“Mom? Dad’s flying a holding pattern around the living room again,” Jerry would announce. “Standard right-hand turns, one-minute legs.”
Mac stopped and took a deep breath as he planned the conversation he was about to have, wondering if it would be more effective to face Wilcox down in person.
No. I can terrify him on the phone better, he concluded.
He’d had a few contacts with Dick Wilcox and none of them had been a confidence builder. Wilcox was a glib and slightly arrogant man Mac neither trusted nor liked, and the fact that he was a non-pilot running a flight test unit exacerbated the impression.
The secure line rang again in twenty minutes and Mac yanked it to his ear.
“General MacAdams.”
Judging by his voice, Mac figured, the civilian on the other end had been appropriately chastened by the summons and the quick trip to the command post.
“Ah, this is Dick Wilcox, General. I… is there an emergency?”
“You’re the one who’s going to answer that question, Mr. Wilcox.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I had you brought in to use a secure line for a reason. What I’m about to discuss with you is classified, but I also want to warn you very sternly that if the answers you give me are anything but the complete truth, losing your job will be just the start. Understood?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, General. I can assure you that threats aren’t necessary to get me to tell you the truth.”
“Okay, here’s the problem.” Mac related the inconsistency in the paint on the Gulfstream’s right winglet and the roughness in the leading edge. “The question is this, Wilcox. Did your maintenance team, or anyone on it, conduct a repair of any sort to that aircraft following Monday’s test flight?”
“Repair?”
“I think you understand the word and the concept, and asking a one-word question like that is a stalling tactic.”
“No, it isn’t! Sir, you really have no cause to be this hostile with me.”
“Answer the question, Mr. Wilcox.”
“No, we didn’t repair anything! At least… I’m not aware of any damage, any repair, or anything in the maintenance log following Monday’s flight that would indicate such. Did you look in the log?”
“Yes, and as we both know, logs can lie.”
“Not on my shift, General. And I professionally resent that implication.”
“Mr. Wilcox, a repair of some sort exists in the history of that aircraft. I need the absolute truth of when and where and by whom it was made.”
“Today, sir? Well… of course today.” There was a tired sigh on the command-post side of the connection. “Okay. I’ll go over there and get right on it. We’ve owned that airplane for four years, but I may have to delve into the history before we acquired it.”
“Be careful and precise about this, Mr. Wilcox. There is always a possibility something was done without your knowledge, and there is also a possibility that this is a case of planned, plausible deniability. In either case, I will hold you personally responsible for the accuracy of the answer.”
“General, may I ask what this is all about?”
“No. Get to work. I’ll expect a call back by this afternoon.”
Mac replaced the receiver and resumed pacing for a few minutes, deciding instead to go for a walk. The day was overcast and cool, the temperature in the mid-thirties, and he pulled on his parka before telling Linda he would be out walking for a while. He didn’t have to announce he would be taking his cell phone. He was well known for being all but surgically attached to it.
Should have a damn dog to walk! he thought, regretting once again his long-standing promise to buy a dog for the kids when they had a place big enough to accommodate one. Over an entire career the right place had never happened, and the kids had grown up with cats, ferrets, canaries, assorted rodents, and the eternal hope of a dog at the next base.
Elmendorf Air Force Base was a beautiful place for walking and jogging. Not as beautiful as the tree-lined streets of McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, Washington, or the old-world elegance of Langley Air Force Base just north of Norfolk, Virginia, but one of his favorites, nonetheless. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started out in a brisk stride to the south, toward Fort Richardson, letting his thoughts circle around the true nature of the threat presented by the article he’d just read.
With a newspaper interested in the story and an aggrieved pilot and his daughter fighting for justice, the possibility of exposing the project by nosing their way to the existence of Monday’s test flight had grown another notch, and it was his responsibility to make sure the project stayed black and invisible. Certainly thousands of Alaskan residents and Air Force personnel knew there was a Gulfstream on the base, and many knew Uniwave had offices there. Uniwave even had a listing in the local phone book. But the cover story had always involved Uniwave’s development of electronic systems for the AWACS aircraft on the base, and there had been very few anxious moments in keeping the cork in the real bottle.
The radar tapes were taken care of, Mac reminded himself. No matter how enterprising any local reporters might be, there was nothing to find, other than a radar target with an innocuous call sign flying with an AWACS, which was wholly consistent with the cover story.
So why am I worried enough to beat up Wilcox? he asked himself as his cell phone began ringing.
Mac stopped and pulled the instrument from a pocket in his parka, barely punching the answer button in time.
“Mac? That you?”
“Yes. Who’s…”
“This is Lou Cassidy.”
The voice of the four-star general he reported to was a mild shock.
“Yes, Lou.”
“What the hell are you doing up there?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mac, we’ve got to maintain reasonably good relations with Uniwave’s people, and I’ve just been gnawed on by their chairman, with whom I play golf. His damn call was inappropriate as hell, but I don’t like what he was complaining about either.”
“What was he chewing on you for, General?”
“About you insulting his man up there a little while ago. I’m told you accused him of performing some illegal maintenance and then lying about it, and that you were pulling rank and being extremely abusive to the man.”
“Lou, that is completely inaccurate—”
“Look, dammit, it’s Saturday. Let’s make this brief. Make it go away, Mac. Uniwave’s chief assured me there was no damage to their airplane, no repairs, no cover-ups, and no grounds for upsetting their people.”
Mac took a deep breath, his mind racing over the elements of the situation.
“Lou, you’ve never questioned my judgment before based on a civilian contractor’s complaint.”
“Doesn’t sound like you used much judgment, Mac. Or am I missing something. Did you call the man?”
“Yes, I called him, and yes, I’m suspicious, and yes, I’m using the power of my position to hopefully force an honest answer, which I think is critical.”
“About what? Something you haven’t told me?”
“No… at least, right now it’s just a worry. Remember when I was there I told you we had a small glitch on the next-to-last flight test?” He detailed what had happened and his caution about any possible interaction with the lost Albatross.
“Well, hell, Mac. I’ve seen bug strikes that could mess up paint.”
“This wasn’t a bug strike, Lou, nor a bird strike. Something dented metal and was repaired. I think I’m being lied to, but I’ve got to be sure, and I’ll tell you, the fact that Wilcox would call his chief and the president of the “company—”
“Chairman.”
“Okay, the chairman. The fact that the chairman would risk calling you on a Saturday to get you to chew me out makes this even more suspicious.”