Power Curve (42 page)

The bomb arced over the top of its trajectory and headed down, straight for the small island that had been designated as ground zero. A parachute twenty-four feet in diameter deployed out of the tail assembly as the bomb’s radar came on, measuring the exact altitude above the target. At the precise altitude, the bomb would detonate for an air burst, and the fireball would never touch the surface.

Ray Byers counted down the seconds to detonation. “Ready, ready, ready—” Around them, stars were still visible in the night sky. In a few seconds, they would be blotted out by the incandescent light of a man-made sun. The men waited.

Okinawa, Japan

T
he two men stood in the dark on top of Habu Hill. Townly looked nervously to the southwest and then at his watch. “It was only fifteen minutes flying time,” he muttered. “I guess we can’t see it after all.”

Ryan agreed with him. “A hundred and twenty miles is pretty far.”

“They could’ve been shot down,” Townly replied. He gestured aimlessly to the southwest.

“Let’s go,” Ryan said.

Townly checked his watch again. It was 1:35
A.M.
, five minutes past the time of detonation. “They might have taken battle damage. Let’s wait a few minutes to see if they make it back.” Each pulled into his own thoughts as the minutes passed. Townly heard the sound first, and his head came up. A jet was approaching from the southwest. The runway lights flicked on as both men strained to see into the night. A bright landing light pierced the night as a lone jet approached at 1,500 feet for an overhead recovery to land on 5 right. “That’s them,” Townly said, the tension broken. “Now we go.” They got in the car and drove to the command post for the mission debriefing as the fighter circled to land.

Martini’s fingers tapped the table in the Battle Cab as Woods and Byers debriefed the mission. When they were
done, his lips were compressed into a tight line. “Get an Op Rep III message on the wires,” he told the lieutenant colonel in charge of the command post. “Major Ryan, please take them to the Med Center and take blood and urine samples. Then give them a quick physical.” He held his hand up stopping any protests. “I don’t expect to find anything, but we are going to be Monday morning quarter-backed to death on this one. Go. Get back here ASAP for a full deposition.” The Op Rep III, or postmission operations report, was going to stir every headquarters in his chain of command.

“Impound the jet,” he told the Operations Group commander. “Then get Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz and his crew to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. Check every system, every rivet. If anything is wrong with that bird, I want to know.” He paused and considered his next order. “Get the backup crew in here.” The men sprang to action, and he stood up. He leaned on his arms, his hands flat against the table and looked out over the main floor of the command post.
You may have just given your last command
, he thought.

Washington, D.C.

General Wayne Charles sat in the Situation Room, his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands. He had never felt so discouraged in his entire life.
I became the chairman of the JCS for this?
he thought. Slowly, he straightened and reread the Op Rep III message. He handed it to the DCI and waited as each of Madeline Turner’s security advisors read the short message. There was no comment as it passed from hand to hand. Finally, it reached Secretary of State Francis.

“I never expected this,” Francis muttered.

“Neither did I,” the DCI added.

“There have always been problems in the nuclear stockpile,” Charles told them. “That’s why we did underground testing and recalls.”

Francis was incredulous. “You recall nuclear weapons?”

“Of course,” Charles replied. He looked at the master
clock on the wall. It was almost noon, Wednesday, February 13th. He couldn’t put it off any longer and stood up. “I had better tell the president.” Reluctantly, the other four men stood and followed him to the Oval Office.

Shaw was waiting for them and opened the door. “Mizz President,” he said as he ushered them in.

Madeline Turner took off her glasses and leaned back in her chair. “Please be seated,” she said. Only Shaw sat down.

Charles cleared his throat. “Madam President.” He gulped. “The bomb—failed to—detonate.” The president of the United States stared at him in disbelief.

“St. Peter shit-a-brick,” Shaw muttered. “It was a dud?” Charles nodded, not knowing what to say. Shaw gave voice to what Turner was thinking. “You mean we spent how many gazillion dollars so when the chips are down you boys can’t deliver?” He snorted. “Sumbitch.”

Turner pulled her chair back to the desk and replaced her glasses. She folded her hands in front of her. What had Bender told her? Something about telling them what to do and not being afraid to kick a few egos around. “General Charles, how many coincidences must I accept? Fortunately, I’m not paranoid and given to believing in conspiracies. Otherwise, I would”—she paused—“well, let’s just say no more coincidences or the results will be very unpleasant.” She stood up. “Gentlemen, I’m going to lunch with my personal advisors, and in exactly one hour, I will be in the Situation Room. I want to know exactly what went wrong and what my options are.” She studied the men standing in front of her. “I want the target area quarantined. Keep the Chinese guessing as long as possible. And find out what happened to General Bender.” She walked from the room.

Okinawa, Japan

It was 3
A.M.
when Ryan returned to the command post with the results of the urinalysis and blood tests. Much to his surprise, the colonels were not ricocheting off the walls and a cool calm ruled the main floor. He was directed to
Intelligence, where Martini was closeted with the Ops Group commander, the Forty-fourth Squadron commander, and Pete Townly. Master Sergeant Ralph Contreraz was also there, updating them on the inspection of the F-15 that had flown the mission.

“So far,” Contreraz said, “she’s as clean as a whistle. The weapons computer and release circuits test good. Not even a hiccup. The inertial nav system is right on. All told, one fine jet, good to go.”

“Keep digging,” Martini said, sounding very tired. He turned to Ryan. “How are the crews?”

“Absolutely clean,” Ryan answered. He was struck by the dark circles around Martini’s eyes. “Both are healthy as a horse.”

“Any mental problems?” the Ops Group commander asked.

“Only the stress you’d expect,” Ryan answered.

“We’re going to give them a polygraph test about what happened on the mission,” Martini said. “Since you head the Personnel Reliability Program, I want you and a legal beagle to be there.”

“Sir,” Ryan said, “those men are under a lot of stress and very upset about what happened. They need time to calm down and the results of any test this soon would be highly suspect. Based on my observations, I trust them implicitly.”

Martini looked at his hands. He couldn’t tell them that a certain general in the Pentagon had suffered a massive lapse of good judgment and had ordered the test. “We’ve got to validate what went wrong,” he said.
How weak does that sound?
he thought.

“Sir,” Ryan said, “I must protest in the strongest possible terms. I will not participate in a witch hunt.”

“Put it in writing,” Martini snapped. Then, more calmly, “Your protest will be included in the report. But you will be there during the polygraph. Dismissed.” He spun around in his chair. Ryan threw a salute at his back and quick-stepped out of the room.

You miserable son of a bitch
, Ryan thought.
You’ll do anything to save your career. And that includes crucifying two innocent men
. Outside, he paused and breathed deeply,
trying to fit everything together.
What’s going on here?
he wondered. The more he thought about it, the more he worried about Martini. The man is coming apart, he decided. But did he want to cross the line from idle speculation to action? Maybe he would talk to his boss in the Med Center. He discarded that option almost immediately. The colonel was a good doctor but not much else. Then he considered the local IG, the inspector general, who handled complaints of wrongdoing. But the IG representative was the wing vice commander, one of Martini’s ardent admirers. Ryan wondered if he was the only person on base who saw the general for what he really was.

A Security Police guard challenged him, and Ryan flashed his restricted area badge. “Is Captain Daguerre on duty?” he asked. The guard said that he was mobile in a patrol car. “Can he meet me?” Ryan asked. “I need to speak to him.”

Captain Terrence Daguerre sat behind the wheel of his patrol car and listened as Ryan told him about the selective release mission and the bomb that failed to explode. “I suppose there’s a reason why you’re telling me all this,” Daguerre said.

Ryan carefully selected his words, making sure they would push the right buttons with the rigid captain. “General Martini is breaking down under stress. As a doctor, I’m worried about his stability.”

“How worried?” Daguerre asked.

“Worried enough,” Ryan answered, “that he may not faithfully execute orders coming down from higher headquarters.”

“Then he should be relieved of his command,” Daguerre said.

“I don’t even know who to tell about it,” Ryan replied. “And what if I’m wrong?”

“Are you?” Daguerre asked.

“No, I’m not,” Ryan replied, conviction in every word.

“If you can produce any hard evidence as to his instability,” Daguerre said, “then you’re talking to the right people. Otherwise, you’re blowing smoke up my ass, and that pisses me off.”

Ryan felt an urgent need to relieve himself. He forced a calm into his voice he didn’t feel. “That’s exactly why I’m talking to you. You’ve told me what I need to know.”

Daguerre was a goose-stepping, anal-retentive authoritarian. He was also a good cop. “Look, Doc, we all got our doubts about the high rollers. That’s normal. But normally, you keep them to yourself because it’s a personal thing. Don’t go messin’ with the chain of command just because you hate Martini’s guts.”

“The evidence is there,” Ryan promised.

Shahe Air Base, China

Tech Sergeant Otis Jenkins was stretched out half asleep in the copilot’s seat on board the C-137 when the early-morning dark started to give way to the rising sun. The clock on the instrument panel was set to Greenwich mean time and read 21:45. He added eight hours.
Five forty-five
, he thought. He switched on the high-frequency radio, hoping he might be able to raise a friendly station and relay their status to the Air Force. Loud static filled his headset. “Damn,” he muttered. They were still being jammed. He looked out the window. The night was yielding to the rising sun, and the vague shadows surrounding the Boeing formed into recognizable shapes. He sat upright in the seat. “Major Courtland!” he called. “You better come here.”

Bill Courtland came forward, rubbing his eyes, still heavy with sleep. His tie was off and his shirt collar was open. “Oh, shitsky,” he said. “Get the general. Where in the hell did they come from?” Parked on the ramp at his ten and two o’clock positions were two armored cars with their heavy machine guns pointed at the plane. Standing behind each gun was a helmeted gunner and loader.

“What’s happening?” Bender asked as he came onto the flight deck. Without a word, Courtland stood aside and let him look out the thick glass windscreens. “This is going to get interesting,” Bender said. “It might be a good idea if we all had a good breakfast and got cleaned
up. Put on your class A blues.” He moved back and headed for the galley, wishing he had packed a uniform.

Bender was still in the main stateroom’s bathroom adjusting his tie when the sharp rap at the forward door echoed through the plane. He pulled on his suit coat and checked the full-length mirror one last time. He was as diplomatic looking as he could get. He walked briskly to the door, where the crew were standing. Without thinking, he checked them out. “Looking good,” he said. He motioned to the flight engineer. “Jenkins, you open the door.”

“Because I’m big and ugly?” the sergeant asked.

“Because you’re black,” Bender told him. “We’re going to play every advantage we got.” He told the men what he wanted done while the knocking grew louder.

Jenkins rotated the locking bar and opened the door. Four very surprised soldiers were standing at the head of the stairs. They saw Jenkins’s big face and lowered their submachine guns. Jenkins pushed past and stepped outside into the frigid wind. He jammed his flight cap on his head and marched down the steps. At the bottom, he stepped to one side and came to attention. “Clear the stairs!” he shouted. The soldiers talked in confusion until an officer came forward and barked commands in Chinese. The soldiers split apart, two on each side of the door, came to attention, and ported their arms. “Major William L. Courtland,” Jenkins bellowed, “United States Air Force.”

On cue, Courtland stepped onto the stairs. “Who is the officer in charge?” he said in a loud voice. “I need to speak to your commanding officer about this unwarranted delay.”

The officer on the ground spoke to a second lieutenant who ran to the two waiting cars parked behind the Boeing. One of the cars came forward and stopped at the base of the stairs. A door opened, and a heavyset man wearing the uniform of a PLA air force general got out. He stood for a moment, looking up the stairs as the car pulled away. Then he slowly climbed the steps, never taking his eyes off the open hatch. He walked inside, and the four soldiers standing at attention rushed in after him.

The second car drove up and stopped in front of Jenkins.
He froze at the sight of the beautiful apparition that emerged from the backseat. It was the woman from Lu Zoulin’s office. She watched as two soldiers pointed their submachine guns at Jenkins while a burly sergeant clubbed him to the ground with the butt of his automatic pistol.

“He needs a doctor,” Master Sergeant Larry Burke said.

Bender leaned over the bunk where Otis Jenkins was lying. He was still unconscious, but the vicious scalp wound had stopped bleeding. “I screwed up,” Bender said. He stood up. At least the other three men were OK, and like him, they had only been roughed up when the soldiers stormed the C-137. Luckily, Burke had been able to grab a first aid kit off the airplane before they were dragged to the cell where the soldiers had thrown them. It was a long, L-shaped room, filthy from previous occupants and bitterly cold. Bender told them to cover Jenkins with dirty straw pallets from the other bunks. “Keep him as warm as possible,” he told Burke.