There was silence for a long moment. That was Seaver’s indication that he was dismissed.
After he left, Long shook his head. “Fucking weasel,” he said. “He’s sticking to his lame-ass story.”
“Ease up on him, Long Dong,” Furness said. “Whether he’s going to make it or hit bottom, let him do it on his own. I just hope that if he doesn’t make it, he doesn’t pull this unit down with him.”
I am getting ready to go overseas for a major military exercise,” Secretary of the Air Force Stuart Mortonson raged, “and now you drop this on me. General Hayes, you’d better have a real good explanation.” This, Mortonson thought, was definitely one of those times when being the chief civilian officer of the nation’s youngest military service was a totally thankless job.
Mortonson, formerly a dean at Stanford University and lieutenant governor of California, got his post in the Pentagon as a gift for helping win California in the last presidential election. The position meant a boost for California’s aerospace industry and lots of grant money for California institutes and universities, which were two good reasons why Mortonson was being groomed to run for the Senate or for governor of California. But except for making a few speeches or visiting a few bases, no one ever saw or recognized the secretary of the Air Force — unless something went wrong. Then everyone knew your name.
First, it was the B-1 bomber crash in Nevada back in April. Technically, it was a Nevada Air National Guard plane, not an Air Force plane, but that kind of hairsplitting was useless from day one — it was and always would be an Air Force problem. The Navy squawked about how reckless the crew was, complained about all the violated rules of engagement, and demanded the Air Force clean up its act. Mortonson took the scolding from the secretary of the Navy and the chief of Naval Operations, got the third-degree stare-down from the secretary of defense, and loudly promised everyone to get to the bottom of the incident and kick some butts.
But now a new controversy had surfaced, and again it involved the Navy. During a scheduled antimissile weapons test over the Pacific Ocean, some very odd things had happened, and the Air Force guys on the scene, including the Air Force’s chief of staff, were being very, very closemouthed about it. The Navy, which had some ships in the area, squawked again, accusing the Air Force of testing a new warhead — possibly even a nuclear device — on a Navy range with Navy personnel in close proximity without informing anyone or setting up proper safeguards.
Air Force Chief of Staff Victor Hayes fired off an e-mail message to the secretary of the Air Force less than an hour after the test, asking for an immediate secure video-or phone conference. Mortonson was out of the office and didn’t have access to a secure phone. Hayes arrived back at the Pentagon just a few hours later, asking for an immediate face-to-face meeting with the secretary and with Major General Gregory Hammond, director of the Air National Guard Bureau. Hammond was in charge of the office that interfaced the secretary of the Air Force and the chief of staff of the Air Force with the governors and adjutant generals of the states that had Air National Guard units. But by then the shit from the Navy had hit the fan, and Mortonson changed his schedule and took this meeting.
Of course, all this was going on in the middle of one of the biggest military exercises of the year: Team Spirit 2000 was going to kick off in less than two months. Often the controversial political football in peace negotiations between North and South Korea, Team Spirit 2000 had become the largest joint war game in the Pacific. Land, naval, and air forces from the United States, South Korea, and Japan were going to participate in the three-week-long exercise, practicing and demonstrating joint military maneuvers over a broad conflict spectrum and geographic area.
This was the first year that Japan was going to be a full participant instead of an observer or support entity. Because it was in the midst of near-collapse, with a severe government downsizing and financial reorganization program in effect, and still suffering the aftermath of the nuclear detonation in Yokosuka Harbor three years earlier, everything possible was being done to include Japan in major Asian defense events so as to try to keep that nation from sliding back into isolationism or extreme anti-American nationalism. Its ban on all combat-armed American warships in its territorial waters and its threat to close all U.S. military bases were ominous signs that such fears were valid.
About a year after the explosion — which had killed and injured only a handful of Japanese citizens and caused very little damage to Japanese property — Japan had begun buying frontline high-tech surplus military equipment from Russia as if it were dollar day at the Goodwill store. Ex-Russian MiG-29 fighters and Sukhoi-33 fighter-bombers were now flying alongside American-made F-15 fighters in the skies over Japan. It was a clear message that Japan wanted to rearm and assume more of the responsibility of defending itself — and it wanted to do so now. The threat of an economically unstable, ultranationalistic, and rearmed Japan was a serious concern to Washington.
To try to present a unified front, the Vice President of the United States, Ellen Christine Whiting, accompanied by several of the service secretaries and chiefs of staff, was going to tour some of the foreign players’ military bases in the region. Of course, that was not the only reason Mortonson was going along; his main task was to try to talk the Japanese out of buying so much Russian hardware and into buying more American equipment. Mortonson was armed with joint development contracts, licensing agreements, incentives, loan packages, and grant money — everything short of an out-and-out bribe to try to get Japan to buy American again.
The pressure was already on. He didn’t need his own troops adding more gray hairs, wrinkles, and bags under his eyes.
“I’ve got the secretary of defense, the President’s national security adviser, the director of Central Intelligence, and the chief of Naval Operations ready to shit on my desk!” Mortonson shouted after the door to his office was closed. “What in hell went on out there, General?”
Hayes told him — and Mortonson was scared. Stunned, angry, incredulous, yes — but mostly scared.
The secretary of the Air Force was a politician and bureaucrat by trade, not an engineer, scientist, or soldier like some of his predecessors. The politician in him said this was so damaging to the administration, not to mention the Air Force, that the President’s opponents might not even wait until the November elections — they could all be out of a job within days. At a time when the threat to America’s security was at its greatest, and the perceived readiness and ability of the military to fight a major conflict was very low, the last thing the White House or Pentagon needed was an unauthorized test of some unknown weapon.
“General Hayes, I hope you realize the consequences of what you did,” Mortonson said ominously.
“Of course I do, sir,” he said. “I’m also prepared to brief you with results of our tests.”
“Are you prepared to lose your job? Have your career destroyed?” Mortonson asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen to you, and most likely to me, when I report this to the rest of the Joint Chiefs and the White House. They’re going to blow a gasket.”
“Sir, the thing works,” Hayes said. “The Air Force’s antimissile hunter-killer system works. Forget the plasma-yield warhead for a moment, sir. No harm, no foul. The Navy still doesn’t know what kind of warhead we used, and in my estimation they’ll never figure it out unless someone tells them.”