Price of Duty

ELEVEN

Hunter “Boomer” Noble swiped his key card through the door lock, waited for it to beep softly in approval, and stepped into the vast, dimly lit hangar building. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he tugged off his gloves and unzipped his jacket. It felt good to come inside out of the icy, fifteen-knot breeze blowing across the long airport runway. This late in the year, it got decidedly chilly out on the high desert of north-central Nevada.

Gradually, his vision adapted, revealing more than a dozen aircraft of varying sizes and shapes. Hangar Five was used to store some of the many experimental planes designed and built by Sky Masters since it went into business. Most were the brainchildren of Jonathan Masters, the company’s founder and chief scientist. His tragic death five years before at the hands of domestic terrorists had left a hole in Sky Masters’ reputation for high-tech innovation and invention that Boomer and his boss, retired U.S. Army colonel Jason Richter, were trying hard to fill.

“But damn, boss, you left some mighty big shoes behind,” Boomer murmured, staring along the rows of plastic-shrouded aircraft. Jon Masters had been brilliant, maddening, quirky, childish, and a hell of a lot of fun to work with. From day to day, you never knew if he was going to come into the lab brimming over with a new concept for a single-stage-to-orbit space plane or with the roughed-out specs for a radar system so sensitive it could pick up the flutter of a bat’s wings at fifty nautical miles.

Jason Richter, Sky Masters’ chief executive officer, was incredibly talented and quirky as hell in his own way, but he would never be another Jon Masters. You only ran across a guy like that once in a generation or two, and then only if you were very lucky.

He glanced down at his phone. Speaking of Richter, where the heck was he? According to the text he’d sent asking Boomer to meet him in Hangar Five, he should already be here.

Three figures stepped out of the shadows on his right and came toward him into the light. Two were men, the third a young woman. Jason Richter was not with them.

“It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Noble,” a smooth, assured voice said.

With a sense of almost resigned incredulity, Boomer recognized Kevin Martindale. Jesus, he thought bitterly. Wasn’t there any level of security that could stop this guy? Or at least give some warning that he was on the way?

Martindale, a former president of the United States and current head of Scion, might still be one of Sky Masters’ best customers — no matter how many wrathful executive orders Stacy Anne Barbeau signed — but the ease with which he popped in and out of even the company’s most secure facilities was beginning to mightily piss Boomer off. He sighed. The ability to hack into the company’s text-messaging system was just one more item on a lengthening list of spooky stunts the Scion chief seemed to delight in.

“My apologies for the small deception,” Martindale said with a devilish twinkle. “But I thought making an appointment through regular channels might cause something of a stir in all the wrong places.”

With an effort, Boomer controlled his annoyance. He was pretty sure the other man took perverse pleasure in startling the crap out of him, so maybe it was just best to let his irritation go. “Yeah, that’s true enough, sir,” he said with a dutiful smile. “I guess being on President Barbeau’s ‘Most Hated’ list must cramp your normal travel schedule a little.”

“It is occasionally inconvenient,” Martindale agreed. “Still, my companions and I manage to make do.”

Boomer’s gaze moved past the gray-haired Scion CEO to a much taller, broad-shouldered young man. His smile widened into a genuine grin. “Hey, Brad! Nice to see you again. You’re looking pretty good for a stateless pirate or bloodthirsty mercenary or whatever nasty name the Russians are calling you these days.”

Brad McLanahan smiled back, though Boomer thought the expression seemed a bit forced. No real surprise there, he decided. It must suck to find yourself effectively exiled from the United States, able to return only surreptitiously, sliding along in the slippery wake of someone like Martindale.

“It’s a living, Boomer,” Brad said quietly. “Besides, the Iron Wolf Squadron is a top-notch outfit — and Poland is a great country, one well worth fighting for.”

That simple, heartfelt declaration earned Brad a dazzling smile from Martindale’s other companion, a slender, dark-haired young woman.

Boomer’s never-too-deeply-buried horndog instincts kicked into high gear. Now, there was one mighty fine-looking lady, he thought. He straightened up, squaring his own shoulders. “Why, hi there, ma’am,” he drawled, sticking out a hand to shake hers. “The name’s Hunter Noble, but you can call me ‘Boomer.’ I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around this joint, except when I’m flying one of our S-19 Midnight shuttles to space and back.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “This is Major Nadia Rozek,” he said. “She’s in the Polish Special Forces, a military aide to President Wilk, and his personal liaison with the squadron.” He leaned in close and dropped a very firm hand on Boomer’s shoulder. “And mine,” he said quietly.

The young woman laughed. Her bright blue-gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, I am quite sure that Dr. Noble will be a perfect gentleman whenever he is around me.”

“Because if I’m not, Brad here will kick my sorry rocket-jock ass?” Boomer asked, smiling back.

With a predatory grin of her own, Nadia Rozek shook her head. “Oh no,” she said sweetly in lightly accented English. “I will.”

“Now that we’ve settled exactly who will kick whose ass, could we move on to slightly more serious matters?” Martindale said, mildly exasperated.

“Such as why you’re poking your nose into this hangar full of old X-planes?” Boomer asked.

Martindale nodded. “On the nose, Dr. Noble.” He turned and waved a hand toward the assembled aircraft. “We’re here to check out one of Dr. Masters’s orphans. One of his many advanced aviation projects that never found a loving home.”

Orphans, huh? Boomer frowned slightly. That probably was the way most people would see the planes stored in this hangar.

Many of the aircraft, sensors, weapons, and other equipment invented by Jon Masters were in active service, either with the U.S. Armed Forces or with Scion and the Polish-allied Iron Wolf Squadron. But a lot of his designs had never made it into full production. They’d fallen victim to government and corporate budget cuts, to behind-the-scenes political maneuvering, or to cutthroat competition from the larger, more established U.S. defense contractors.

It was incredibly expensive to move any aircraft design off the drawing board and turn it into something you could actually fly. From a strictly corporate point of view, every dollar sunk into any canceled project was money down the drain. Which was why Helen Kaddiri, Jon Masters’s ex-wife and the company’s current president and chairman, often called Hangar Five “Never-Never Land” or “the Warehouse of Expensive Dreams.”

Boomer’s own view was very different. He saw the hangar as a place of as-yet-unrealized potential, as a well of innovation just waiting to be tapped. The experimental aircraft stored here incorporated revolutionary design concepts and technologies — concepts and technologies that could be applied to a wide range of new projects in the years ahead. Sure, maybe these particular prototypes and test planes hadn’t found favor with the powers that were, but that didn’t mean the resources expended on them had been wasted.

Which was probably why he suddenly wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of seeing Martindale get his perfectly manicured hands on one of them. Scion’s CEO had a purely utilitarian view of aircraft and weapons systems. They were just tools to be used, discarded, and even destroyed so long as he achieved his goals.

Boomer could sort of understand that attitude when it came to planes or weapons that were in production, finally rolling off the assembly lines after years of flight and systems testing. But every aircraft in this hangar was literally one of a kind. All the blueprints and design specs in the world could never come close to capturing the hard-earned knowledge each represented.

“Which particular X-plane are you interested in?” he asked reluctantly.

Martindale turned to Brad. “It’s your show now, Captain,” he said.

“Yes, sir!” Eagerly, the younger man moved deeper into the hangar. Boomer and the others tagged after him.

Brad stopped next to one of the plastic-covered shapes. “This baby,” he said, pointing. “This is the one we want.”

The aircraft he’d indicated was about the size of a Gulfstream 450 business jet, around the size needed to carry twelve to sixteen passengers or two-plus tons of cargo. But that was where its resemblance to any commercial design ended. It had a batwing configuration with four jet engines buried in the wing’s upper surface.

Boomer’s eyes narrowed in surprise.

Designated the XCV-62 Ranger, this was Jon Masters’s design to meet a U.S. Air Force call for a stealthy, short takeoff and landing (STOL) tactical airlifter. While other companies like Northrup Grumman, Boeing, and Lockheed noodled around with scale-model prototypes to prove their concepts, Sky Masters had jumped straight to building a flyable test aircraft. But Masters’s untimely death and later the Barbeau administration’s vendetta against any company connected to Scion, Martindale, and Patrick McLanahan had strangled their bid in its cradle.

He looked back at Brad. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Nope.”

Boomer frowned. “Why not use the XV-40 Sparrowhawk we already sold you? That tilt-rotor’s a sweet ride and it can land practically anywhere.”

“Sure,” Brad agreed. “But it doesn’t have anywhere near the operational range we’re likely to need.” He went on, ticking off his reasons on his fingers. “Plus, it’s not fast enough or maneuverable enough. And finally, with those big rotors spinning, her radar cross section is so high there’s no way the Sparrowhawk can penetrate a high-threat air-defense environment undetected.”

Still frowning, Boomer turned back to Martindale. “You guys still have at least one of the XC-57 Losers your guys flew in Iraq back in 2010, don’t you? The Loser might have been designed as a bomber, but you know the mods I made turned it into one heck of an effective cargo airlifter or troop transport. Plus, one ugly mother or not, it’s got all the range and airspeed you could possibly want.”

“Unfortunately, the XC-57 is far too big for the mission we may have in mind. And it’s certainly far too visible to enemy radars,” Martindale said patiently. “Remember, Dr. Masters originally designed the Loser to fire hypersonic missiles well outside the range of any enemy air defenses. Stealth was the last thing on his mind.”

Brad cut back in. “Look, Boomer, here’s the deal: we’re looking for an aircraft just large enough to carry a team deep into hostile territory and set down on a small, improvised runway. And we need to be able to do that, and get out again, without being detected.” He patted the aircraft beside him. “The XCV-62 here fits the bill perfectly.”

“If it’s as capable as Dr. Masters claimed it would be, that is,” Martindale added. He shrugged. “Of course, if that was all just marketing hype—”

“The Ranger is a damned fine flying machine,” Boomer said firmly. He stared hard at the other man. “Though whether Brad’s right about it being perfect for your needs depends pretty heavily on exactly what kind of cockeyed scheme you’re planning now. Care to fill me in?”

Seeing the cool, impassive expression on Martindale’s face, he sighed. “Never mind. Forget I asked. Most guys who say, ‘If I tell you that, I’ll have to kill you’ are just bullshitting. But in your case, I figure you’d only be issuing a clear statement of intent.”

Brad and Nadia both grinned at his quip. So did Martindale, though in his case Boomer was pretty sure it was more out of politeness and not genuine amusement. Like many powerful men, the former president rarely enjoyed being the target of someone else’s wit.

“Anyway, this is all academic,” Boomer went on. He shook his head. “There’s no way Helen Kaddiri is going to let you fly that XCV-62 out of here. At least not at a price you can afford. Sky Masters poured more than a hundred million dollars into the Ranger prototype. I don’t care how much backing you’ve got from the Polish government, no one’s going to approve paying that much for a single aircraft.”

“Helen’s a shrewd businesswoman,” Martindale told him. “Shrewd enough to know the difference between a hundred million in sunk costs gathering dust in a hangar and thirty million dollars or so in cold, hard cash — or at least its digital equivalent.”

Boomer stared at him. “She took thirty million? For the Ranger prototype? You’re shitting me.”

“Not in the least,” Martindale assured him, smiling smugly. “Dr. Kaddiri has already verbally approved our acquisition. You can confirm that with her if you like.” He smiled thinly. “But as a precaution, I would recommend finding somewhere safe from FBI, CIA, and NSA eavesdropping before you do.”

“Yeah, well there’s the biggest roadblock of all,” Boomer pointed out. “Now that Barbeau’s on the warpath against Scion, we’ve got the feds crawling over our facilities day and night — inventorying every piece of flyable hardware we own. With special attention being paid to advanced aircraft like the Ranger.”

He turned toward Brad. “It already took a hell of a lot of finagling to smuggle out those last couple of CIDs your Iron Wolf guys needed, and those robots are small enough to conceal inside a shipping crate full of other crap.”

“Your point being?” Martindale asked.

Boomer shrugged his shoulders. “That even if you’re planning to strip the XCV-62 all the way down to its component parts, there’s no way you’ll get it out of Battle Mountain past the feds, let alone all the way to Poland.”

“Sure there is,” Brad said, with total confidence.

Boomer eyed him suspiciously. “How?”

“Nadia and I will fly it out.”

Boomer felt his jaw drop open. Recovering fast, he shook his head. “Like hell you will.”

“Why not?” Brad asked.

“For one thing, no matter how shit hot a pilot you are, you can’t just hop into an airplane you’ve never flown before and handle it safely.”

Brad shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s what full-motion computer simulators are for, Boomer. We can reconfigure one of the flight simulators in Hangar Two for the XCV-62 and squeeze in a few hours later tonight — when all the wannabe commercial-jet trainees are out in the bars or in bed.”

Boomer nodded slowly. Much as he hated to admit it, that part of Brad’s scheme made sense. Sky Masters owned some of the most advanced full-flight simulators in the world. And a sizable chunk of its revenues came from the fees its instructors and computer programs earned by teaching prospective pilots how to fly everything from two-seater turboprops to superadvanced fifth-generation fighter jets like the F-22 Raptor and the F-35 Lightning II. Plus, Brad had already proved himself a fast learner when it came to flying.

Then he shook his head decisively. “Even if you can figure out how to fly the beast in time, there’s still no way you can pull this stunt off.”

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Brad said, deepening his voice.

“Very funny, Darth McLanahan,” Boomer retorted. “Look, Brad… the Ranger is reasonably stealthy, okay? But against radar. It’s not freaking invisible to the naked eye.”

“So?” Brad asked innocently.

“So as soon as you taxi out onto the runway past those hangar doors, the friendly local FBI agents camped out on our doorstep are going to start screaming bloody murder. And once that happens, you are toast. Between the USAF Aggressor Squadron down at Nellis and the Navy Top Gun gang at Fallon, you’ll have F-18s and F-16s coming down hard on your ass before you fly a hundred miles downrange.”

“No, we won’t,” Brad said. He looked at Boomer with the faint hint of a barely suppressed grin. “Before Sky Masters built the Ranger, you put together a couple of full-scale design mock-ups, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Boomer said slowly, still not sure where this was heading. “That’s standard aerospace-engineering practice. Mock-ups let us check things like aerodynamics and refine the human-factors stuff like figuring out the most efficient cockpit layouts.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Well, sure. You know how Jon was. He never threw anything away if he could help it,” Boomer said, shrugging. “So every piece of crap from the Ranger project is crated up in long-term storage somewhere at our facility here.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Patience, Dr. Noble,” Nadia interjected with smile of her own. “All will be made clear soon enough.”

Brad thanked her with a flick of his eyes and went on. “The XCV-62’s engines are standard commercial types, right?”

Boomer nodded. “Yeah, they’re off-the-shelf Rolls-Royce Tay 620-15 turbofans. You know the Sky Masters philosophy: never reinvent the wheel if you don’t have to. Designing new engines for every airframe just adds cost, complexity, and delay.”

“So if you had to, you could scrounge up some spares, right?” Brad asked.

“Sure. Why?”

Brad broke into an unrestrained, boyish grin. “You mean you haven’t figured out my incredibly cool plan yet?”

Boomer winced. There was almost nothing he hated worse than being the last one to a party. He adopted an old man’s quavering tone. “Show a little mercy to an aging wreck, okay? I’m hitting thirty-five later this year. I may still have the body of a Greek god, but my brain may be going soft.”

At least that bit earned him a delighted laugh from Nadia. Even if she was obviously attached at the hip to one of his friends, it was nice to know she was paying attention.

“Fair enough, old man,” Brad said, grinning even wider. “See, here’s how I see things playing out…”

While he listened to the younger man run through the details of his plan, Boomer found himself shaking his head in awestruck wonder.

When Brad finished, he whistled softly. “Man, up to now, I never figured I’d meet anyone more willing to push the envelope on seriously, bad-to-the-bone, balls-to-the-wall crazy than General Patrick McLanahan. I guess that means insanity really is genetic.”

For just a split second, Brad’s smile slipped.

Oops, Boomer thought. He’d hit some kind of nerve there. He wondered what it was.

“Does that mean you’ll help us?” Brad asked quietly.

“Oh, hell, yeah,” Boomer said, clapping Brad on the shoulder to try to get past the moment. “You can definitely count me in. Because, I mean, how could I possibly pass up the chance to wind up in federal prison on a count of grand theft of a top-secret stealth aircraft?”