scoonts.theminotaur-第7章

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　The　civilian　files　stood　out　from　the　others。　Helmut　Fritsche。　Ph。D。　in　electrical　engineering；　formerly　professor　at　Caltech；　before　that　on　the　research　staff　of　NASA。　Publications；　wow！　Thirty　or　forty　scientific　papers。　Jake　ran　his　eye　down　the　list。　All　were　about　radar：　wave　propagation；　Doppler　effect；　numerical　determination　of　three…dimensional　electromagnetic　scattering；　and　so　on。
　George　Wilson　was　a　professor　of　aeronautical　engineering　at　MIT　on　a　one…year　sabbatical。　He　had　apparently　been　recruited　by　Admiral　Henry　and　came　aboard　the　first　of　the　year。　He　would　be　leaving　at　the　end　of　December。　Like　Fritsche's；　Wilson's　list　of　professional　publications　was　long　and　plicated。　He　had　co…authored　at　least　one　textbook；　but　the　title　that　caught　Jake's　eye　was　an　article　for　a　scientific　journal：　〃Aerodynamic　Challenges　in　Low　Radar　Cross　Section　Platforms。〃
　Jake　laid　the　civilians'　files　aside　and　began　to　flip　through　the　naval　officers'。　Halfway　through　he　found　one　that　he　slowed　down　to　examine　with　care。　Lieutenant　Rita　Moravia。　Naval　Academy　Class　of　'82。　Second　in　her　class　at　the　Academy；　first　in　her　class　in　flight　school　and　winner　of　an　outstanding　achievement　award。　Went　through　A…7　training；　then　transferred　to　F/A…ISs；　where　she　became　an　instructor　pilot　in　the　West　Coast　replacement　squadron。　Next　came　a　year　at　the　Naval　Postgraduate　School　in　Monterey；　California；　for　a　master's　in　aeronautical　engineering；　and　another　year　at　Test　Pilot　School　at　NAS　Patuxent　River；　Maryland；　where　she　graduated　first　in　her　class。
　There　were　three　line　manders：　an　A…6　bombardier…navigator；　an　F…14　pilot　and　an　EA…6B　Electronic　Countermeasures　Officer…ECMO。　Jake　knew　the　A…6　BN　and　the　Prowler　ECMO。　There　was　an　aircraft　maintenance　specialist；　whom　Jake　knew；　and　five　AEDOs；　all　of　whom　wore　pilot　or　naval　flight　officer　wings。　Except　for　the　A…6　BN　and　the　Prowler　ECMO；　the　rest　had　fighter　backgrounds；　including　Tarkington；　who　was　one　of　only　two　lieutenants。　The　rest　were　manders　and　lieutenant　manders。
　If　the　navy　wanted　a　stealth　attack　plane；　why　so　many　fighter　types？　The　air　force　caned　all　their　tactical　drivers　fighter　pilots；　but　the　navy　had　long　ago　divided　the　tactical　fraternity　into　attack　and　fighter。　The　missions　and　the　aircraft　were　pletely　different；　so　the　training　and　tactics　were　also　different。　And　according　to　the　amateur　psychologists　in　uniform　who　thought　about　these　things　and　announced　their　conclusions　at　Happy　Hour；　the　men　were　different　too。　Either　their　personalities　were　altered　by　the　training　or　the　missions　attracted　men　of　certain　types。　According　to　the　attack　munity；　fighter　pukes　were　devil…may…care；　kiss…tomorrow…goodbye　romantics　who　lived　and　lusted　for　the　dubious　glory　of　individual　bat　in　the　skies。　The　fighter　crowd　said　the　attack　pukes　were　phlegmatic　plodders　with　brass　balls…and　no　imaginations…who　dropped　bombs　because　they　didn't　know　any　better。　Most　of　it　was　good；　clean　fun；　but　with　a　tinge　of　truth。
　When　Jake　finished　going　through　the　records　he　stacked　them　carefully　and　stared　thoughtfully　at　the　pile。　Dunedin　and　Strong　had　assembled　a　good　group；　he　concluded；　officers　with　excellent　though　varied　backgrounds；　from　all　over　tactical　naval　aviation。　The　test　pilot　was　the　only　real　question　mark。　Moravia　certainly　had　her　tickets　punched　and　was　probably　smarter　than　Einstein；　but　she　had　no　actual　experience　in　flight…testing　new　designs。　He　would　ask　Dunedin　about　her。
　Tomorrow　he　would　meet　them。　That　was　soon　enough。　First　he　had　to　find　out　what　was　really　happening　from　Henry　or　Dunedin。
　Henry　spoke　of　minefields…a　grotesque　understatement。　The　problems　inherent　in　overing　the　inertia　of　the　bureaucracy　to　produce　a　new　state…of…the…art　weapons　system　were　nothing　short　of　mind…boggling。　Dunedin　must　feel　like　he's　been　ordered　to　build　the　Great　Pyramid　armed　with　nothing　but　a　used　condom　and　a　flyswatter。　And　for　God's　sake；　do　it　quietly；　top　secret　and　all。　Aye　aye；　sir。
　In　the　Crystal　City　underground　mall　he　found　a　toy　store　and　purchased　a　plastic　model　of　the　air　force's　new　stealth　fighter；　the　F…l　17。　He　also　bought　a　tube　of　glue。　Then　he　boarded　the　Metro　blue　train　for　the　ride　to　Rosslyn。
　When　the　subway　surfaced　near　the　Key　Bridge；　Jake　stared　gloomily　at　the　raindrops　smearing　the　dirt　on　the　windows　as　the　train　rocked　along　under　a　dark　gray　sky；　then　it　raced　noisily　back　into　another　hole　in　the　ground　and　like　his　fellow　passengers；　he　refocused　his　eyes　vacantly　on　nothing　as　he　instinctively　created　his　own　little　private　space。
　He　felt　relieved　when　the　doors　finally　opened　and　he　joined　the　other　passengers　surging　across　the　platform；　through　the　turnstiles；　then　onto　the　world's　longest　escalator。　The　moving　stair　ascended　slowly　up　the　gloomy；　slanting　shaft　bearing　its　veterans　of　purgatory。　Amid　the　jostling；　pushing；　hustling　throng；　he　was　carried　along　as　part　of　the　flow。　This　morning　he　had　been　a　tourist。　Now　he　was　as　much　a　part　of　this　human　river　as　any　of　them。　Morning　and　evening　he　would　be　an　anonymous　face　in　the　mob：　hurry　along；　hurry；　push　and　shove　gently；　persistently；　insistently；　demanding　equal　vigor　and　speed　from　every　set　of　legs；　equal　privacy　from　every　set　of　blank；　unfocused　eyes。　Hurry；　hurry　along。
　Rain　was　still　falling　when　he　reached　the　sidewalk。　He　paused　and　turned　his　collar　up　against　the　damp　and　chill；　then　set　off　for　the　giant　condo　plex　four　blocks　away。
　Most　of　the　people　scurrying　past　him　on　the　sidewalk　had　done　this　every　working　day　for　years。　They　were　moles；　he　told　himself　glumly；　blind　creatures　of　the　dark；　damp　places　where　the　sun　and　wind　never　reached；　unaware　that　the　universe　held　anything　but　the　dismal　corridors　where　they　lived　out　their　pathetic　lives。　And　now　he　was　one　of　them。
　He　stopped　at　the　corner；　the　model　in　the　box　under　his　arm。　People　swirled　around　him；　their　heads　down；　their　eyes　on　the　concrete。　Callie　wouldn't　get　home　to　the　flat　for　another　hour。
　He　turned　and　walked　back　against　the　flow　of　the　crowd　toward　the　station　exit。　Right　across　the　street　from　the　exit　was　a　Roy　Rogers。　He　paid　for　a　cup　of　coffee　and　found　a　seat　near　the　atrium　window　where　he　could　watch　the　gray　people　bent　against　the　wind　and　the　raindrops　sliding　down　the　glass。
　The　euphoria　he　had　felt　when　he　talked　to　Vice　Admiral　Henry　this　morning　was　pletely　gone。　Now　he　had　a　job。。。　a　paperwork　job；　going　to　endless　meetings　and　listening　to　reports　and　writing　remendations　and　trying　to　keep　from　going　crazy。　A　job　in　the　bureaucracy。　A　staff　job；　the　one　he　had　fought　against；　refused　to　take；　pulled　every　string　to　avoid；　all　these　years。　In　the　puzzle　palace；　the　place　where　good　ideas　go　to　die。
　It　could　have　been　worse；　of　course。　He　could　have　been　assigned　to　design　the　new　officer　fitness　report　form。
　Like　many　officers　who　spent　their　careers　in　operational　billets；　Jake　Grafton　loathed　the　bureaucrats；　held　them　in　a　secret　contempt　which　he　tried　to　suppress　with　varying　degrees　of　success。　In　the　years　since　World　War　II；　the　bureaucracy　had　grown　lush　and　verdant　here　in　Washington。　Every　member　of　Congress　had　twenty　aides。　Every　social　problem　had　a　staff　of　paper　pushers　〃managing〃　it。　The　military　was　just　as　bad。　Joint　mands　with　a　staff　of　a　thousand　to　fifteen　hundred　people　were　mon。
　Perhaps　it　happens　because　we　are　human。　The　people　in　the　military　endlessly　analyze　and　train　for　the　last　war　because　no　one　knows　what　the　next　one　will　be　like。　New　equipment　and　technologies　deepen　the　gloom　which　always　cloaks　the　future。　Yesterday's　warriors　retire　and　new　ones　inherit　the　stars　and　the　offices；　and　so　it　goes　through　generations；　until　at　last　every　office　is　filled　with　men　who　have　never　heard　a　shot　fired　in　anger　or　known　a　single　problem　that　good；　sound　staff　work；　carefully　couched　in　bureaucratese；　could　not　〃manage〃　satisfactorily。　Inevitably　the　gloom　bees　Stygian。　Future　war　bees　a　profound　enigma　that　workaday　admirals　and　generals　and　congressmen　cannot　penetrate。　So　the　staffs　proliferate　as　each　responsible　person　seeks　expert　help　with　his　day…to…day　duties　and　the　insoluble　policy　conundrums。
　Another　war　would　be　necessary　to　teach　the　new　generation　the　ancient　truths。　But　in　the　Pax　Americana　following　World　War　II；　Vietnam　accelerated　the　damage　rather　than　arrested　it。
　In　its　aftermath　Vietnam　appeared　to　many　as　the　first　inadvertent；　incautious　step　toward　the　nuclear　inferno　that　would　destroy　life　on　this　planet。　Frightened　by　the　new　technologies　and　fearful　of　the　inprehensible　political　forces　at　work　throughout　the　world；　citizens　and　soldiers　sought…demanded…quantifiable　truths　and　controls　that　would　prevent　the　war　that　had　bee　unthinkable；　the　future　war　that　had　bee；　for　the　generations　that　had　known　only　peace；　the　ultimate　obscenity。　Laws　and　regulations　and　inprehensible　organizational　charts　multiplied　like　bacteria　in　a　petri　dish。　Engineers　with　pocket　calculators　became　soothsayers　to　the　terrified。
　All　of　this　Jake　Grafton　knew；　and　knowing　it；　was　powerless　to　change。　And　now　he　was　one　of　them；　one　of　the　faceless　savants　charged　with　creating　salvation　on　his　desk　and　placing　it　in　the　out　basket。
　Over　on　the　beach　it　was　probably　raining　like　this。　The　wind　would　be　moaning　around　the　house　and　leaking　around　the　windowpanes。　The　surf　would　be　pounding　on　the　sand。　It　would　be　a　great　evening　for　a　walk　along　the　beach　under　a　gray　sky；　by　that　gray　sea。　Suddenly　he　felt　an　overpowering　longing　to　feel　the　wind　in　his　hair　and　the　salt　air　in　his　nostrils。
　Oh；　to　be　there　and　not　here！　Not　here　with　the　problems　and　the　hassles　and　the　responsibilities。
　His　eye　fell　upon　the　bag　that　the　clerk　had　placed　the　F…I17　model　in。　He　ripped　out　the　staple　and　slid　the　box　from　the　bag。　The　artist　had　painted　the　plane　black。　It　had　twin　vertical　stabilizers；　slanted　in　at　the　bottom；　and　flat　sides　all　over　the　place；　all　of　which　he　suspected　were　devilishly　expensive　to　manufacture。　The　intakes　were　on　top　of　the　fuselage；　behind　the　canopy。　How　would　the　engines　get　air　when　the　pilot　was　pulling　Gs；　maneuvering？　He　stared　at　the　picture。　No　doubt　this　plane　was　fly…by…wire　with　a　flight　control　puter　stabilizing　the　machine　and　automatically　trimming。　But　what　would　it　feel　like　to　fly　it？　What　would　be　the　weight　and　performance　penalty　to　get　this　thing　aboard　ship？　How　much　were　they　going　to　cost？　Could　these　machines　ever　be　worth　the　astronomical　sums　the　manufacturers　would　want　to　charge？　The　politicians　would　decide。
　Jake　drained　his　coffee　and　threw　the　cup　in　the　trash　can　by　the　door。　He　pulled　the　bag　up　over　the　box　and　rolled　the　excess　tightly；　then　pushed　the　door　open　and　stepped　out　into　the　evening。
　〃Hi；　darling；〃　Callie　said　brightly　when　she　came　home　and　found　Jake　assembling　the　model　on　the　kitchen　table。
　〃Hey；　beautiful。〃　Jake　looked　up　and　grinned　at　her；　then　resumed　his　chore　of　gluing　the　landing　gear　into　the　wheel　wells。
　〃So　how　was　the　first　day　back　at　the　office？〃
　Jake　laid　the　plastic　model　on　the　diagram　and　leaned　back　in　his　chair。　He　stretched。　〃Okay；　I　guess。　They　di