The Minotaur (4 page)

When he awoke it was two in the morning and the lights were
off. Callie had covered him with a blanket. He went upstairs, un-
dressed, and crawled into bed with her.

The wind whipped the occasional raindrops at a steep angle and
drove the gray clouds at a furious pace as Jake and Callie strolled
on the beach. They were out for their usual morning walk, which they
took rain or shine, fair weather or foul. Both wore shorts and were
barefoot; they carried the flip-flops they had worn to traverse the
crushed-seashell mix that covered the street in front of their house
that led to the beach. Both were wearing old sweatshirts over
sweaters. Callie’s hair whipped in the wind.

Jake critically examined the contours of sand around the piles
that supported a huge house some ignorant optimist had con-
structed on the dune facing the beach. The first hurricane, Jake
suspected, would have the owner tearing his hair. The sand looked
firm now. Shades obscured all the windows. The house was empty.
Only three or four other people were visible on the beach.

Birds scurried along the sand, racing after retreating waves and
probing furiously for their breakfast. Gulls rode the air currents
with their noses pointed out to sea. He watched the gulls and tried
to decide if the Gentle Lady could soar with them. The moving air
had to have some kind of an upward vector over the sand. Perhaps
if he kept the plane above the dune. The dune was low, though. He
would see.

Callie’s hand found his and he gave it a squeeze. He led her
down into the surf, where the ice-cold water swirled about their
feet. “Toad Tarkington said to say hi.”

“He called?”

“Stopped by yesterday afternoon. He’s going to the Pentagon
too.”

“Oh.”

“If you teach summer school, we’ll see more of each other this
summer,” he said. “We’ll be together every evening at the apart-
ment in Washington as well as every weekend here.”

Her hand gripped his fiercely and she turned to face him.

He grinned. “Monday morning, off I go, wearing my uniform,
vacation over—“

She hugged him and her lips made it impossible to continue to
speak. Her hair played across his cheeks as the ebbing surf tugged
at the sand under him.

3

At was almost 9 A.M. when the
subway train—the Metro—ground to a halt at the Pentagon sta-
tion. Jake Grafton joined the civilian and military personnel exit-
ing and followed the thin crowd along the platform. Rush hour for
about 23.000 people who worked in this sprawling five-story building
was long over. The little handful that Jake accompanied seemed to
be made up of stragglers and visiting civilians.

Just ahead of Jake a man and a woman in casual clothes led two
small children. When they came to the long escalator, the kids
squealed joyfully and started to run up the moving stair. Each
parent grabbed a small arm, then a hand.

The sloping staircase was poorly lighted. As he looked at the
dim lights, Jake noticed the plaster on the ceiling was peeling away
in spots.

At the head of the escalator two corridors led in, one from either
side, and more people joined the procession, which trudged ever
upward on a long, wide staircase toward the lights above.

At the head of the stair was a large hall, and the stream of
people broke up, some heading for the mam eotrance, some mov-
ing cautiously toward the visitors’ tour area. The couple that Jake
had followed led their progeny in that direction with an admoni-
tion to behave. Jake approached the two Department of Defense
policemen scrutinizing passes at the security booth. “I have an
appointment with Vice Admiral Henry.”

“Do you have a building pass, sir?”

“No.”

“Use those phones right over there”—he pointed at telephones
by the tour windows—“and someone will come down to escort
you.”

‘Thanks.” Jake called and a yeoman answered. Five minutes,
the yeoman said.

Jake stood and watched the people. Men and women wearing
the uniforms of all four services came and went, most walking
quickly, carrying briefcases, folders, gym bags and small brown
paper bags that must have contained their lunches. People leaving
the interior of the building walked by the security desk without a
glance from the two armed DOD policemen.

“Captain Grafton?”

A small black woman in civilian clothes stood at his elbow.
“Yes?” he said.

“I’m your escort.” She smiled and flashed her pass at the guards
and motioned Jake toward the metal detector that stood to the left
of the security booth. He walked through it. nothing beeped, and
the woman led him through the open doors into another huge
hallway, this one lined with shops. Directly across from the en-
trance was a large gedunk—a store selling snacks, magazines and
other sundries.

“I was expecting a yeoman.”

“The phone started ringing and he sent me down.”

As she led him along the corridor, he asked, “How long did it
take you to learn your way around in here?”

“Oh, I’m still learning-I’ve only been here five years. It’s confus-
ing at times.”

They went up a long ramp that opened onto the A-Ring, the
central corridor that overlooked the five-acre interior courtyard.
As they proceeded around the ring, Jake glanced through the win-
dows at the grass and huge trees and the snack bar in the center.

“Have you ever been here before?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Jake Grafton. “I’ve always managed to avoid it.”

After she had gone what seemed like a hundred yards or so, she
turned right and ascended a staircase with a ninety-degree bend in
it and at the top turned right. They were atill on the A-Ring, but
on the fourth level. After another fifty feet she veered left down a
corridor, then right onto another corridor that zagged away at an
angle. “Now we’re walking back toward the outside of the build-
ing,” she said. “There are five concentric rings in the Pentagon.
The inner is the A-Ring, and next is B, and so forth, with the outer
being E. They are connected by ten radial corridors like the spokes
of a wagon wheel. It’s supposed to be efficient but it does confuse
newcomers.” She grinned.

This corridor had little to commend it. It was lit by fluorescent
lights, and over half the tubes were dark. The walls were bare. Not
a picture or a poster. Dusty, tied-down furniture was stacked along
one wall. It looked as if it had been there since the Elsenhower
administration. Catching Jake’s glance, the guide said, “It’s been
there for three months. Some of the offices got new furniture. This
is the old stuff.” The piles were composed of sofas and chairs and
scarred and battered gumnetal-gray desks. “These places on the
ceiling where the plywood is?” Jake looked. The plaster was fall-
ing off from water seepage from the roof and asbestos was being
released.

At the end of the corridor stood a magnificent large painting of
Admiral Dewey’s flagship, Olympia, entering Manila Bay. Spots
illuminated it The guide turned right and Jake followed. The over-
head blue mantel proclaimed: “Naval Aviation.” Here the hallway
was well lit, painted a yellowish pastel and decorated with pictures
of past and present naval and marine aircraft. This straight stretch
was long, a third as long as the outside, of the building. Almost at
the end, his guide turned left into a large office. The sign over the
door said: “Assistant, Chief of Naval Operations, Air Warfare.”
Beside the door was a blue sign that read: “OP-05.” This was the
office of the senior U.S. Naval Aviator, Mr. Naval Aviation.

The room was large and contained numerous windows facing
south across the huge parking lot toward Arlington. Wooden
desks, blue drapes, wainscoting on the walls.

A commander greeted Jake. “I’m a little early,” Jake said, glanc-
ing at his watch.

“I’ll see if the admiral’s free.” He was. Jake was escorted in
through a swinging double saloon door.

Vice Admiral Tyler Henry rose from his chair and came around
his desk wearing a warm smile to greet Jake.

“Good to see you again, Captain.” The men had met on several
occasions in the past, but Jake was unsure if Henry would remem-
ber. After he pumped Jake’s hand the admiral motioned to a chair.
“Please, be seated. Have any trouble getting here this morning?”

“I rode the Metro this morning, sir,” Jake said as the admiral
seated himself behind his desk. It was dark wood, perhaps mahog-
any. A matching table extended outward from the main desk,
forming the leg of a T. It was at this table Jake sat.

“Good idea. Parking places are all for car pools and flag of-
ficers.” He pushed the button on his intercom box. “Chief, did
Commander Gadd sweep the office this morning?”

“Yessir,” was the tinny reply. •»

“Are the window buzzers on?”

“Yessir.”

“Please close my door. . . . Window buzzers are little security
gizmos to vibrate the glass. Supposed to foil parabolic mikes, but
who knows?” the admiral explained. “The damn things play wait-
ing room music, and I can’t hear noises like that anymore.” Jake
listened hard. He could just hear the beat and a trumpet.

The admiral leaned back comfortably in his chair as the door to
the office closed behind Jake. “Soundproof,” he muttered, then
smiled. “You look surprised.”

Jake smiled, his embarrassment showing. “Seems like a lot of
trouble to go to just to talk to the guy who’s going to be designing
the new officer fitness report form.”

The admiral smiled broadly. “That job has been floating around
with no takers. No, we have another project for you that is going to
demand expertise of a different sort.”

Jake was having trouble holding his eyebrows still. “I thought,”
he said softly, “that I was a pariah around here.”

The smile disappeared from Admiral Henry’s face, “I’m not go-
ing to bullshit you. Captain. Last fall when you disobeyed a direct
order from a vice admiral, you may have torpedoed any chance
you had of ever getting promoted again. Now with hindsight and
all, most people can see you did the right thing. But the military
won’t work if people go around telling flag officers to get fucked.
For any reason, justified or not. And the congressmen and politicos
from SECDEFs office who interfered with a navy investigation of
that incident made you no friends.”

He raised his hand when Jake opened his mouth to speak. “I
know, I know, you had nothing whatever to do with that and you
couldn’t control the politicians even if you tried. No one can. They
go any damn place they want with hobnail boots. Still, they raised
hackles when they implied the navy couldn’t or wouldn’t be fair in
its treatment of a naval officer.”

“I understand.”

The admiral nodded. “I suspect you do. Your record says you’re
one of our best, which is why I asked for you. We need a shit-hot
attack pilot with a ton of smarts and a gilt-edge reputation who can
waltz a little project through the minefields. You’re him.”

Jake flexed his hands and rearranged his bottom in his chair. “I
didn’t think my reputation was quite that shiny. And I’ve never
had any Pentagon duty before.”

Henry pretended not to have heard. “Do you want to hear about
the job?”

“I’m just a little surprised, sir. Shocked might be a better word.
I’d thought . . .” He punched the air. “What’s the Job?”

“You’ll be working for Vice Admiral Roger Dunedin. He’s
NAVAIR.” NAVAIR was Naval Air Systems Command, the pro-
curement arm of naval aviation. “He needs a new program man-
ager for the Advanced Tactical Aircraft, also known as the ATA.
If and when we get it, it’ll be the A-12.”

Jake Grafton couldn’t suppress a grin.

The admiral laughed. “The fact we have this project is unclassi-
fied. ATA, A-12, those are the only two things unclass in the whole
program, and those two terms were just recently declassified. The
project is black.” Jake had heard about “black” programs, so
highly classified that even the existence of the program was some-
times a secret.

The admiral rapped a knuckle on the desk. “So far, it appears to
be one of our best-kept military secrets.” His voice fell to a mur-
mur. “No way of being sure, of course.”

Henry fixed his eyes on Jake. “The A-12 is our follow-on air-
plane for the A-6.” The A-6 Intruder was the aircraft carriers’
main offensive weapon, an all-weather medium attack plane.

“But I thought the A-6 was going to remain in the inventory
into the next century. That was the justification for the A-6G proj-
ect—new graphite-composite wings and updated avionics.”

“The A-6 had to have the new wings just to stay in the air, and
the A-6G avionics are going into the A-12. We were trying the new
gee-whiz gizmos out in the A-6G, until they canceled it.” The
A-6G had died under the budget cutters’ knives. Henry smiled
wickedly. “The A-12 will have something even better. Athena. Do
you know Greek mythology?”

“A smattering. Wasn’t Athena the goddess of war, the protector
of warriors?”

“Yep, and she had a quality that we are going to give to our new
plane.” He paused and raised one finger aloft. When he grinned
like that his eyebrows matched the curve of his Ups- “She could
make herself invisible.”

Jake just stared.

“Stealth technology- The air force built a land-based fighter:
that’s first-generation stealth technology. Then came new paint
and radar-absorbent materials and the flying-wing shape—that’s
second-generation.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “We’re
building an all-weather, go-anywhere anytime carrier-based attack
plane that will equal or exceed the A-6 in range, speed and
payload, and carry advanced sensors that will make the A-6 look
blind as a cornfield scarecrow. These sensors—anyway, they’re a
whole new generation beyond the A-6. And the A-12 will have
third-generation stealth technology—Athena—which will make it
truly invisible to radar. A stealth Super-Intruder, if you wid.
That’s the A-12.” Henry’s eyebrows danced.

“And that, my friend, is the secret”

The admiral smacked his hand on the desk. The gold rings encir-
cling his sleeve attracted Jake’s eye. ‘The Russians don’t know
about it. Yet. If we can get this thing to sea before they steal the
technology and figure out how to counter it, we’ve pretty well
guaranteed that there won’t be a conventional war with the Soviets
for at least the next ten years. Their ships would be defenseless
against a stealth Intruder.”

Admiral Henry sighed. “We’re trying to build one of these
things, anyway. You’re replacing Captain Harold Strong, who was
killed in a car wreck a month ago. We had to wait to get you, but
now, by God, your ass is ours.”

Jake Grafton sat stunned. “But how—all the weapons will have
to be carried externally and they’ll reflect energy—how will you
get around that?”

The corners of Henry’s lips turned up until his mouth formed a
V and his eyebrows danced. “You’re going to enjoy this job. Cap-
tain.”

“A real job,” Jake said, his relief obvious. “And I thought I was
just going to be designing fitness report forms.”

“Oh,” Henry boomed. “If you want you can work on that in
your spare time. Don’t know when you’d sleep, though-” He
turned serious. “Things are really starting to move. We’ve got two
prototypes about ready to fly—constructed by two different manu-
facturers—and we must get them evaluated and award the produc-
tion contract. We’ve got to quit noodling and get this show on the
road. We need airplanes. That’s why you’re here.”

After a glance at his watch, Henry reached for his intercom. His
hand hovered near it. “Start checking in,” he said hurriedly. “Go
get your paperwork done. They’ve got some orders for you some-
place; you’ll have to find them. Maybe at NAVAIR, which is over
at Crystal City. Then you might go around the corner and intro-
duce yourself to the project coordinator. Commander Rob Knight.
He’s here today, I think. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow morning.
And then I want to hear all about the attack on United States and
how you started El Hakim on the road to Paradise.”

He keyed the intercom and started talking as he shooed Jake out
with his left hand. Jake didn’t even get a chance to say thanks.

Crystal City, Jake was informed by Henry’s aide, was across the
Pentagon’s south parking lot, on the other side of the highway,
southeast of the Pentagon. NAVAIR was in buildings JP-1 and
JP-2, in the northern portion of the Crystal City office complex. He
wandered out into the corridors and walked along slightly dazed.
A real job! A big job!

Although the aide had suggested the shuttle bus, Jake decided to
walk. After asking an air force officer in the parking lot which set
of tall buildings was which and getting a careful sighting across a
pointing finger, Jake began walking. The wind was chilly, but not
intolerably so. Under 1-395, across a four-lane boulevard dodging
traffic, under U.S. Route 1, the hike took about ten minutes. He
accosted a pedestrian and building Jefferson Plaza 1 was pointed
out. In he went, punched the elevator button and after waiting
what seemed to be an inordinately long time, rode to the twelfth
floor, the top one.

They did have a set of orders. It took the civilian secretary five
minutes to find them, and in the interim Jake visited with three
officers he knew from his shipboard days. With the orders in his
hand, the secretary called a yeoman, who put the captain to work
filling out forms.

Jake was eating lunch in Gus’s Place, a commercial cafeteria on
the ground floor of the complex, when Toad Tarkington spotted
him. Toad came over, tray in hand. “Saw you sitting over here by
yourself, CAG. May I join you?”

Jake moved his tray and Toad off-loaded his food onto the table.

A group of junior officers twenty feet away began to whisper and
glance in their direction.

“How has your morning gone?”

“Same old stuff,” Toad announced as he placed his large brown
manila envelope full of orders and forms on his chair and carefully
sat on it “Got my picture taken for my permanent building pass,
which I’m supposed to pick up this afternoon. I must have signed
my name fifty times this morning. Every naval activity between
here and Diego Garcia will soon receive notification in triplicate
that I can be found sitting on the bull’s-eye at this critical nerve
center of the nation’s defenses, ready to save the free world from
the forces of evil.” Toad made a gesture of modesty and slowly
unfolded his napkin.

“I hear we’re going to be putting that new officer fitness report
form together, though just why the heck they got the two greatest
aerial warriors of the age over here at NAVAIR to do that sort of
beats me- Ours not to reason why . . .” He glanced at Jake to get
his reaction as he smoothed the napkin on his lap.

Grafton sipped his coffee, then took another bite of tuna salad.
“But what the hey,” Toad continued cheerfully. “Flying, walk-
ing, or sitting on my ass, they pay me just the same. Do you know
there are 3.4 women in Washington for every man? This is the
place. Bachelor city. Sodom on the Potomac. A studly young lad
ought to be able to do pretty well with all these lonely females
seeking to satisfy their social and sexual needs. Mr. Accommoda-
tion, that’s me. I figure with my salary—“

“The sexual revolution is over,” Jake muttered as he forked
more tuna salad. “You missed it.”

“I’m carrying on a guerrilla campaign, sir. Indomitable and un-
conquerable, that’s the ol’ Horny Toad, even in the age of latex. I
just dress up like the Michelin man and go for it. A fellow could
always spring a leak, I guess, but the bee must go from flower to
flower. That’s the natural order of things.” He chewed thought-
fully. “Have you noticed how those people over there keep sneak-
ing looks at you”

“Yeah,” Jake didn’t took around. Although the room was filled
with civilians and uniformed men and womea eating and carrying
trays and visiting over coffee, the two junior officers two tables
away had been glancing over and speaking softly since Jake sat
down.

“Ifs been like that all day with me,” Toad said with a hint of
despair in his voice, then sent another mouthful of food down
behind his belt buckle. “At first I thought I had forgotten my
pants, but now I think it’s the hero bit. Asked two admirers for
dates this morning and got two yeses. Not bad for a Monday.”

“It’ll pass. Next week you’ll have to spell your name twice just
to get into the men’s head. How’s your leg?”

“Got a couple girders in it, sir. One of them is a metal rod about
a foot long. But I passed my flight physical. Those Israeli doctors
did a good job. Aches some occasionally.”

“We were damned lucky.”

“That’s an understatement,” Toad said, and proceeded to fill
Jake in on how he had spent the last five months.

After lunch Jake hiked back across the streets and parking lots to
the Pentagon- His temporary pass so excited the security cop that
he nodded his head a quarter inch as Jake walked by.

Commander Rob Knight was several years younger than Jake
and had more hair, although it was salt-and-pepper. He wore steel-
rimmed glasses and beamed when Jake introduced himself.

“Heard about your little adventure in the Med last year. Cap-
tain. It’s been pretty dull without El Hakim to kick around,”
Knight grinned easily. He had an air of quiet confidence that Jake
found reassuring. Like all career officers getting acquainted,
Knight and Jake told each other in broad terms of their past tours.
Knight had spent most of his operational career in A-6 outfits, and
bad been ordered to this billet after a tour as commanding officer
of an A-6 squadron.

“I came by to find out everything you know about the A-12,”
Jake said lightly.

Knight chuckled. “A real kidder, you are. I’ve been soaking up
info for a year and a half and I haven’t even scratched the surface,
And you see I’m only one guy. The A-6 coordinator sits here
beside me. and on the other side of the room we have the F-14 and
F/A-18 guys. One for each airplane. We don’t have a secretary or a
yeoman. We do our own mail. We make our own coffee. I spend
about a third of my time in this office, which is where I do the
unclass stuff and confidential. Another third of my time is spent
upstairs in the vault working on classified stuff. I have a desk up
there with another computer and safes. The rest of my time is
spent over at NAVAIR, in your shop, trying to see what you guys
are up to.”

“Just one guy.” Jake was disappointed, and it showed. He felt a
little like the kid who met Santa for the first time and found he was
old and fat and smelled of reindeer shit. “One guy! Just exactly
what is your job?”

“I’m the man with the money. I get it from Rear Admiral Cos-
tello. He’s the Aviation Plans and Programs honcho. He tells me
what we want the plane to do. We draw up the requirements. You
build the plane we say we want, you sell it to me, and I write the
checks. That’s it in a nutshell.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Simple as brain surgery. There’s an auditor that comes around
from time to time, and he’s going to cuff me and take me away one
of these days. I can see it in his eyes.”

They talked for an hour, or rather Knight talked and Jake lis-
tened, with his hands on his thighs. Knight had a habit of tapping
aimlessly on the computer terminal on his desk, striking keys at
random. When Jake wasn’t looking at Knight he was looking at
the Sports Illustrated swimsuit girl over Knight’s desk (April 1988
was a very good month), or the three airplane pictures, or the
Farrah Fawcett pinup over the A-6 guru’s desk. Between the two
desks sat a flung cabinet with combination locks on every drawer-
Similar cabinets filled the room. Twice Knight rooted through an
open cabinet drawer and handed Jake classified memos to read, but
not to keep. Each was replaced in its proper file as soon as Jake
handed it back.