Power Curve (48 page)

• Politics is like showbiz: Give ’em what they want and they’ll come out every time.
  
• The White House is like a tight pair of pants: Not enough ballroom.
  
• Keep ’em laughing. But if you’re smart, you’ll keep ’em looking in the wrong direction.
  
• When someone screws up in politics, someone loses their balls or as the case may be, their titties, but not necessarily the someone who screwed up.
  
• Money is the mother’s milk of politics (attributed to Jesse Unruh).
  
• Everyone has their own wagon of manure they like to spread around. Don’t stand behind the wagon and never upset it. You may have to clean it up.
  
• Most elected politicians are professionals. It’s the amateurs who scare me. They want to do the right thing.
  
• I’d rather be a hooker than own a politician. A hooker gets to spit it out afterward.
  
• Quid pro quos bite you in the ass every time.
  
• In politics, you can kill someone, but you can’t kill ’em dead.
  
• Loyalty is the currency that you exchange for power.
  
• Most politicians are like overripe melons: Thump ’em a little and they crack wide open.
  
• Never trust a politician who can’t be bought. They don’t know what they’re worth.
  
• Besides losing an election, the worst thing that can happen is to be found in bed with a dead girl or a live boy.
  
• The best kind of congressman is so crooked that if he ate a nail, he’d shit a screw.
  
• Never play hardball unless you got another time at bat.
  
• Political capital is like fuel in the gas tank. The more you use, the sooner you stop.
  
• Never pass up a men’s room to take a precautionary piss. You never know when you’ll get another chance.
  
• Know when to get out of Dodge.
  
• Always know how to get out of Dodge.
  
• Congressmen are like dogs: Some learn quicker than others.
  
• It’s best to start in politics when you’re young, dumb, and full of cum because two out of three ain’t bad.
  
• The whole truth speaks for itself. Stick to the halftruths where you can do the talking.
  
• When you’re losing, leak.
  
• When taking a poll, always get the best results money can buy.
  
• And now abideth in power with information, money, and access. But of these three, the greatest is access to the president.
  

ACC—
Air Combat Command. The operational arm of the U.S. Air Force that trains, equips, and maintains combat-ready aircraft within the continental United States.

AMRAAM—
the advanced, medium-range air-to-air missile. It has a range of approximately 30 miles and a launch-and-leave capability. Very cosmic and bad news for bandits.

Angels—
altitude expressed in thousands of feet. “Angels ten” means 10,000 feet.

AOA—
angle of attack. The angle between the wing’s chord line and the relative wind.

AWACS—
airborne warning and command system. Provides surveillance, command, control, and communications to commanders. Based on the E-3 Sentry aircraft, a much-modified Boeing 707 airframe with a 30-foot diameter radar dome on top.

Bandit—
an aircraft identified as being hostile.

BDU—
battle dress uniform. The latest name given to the uniform worn in battle.

Bogie—
an unidentified aircraft.

BOQ—
bachelor officer’s quarters.

CAS—
control augmentation system. Senses pitch, roll, and yaw rates; vertical and lateral acceleration; angle of attack; and
g
forces; and provides the proper input into the control surfaces of an aircraft when a pilot commands a maneuver.

CAP—
combat air patrol.

CINC—
commander in chief.

CINC PAC—
the admiral in command of Pacific Unified Defense Command.

CNO—
chief of naval operations. The admiral on the Joint Chiefs of Staff in command of naval operations.

DCI—
director of Central Intelligence. An individual appointed by the president and approved by the Senate who is in charge of all U.S. intelligence agencies and functions.

DEFCON—
Defense Condition. A series of alert stages preparing for war. DEFCON ONE being the highest just prior to the outbreak of hostilities.

DIA—
Defense Intelligence Agency. The Department of Defense’s intelligence branch.

EMIS limit—
emission limit. A circuit that shuts down electronic emissions coming from an aircraft that might be detected by an enemy.

EOR check—
end of runway check. A final inspection of a fighter aircraft performed just prior to takeoff. Sometimes called the
last chance
or
quick check
.

Flanker—
NATO code name for the Su-27, a Soviet clone of the F-15. The Su-33 is a carrier-borne version of the Flanker.

Fox one—
a code meaning a radar-guided air-to-air missile has been fired.

Fox two—
a code meaning an infrared-guided air-to-air missile has been fired.

Fox three—
a code meaning a fighter’s machine gun or cannon has been fired.

Fulcrum—
NATO code name for the MiG-29. Looks like an F-15 but smaller, roughly the size of an F-16.

GCI—
ground-controlled intercept. A ground-based radar providing control to fighter aircraft.

HUD—
head-up display. A device that projects vital flight information in front of the pilot so he or she does not have to look inside the cockpit to check the instruments.

IG—
inspector general. A military organization that investigates complaints and conducts inspections.

IP—
instructor pilot.

J-8—
a Chinese twin-engine variant of the MiG-21 with a top speed of approximately 1.4 Mach and a combat range of 500 miles.

JCS—
joint chiefs of staff.

Jink—
the constant and random changes in heading and altitude by a fighter aircraft to avoid flying straight and level. The goal is to defeat enemy tracking and is vital to survival in an hostile environment.

KS-1—
a PRC surface-to-air missile with a range of approximately 25 miles.

Little creek—
the code name given to the SR-71 area on Kadena Air Base, Okinawa.

MCC—
mission crew commander. The officer in charge of the working troops in the back of the AWACS. The MCC is responsible for mission accomplishment and must never lose situational awareness.

MEACON—
a form of electronic countermeasures where one black box spoofs another by sending out misleading electronic signals. All very cosmic.

MIG-29—
see
fulcrum

MOPP—
mission operative protection posture. The protective suit and equipment worn to counter chemical warfare. It is very hot and cumbersome to wear.

MRE—
meal ready to eat. The replacement for the venerable C-ration. Some are reported to be quite good.

MUNS—
munitions storage squadron or area.

NCOIC—
noncommissioned officer in charge. The sergeant who runs things.

NEO—
nonessential personnel evacuation operation. The name of the operation to evacuate families and nonessential personnel from bases in the forward area prior to the outbreak of fighting.

NIO—
national intelligence officer for warning. The bureaucrat in the CIA who is responsible for forecasting impending crisis or sneak attacks on the United States.

NMCC—
National Military Command Center. The Pentagon’s “War Room.”

NRO—
National Reconnaissance Office. The supersecret agency responsible for spy satellites.

NSC—
National Security Council. Consists of the president and his/her top foreign-policy advisors.

OMB—
Office of Management and the Budget. The agency in the office of the White House that creates the national budget for submission to Congress.

OSI—
Office of Special Investigations. The U.S. Air Force’s plainclothes criminal and counterintelligence investigators.

PACAF—
Pacific Air Forces. The fighting arm of the U.S. Air Force that conducts air operations in the Pacific.

PAL—
Permissive Action Link. The security system that prevents nuclear weapons from being armed by unauthorized personnel like terrorists.

PDB—
President’s Daily Brief. The slick product of a committee in the CIA that summarizes the best intelligence the agency has to offer the president. It has a very limited distribution.

PLA—
People’s Liberation Army. The collective name given to all the armed services of the People’s Republic of China.

Popeye—
the AGM-142 “Have Nap” medium-range, standoff missile acquired from Israel. The 3,000-pound, precision-guided missile has a 750-pound warhead and a 50-mile range.

PRC—
People’s Republic of China.

PRP—
personnel reliability program. The program that monitors the mental stability of personnel working around nuclear weapons.

ROE—
rules of engagement. Normally, a collection of very good rules designed to keep fighter jocks alive in combat. They get complicated when politicians get involved.

SAM—
any surface-to-air missile.

SIB—
Safety Investigation Board. A U.S. Air Force team that investigates aircraft accidents and issues a mishap report. Their goal is to find out what happened and prevent it from happening again. A SIB does not administer punishment.

Silk Worm—
a PRC antiship missile. Notoriously inaccurate and short ranged. The version depicted in this book does not exist—yet.

Sidewinder—
the name for the air-to-air, infrared-guided AIM-9 missile. Latest versions are very cosmic.

SU-27—
see
flanker
.

Tallyho—
a code meaning “target visually sighted.”

VTSS—
vertical tank storage system. A rack that resembles a dry-cleaning storage track that holds clothes. But this one is on steroids and holds drop tanks for fighter aircraft.

WATCHCON—
a “watch notice” issued by the DIA’s National Military Intelligence Center in the Pentagon to American forces. A III is the lowest possible level.

Wizzo—
the nickname given to weapon system officers. The second crewmember of a fighter aircraft. By nature, a very trusting soul.

WSO—
See
wizzo
.

F
ew writers work in a vacuum, and I owe a debt of gratitude to three friends who gave so unsparingly of their time and support to make this book happen. Mel Marvel, Lt. Col. USAF (Ret.), set the wheels in motion with two simple questions that begged for answers. Robert Beckel, Lt. Gen. USAF (Ret.), introduced me to the Thunderbirds, set a challenge I could not ignore, opened doors of all kinds, and made me deeply envious of those who served under his command. I only wish I had had the chance. William P. Wood guided me through the arcane world of national politics with humor and indulgence. Without his expertise, I would have lost my way countless times.

On Okinawa, Colonel James “Jammer” Jackson, his pilots at the Forty-Fourth Fighter Squadron, Chief Master Sergeant John Clancy, Twelfth Fighter Squadron Maintenance, and the men and women of the Eighteenth Wing, Kadena Air Base, retaught me an old lesson: The machines and technology may change, but people still make the difference. And Habu Hill is really there.

Two nuclear physicists, Dr. Ron Lehman and Dr. Bill Dunlop, at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, Livermore, California, opened up the exciting world of inertial confinement fusion and nuclear weapons design. I hope I came close.

To all of you, I can only say thanks.

Finally, without the patience, understanding, and boundless love of my wife, Sheila, I would have never written a single word.

After serving in the United States Air Force for twenty-one years, Richard Herman has a story to tell.

On the face of it, Herman’s novels are technothrillers and he writes about the aircraft he loves. But there is much more. His stories are really about the men and women who would fight in defense of their country—and Herman knows them well. His characters chronicle the way of leadership and the obligation for service that was formed in the distant past. Yet they are all too human, replete with frustrations and frailties, the wants and weaknesses we experience every day. They struggle and fail and triumph. And they die.

Herman writes about things his characters would never admit to openly: duty, honor, trust, and the best reward of all, homecoming. They are as true to life as your next door neighbor and, occasionally, they mirror the best in this strange tribe of people called Americans.

But, like his characters, Herman would never admit it.

5:50
P.M.
, Thursday, March 4,
The White House, Washington

Three men clustered around the TV in the President’s private office in the residence. The sound was turned low and the voice of the reporter at the scene was only a murmur. The grisly image on the screen said more than any words could describe. The president hit the remote control and turned off the sound. The silence was complete as the men continued to stare at the screen. “Do they have a casualty count yet?” the president finally asked.

Kyle Broderick, the chief of staff, picked up the phone and asked the same question. He didn’t like the answer. Broderick was a young man, hard and street savvy, who delighted in using the power that went with being the President’s chief of staff. “I want a hard number in the
next five minutes or you’re history.” He punched off the connection and turned to the President. “Sorry, sir. Everyone seems asleep at the wheel.” Almost immediately, the phone rang. Broderick picked it up and listened. He hung up without saying a word. “The initial count is over two hundred and rising fast,” he told the President.

“You’ll have to go there,” the Vice President said to the President. He was a handsome man who had his eye on the presidency in five years. But first, they had to survive the upcoming election. He looked at his watch. “Time your arrival for early in the morning while it’s still dark. Make it look like you’ve been up all night. We’ll work the networks at this end and have you lead the morning news.”

The President nodded in agreement. Again, they stared at the TV. The silence was broken by the distinctive beat of a helicopter’s rotor as the aircraft settled to earth on the South Lawn. “That must be Nelson,” the President said. A few minutes later, the door opened and a stocky man with thinning brown hair was ushered in. Nelson Durant was fifty-four, and his rumpled clothes gave no clue about who, or what, he was. He was average looking in the extreme and could disappear into a crowd with ease. His image shouted. “wimp” but his blue eyes carried a far different message. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” the President said. The Vice President moved over so Nelson Durant could sit next to the President.

“Have you seen the TV coverage on the bombing?” Broderick asked.

The answer was obvious and Nelson Durant ignored the question. Besides, Broderick wasn’t worth his time. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?” Durant asked.

“We need quick answers on this one,” the President replied. “Can you help?”

Durant ran a hand through his thinning hair. For those who knew him, it was a warning gesture that he was wasting his time and had better things to do. “If you’re referring to the Project, we’re still a month away from startup and then we’re looking at another year before coming on-line.”

The President looked disappointed. The Project was a
highly advanced intelligence-gathering computer system that one of Durant’s many companies was developing for the National Security Agency. If the Project lived up to Durant’s promises, it could find and track any foreign or terrorist threat targeting the United States.

“But I’ll have my people check into it,” Durant said. The President looked pleased. Durant’s worldwide business contacts gave him an intelligence database that rivaled the CIA’s. A discreet knock stopped him from saying more. Broderick opened the door and Stephan Serick, the national security advisor, stomped in.

“You need to see this,” Serick said, holding up a videocassette. Stephan Serick’s childhood Latvian accent was still strong, and the basset hound jowls, heavy limp, and twisted cane were famous trademarks of the man who had served under two presidents of different political parties. “Communications took it off a satellite feed.” He collapsed into a chair while Broderick fed the cassette into the TV. “A tourist filmed it. Damned videos.”

At first, the scene was a repeat of what they had seen before; the huge crater in Market Street, the mangled cars and the gaping hole that once was the façade of the San Francisco Shopping Emporium. Serick shuddered. “They even got BART.” BART was the Bay Area Rapid Transit subway that ran under Market Street. Then the scene on the TV changed as the tourist ran through the debris following a fireman. The camera jolted to a stop and focused on a man emerging from a cloud of dust and debris, his clothes smoking. He was carrying an unconscious girl in his arms.

“That’s Meredith,” Serick muttered. They watched as Meredith handed the woman to the fireman, his face racked with anguish.

“Just like Oklahoma City,” Durant said in a low voice. On the screen, Meredith collapsed to his knees, panting hard. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders.

A voice from off screen said, “My God, the man’s a real hero.”

Meredith looked up, his lean, handsome face ravaged. He pointed to four firemen wearing respirators descending into the smoke billowing from the underground BART
station. “There’s your real heroes.” He struggled to his feet. “I had to do something…. I was there.” The tape ended.

“Son of a bitch!” Broderick roared. Then more calmly, “Would you care to guess when this will hit the air?”

“About the time the President lands in San Francisco,” the Vice President replied. Meredith was going to preempt the President’s arrival on the morning news.

Broderick looked at Durant. “Can you stop it?”

“I don’t see how,” Durant replied.

“Well,” Broderick said, “Meredith is your boy.”

Durant’s face turned to granite. Kyle Broderick, arguably the second most powerful man in the United States government, had overstepped his bounds. Durant’s next words were spoken quietly. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” Durant was seething at the suggestion he would have anything to do with Meredith. He stood up to leave.

“Ah, Kyle,” the President said, frowning at his chief of staff, “why don’t you check with the communications section for foreign reaction?” Broderick nodded and hurriedly left the room. Durant sat back down. “Sometimes I think that boy is suicidal,” the President said soothingly. “But seriously, we are concerned about Meredith and there have been rumors….” He deliberately let his words trail off.

Durant looked at the Vice President and Serick. “I need to speak to the President in private.”

The two men stood and Serick led the way out, his limp more pronounced. The President’s personal assistant took the opportunity to stick her head through the open door. “Mr. President, the British Ambassador and Secretary of State are waiting in the Oval Office.” She looked at her watch, a sign they were far behind schedule.

“Ask the ambassador if she’d like another cup of tea,” the President said. He waved a hand and his personal assistant closed the door. “What’s bothering you, Nelson? If it’s Kyle, he’s gone.”

Durant shook his head. Kyle Broderick had only given words to what the President was thinking. Chasing the chief of staff out of the room had been enough to set
things right. He looked at his hands. “I’m not in contact with Meredith. We have no common interests.” The President was stunned. It was a tacit admission that Jonathan Meredith was beyond Durant’s influence. “And Meredith is running for President,” Durant added.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” the President replied.

“Jim, Meredith fancies himself an American Caesar, and he’s about to cross the Rubicon.” Durant’s analogy to Caesar taking the fateful step and ordering his army to cross the Rubicon in his quest to become Rome’s emperor hit home. Nelson Durant stared at his President. “All of Rome couldn’t stop Caesar. Can you?”

1:00
A.M.
, Friday, March 5,
San Francisco

“It was Oklahoma City all over again,” Marcy said. She was sitting beside Sutherland in the hospital’s waiting room, which had been turned into a makeshift emergency ward. The room was filled with walking wounded from the explosion. “The doctor said you’ve got a bad concussion,” she told him. “They want to hold you awhile for observation.”

Sutherland reached for her hand, needing human contact. She responded, her hands clasping his. “The other people on the roof?” he asked.

She shook her head, and he could feel her tremble. “We were the only ones. Hank, you saved me. I was going over the side, you grabbed me…” She lost her voice.

“The waitress?”

“She’s going to be okay.” Then, stronger, “Thanks to you. I could’ve never gotten her off the roof or gone down that stairwell by myself. If you hadn’t been there…”

The enormity of it all came crashing down on him. “Oh, shit,” he moaned as a new emotion swept over him, driving him into deep despair. “The hostess, she jumped me to the head of the line, if she had sat us at any other table…” That was all he could say as guilt claimed him, demanding a penance for being alive.

“It was just one of those things,” Marcy said, understanding what he was going through. “It was just coincidence.”

Sutherland lay his head back.
Just coincidence
, he thought.
We’re alive and they’re all dead because of coincidence
. He tried not to think about it and focused on the TV in the corner.

“The FBI is now certain,” the commentator said, “that this was a calculated act of terrorism gone wrong. The bomb exploded prematurely while being moved down Market Street. So far, the death toll has reached four hundred twenty-two and is expected to go higher. We’re awaiting the arrival of the President, who is due to land at any moment.”

“Screw the President,” Marcy grumbled.

As if on cue, the commentator held his hand to his ear to be sure he heard right. “The video coverage we are about to show was taken by a tourist moments after the explosion.” The screen flickered and the back of a fireman appeared as he ran toward the collapsing building. The camera came to stop and Meredith appeared running out of the building with an unconscious girl in his arms. Sutherland pulled himself into a half-sitting position. The movement made his head hurt. “That’s the waitress,” he said. “Holy shit, it’s Meredith!”

Marcy waved a hand at him, commanding him to be quiet as the scene played out. Meredith’s face filled the screen as he uttered, “I had to do something…. I was there.” The scene cut back to live coverage. Meredith was being interviewed by Liz Gordon, CNC-TV’s premier reporter. In the background, floodlights lit the façade of the Shopping Emporium. Sutherland had to concentrate as his mind reeled.

Meredith was forty-six, handsome, six feet tall, with dark hair that was lightly streaked with gray. His lean body was taut and conditioned, the result of countless hours of exercise. But it was his voice, full of warmth and honesty, that captured the moment and came through the glass. “We could have prevented this,” Meredith said. His face filled the screen. “We need to go after these cowards and stop them dead in their tracks. We’ve been too
concerned with
their
constitutional rights. Where are the rights of the victims? We need to send a message to our leaders, our judges, that this must stop. Give the FBI, our police, the power they need to root out this evil before they kill again.”

“He’s right,” Marcy whispered. Then, louder, “So right.” Sutherland turned away from the screen and studied Marcy, taking the measure of her reaction. She stood up. “My editor wants a follow-up. I’ve got to go.”

Sutherland sat up but almost passed out. “Marcy, take some time to get over this.”

She stood and touched his hand. “Do we ever have enough time?” She bent over and kissed his cheek. “See you around.”

He watched her walk away. “See you around,” he repeated as the guilt came crashing back.

THE WARBIRDS

The crew chief marshaling the F-4 into its parking spot on the ramp at Luke AFB crossed his wrists above his head, signaling for Waters to stop, then made a slashing motion across his throat, the sign to cut engines.

Waters’ hands went over the switches, shutting the big fighter down. He unstrapped and threw his helmet and then the small canvas bag carrying his flight publications
to the crew chief, who motioned toward the edge of the ramp, pointing out the waiting staff car. Waters scrambled down the boarding ladder and quickly walked around the Phantom during a post-flight inspection, before heading for the car. The wing commander, Boots McClure, crawled out from behind the wheel and stood by the car, a slight smile on his face.

“Congratulations, Muddy. You’ve got yourself a wing—the 45th at Stonewood. The word came down about thirty minutes ago.” McClure grabbed Waters’ right hand and pumped it.

Waters just stood there, unable to speak.

A command…

A wing…

The fulfillment of his dream. The years of hard work, loneliness and frustration suddenly evaporated…A wide smile came across his face. A warmth that he had only experienced at the birth of his daughter captured him. It was a high few men ever realized.

“It’s going to be different from anything you imagined,” McClure said softly, doubting that Waters could catch his meaning. “Why don’t you tell your bride and get her away from the O’ Club pool.” McClure laughed and pushed Waters towards the car. “She’s driving some of my young jocks bonkers…”