Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (39 page)

“Well, look what the software people have done, bring out new things that the user ‘has to have.’ That’s what we have to do with the UAVs. The vehicle is the least of it. We need to concentrate more on
products, really far-out stuff, that we can put inside the UAVs. Look at the airline security problem—if we could have UAVs flying the perimeter of airports, low altitude, not messing with traffic, with some sort of an explosive sniffer on them, we’d have a gold mine. Or look at the border patrol. We need to get an infrared device that will reach out maybe forty miles in the desert to pick up illegal immigrants making their way north. Our problem is we are all airplane guys, we want to push buttons and go vrroooom. We’ve got to do like Paul MacCready does, get specialists in arcane fields and let them riff on the problems.”

Rodriquez spoke. “Steve’s right. We’ve been doing that all along with the airframe, looking for ways to save weight, just letting the mission come find the airplane. Now we’ve got to start creating the missions. The environment’s the key. We cannot lose if can figure some inroads into saving the environment some way. But we’ve got to break out of the airplane builder’s mode and get some fresh talent in, people who don’t give a damn about airplanes, but want to see how glaciers move, or what’s happening in the rain forest. We’ve got UAVs of all sorts now on the books—let’s give some to some colleges and let them figure out how to use them.”

He shook his head. “Here I am worrying about every dime we spend on the Hypersonic Cruiser, and now I want to give money away to colleges. But still, I think we should. We’ve got money for six more years for sure; if we use our heads. We could view the gifts to colleges as seed money, maybe we’ll be getting a return by 2007, and it will keep us going.”

Jenkins put up his hand. “This is the sort of thing I like to do. Let me have a crack at this, and I’ll get back to you. I’ve got some ideas about where a few UAV systems could go to really be helpful. What would you say for a budget, half a million?”

“Let’s start with a quarter million and see how it goes.”

They broke up in general agreement but with Bob Rodriquez saying, “For Christ’s sake, what is the matter with me? I’m seventy-three years old. I’ll be damn near eighty by the time the Hypersonic Cruiser flies, if I’m lucky and I live that long. I should start thinking about slowing down.”

O’Malley, normally gruff and no-nonsense, slipped his arm around Rodriquez’s shoulders and said, “Bob, even if you died, you’d have a
laptop in your coffin and be working on something. You’ll never slow down. That’s why we call you ‘Hypersonic Bob’ behind your back.”

September 11, 2001

Washington, D.C.

B
Y NINE O
’
CLOCK
V. R. was ready for his second cup of coffee, and Julie, his incomparable assistant, had just left the room to get it. Steve O’Malley was sitting bolt upright in his chair opposite the desk, about to shove some figures across the table on the Joint Strike Fighter program when Shannon’s red phone rang. It was Snake Clark, who said simply, “Turn your television to CNN.”

The indispensable Clark was normally unflappable, but the tone in his voice compelled Shannon to comply immediately, and CNN opened with a view of the North Tower of the World Trade Center wreathed in smoke.

O’Malley said, “It’s got to be terrorists, they said they’d be back.”

Shannon picked up the other line and asked Julie to get Bob Rodriquez and Dennis Jenkins on the line in a conference call.

“I know it’s three hours earlier out there—just get them on the line.”

CNN’s Carol Lin’s familiar voice came through, her professionalism smoothing over the confusion, saying, “This just in. You are looking at a very disturbing live shot. That is the World Trade Center, and we have unconfirmed reports that a plane has crashed into one of the towers . . .”

Julie came to the door, saying, “I’ve got Mr. Rodriquez and Mr. Jenkins on the line, but you’ve got a call from the deputy administrator at the FAA, Mr. Greener.”

“I’ll talk to Greener first, keep the other two on the line, tell them to turn on CNN.”

Shannon said, “Hello Bill, what in God’s name is happening?”

“V. R., we’ve got four, maybe five airliners hijacked. One of them just hit the World Trade Center. Can you scramble fighters and maybe locate the others and stop them?”

Shannon whirled to face O’Malley. “Steve, tell my guys to get any
fighters they can on the East Coast into the air, armed, authorized to fire on airliner targets only when we give the word.”

O’Malley bounded to the next room to ask a pale-faced Lieutenant Colonel Jim Mueller to call NORAD first, then Air Combat Command, then the Air National Guard unit at Andrews. He knew Shannon was exceeding his authority. No one but the President could actually authorize firing on an American passenger aircraft, but there was no time to go to the White House. He had no business giving orders, but they knew he was acting on Shannon’s behalf. He went back to V. R.’s office to hear him say, “Bill, we need locations and positive identification of these hijacked aircraft. What can you tell me?”

“We think it was American Flight 11 which—Oh, my God!”

Shannon whirled in time to see another airliner slicing into the South Tower, leaving a clear imprint of its shape before the flames erupted.

“That’s probably United 175, out of Boston. It may be too late for the fighters.”

“What else have you got? Where should my guys be looking? For Christ’s sake, Bill, what’s going on?”

“It’s terrorism, well coordinated; you and Steve were right all along. Right now we’re tracking American Airlines Flight 77 heading your way; United Flight 93 is headed off somewhere, probably toward Washington, too. We are closing all the airports around New York, we’re probably going to ground all aircraft. Leave this line open, I’ll feed you anything I find out.”

O’Malley picked up the other line, saying to Rodriquez and Jenkins, “This is it. The terrorists have struck, and there are two, maybe three more out there. Get the factory on alert; I doubt if they’ll try anything in an unpopulated area, but go ahead and warn them anyway.”

Shannon’s office erupted into a whirlwind of staffers, bringing in or carrying out information and instructions, each one pausing momentarily to watch the unfolding horror.

Colonel Miller came in, saying, “We’ve got F-15s off at Otis. They are going to orbit till they get a vector to the target. No F-16s off from Andrews yet.”

Shannon was on the phone with the Air National Guard at Andrews when Flight 77 crashed into the western side of the Pentagon.

O’Malley leaped up at the thunderous roar, saying, “The White House will be next!”

September 11, 2001

Mojave, California

T
HEY WERE AS
stunned as the rest of the nation, horrified by the incredible turn of events that saw three hijacked aircraft successfully attack their targets, and one, thanks to the heroism of its passengers, fail.

The Rodriquez family was there. Dennis Jenkins had brought Sally O’Malley out, along with Nancy and Anna Shannon.

“When did you last hear from Steve or V. R.?”

“Not since about eight our time. O’Malley phoned to let us know they were not injured in the Pentagon attack. They’ve both been too busy since.”

Anna asked, “Do you think it’s over?”

Bob Sr. answered, “If you mean are attacks by airliners over, they are for today; everything is grounded. But if you mean terrorism, it’s just getting started. After all the times we’ve made fun of Steve and V. R. about their phobias, they turn out to be right after all.”

Jenkins asked, “What do you think this will mean for RoboPlanes?”

Rodriquez said, “Lots more orders for UAVs; probably a slowdown on the hypersonic work.”

Rod spoke up. “I don’t think so, Dad. I think the anti-hypersonic cruise missile is going to be more important than ever. I think you are right about more orders for UAVs, but we might get some development money for the cruise missile work.”

His father shook his head, saying, “I hope so. We can use it. But I’ve got the feeling that even this isn’t going to be enough to wake America up. I don’t like the tenor of the commentary, people are indignant, but they are not as angry as they should be. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, there was an immediate, universal reaction against the Japanese. I’m already hearing cries for compassion
for the peaceful Muslims. What I want to hear is cries for death to the fanatics. I’m not hearing it.”

Jenkins agreed with him, but said, “It’s early, Bob. People haven’t absorbed what’s happened yet. There’s bound to be a rising tide of anger. This is so outrageous, so cruel. The Japanese attack, however sneaky, was a military event. This is pure terrorism on civilians. I’ll never forget those shots of people leaping to their deaths, or the brave first responders going into the burning buildings. We’ve got to get angry about this.”

Anna rarely spoke at their gatherings, but tonight she said, “No. I don’t think so, Dennis. We’ve gotten too soft. I think we will make a big fuss about this for a while, and then go right back to sleep.”

No one said anything. Anna’s comments were too close to the bone, too apt to be right, and too horrible to contemplate.

December 2, 2001

Lambert Field, St. Louis, Missouri

V. R. S
HANNON
stepped outside the terminal entrance to soak up a little sun. It was warm for St. Louis in December, and it was good to escape the pall hanging over the airport, a mixture of resentment at the new and still clumsily executed security precautions, and embarrassment that workmen were still replacing the TWA signs with new ones from American. Flight 220, the last ceremonial TWA flight, had landed at Lambert yesterday, to a sorrowful crowd of veteran TWA employees. After many difficult years, the proud old airline, TWA, had given up, purchased by American Airlines. A great airline and a great tradition were no more.

Somehow it seemed exactly appropriate to V. R., for this was his last official trip for the United States Air Force. His retirement ceremonies in Washington were scheduled for December 31. He really didn’t have to make this trip, but he felt he owed a great deal to the old McDonnell Douglas team that had created the F-15 fighter. It was the Boeing F-15 now, of course, for just as American had acquired TWA and promptly changed its name, so had Boeing absorbed McDonnell
Douglas in 1996. He could have sent any one of his deputies on this trip, to lay out the costs for extending the F-15E for some possible sales overseas, but with more than fifteen hundred hours in the airplane, he wanted to come and visit with the longtime MacDac people who wore the Boeing logo lightly and somewhat grudgingly.

He waited somewhat impatiently for his car to arrive. This was not like the McDonnell Douglas of years ago—there would have been half a dozen people on hand to meet him at the gate, and they would have had cars waiting outside the terminal doors. It didn’t surprise him. Since September 11, 2001, nothing seemed to go right at airports. The Muslim world had not only done the unthinkable, crashing their stolen aircraft into New York’s Twin Towers and the Pentagon, they had done the impossible, brought American air traffic to a halt.

Shannon had helped set up Operation Noble Eagle, the combat air patrols instituted on September 14 over major cities, and he had been in on the initial planning for Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. He had immediately tried to get his retirement deferred—it was no time for him to get out of uniform, not when the fanatical Muslim world had exposed its hand. But even in the heat of planning, his reputation for hating Muslim extremists preceded him, and the State Department let it be known that they did not want V. R. Shannon participating in the war on terror.

Maybe Anna was right. Maybe America was too soft. Well, the State Department was too soft. There was no doubt about that.

So here he was, shut down almost as tight as TWA, and unable to do anything about it. He berated himself for having been so obvious, but knew that there was no way he could have concealed his animosity—it was just too strong. Now he would have to find some other way to express it.

He glanced at his watch and down the curving road to the terminal. No car in view; he signaled to a cab and got in. The Boeing office where the meeting was scheduled was probably less than a mile away, but it would be twenty minutes before the cab could negotiate the departure from the terminal and the entrance to the tight security at the plant.

Shannon looked at his notes. They had invited him out to give a bit of a retrospective on the F-15 program from a pilot’s—and a general’s—point of view. But he wanted to cover some other things
that were important to the future. Shannon always spoke extemporaneously, from a list of bullets, and he quickly jotted down some ideas.

First, the F-16/F-15 programs—their hazards, successes, comparisons. The two programs complemented each other, but both competed for the declining Air Force budget and Shannon wanted to give the Boeing people some idea of how much the Air Force had appreciated concessions that had been made to keep the F-15 program going over the years.

Second, the Chinese launch of two Long March missiles, placing two satellites in orbit. This was a little out of the F-15 plant’s normal sphere of interest, and that’s why he wanted it included. McDonnell Douglas had once been at the forefront of the space race, and the advances of the Chinese made it seem like Boeing ought to reinvigorate the space effort in St. Louis. The top Boeing guys might not like this sort of suggestion, but he knew the middle management people would soak it up.

Third, Boeing’s Sonic Cruiser. He was going to take a little jab at them on this one; no one believed Boeing was serious about their proposed Sonic Cruiser airliner, which was supposed to be their trump card with Airbus. He wanted to test the waters and see what the response was. The Sonic Cruiser looked good—but he thought there might be a Hypersonic Cruiser before there would be a Sonic Cruiser.