Tomahawk (4 page)

“Mister
Lenson.
I said do you have a problem with that?”

Dan shook his head, and just like that, it was over; the moment was past. Westerhouse rattled the blinds down and swung open a wall cabinet. Inside was a dry-erase white board covered with progress schedules and financial charts. “Okay, like I said, you'll be the IO for the surface ship program. You'll bird-dog equipment development and observe flight tests. You'll go to progress conferences, honcho troubleshooting, do liaison—whatever the job takes.”

He talked a bit more about the test phase and flight schedule, then looked directly at Dan. “I know this is a little overwhelming at first, so I'll stop there. At least till you can get through that reading material. One word of warning, though.

“There are those who'll tell you this program's in trouble. Take what they say with a grain of salt. A positive angle of attack is what keeps you in the air. You've picked
that up in the fleet, right? Or you wouldn't be here with us now.”

He didn't bother to think that one over. “Yes, sir.” “

O-kay,” said Westerhouse. “Come on, I'll take you down to your space.”

They passed another combo-locked door, a vault within an area secured for secret. He guessed crypto, or secure pubs. The captain stopped at 11W50. The partitions were translucent plastic and beige steel anchored to the by-now-familiar orange carpet.

Inside one of the eight-by-eight cubes, a commander sat with his face in his hands. In an open briefcase were a lunch bag, a paperback novel, and a collection of the flotsam that accumulates on desks: a clock, photographs, a ceramic pencil holder in the shape of a Labrador retriever. Several cigar boxes were closed with masking tape.

“Newt,” said Westerhouse. “Your relief's here. Want to lay a couple groups on Mr. Lenson before you depart?”

The officer uncovered his face. A second later, they were shaking hands. “Grab a chair from around the corner,” he said. “I'm Newt Munford.”

“You gonna make it to the lunch?” Westerhouse asked. Munford shook his head. The captain stood by the partition for a moment. Then he left.

“Sit down, sit down. Dale said your name, but I forgot it.”

“Lenson. Dan Lenson.”

“Okay, here's the short squirt. You're now at Joint Cruise Missiles, JPM-Three. And unless I'm way off base, you thought till half an hour ago you were assigned someplace else. What do you know about cruise missiles?”

“Read about them. Like a plane without a pilot.”

Munford told him the first practical cruise had been German. He opened one of the cigar boxes. A meticulously assembled and painted miniature aircraft nestled in cotton wool. Dan picked it up gingerly, a tapered green fuselage with a stovepipe on its back.

“They didn't work that great, as I recall.”

“Well, they were totally inaccurate. The only thing the
V-one could hit was a city, and even then, not always. Since they had to fly straight and high, fighters and ack-ack knocked a lot of them down en route. But we still had to put out three bucks in countermeasures for every dollar Hitler spent building them.”

Munford put the model back into the box and opened another. He told Dan both the Army and Navy had copied the V-l. After the war, the Air Force developed Snark, Navaho, and Matador; the Navy worked on Gorgon, Pollux, Regulus, Rigel, and Triton. But costs kept escalating, and schedules slipped. “The only one we actually deployed was Regulus. But the air boys fought it all the way, and when we got Polaris, Kennedy finally canceled all cruise work. Elmo Zumwalt called it the worst technical decision the Navy ever made.”

“Because the Russians were still developing them.”

“Right. Then the
Elath
got sunk in the Arab-Israeli war and we suddenly realized the goddamn things worked. Plus, think about land attack a minute. We do that mission with planes and pilots now. But what if you could fight a war without worrying about POWs? Or if instead of having to fight at all, you just locate your dictator, pop off a couple missiles at his palace, end of problem?”

“How about the nuclear bird?”.

“That's a different kettle. I think Kissinger figured it as a bargaining chip for the arms-limitation talks. But then somebody realized it wasn't that expensive, as strategic weapons go. Maybe twenty-five million a pop, including the warhead.” Munford took the last model out, a slim cigar tube with straight-razor wings. “We call it Tomahawk, but the Air Force prefers to call it the AGM-one oh nine. They hate to admit they're gonna get another Navy missile rammed up their bomb bays, like Sidewinder and Sparrow. That's just a small part of the tension around here.”

Dan hitched his chair up, sensing the presence of straight skinny.

“Anyway, Colin Kristofferson—” “

Admiral Kristofferson? I just met him.” “

He started it, as a flying torpedo called STAWS. That's why it's so small, had to fit in a torpedo tube. He
got it going with leftover funds from Harpoon, a submariner who lost his sub, and a pork-chop lieutenant commander. Along the way, the concept's grown.”

“How'd the Air Force get involved?”

“A long story, but the short answer's James Earl Carter. They had their own cruise program, but they really wanted a new bomber. But Jimmy scrubbed the B-one and ordered cruises for B-fifty-twos instead. The Boeing missile started crashing, and finally Congress told them to join our program instead.

“See, right now there're actually five missiles being developed here. Four are versions of Tomahawk. The Navy owns the basic airframe and all three versions of the sea-launched missiles. The Air Force has the GLCM and the ALCM.” He pronounced them
glick-em
and
alcum.
“The GLCM's a nuclear Tomahawk on a truck, for ground launch. That's the one the Greens are protesting in Germany. The ALCM's the Boeing missile again; Reagan brought it back from the dead.”

“What's our part of the pie?”

For answer, Munford pointed to the bulkhead. Dan examined a photo of a huge gray mass, guns blazing out smoke and fire. “A battleship?”

“New Jersey,
We're putting the four
Iowa-class
battle-wagons back into commission as cruise-missile carriers. That'll be your bailiwick. Vic Burdette, around the corner, works the destroyers and cruisers, and there's another office does the subs and so forth. You guys oversee the contractors, make sure everything works, make sure it's supportable—repair parts, training, documentation. But the battleships are what everybody's hair's on fire about. I hear Niles is getting briefed in now by SecNav's people.”

“Why's the battleship such high priority?”

“Because the Secretary of the Navy went on record, saying he was going to get it done in fifteen months for under three hundred and twenty-six million dollars. Clear?”

“Yeah, I guess that answers that question.”

“You're gonna be spending a lot of time in airplanes. Long Beach, St. Louis, San Diego, Point Mugu, Dayton.
Know anything about software development?”

“Some. Did some troubleshooting on
Barrett.”

“I heard of it. The robot ship. Ever get it working?”

“Actually, we did. Uh, am I getting a message this program's hitting rough seas?”

Munford handed him a copy of
Aviation Week and Space Technology,
opened to the headline FLAWS RESURFACE IN JOINT CRUISE PROGRAM. “I don't know how they do it, but you can't let a stinky fart around this building and not read about it in the trade press the next day.”

The article, by a Martin W. Tallinger, said that the latest flight-test failures showed serious shortcomings in ‘Tomahawk. Its guidance was behind schedule. The radar altimeter was so electronically noisy, an enemy could hear it coming thirty miles away. The booster didn't separate after launch, making the missile crash, and the program was millions of dollars over budget.

“Holy smoke.”

“Yeah, it keeps digging holes in Southern California. We're not sure if it's a design fluke or sloppy manufacturing. But the bird's not your main focus. What you need to get smart on fast are three things: the launcher, the launch control system, and the ship integration.

“On the launcher, Lehman wants initial operational capability by next June, and we don't even have a contractor picked to build the thing. We haven't been able to run the LCS software for more than four minutes. On the ship-to-launcher interface, we've got power-supply problems, voltage fluctuations, and topside weight's twenty percent over spec.” Munford smiled grimly. “Aside from that, you got a terrific system.”

“How about this schedule slippage?”

“You'll hear certain sources say that's why Kristofferson got fired. But I don't think that's the whole story. We were actually pretty close to our timetable before they dumped the battlewagon job on us. Eleven years with the program—and he got one day's notice before they released it to the press. A certain three-star changed two of our hits into failures, then passed the word to the new CNO that the program was in the tank and he better get the coop cleaned out before all the chickens died.”

“An admiral?”

“Not a fucking admiral, a fucking
vice
fucking admiral. Another piece of hot scuttlebutt is, Kristofferson wanted to second-source the missile, get two companies building it, but instead, he got a contract put out on
him.
The official reason is that we're transitioning from design into production, but it looks more like bureaucratic assassination to me.”

Dan nodded slowly. Different explanations from different quarters, but the bottom line was the same. “And now it's Niles's turn.”

“Yeah. Anyway, back to the battleships. We telescoped the development and operational testing to speed things up, but it isn't working out. So maybe it's just as gopd I'm leaving, ‘cause I figure all hell's gonna break around here.”

“Exactly how sick is this program? Could it be canceled?”

“It's happened before. All I have to say is, watch out for the Air Force. And the naval aviators—they'd love to see us screw the pooch.” Munford grinned unpleasantly. “There's a lot going on behind the scenes. This missile scares certain people. Most of the guys were pretty motivated. But watching them nail Kristy to the cross hasn't helped morale.”

Dan thought that over while Munford finished cleaning out his desk. “Here's the combo to the safe,” he said, writing it down on a “While You Were Out” form.

“So, where are you headed?”

“Material Command. Special projects.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Does it? I wasn't due to rotate till next year.” Munford put the last model into his briefcase and snapped it closed. “Niles paid us a surprise visit last week. Interviewed everybody, one at a time. I didn't make the cut.” He hoisted the case, and the handle broke. “This
is
my day,” he muttered. “So. I'll give you a call when I get over there, give you my number. In case you need advice from a failure.”

“Look, I'm sorry—”

“Not your fault. The moving finger fucks, and, having
fucked, moves on.” Munford looked around the cubicle. His lips tightened to a bitter line. “Good luck,” he said. And then he was gone.

Dan looked at Munford's empty seat. After a moment, he moved over to it. The hard plastic was still warm.

Now he understood the hush in the offices, the distracted looks, Kristofferson's strange behavior. Munford could kiss his career good-bye, being relieved in midtour.

And it could happen to him.

3

 

 

 

He sat hunched in a second-floor room above I Street, flipping through his books as other students drifted in, settling like wary seagulls equidistant from one another.

The first night of class. Against his desk, a bag bulged with publications from the Congressional Research Service, as well as the Secretary of Defense's annual budget report, textbooks, a programmable calculator. He leafed through the reading list. Then, instead of starting on some of it, sat worrying about his new assignment.

He'd thought of shore duty as a chance to relax. Instead he'd have to flat-out sprint just to catch up. His part of the project was behind schedule, with glitches in everything from software to where the bolts went through the deck.

A model-thin blonde in a mint-green blouse, pretty and aware of it, came in, scanned the room, then left. He watched the door till she returned. When he caught her eye, she half-smiled, then took a seat in the front row.

On the other hand, Niles had picked him from the list. Did that mean his career was breaking out of the doldrums? Out of the slide induced by the disaster on
Reynolds Ryan
and his clash with Ike Sundstrom in the Med?

Several geeky guys came in wearing loose shirts and torn jeans. They sat together in back, talking and laughing. A carrot-topped woman arrived with a Lake Placid backpack over her shoulder.