Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (12 page)

As always, she concentrated on the food and drink, serving Korbel champagne for those who drank and a nonalcoholic punch for Anna and Harry. This year she had started out with a Mexican theme, got overwhelmed making the tamales, and ended up having a caterer from San Diego’s Old Town come in to handle everything. As she watched them setting up, she knew that Vance was looking down, shaking his head at the choice of food and the expense of having a caterer.

Jill was ill at ease for another reason. Earlier in the day, Harry had appeared with a strange little man who had a lot of electronic gear and proceeded to “sweep” the house. Harry explained to her that he was having a briefing later for Tom and V. R., and that he had to be sure the house wasn’t “bugged.” The term wasn’t new to her, but she associated it more with spiders than spies.

The evening went well until about nine o’clock, with Ginny—five foot four, blond, and with a great sense of humor—charming everyone, particularly Tom, who seemed quite smitten with her. The only awkward moment came when Harry said that they had some business to take care of in Vance’s private study, a little room off the library where he had a safe and kept his most confidential papers. He looked apologetically at Rod and said, “I’m sure you understand this is a business matter—I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t invite you in with us.”

“Harry, don’t think a thing about it. I’m just going to talk to Ginny, drink some champagne, and have another run at the buffet.”

It was apparent that he didn’t mind, that he had a mission other than business there tonight, and that mission was reconciliation.

Harry went in, followed by Tom and V. R., and shut the door.

“He’s a nice kid; I hope he can talk some sense into his dad.”

Tom snorted and Harry went on. “As I told you, Tom, I went to Ben Rich to ask if V. R. could brief you on stealth. He told me to go to it.”

V. R. was hesitant at first, not wishing to sound like a know-it-all in front of his father, an ace in two—and maybe three—wars, and a hero for surviving every nasty thing the North Vietnamese could do to a prisoner of war. But he had done the scariest flying of his life in the Lockheed Have Blue prototype, and the subject fascinated him.

“First of all, I’ll give you a nonmathematician’s point of view. There have been half a dozen people involved in creating a stealth aircraft. It all started with the work of a brilliant Russian mathematician who came up with the original formulas, and has no idea how we are using them. Then a genius named Denys Overholser was the first guy to understand what the Russian scientist paper signified as it applied to aircraft. He worked with Bill Schroeder, a Lockheed retiree who came up with the computer program to use the Russian’s math.

“Schroeder figured out that a three-dimensional aircraft could be constructed by ‘faceting,’ using a series of flat panels placed so that they reflected radar waves away from the aircraft.”

V. R. could tell by Tom’s blank expression that he wasn’t being understood. He glanced at Harry imploringly, and Harry said, “It turns out that if you build an aircraft out of flat plates that are always at thirty degrees to any incoming radar beam, you’ll get a stealth aircraft.”

Tom replied, “Yeah, but how the hell do you get an airplane built like that to fly?”

“That’s been the problem, Dad. They came up with what looks like a paper airplane, but in three dimensions, and it would be impossible to fly it without the modern computers that react faster than a pilot can.”

Harry broke in. “This is where Kelly Johnson and Ben Rich disagreed. Kelly just didn’t believe you could get an operational aircraft shaped like the drawings they were using to fly. And he didn’t believe the idea would work. But Ben put his neck on the line. This is his first big program on his own; if he makes it, it will be a cash cow for Lockheed for decades. But if he fails—he will be out on his ear.”

V. R. went on. “And remember, it’s not just the shape of the aircraft. They cover it with radar absorbent material they call ‘RAM,’ and it absorbs the radar energy that is not reflected away.”

Tom nodded. “OK, give me a break. If all this works, how big is the airplane on the radar screens?”

“You mean how much of a radar signature does it have? Let me tell you a story. Ben Rich went into a briefing at the Pentagon, knowing he’d be asked that question. Now, he’s not talking the prototypes anymore, not the ‘Have Blues’ as we’ve called them. Instead he’s talking about a full-fledged fighter-bomber, equipped with missiles, bombs, whatever. When the general asked him, ‘How big a radar signature does your airplane have,’ Ben rolled a ball bearing the size of a marble on his desk and said, ‘Here’s the observability of our airplane on your radar.’ Naturally, they didn’t believe him. But he was right, and testing proved it. Faceting and RAM gets the whole airplane’s radar signature down to the size of a marble. It’s incredible.”

Tom shook his head. “V. R., how dangerous is this? I don’t want you getting killed flying some crazy invisible airplane.”

“It’s no joke, Dad. Flying these Have Blue prototypes is dangerous, no question about it. We’ve lost one already; Bill Park was the pilot, and he didn’t get hurt, thank God. They don’t have the computer
capability of the full-size airplane, and there were a lot of shortcuts taken to get them in the air. But the real fighter bomber that Ben has planned won’t be much more dangerous than any modern fighter. And in combat, it will be a lot safer, because the radar and the SAMs won’t be able to see it. Anybody flying in to bomb an enemy will have a free ride.”

V. R. laughed and said, “Actually, I’m in more danger of getting hurt by Ginny, for being away from her all the time. This thing is so secret, Dad, that they keep the remaining Have Blue inside its hangar almost all the time. When they know a Soviet spy satellite is making a pass, they keep it covered. And when they do roll it out for a flight, everyone on the field not cleared for the program has to go into a windowless mess hall and wait until we take off. Same for when we come back to land.”

Tom pressed V. R. for some more details on his experiences flying the Have Blue prototypes, but they had reached a point where V. R. finally had to say, “Dad, I’ve told you all I can tell you. You’ll learn more in a few years when all this is unclassified, but right now, I’ve got to stop.”

With that, Tom turned to Harry and asked, “Where’s the money in this? How can we profit out of this program?”

“That’s the name of the game, isn’t it? Right now it looks like they won’t buy too many of the new fighter-bomber. It’s just too expensive, and still unproven. But the ones they do buy will need lots of maintenance, particularly keeping their radar signature down. Any little thing—a gap in the landing-gear door covers, a crack in the RAM, and all of a sudden it shows up on the radar screen like a full-size airplane. So they will take lots of tender loving care between missions. I don’t think the Air Force can afford to set up a full maintenance program for so small a number of airplanes, and that’s where I think we can cash in. We’ll subcontract to Lockheed to do the maintenance on the airplanes, wherever they are in the world. We can charge an arm and a leg, and it will still be cheaper to the Air Force than fielding its own specialized maintenance people.”

Tom was still dubious. “A, the new plane has to fly. B, we have to get the contracts.”

“We’ll get from A to B, don’t you worry, Tom. It’s C, I’m worrying about.”

“What’s ‘C’?”

“There’s another stealth aircraft in the works, a bigger airplane, a bomber. And guess who’s competing this time? Lockheed and Northrop again. We have to get our share of that contract, too, when the time comes.”

Tom shook his head.

“I’d give anything to have Dad listening in on this, and telling us what to do.”

March 12, 1979

The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

D
ENNIS
J
ENKINS WALKED
slowly for a change, glad to submerge himself in the milling throng that crowded the Pentagon’s mini-mall, a collection of stores that sold everything from aspirin (in big demand) to books (less so) to a wide selection of fast but not very good foods. Like the Pentagon’s inner courtyard, it wasn’t really away from the Pentagon, but it was different enough to offer a little escape from the long fluorescent lit corridors all jammed with uniformed figures running from one meeting to the next.

Steve O’Malley was waiting for him, wolfing down a hot dog and holding a cardboard cup of soda in his hand. Between O’Malley and his other boss, Bob Rodriquez, they kept Jenkins on the run across the country and around the world. ActOn was no longer a small company, but O’Malley and Rodriquez still ran it as if it were a mom and pop store, with their eyes on every detail.

“You heard the news about GPS, Dennis?”

Jenkins nodded. A Navy Lockheed P-3B Orion had flown from Hawaii to Moffett Field in six hours the day before, using the new NAVSTAR GPS satellite system. GPS revolutionized navigation—all the old techniques from the sextant to LORAN were now obsolete.

“It’s the first olive out of the bottle, Steve. Pretty soon everybody will be using GPS. Why, they’ll be sticking GPS in dog collars so you can tell where your mutt is when he runs away. Wives will be slipping GPS into their husbands’ cars, so they’ll know where they go at night.”

O’Malley gave his trademark booming laugh and said, “Put them
down in the ‘future developments’ file, Dennis. It’ll be a little while before they shrink down that much, but you’re right, it’s coming.”

They climbed the long ramps up toward the fifth-floor E ring, where the Undersecretary of Defense for Research and Engineering, Bill Perry, was holding a highly classified briefing.

“Do you know why Perry called this meeting, Steve?”

“I hear it’s to level the playing field with the various contractors. He’s going to tell everybody as much as he can about stealth research, so that there will be more competition. Right now, Lockheed and Northrop are way ahead of everybody else, and DOD wants to be sure that others can get in, so prices will come down a bit.”

Smartly dressed Air Policemen were checking credentials at the door to the secure briefing room Perry had chosen. Jenkins nudged O’Malley.

“Look who’s ahead of us in line. Tom Shannon and V. R.”

O’Malley shook his head. “That’s easy to figure out. Tom is here as a contractor to be briefed, of course. And V. R. is doing test work at Edwards, probably getting in position to fly the prototype stealth aircraft. I sort of got him on the fast track for that. Glad to see he’s made captain.”

They were able to exchange greetings with their competitors as they filed in to their assigned seats, O’Malley giving the “let’s have a drink afterward” signal to Tom Shannon before they sat down.

Instead of the usual laundry lists of greetings and introductions, a door opened and Bill Perry walked in, moving directly to the podium, all business and intent on wasting no time.

Perry gave a brief history of the stealth program, pointing out its historical antecedents and the recent rise in research and development funding in the field. He pointed out that there was no single stealth technology, but that success lay in the proper synthesis of many technologies. Finally he admitted that there had been flight tests of some vehicles.

With that he folded his notes, said “Good day, gentlemen,” and strode from the room.

The crowd was still for a moment and then there was a sudden uproar.

Tom Shannon was especially furious. “What the hell was that
about? We don’t know any more now than before we came in. This whole thing was a waste of time.”

He moved across the room to catch up with O’Malley and Jenkins.

“What do you think this was for, Steve? He had all of us come in, then tossed us a softball. I feel like submitting a voucher for time and travel expenses.”

O’Malley shook his head as he was shaking Tom’s hand.

“Tom, I don’t know. The only thing I can think is that he had to get on the record about there being flight tests. Otherwise there was no point in the meeting.”

Jenkins and V. R. were talking quietly.

“Tell me, V. R., do you know anything about the flight tests?”

“I’m like Sergeant Schultz, ‘I know nothing.’ ” But it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did.

Jenkins excused himself and grabbed O’Malley’s arm. He took him to the corner of the room and lowered his voice.

“There’s something wrong here. I suspect one of the contractors is way ahead with stealth—but the government’s afraid of giving it a monopoly. That tells me that the other contractor will win the next stealth contract—on the so-called Advanced Tactical Bomber.”

O’Malley pondered this for a bit.

“We’re pretty sure that Lockheed is ahead of us now on stealth; there’s no hard evidence, it’s just the way that the contracts are being handled. And Northrop’s not getting the results it wants. So I guess the bad news is that we won’t have much to do with the stealth fighter, and the good news is that we probably have a lock on the stealth bomber.”

“I hope you’re right, ’cause if you’re wrong, ActOn won’t have anything to act on in the stealth area at all.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE PASSING PARADE
: Margaret Thatcher, Conservative, becomes Prime Minister of Great Britain; Jane M. Byrne is first woman mayor of Chicago; Congress bails out Chrysler Corporation; Soviet Union invades Afghanistan; Sally Field wins Best Actress Oscar; “black hole” discovered in middle of Milky Way; Pope John Paul II tours United States; Mother Teresa awarded Nobel Prize;
Sweeney Todd
on Broadway; Sony “Walkman” tape player becomes fad.

June 27, 1979

Over Lebanon

V.
R. Shannon jabbed his gloved finger under his oxygen mask, letting sweat trickle out, and wondered what the hell he was doing in the infamous “Battle Triangle” of Lebanon, instead of flying over the quiet reaches of Area 51 in Nevada. There he had only to fly the quirky Have Blue; here he was a no-man in a no-man’s-land.