"Call it off, General Patton," he said sadly, then turned and left the room.
The clock showed only fifteen minutes to arrival at the LZ. Wing Patton's voice was terse. "Patch me into the satellite, Vic. Put it on the speaker."
After a few moments, he lifted the mike and pressed the transmit button. He spoke urgently, distinctly. "Red Fox Three-Six, this is Watchman. Sunset. Repeat, Sunset." It was the code word for "abort."
The room was deathly silent as everyone cocked his ears toward the speaker on the wall, straining to hear the double click of Colonel Rodman's microphone. But the signal from the FLTSATCOM electronic bird traveling in a geosynchronous orbit at a point 22,300 miles above the Indian Ocean brought nothing but an ominous void.
General Patton's frown deepened. He pressed the button again. "Red Fox Three-Six, this is Watchman. Sunset. Repeat, Sunset. Acknowledge."
Nothing.
What the hell was wrong, he wondered? He called a third time. Still nothing.
Then a phone rang and Reiner nodded at him. "Line one, General."
"Patton," he said in a hesitant, troubled voice.
"Wing, this is Bob Sturdivant." The deputy was grave but businesslike. "I've been monitoring your transmissions. Do you think it's possible the aircrew could have neglected to switch to the new alternate channel?"
It struck him like a fist in the stomach, almost a dazing blow.
The crew hadn't forgotten!
How could he… then he remembered the infuriating sound of Senator Thrailkill's damnably goading voice, how the man had irritated him unmercifully just after he had taken Sturdivant's earlier call. He blinked his eyes slowly, as though awakening from a horrible dream. He glanced down at the fateful note still lying crumpled in the wastebasket, a veritable ticking time bomb. Forcing himself to remain calm, he replied in a dubious tone, "Surely not, Bob. It must be an equipment malfunction." Then a hopeful thought struck him. "Say, is the other satellite working now? We could give the primary channel a try, couldn't we?"
"Sorry, Wing. They're working on a software solution. It may be several hours before the bird gets back on line."
General Patton slumped disconsolately in his chair. He no longer had any doubts about the ultimate fate of the mission. The helicopter and everyone aboard were doomed. He could already picture in his mind the line of flag-draped caskets on the ramp at Andrews Air Force Base.
And it was all his fault.
What could he do? If word of his failure were to leak out, the media would nail his ass to a cross. It wouldn't matter about Western Aircraft. The long, illustrious career of General Philip Ross Patton would be over. Ended. Dead as that satellite floating uselessly in the void of space.
As he began to collect his thoughts, he reminded himself there was much more here to consider than merely one man's career. Sometime back his father-in-law had initiated him into an organization called the Foreign Affairs Roundtable. Its membership included many of the top thinkers and doers in the fields of finance, government, business, labor, communications and education, plus the well-heeled foundations. Although few Americans were aware of its existence, the FAR had provided the key leadership in foreign relations for every President for more than half a century. Some would even contend that it set the national agenda.
As a top military official, Patton knew his was a vital role. With the U.S. now the dominant power on the globe, the one that would be called upon to extinguish "brush fires" and keep third world upstarts under control, it was his responsibility to maintain the nation's military strength. With America firmly in control, she could lead the rest of the world into a massive alliance in which the various states would subordinate their individual whims to the good of mankind. Never mind who would determine just what that "good" might be. It was a lofty goal, one to which Frederick Parker Strong was unalterably committed. He had passed the torch on to his son-in-law. Patton was aware that the average citizen knew nothing of this grand design being drawn for his or her future, but that was nothing new. The masses were never privy to all the information available at the top. They had to be led in the right direction. He saw himself as part of the collective solution to the ultimate fate of the world. It was imperative that nothing diminish his ability to act.
He recalled Senator Weesner's silky smooth, almost playful comment that morning. "You're the key. Without you, the B-2 is dead, Philip. Don't do anything to stub your toe before that hearing."
The conclusion appeared obvious. It was imperative that he erase all evidence of the stubbed toe. He had the solemn duty to save the B-2, even if it meant sacrificing Warren Rodman, or whatever might remain of his reputation. Of course, he felt no less sorrow, no less regret than any commander would experience at the loss of those who served under him. But wish… hope… pray… other than that, he knew of nothing more he could do for them. Lamentably, he was forced to conclude that Colonel Rodman and his crew were as good as dead.
Only Major Juan Bolivar would be left with knowledge that the alternate channel change had not been passed on to the aircraft commander. Bolivar was an ambitious young officer. He was a Hispanic with a bright future, if he was smart enough to support the proper cause. Bolivar would have to understand that the success of his career depended upon his ability to make a few allowances with the facts, all for the good of the service.
And Wing Patton knew just the man who could help convince him.
7
It was a moonless night. If practically brushing the treetops halfway across the obscured landscape of a rugged mountain range could be thought of as routine, it had been a routine flight. The GPS system worked flawlessly. By simultaneously receiving signals from four different satellites, the copilot was able to plot their position in three dimensions — longitude, latitude and altitude — at any given point along the flight path. They had easily navigated around inhabited areas. Without lights, the big, dark green chopper appeared black in the inky darkness. The Sikorsky's two T64-GE-100 turboshaft engines made it sound more like a normal turbojet airplane, since the six blades of the huge seventy-two-foot rotor did not produce the distinctive popping noise of smaller choppers. Anyone on the ground who might have heard it would have had no idea just what it was or where it might be headed.
The mission had gone so smoothly that Roddy had about forgotten the bad vibes he had felt earlier. They had monitored both primary and alternate national command channels continuously, receiving the commit message right on time. Everything was still "go." But there was one troubling aspect. For some reason, the commit signal came through only on the primary channel, not the alternate. But since the primary had operated normally, this did not appear to be a real problem.
Major Hardin had come up to the cockpit to chat over coffee while his heavily-armed commandos napped in the rear.
"If you ever get around Fort Bragg, Colonel, look me up and I'll buy you a drink," Hardin said.
"I may take you up on that," Roddy replied. "We'll be traveling around East Tennessee and North Carolina next time we're back in the States. Retirement is still a long way off, but Karen has been bugging me to buy a piece of property."