to look ridiculous.”

“Andy's already headed for the airport, Mr. Chairman. There's a nine
P.M.
flight from Dulles to Dallas. He'll be on it.”

“Good.” And Farris hung up.

Kell Martinson took it even harder. He had invested a substantial amount of personal capital in assuring his fellow senators—including the angry proponents of the full SDI project—that the Defense Department was telling the truth. Everyone he talked to in the Pentagon had assured him that there was no way—“
No way
, Senator”—that the mobile radar unit could have been activated. He had accepted the assurances at last and gone back to his angry colleagues on the Hill with a “Trust me!” approach. Now those assurances—along with a lot of his credibility—were in danger of being blown away. And the American public would probably conclude the Pentagon was incompetent, and Kell Martinson was, at best, an amiable, gullible dupe.

“Kell, keep in mind it was not sabotage. You told them it wasn't, and this doesn't contradict your assurances,” Cindy had said by phone around 7:30
P.M.
, trying to calm him down.

“Yeah, but I asked them point-blank if it
could
have been physically possible—electronically possible—that the radar was transmitting as the North America Airbus approached the airport, and all I've gotten is a resounding and apparently fraudulent no.

Cindy's counsel was to be cautious, but Kell immediately punched in the unlisted home number of Lt. Gen. Roach's superior, the four-star general heading the SDI program. The resulting exchange was rather one-sided and vitriolic.

“Once and for all, General, I want a straight answer, and this senator's support for anything you people hold dear hinges in its entirety on getting an honest answer. You dance around this one, General, and your people will be spending the rest of their natural lives testifying before committees up here with a galaxy of angry senators—including this one—as your constant inquisitors.”

“Senator, we have not lied to you. I'll be back to you in an hour.”

Instead, he was back on the line in twenty minutes.

“Senator Martinson, I say this to you for the record, and with my full belief that it is indeed absolutely true. I stake my personal and professional reputation on it, sir. Despite the statements of this man Tarvin, the mobile tracking radar unit's main antenna was retracted, and because of an intricate system of interlocks and other safeguards in the design, as well as safeguards built into the physical unit, if the antenna is not fully shaped into its normal 25-foot dish on top of the unit, the unit cannot—I repeat—cannot—transmit a single watt of radio frequency energy. It is a physical impossibility. It
is
possible, Senator, for someone to switch power into the main radar module and have a tremendous power drain, but that drain does not go to producing radio, radar, microwave, or any other sort of radio frequency radiation.”

“What
does
it produce? Electrical energy has to go somewhere.”

“That part's classified, Senator. But it doesn't produce radio waves.”

“In other words, General, the man may be telling the truth about what he did and what he saw, but there could have been no radio interference with that Airbus?”

“Exactly.”

There was an ominous silence, and the general was prepared for it.

“Senator, would you consider a midnight flight with your Air Force?”

“What?”

“To clear this up beyond a shadow of a doubt, would you forego some sleep and meet one of my people at Andrews in, say, two hours?”

“I suppose so. To go where?”

“Just stop at any of the gates, Senator, and identify yourself. Someone will escort you to the right location. Bring a change of clothes and your Dopp kit, but expect to be back within, say, fourteen hours.”

Kell was somewhat shocked, but accepted immediately, and by midnight found himself strapped into a tiny cabin seat of an Air Force Learjet, the general himself sitting in the next seat.

“All I'm going to tell you right now, Senator, is that what you are going to see and hear is classified Top Secret, and you are authorized to receive this information subject to your security clearance. You may not divulge anything classified outside of normal cleared need-to-know channels. This would be the same as if you had convened a closed session of the Armed Services Committee for presentation of Top Secret classified national-defense testimony. This is definitely a matter of national defense. Do you agree and reaffirm your understanding and acceptance of the limitations?”

“Yes sir. No problem.”

“I've discussed my appraisal of your need-to-know status through the chief of staff. We're in agreement that you do, indeed, need to know this, though it's only for your reassurance. You can't divulge.”

Kell was consumed with curiosity as the small twin jet lifted off Andrews and turned west, climbing rapidly to 41,000 feet. Both of them settled back and slept through the next three hours, the sounds of throttled-back engines finally announcing a descent into—somewhere.

“Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, Senator,” the general said simply when Kell's eyes came open.

They touched down and taxied at what seemed to be excessive speed straight toward a lighted, distant hangar, the doors of which opened as they approached. The Air Force major in the left seat rolled his craft through the doors and to a stop in the interior. It was just before 4
A.M.
in Washington, and 2
A.M.
in New Mexico, the stars showing brightly in the dear desert sky as the huge doors were motored closed again behind them.

Kell stepped out into a world of metallic echoes and soaring open space within the walls of the cavernous hangar, facing the most ungainly monstrosity of a vehicle he had ever seen.

“This is it, Senator, the cause of our mutual discomfort. Ninety thousand pounds, two complete antenna sets, automatically deployable and retractable within two minutes, on-board diesel generators for stable, rectified power, multiple transmitters, on and on. Unlike the main SDI plans which, as you know, have varying dependence on ground-based radar, this is merely a tracking test unit, so when you gentlemen on the Hill give us the money and the go-ahead, we can start flying the equipment and proving what the space-based hardware can do.”

The general looked rumpled. He had arrived at Andrews wearing a full dress blue uniform. The blouse, bedecked with ribbons, now hung open, revealing a wrinkled shirt, his tie askew, and a half day's growth of unshaven stubble on his chin—quite in contrast to the spit-and-polish neatness of the Air Force security police watching the four-star general's every move with respect and anticipation. Yet his voice was sharp, his words precise, and Kell noted almost a pride of ownership in his description of the radar unit. The general brought Kell around to the front and they climbed into the cab.

“This is the switch Tarvin got by mistake. You can see it's a bad design—I could have screwed it up myself on a cold and boring night.”

“You
knew
about this?”

“Within an hour of the time he reported it to his supervisor in Leavenworth more than a month ago. We already suspected something had happened to power up the unit, because of the power surge reports.”

Kell bristled. “Why didn't you tell me then? Damn it, you knew the thing was operating.”

“Wait, Senator, hang on. Let's have you look in the back first before you take a swing at me.”

They climbed down and walked the 85-foot length of the unit, climbing up the rear entrance steps to the main radar unit, where the door already stood open.

“Okay, Senator, step in and take a look at the most powerful mobile radar unit on the planet.”

The interior was lighted by incandescent lamps, and the pristine walls and ceiling were in contrast to the tightly packed electronics he had expected. The module was approximately 55 feet long, 10 feet wide, and 8 feet high—and except for several large concrete blocks on the floor, it was completely empty!

“What … where …?” Kell began.

“Where is everything? Is that what you're asking?”

Kell saw the general had played him like a violin, but for a purpose. He let him continue.

“It's still being developed, Senator. This unit couldn't transmit a single watt of radio energy because there's nothing inside the sucker. Nothing has been installed yet, and this is exactly what it looked like when we loaded it at Kansas City to fly it to Kwajalein, and then back here.”

“How about the power drain?”

The general reached over and lifted a floor panel, revealing a series of large transformers.

“Power sinks, you might call them. They suck up a tremendous amount of power and convert it into nothing but heat. That way, somebody plugs it up, it will appear to be operating at phenomenal power-requirement levels. But nothing related to radio or radar is happening.”

“Why, General?”

“You haven't figured it out yet? I don't mean to twist your arm, because you've helped keep peace on the Hill for us to continue development, but because of the budget restrictions and test restrictions, we've put our resources into research, not testing. That's what you wanted, that's what we've done.”

“But …”

“The Soviets, Senator. Our adversaries, despite the democratization of the Warsaw Pact,
perestroika, glasnost
, wholesale troop withdrawals, German reunification, and the declaration of a blessed state of peace between us. All of us in the military are praying for Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms to permanently change the Soviet Union to a nonthreatening friend, but the process, at best, will take a decade. There is still a terribly powerful Soviet military over there, led by hardened senior officers who watch the direction of the political winds in their government from hour to hour. As long as things could change internally—as long as there are Soviet missiles pointed at us and missile-carrying submarines out there—we can't afford to drop our guard for a split second, any more than they can, despite hail-commies-well-met and constant exchanges of warm fuzzies between us. Don't forget, we watch each other constantly with our surveillance satellites. We want them to
know
we're prepared for war as well as peace as this process continues. We want to remind them constantly how costly this arms race will continue to be until we disengage, and that means ongoing development.”