cantilevered section to the rear of the craft that, when lowered, made it look even more unstable, and there was nothing to show what was in that section or what purpose it served.
The great bulk of the file was table after table of test data, all taken in a laboratory setting: wind tunnel data to Mach one, vibration and stress tables on wings and fuselage, thermal and electrical conductivity data over selected sections of the aircraft. There were no records of any performance testing, not even a record of a flight.
What am I supposed to do? Come up with a plan to put all this crap together so it says something? Why would anybody want to sabotage such a messed up project?
Eric closed the file in disgust, and took himself to town for dinner at The Planet. He had a Saturn burger with fries, and someone who had been at Nataly’s party tried to interest him in buying a timeshare. When Eric politely declined, the man told him about a program at the Creative Life Center just outside of town. Some expert on UFOs was speaking there. It would be an opportunity to meet some of the new age crowd, many of whom were devoted patrons of the arts. Perhaps Eric could salvage a bad day by developing his cover as a man of art.
He drove to the center after dark. A sharp turn off Schnabley Hill Road took him to an interesting structure built in a sort of vertical helix with modern art appointments in bronze and glass. He walked up a spiral walkway from the parking lot, bought his twenty-dollar ticket at the door, and got one of the last seats in a large lecture hall filled with people talking loudly. A man was introduced, claiming to be a physicist. He talked for an hour about UFOs from other planets and other universes, the many groups of aliens now living among humans, their various agendas, some good, some bad. Eric fought to listen; it was all so absurd. The man showed UFO photographs, most of which could be staged with little imagination. When photos were shown of flying saucers sitting in the front yard of a man’s house during a Swiss visitation, Eric had to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing out loud.
Midway through the talk, he had a strange feeling he was being watched. Eric turned around to look over his shoulder and saw Nataly Hegel standing at the back of the room, arms folded. She’d been frowning, but when she saw him looking at her she smiled, and he quickly faced forward again. His heart thumped forcefully, and he heard little of the rest of the talk. After it ended, perhaps she’d have coffee with him.
When the talk ended he looked for Nataly, but she had left.
Eric went home that night feeling strangely depressed.
* * * * * * *
Leon fumed all the way back to his house. If that was a phony snit, then he did a good job of it, but I’m not so easily fooled, Mister Price.
He went straight to his desk, sat down at his computer and dialed in a series of numbers on his telephone. The machine buzzed three times, a pause, then three more times.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Leon. Can we talk?”
“Yes,” said Colonel Alexander Davis.
“I just talked to Price. What in the hell do you think you’re doing? Price just filed a complaint because you won’t give him base access, and we could have a whole platoon of deep ops people here in a day. Are you crazy?”
“I’m trying to find a saboteur, Leon. I don’t need a new face here to probe around and warn the bastard.”
Leon’s voice rose in pitch. “There could be a dozen new faces at your base in days because of your hair trigger ego. If you’d think for just one minute you’d see your suspicions are telling you that Price has been sent to do exactly what you want done. My bet is he’s better at it than any ten men you can put together.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s right, you don’t think! Shut up and listen for once! An NSA team will sniff out our arrangement in a week. With only one man we have some control. I’ll call my boss; reinforce your claim that analysts don’t need total base access, but that if Eric is also here for the security problem his orders need to be clarified so that access can be granted. If they deny he’s here for that purpose, we’re in trouble. We’ll know quick, and I’ll call you back.”
“You spooks need to be educated about military protocol,” said Davis. “That’s what caused this problem.”
“Fuck your military protocol. You caused this problem,” said Leon, “and it had better not happen again. You like to talk about accidents. Be careful one doesn’t happen to you.”
Leon stabbed the keyboard and broke the connection before Davis could answer the threat with one of his own.
He sat there for half an hour, composing thoughts, rehearsing arguments, then dialed Gil on his cell phone. He was prepared for tough arguing, maybe even a chewing out for not properly preparing Davis.
What he got was a cheerful Gil who quickly agreed to clarify Eric’s orders and be totally open about the man’s assignments. He even gave Leon a small pat on the back for moving so rapidly to remove a logjam in the operation.
Leon hung up, relieved but confused. There’d been no real discussion. It had all been too easy.
Thinking about it kept him awake that night.
* * * * * * *
“Our man is in, Mister President. There was a problem with the details of his orders, but it’s all taken care of. I’ll bring you summaries of his briefings as they come in.”
“That’s good news, Gil. Let’s get this show on the road for sure. I want to see that plane flying by the end of the year.”
“You’ll have it, Mister President,” said Gil.
CHAPTER EIGHT
REVELATIONS
There was little he could do in the way of a plan, but in two days he organized the existing laboratory data into a coherent state through graphical display in three dimensions. Stress tolerances and conductivities were shown as colored surfaces superimposed on an external drawing of the aircraft, and he added a red, variable surface showing applied stress from the wind tunnel work. There were no anomalies to be seen, the aircraft perfectly designed mechanically up to mach-one, but like a bumblebee it was totally unstable aerodynamically, another fly-by-wire design. The cantilevered section aft remained a total mystery to him, and was first on a list of questions included in his report for Davis if he was ever allowed on the base again.
He didn’t have to worry about it for long. It was nine in the morning, his second day in the little office near the south edge of town. Once upon a time it had been a workingman’s bar, and Leon swore that in the heat of summer the walls sweated beer, the odor impossible to get rid of.
Eric was proofing the final draft of his report when the telephone rang. Leon hadn’t arrived yet, so Eric answered the call.
“World Arts, this is Eric Price, how may I help you?
“You can do what you were sent here to do. This is Colonel Davis. You’ve got what you want, but I’m still going to watch you like a hawk. Two days, oh-five-hundred. Be ready to impress me.”
The line went dead before Eric could say a word.
How I love the sound of
