Tiger's Claw: A Novel pm-18 Page 11

  “Yes, sir,” Air Force Captain Alicia Spencer, the wing intelligence officer from Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, responded. She went to the head of the conference table. “Ladies and gentlemen, about ten minutes ago we received an advisory notice from Pacific Air Forces about a situation in the South China Sea. Although the wing has not been issued a warning order, Colonel Cuthbert suggested we respond as if one will be issued soon. We will receive regular updates from PACAF, but we won’t be tied into the regular Pacific Command battle network until we are issued a warning order.

  “Here is what we know so far: less than an hour ago a U.S. Navy P-8 Poseidon intelligence aircraft went down over the South China Sea. The reason is unknown. Despite requests to remain clear, China’s People’s Liberation Army Navy has sent helicopters into the crash area, along with their Zhenyuan aircraft carrier battle group. One U.S. carrier strike group is en route but it won’t be on station for a couple days; there is a second, but it wouldn’t be in the area for a week and a half at least. One Coast Guard cutter is nearby and will start the search-and-rescue operation shortly. A Global Hawk and a submarine are en route as well.” Spencer nodded to Cuthbert and took her seat.

  “That’s about it, guys,” Cuthbert said. “PACAF says that the White House is afraid that sending bombers would escalate tensions, so we’re not going anywhere yet, but I want to be ready. So I requested that we take one BUFF, one Bone, and one Beak, load them with weapons and fuel for what we think we might use if we were alerted, and have them stand by. That’ll leave one B-52 and one B-1 unloaded and prepped. I recommended JASSMs all around, with the Bone and the BUFF carrying some Mk-62s.” The JASSM, or Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missile, was a cruise missile designed to attack heavily defended targets from as far as two hundred miles, well outside most enemy defenses; the Mk-62 was a five-hundred-pound general-purpose bomb fitted with a Quickstrike fuze, turning it into a shallow-water antiship mine. “Not sure if we’ll get permission, but that was my recommendation. Thoughts?”

  “The South China Sea might be too deep for Mk-62s,” said Lieutenant Colonel Bridget “Xena” Dutchman, commander of the Twentieth Expeditionary Bomb Squadron from Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, leading the flight of two B-52H Stratofortress bombers at Andersen. “Depends on where the targets are.”

  “If we can’t use Mk-62s, what else do you suggest, Xena?”

  “Harpoons,” Dutchman said. The AGM-84 Harpoon was a subsonic air-launched antiship missile with a five-hundred-pound high-explosive penetrating warhead; fired in the direction of enemy ships from as far as sixty miles, it would skim the surface of the ocean, detect a target with its on-board radar, and attack. The Harpoon was much older than the JASSM and had about half the high-explosive punch, but it was still a fearsome weapon against most ships. The B-52 could carry as many as twelve on underwing pylons.

  “I’ll add that to the order of battle,” Cuthbert said. “Anything else?”

  “The more JASSMs, the better,” said Lieutenant Colonel Juan “Picante” Oroz. Oroz commanded the B-1B Lancer bombers of the Ninth Expeditionary Bomb Squadron from Dyess Air Force Base in Abilene, Texas. “Wish we had the extended-range ones though.”

  “Maybe we’ll get them if this thing escalates,” Cuthbert said. He turned to the third lieutenant colonel. “Wishbone? Anything?”

  “The loadout sounds good to me, sir,” said Lieutenant Colonel Franklin “Wishbone” McBride, commander of the 393rd Expeditionary Bomb Squadron, Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana. Since the American Holocaust and the destruction of many of the American bomber bases in the northern half of the country, all the surviving B-52 Stratofortress and B-2 Spirit bombers had been headquartered at Barksdale Air Force Base but frequently dispersed to other air bases, including Andersen and Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean; Wishbone commanded the two B-2A Spirit stealth bombers currently based at Andersen. “When will we find out if we’re cleared to load?”

  “No idea,” Cutlass said, “but unless I miss my guess, it’ll be days and days of waiting and not knowing anything, followed by a mad hurried dash to get loaded planes in the air. That’s why I’d like to load up at least one bomber from each squadron.”

  “Can’t we call it a munition-loading exercise or something and just do it, sir?” Oroz asked.

  “Things are tense enough already at PACAF—I don’t want to be playing games with live ordnance,” Cutlass said. “We’ll play this by the book. I submitted a plan and I’ve got my crews on the starting blocks—let’s see if or when the brass wants to shoot the starter’s pistol.”

  Cutlass again looked at the others around the conference table. Faces were somber—the gravity of the situation was starting to sink in. “Okay, guys and gals, this might be the real thing, so I want you to make sure your crews are situated properly, rested, and completely up to speed,” he said. “Like I said, if this happens, I’m betting it’s going to be a mad scramble to get planes in the air, and I don’t want any avoidable mistakes. When the call comes, let’s lean into it and hustle, but let’s do it smoothly and professionally. Get ready to do some flying.”

  FOUR

  NORTHERN NEVADA INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT, BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA

  LATER THAT DAY

  Late that afternoon, Patrick drove out to his airplane hangar and found Brad inside on a stepladder, wiping bugs off the leading edge of his father’s turbine-powered Cessna P210 Centurion’s wings. “Hi there, Brad,” he called out.

  “Hey, Dad,” Brad said over his shoulder. He was using a nylon scrubbing pad to remove bugs from a bright metal panel on the leading edge of the wings. This panel had thousands of tiny laser-drilled holes, through which deicing fluid was pumped to keep the wings free of ice in winter—the holes were easily clogged and had to be meticulously cleaned after every flight. “I think I flew through the planet’s largest swarm of insects.”

  “Good Angel Flight West flight?”

  “Everything went great.” Angel Flight West was an organization that matched up needy medical patients with volunteer pilots to fly them for medical treatment; both Brad and Patrick were command pilots.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Sacramento Executive,” Brad said. “It was a three-leg relay: one pilot flew a mom and her son from Wyoming to Salt Lake City; another flew them to here; and I flew them to Sac Exec. The son was a burn victim.”

  “No mission assistant?” A mission assistant sometimes came along to help the pilot with the passengers so the pilot could concentrate on flying.

  “Not this time. I’ve flown this family a few times before, so they know the routine.”

  “Good. Need help?”

  “No. Just about done.” Patrick waited until Brad finished cleaning the wings; he noted that the windshield, propeller, and stabilizer deicers were already clean. When he was done, Brad put away the stepladder and bagged up the cleaning supplies. “Finis.”

  “Good. I need to talk with you.”

  “Sure, Dad.” They went over to the desk in the rear corner of the hangar. Brad got a couple bottles of water out of a little refrigerator and handed one to his father. “What’s up?”

  “I’m really happy with the work you’re doing around the airport,” Patrick began. “The pilots and techs say the same thing. You’re putting in a lot of hours, and you volunteer for lots of overtime. And I’m also happy you’re doing all these Angel Flight West missions. I’m sure the patients really appreciate the time you’re putting in.” He pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket. “But frankly, son, I think you’re flying way too much. We can’t afford the fuel bill. I hate to say it, son, but it’s breaking the bank. The credit card bill is through the roof.”

  “But it’s a charity,” Brad said. “Aren’t the expenses tax-deductible?”

  “They are to a certain extent, son, but we still have to pay the bill, and we just don’t have the cash,” Patrick said.

  “But you run Sky Masters. You’re the chief oper
ations officer and a vice president, right?”

  “I guess I never explained the situation to you, Brad,” Patrick said. “My salary is just enough to pay household expenses every month—that’s all. There’s no money at the end of the month.”

  “There’s not? Why?”

  “Because as CEO part of my job is to make sure the company has money, and every dime past what we need every month is money the company can’t use,” Patrick explained. “My job is to make sure the company makes money, not me.”

  “That doesn’t sound fair,” Brad said. “The company has shareholders, right? They make money, don’t they?”

  “If the company makes money, the shareholders earn dividends and profits when the price of their shares goes up,” Patrick said. “We are shareholders of the company, you and I. If the company makes enough of a profit, I get a bonus at the end of the year, but most of that is reinvested in the company by purchasing stock or stock options.”

  “I thought all COOs were rich,” Brad said.

  “We’re not broke, Brad,” Patrick said. “But we don’t have a lot of spare cash, either. I feel it’s important to invest in the company rather than take a big salary. The company directors and shareholders like that, so they’re more likely to keep me around.”

  “ ‘Keep you around’?” Brad repeated, the astonishment evident in his voice. “Dad, you’re Patrick McLanahan. You’re a retired three-star Air Force general. You’ve commanded bombing missions all over the world and even in space. They’re lucky to have you. Why would they even consider not having you as part of the company?”

  “Because business is business, Brad,” Patrick said. “I get what you’re saying about me, son—and thank you for saying it—and I think the company president and chairman of the board of directors would agree with you, but at the end of the day it really doesn’t matter who I am if I’m not doing everything I can to help the company make a profit. If I wasn’t doing the job and doing everything possible to make them money, they would politely but firmly show me the door. They might even be nice enough to hold it open for me so it didn’t bang my ass as I depart.”

  Brad just shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s all about making money? You do all this stuff, come up with all these ideas, put in all these long hours, and end the month with zero in the bank . . . just to make other people rich? It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, son,” Patrick said with a smile. Brad wasn’t smiling—in fact, he appeared very disillusioned, almost angry. Patrick touched his son on the shoulder to get his attention. “But let’s get a few things clear first. The company’s objective is to make a profit. My job is to see to it that I do everything possible to achieve the company’s objective. But my objective is not to make money for Sky Masters. My objective is to raise a happy and well-adjusted son and to produce high-tech systems to help defend the United States of America. The company has the resources to help me meet my objective—if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.

  “The deal is simple, Brad: I use what skills I have to help the company meet its objective—earn a profit—and the company contributes its resources to help me meet my objective—build stuff to help defend the nation,” Patrick went on. “There’s a simple agreement between the company and me: as long as we’re meeting our mutual objectives, we stay together. If either of us feels our objectives aren’t being met, we’re done, and it’s over. We have no written contract. We signed this agreement with nothing more than a handshake. The instant either one of us feels we’re not meeting our objectives, the deal is over, and we part ways.”

  “You mean . . . you could get fired tomorrow?” Brad asked incredulously. “They could ask you to leave, anytime, and we’d have to go?”

  “Exactly,” Patrick said. Brad shook his head in utter disbelief. “You see why doing everything possible to keep money in the company is so important?” Patrick asked. “It has nothing to do with fairness. It has nothing to do with what you or I feel I deserve or might be entitled to. It’s not personal. It’s the world of capitalism. I think they’d still like and respect me . . . but yes, they’d fire me in a heartbeat if I didn’t make them money. But the reverse is true too: if they didn’t allow me to build things that I feel helps to defend the United States, I’d go somewhere else that would, and they couldn’t stop me.”

  “It still seems like you’re getting the raw end of the deal, Dad, but I think I see what you’re saying,” Brad said. He took the credit card bill from his father. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I was spending on Jet-A,” he said. “I’ll cut back on the flying.” He looked at his father. “If we have no money at the end of the month, how do you pay the credit card bill?”

  “I use my Air Force retirement, and if necessary I sell some company stock,” Patrick said.

  Brad looked embarrassed. “I . . . I’m sorry, Dad, but I didn’t realize you were doing that,” he said. “I’ll kick in for more of the fuel bill, and I’ll cut back on the missions.”

  “A little bit less would be good,” Patrick said. “I want you to stay current and proficient, but if you can do that with, say, one or two missions a month rather than three or four, that would help.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “I’ll still help with the fuel bill, don’t worry, but a little smaller grand total on the credit card bill would be nice.” Patrick leaned forward in his chair. “This is a good time to talk about your plans for the future,” he said. “I gave you some time after you got back from the Academy to think about it. I’m happy you’ve stayed busy and productive and haven’t been sitting around idle, but what do you have in mind for what’s next?”

  Brad thought for a long moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad,” he said. “I like working on the flight line, and I need to save up some cash for college, so I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m just getting into the swing of working the flight line, and I enjoy doing the Angel Flight West missions. That was keeping me plenty busy.”

  “I have been thinking about it, and I have some ideas,” Patrick said. “I do have a little money in a college fund. Frankly, when you got the nomination to the Academy from President Phoenix, I stopped contributing to your college fund, so there’s not as much as I would have wanted in there, but there’s enough for four years of in-state tuition at the University of Nevada–Reno and living in the dorms—no cars, apartments, restaurants, or spring breaks in the Bahamas.”

  “Thank you, Dad,” Brad said, a bright smile on his face. “That’s awesome. I was afraid I’d have to wait years to go to college.” His smile dimmed. “But I don’t know what I want to study, and classes start up in just a few weeks. I haven’t even been accepted yet.”

  “You could go to the community college here in town and knock out some first-year prerequisite courses while you apply to UNR,” Patrick suggested. “Or, I had another thought.”

  “Not college?”

  “I think you would need advanced schooling eventually, but there’s nothing that says you need to get it right out of high school,” Patrick said. “Here’s my idea: Colonel Tom Hoffman runs a company called Warbirds Forever at Stead Airport north of Reno. It’s an aircraft repair shop, and he imports and restores all sorts of planes, but he also runs a flight school where he trains his clients in how to fly the exotic planes they buy. He trains pilots in all sorts of planes: foreign jets, restored warbirds, bizjets, commercial planes, experimentals, everything. He’s setting up a training program for us to train pilots to fly the XB-1 Excalibur and any of the other planes we might be refurbishing, like the FB-111 Aardvarks. It’s an accredited flight school, and you can use your college funds there. You can get a commercial pilot’s certificate, a flight instructor license, and get type ratings in some of the hottest jets in the world. Every imaginable plane flies in and out of that place. If you wanted, you could even get an Airframe and Powerplant mechanic and Inspector’s Authorization license there.”
/>
  “Go to flight school?” Brad exclaimed. “Sounds great! I could keep on flying!”

  “And with added ratings and experience in jets, you might be able to get a flying job, maybe even right there with Warbirds Forever,” Patrick went on. “If you saved up your money, went to college, got enough flying hours, and got a business or engineering degree along with an airline transport pilot certificate, maybe you’d be hired by Sky Masters.”

  “ ‘Maybe’ get hired?” Brad asked. “If you’re the COO, couldn’t you just get me in?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Patrick said. “You have to compete like all the other applicants—and in this economic climate, I get three hundred applicants for every position I advertise.”

  “Three hundred?” Brad exclaimed.

  “I’m not exaggerating one bit,” Patrick said. “I broke my own rules and interceded with Personnel and Dr. Kaddiri, the company president, just to get you a job parking airplanes and sweeping floors.” Dr. Helen Kaddiri was the longtime president of Sky Masters. “But along with having lots of flying experience in different machines, perhaps that mechanic’s license and a degree in business or engineering, you’d have a special advantage: everyone around here knowing you and knowing your work. That’s a big plus: it’s usually not just what you know or who you know, but who knows you.”

  Brad thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “It sounds great, Dad,” he said. “I still want to look into college, maybe go visit UNR, but Warbirds Forever sounds very cool.”

  “I’ve already spoken with Colonel Hoffman, and he can get you started at any time,” Patrick said. “We’ll check out UNR and any other college you might be interested in. Give me your decision as soon as possible.” He paused, then said, “There are a few . . . issues.”