Free Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 by Fatal Terrain (v1.1) Page A

body of the missile changes shape, allowing it to
use lifting-body aerodynamics to turn faster. In fact, the faster it goes, the
tighter it can turn—just the opposite of most aircraft. All moving parts on the
missile are driven by microhydraulic devices, so a simple five- hundred-psi
pump the size of my wristwatch can power three hundred actuators at over ten
thousand psi—theoretically we can maintain control at up to thirty Gs, but at
that speed the missile would probably snap in half or the pressure might cook
off the explosives in the warheads. But no fighter or missile yet built can keep
up with the Wolverine.”
                 Samson
fell silent again in amazement. McLanahan turned to his left and looked at the
man seated beside him and added, “Good job, Jon. I think you watered his eyes.”
                 “Of
course we did,” Masters said. “What did you expect?” He tried to say it as
casually and as coolly as McLanahan, but the excitement bubbling in his voice
could not be disguised. Unlike the other two men in the cockpit with him, Jon
Masters shared only their dancing, energetic eyes and boundless enthusiasm—he was
as thin as they were broad, with a boyish, almost goofy-looking face. Jon
Masters, the designer of the incredible AGM-177 Wolverine cruise missile along
with dozens of other high-tech military weapons and satellites, was aboard to
watch his missile do its stuff; in case anything went wrong, he could also
abort the missile s flight, if necessary. That was also a Jon Masters
hallmark—rarely, if ever, did the first operational test of one of his missiles
or satellites work properly. This test appeared to be a welcome exception.
                 McLanahan
commanded the EB-52 bomber into a right turn back toward the exit point to the
RED FLAG range. “A little professional modesty might help sell a few Wolverines
to the Air Force, Jon,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan, retired as a colonel
from the Air Force after sixteen years in service, was now a paid consultant to
Sky Masters, for which he performed a number of tasks, from test-pilot duties
to product design.
                 “Trust
me on this one, Patrick,” Masters said, slouching in his ejection seat and
taking a big swig out of his ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. “When it
comes to the military, you’ve got to yell it to sell it. Talk to Helen in
marketing—her budget is almost as big as the research-and- development budget.”
                 “Dr.
Masters has a right to be proud,” General Samson said, “and I’m proud to back
him and the Wolverine project. With a fleet of Wolverine missiles in the
inventory, we can locate and kill targets with zero-zero precision from
standoff range and at the same time virtually eliminate the risk of sending a
human pilot over a heavily defended target area, and eliminate having to send
in special forces troops on the ground to search for enemy missile or radar
sites.”
                 “It
also breathes new life into the heavy-bomber program,” McLanahan added. “I know
there’s been a lot of congressional pressure to do away with all of the
‘heavies,’ especially the B-52s, in favor of newer fighter-bombers. Well, load
up one B-52 with twenty-six Wolverine missiles, and it’s like launching a
squadron of F-16 or F/A-18 fighter- bombers, except it cuts costs by
nine-tenths and doesn’t put as many pilots at risk.”
                 A
tone in all their headsets stopped the conversation. Two bat-wing fighter
symbols had appeared at the bottom of McLanahan’s supercockpit display, and
they were closing fast. “Fighters—probably the two F-22s, gunning for us, ” McLanahan said. “I’ll bet they’re
pissed after missing the Wolverines.”
                 “Let
’em come,” Masters said. “We won—we already blasted the places they were assigned
to protect.”