make my life miserable."
"Fortunately, it's all tied together, Elliott," Balboa said. "I
get to shit-can you and your friends all at once-and you
brought it all on yourself. All you had to do was obey orders
and stay out of the fighting, but you didn't, and now I've been
ordered to make sure that you don't screw up again. Here are
your new orders, folks, and if you disobey them, you will find
yourself in prison and your company shut down, buried in tax
liens so deep you'll need a bulldozer to get out from under
them:
"Unfortunately, since you are the only ones who know how
to fly those things you've been screwing with, I can't confine
you in the custody of federal marshals until you return to the
States. Within three days, you are to make repairs to your
aircraft sufficient to make them airworthy, and then you will
return all of the aircraft leased from the government directly
to the Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Center at Da-
vis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona-the Bone-
yard. -
"You can't do that, sir," McLanahan said quickly. "Those
planes are out on a long-term lease with Sky Masters, Inc. The
money's been paid."
"Well, that explains a lot, McLanahan-you only care
about your contracts, your money, not about obeying orders,
or preserving national security, or selling out the commander
in chief," Balboa said. "Forget the money, McLanahan-your
company will never see it, and anything already paid will be
seized by the government. The lease will be canceled. The
money we'll seize will be used to pay for the federal marshals
I've assigned to guard the aircraft and to keep you and the
folks from Sky Masters, Inc., under surveillance."
"But those planes belong to Eighth Air Force and Air Com-
bat Command," McLanahan said. "I signed for them myself
286 DALE BROWN
from General Samson and ACC. they're not fragged for the
Boneyard. They still have assigned hangar space and a project
office at Edwards."
"Not anymore they don't," Balboa said. "I recommended
they be dismantled and the program canceled, and the Chiefs
will agree.
"If the aircraft are not flyable, the aircraft will be destroyed
in place, wherever they are, and the costs of the destruction
and cleanup will be charged to Sky Masters, Inc., in the lawsuit
that will be filed that same day. Written orders will be trans-
mitted to you shortly. That is all." The computer announced
that it had cut off Guam from the videoconference.
"Shit, I can't believe it," Elliott swore. He got up slowly,
massaging his left arm and shoulder. He popped a couple of
antacid tablets and washed them down with a cup of coffee.
"Balboa's an asshole. He always was. He's probably still
carrying a grudge from our days at the National War College.
He can't stand to lose face. He'll blame everybody else for
the smallest failure and take away anyone else's accomplish-
ments."
Patrick McLanahan opened the door to the command post
battle staff room, which signaled Jon Masters and Wendy
McLanahan that they were permitted to enter. He saw the
looks on their faces, and knew that they had been listening in
to the entire communication-after all, Jon Masters had de-
signed the satellite-based communications system they were
using, so he would know how to bypass the Pentagon security
encryption routines. "I can't believe this-it's like a night-
mare," Wendy said, as she came over and put her arms around
her husband. "They can't do this! You risked your lives for
this project, and now he wants to throw you in jail?"
"I believe he can do it," Patrick said. "He's got my atten-
tion. Jon?"
"Already called home plate, and the legal beagles are on
their way-plus they're filing injunctions in D. and in Ar-
kansas federal court, trying to prevent Balboa from canceling
the contract without a performance review," Jon Masters said.
"But Balboa moved even quicker-he's already got Navy SPs
from Agana Naval Base guarding the planes. They've got the
ramp shut down-nothing's moving.
"The lawyers say we can probably keep ourselves out of
court, maybe even get the contract money, but they think Bal-
FATAL T ER R AI N 287
W
boa can thro us in jail just by uttering the magic words 'na-
tional security,' and they're positive he can have those planes
chopped up into little pieces anytime he wants. He's got my
attention too."
"Let me call in my markers, Muck," Elliott said earnestly.
He had found a seat and was leaning forward, elbows on his
knees, hands holding his head. "Balboa's got plenty of skel-
etons in his closet, and I know the boys who can take 'em out
and put 'em on display. He'll back off pronto, I guarantee it.
If it doesn't work, we'll go right to the White House-heck,
Muck, you and me, we got dirt on Martindale that I know Will
make him squirm."
"Brad, I told you already, I'm not interested in fighting the
Pentagon over this," McLanahan said. He studied Elliott for
a moment, and decided that he felt much worse than Elliott
looked right now. "We've lost. We've invested millions in the
project, but it just won't get on track with brass like Balboa
fighting us from the top. We just can't do it. It's not fair to
ourselves, it's not fair to our loved ones, and it sure as hell
isn't fair to the shareholders."
" Why in hell are you so concerned about shareholders, Pat-
rick?" Elliott said angrily. "Jeez, have you completely lost
your entire spine?"
"My damned priorities are different, Brad," McLanahan
said. "I work for Jon now, not the U. government. I've sold
everything I own to invest in Sky Masters, Inc., and help this
company, and I don't want to see Balboa and the federal courts
drain our capital and our life savings fighting lawsuits. If we
cooperate and let the government hide us, we can walk away
with our company intact, ready to develop more technology
and compete for more contracts. But if we fight them, they'll
sic federal marshals and lawyers and judges on us for the next
ten years-and we can still lose. I don't want my child to have
a father in a federal penitentiary."
"Listen to yourself!" Elliott shouted, jumping to his feet.
"We did good out there, Patrick. You're letting bozos like
Balboa make you think that you screwed up. Nobody screwed
up here-not you, not Denton, not me. We did what we knew
was right. Balboa is trying to make us believe we did the
wrong thing and that we deserve to be punished-next, he'll
be telling us that we're not going to jail because he interceded
on our behalf. It's bullshit, Patrick! Don't fall for it! If you
288 DALE BROWN
give up, if you let assholes like Balboa chop up nearly ten
years of hard work, we lose-just as surely as if we lost a
one-hundred-million-
dollar lawsuit."
"Forget it, Brad," McLanahan insisted. "It's not worth the
fight, not worth the aggravation. We did some good jobs in
the Megafortresses, but the Pentagon doesn't want them. We
can't fight them all."
"At least we'll give it a fighting chance," Elliott said.
McLanahan shook his head and headed for the door to the
battle staff room. "Dammit, McLanahan, I already lost one
organization because I let the pencil-ppshers and brown-nosers
tell me that I couldn't cut it. Now it's happening again-except
you're letting it happen."
"Brad, I'm tired. I've been shot at and yelled at and kicked
around all day," McLanahan said. "I'm getting out of here."
Elliott blocked his path. He was almost a head taller than
McLanahan, but in size and physical strength, he was no match
for his young prot6g6-but that didn't stop Elliott from getting
into his longtime colleague's face. "What's the matter, Muck?
You ready to hang up your spurs and turn your back on your
friends just because you're too scared or too tired to stand up
to someone? You want to just sit back on your ass at your
desk and push papers and collect your salary and pension,
while jerkoffs like Balboa screw Jon and everyone else in this
project?"
"Brad, give it a rest."
"I want to know exactly what you plan on doing about this,
Mr. Mission Commander, Mr. Corporate Executive," Elliott
shouted, sweat popping out on his forehead in large glistening
drops. "Answer me!"
"Brad, c'mon," Wendy tried.
"No, wait just a sec, Doc," Elliott said. "Let the corporate
big shot here tell us what he intends to do. How are you gonna
sell us out? You gonna hide behind Masters's lawyers?"
McLanahan was glaring at his old mentor and friend, his
jaw tight, his blue eyes blazing. Wendy saw the building rage
in his eyes and tried to hurry him to the door. "Brad. .
"You forgetting about Cheshire, and Atkins, Denton and
Bruno, the ones who volunteered for the project?" Elliott said.
He was almost nose to nose with McLanahan now, his breath
ragged and excited, his eyes blinking from the tension, veins
pulsing in his neck from the anger. "Are your lawyers going
FATAL T E R RAI N 289
to help them out? Or are they going to be chewed up and spit
out by Balboa and his JAGs?"
"Brad, let's table this discussion for later," Wendy said
resolutely, taking Patrick's hand and leading him to the door.
"Talk some sense into your old man, Doc-hey, don't you
walk away from me! You show me some respect, mister!"
Elliott shouted-and then he made the mistake of trying to
pull McLanahan around to face him. Instead, he shoved
Wendy in the back, and she lost her balance and crashed
facefirst into the door that Patrick had just half opened.
Patrick McLanahan caught Wendy before she sagged to the
floor, stood her back up on her feet, made sure she was going
to stand on her own, saw that she wasn't hurt-and then turned
on Elliott. With never-before seen quickness, Patrick had Brad
Elliott's neck in his hands and slammed him back to the wall.
"You old son of a bitch! " he snarled in a low, menacing
voice. "You ever touch Wendy again, I'll break your neck!"
"I'm all right, Patrick!" Wendy said. "Let him go!"
Patrick felt hands on his arms right away-Cheshire and
Atkins, ready to pull him away from Elliott-and the anger
dissipated immediately when he heard Wendy's voice. He
loosened his grip on Elliott's neck-but Brad still seemed to
be choking. When he released him, he immediately collapsed.
Patrick was able to lower him gently to the floor and noticed
his shortness of breath, the panicked look in his eyes, and the
contortions and spasms in his left arm.
"Christ, I think he's having a heart attack!" he shouted.
"Get an ambulance-now!" Nancy Cheshire was already on
the phone, dialing the paramedics at the base hospital. Mc-
Lanahan unzipped Elliott's flight suit, exposing his chest, pre-
paring to give CPR if necessary. "Hang in there, Brad,
goddamn it," Patrick McLanahan said. He felt crushed inside,
thinking that the last words his best friend might have heard
from his lips were words of anger and hate. "C'mon, Brad,
you old warhorse, hang in there. . .
290 DALE BROWN
YOKOSUKA NAVAL 13ASE, MIURA PENINSULA,
REPUBLIC OF JAPAN
SATURDAY,21 JUNE 1997, 0644 HOURS LOCAL
(FRIDAY, 20 JUNE, 1644 HOURS ET)
"Can't the damned harbor police do anything about this?"
U. Navy Captain Davis Manaus complained. "Where the
hell are they?"
They're out there already, skipper," U. Navy Captain
Sam Anse replied, scanning the area with his binoculars.
'Every harbor patrol, prefecture police, and Maritime Self-
Defense Force unit stationed in the Bay is out there."
It was not hard to understand why it was impossible to be-
lieve that fact. Admiral Manaus's ship, the American aircraft
carrier USS Independence, was surrounded by what one look-
description, all decked out in white sheets and flying white
flags. Most of the people on each ship were dressed in white,
with white bandannas with the red "rising sun" of Japan over
their foreheads. Interspersed among the white-clad protesters
had to be another several dozen boats with camera crews from
all over the world. The police and Navy security units had
been circulating around the Independence all night and all
morning, keeping protesters away from the carrier's hull; many
of the protesters were carrying buckets of red paint, obviously
destined to decorate the ship's hull.
It took several more hours and much restrained but angry
appeals all the way to the office of the prime minister, but
eventually the tugs were allowed to be brought into position,
and the Independence was moved away from the wharf and
into the bay. Protesters on loudspeakers and bullhorns tried to
convince the tugboat captains and harbor pilots not to assist
the carrier out, and for a brief moment it appeared as if their
appeals might take hold, but seemingly by inches the great
warship was under way and heading out into the Gulf of Sa-
gami.
The Independence, now with its escort group assembled and
in formation-three anti-submarine warfare frigates, two Aegis
guided-missile cruisers, and a replenishment ship-was about
twenty miles south of the tip of the Miura Peninsula, roughly
in the middle of the Gulf of Sagami, when it was safe for
FATAL TE R RAI N 291
fixed-wing flight operations to get under way again. There
were still a few protesters shadowing the carrier group, but
they were not allowed croser than three miles from the carrier,
well outside the perimeter established by the escort frigates.
The battle group had accelerated now to flight ops formation
speed of twenty-seven kn
ots, so very few of the smaller pro-
tester's vessels could keep up.
The first aircraft to launch were the rescue helicopters, two
huge Sikorsky SH-311 Sea Kings with two pilots and two res-
cue swimmers on board. Next were the E-2 Hawkeye radar
planes, which could extend the radar "eyes" of the battle
group out almost 400 miles. The Hawkeye's crew would act
as the long-range air traffic controllers for the carrier, vectoring
incoming aircraft toward the carrier until the final approach
controllers on board the carrier itself took over. One KA-61)
aerial refueling tanker then launched, followed by four F-14A
Tomcat fighters on outer perimeter air defense patrol, with two
more Tomcats positioned on the number three and four cata-
pults on alert five status, ready to launch and help defend the
carrier group.
The first aircraft to arrive was the least attractive but most
appreciated aircraft of all-the twin turboprop C-2A Grey-
hound, known as the "COD," for Carrier Onboard Delivery.
The COD ferried crewmembers, passengers, supplies, spare
parts-and. most importantly, the mail-on and off the ship
several times a day. Ungainly and slow when "dirtied up"
and ready for the "trap," or landing on the carrier, the COD
was cleared to land, reporting its landing weight as 48,000
pounds, just two thousand shy of max landing weight-it was
loaded to the gills with crew members who hadn't made the
departure, extra crew members, a few civilian passengers par-
ticipating on a "Tiger Cruise" for a few days, and a pallet of
mail sacks.
The approach was a little high, and that spelled trouble right
away. Nailing the airspeed, nailing the initial approach and
rolling in on final at the right altitude to capture a centered
Fresnel glide path landing indicator, called the "ball," then
nailing the desired angle of attack, making very slight correc-
tions to stay on centerline and stay on glide path-that was
the key to a successful --trap.- Corrections in a heavyweight
COD had to be made very, very carefully --- crew members
describe it as "thinking" throttle movements rather than ac-