Read Online Able One by Ben Bova - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ben Bova
Tags: Science-Fiction
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“No. She ratted you out.”
“What?”
“She got one of her Georgetown friends to tip off the AG that you’re having an affair with a married officer. She didn’t say with who. She’s too devious for that. She expects you to finger me once the AG investigation starts.”
Karen pulled away from him. “The Advocate General’s office is coming after me?”
“They’ll want to know who you’re sleeping with.” His voice was misery personified. “If you tell them, I can say good-bye to the MDA job and the second star.”
“But if I don’t...”
“They can’t do much to you,” he’d said. “A slap on the wrist, that’s all.”
A slap on the wrist, she thought. They bounced me out of the B-2 squadron and gave me this bus driver’s job with a bunch of tech geeks. Some slap on the wrist.
But now this bus she was driving might be heading into a shooting war. Karen almost smiled at the irony of it.
ABL-1: Flight Deck
Colonel Christopher saw that Lieutenant Sharmon and the communications officer were staring at her.
“You heard our orders?” she asked. Sharmon said, “I got the navigation data. Fed it into the flight computer.” He looked uneasy, almost scared.
“Good. We’ll need a couple of refuelings on the way. Must be a ten-, twelve-hour flight.”
Nodding, the navigator said, “Approximately ten hours, Colonel. They’re workin’ out the refueling rendezvous points at Andrews. They’ll send the fixes while we’re in flight.”
The communications officer, red-haired Captain Brick O’Banion, said grimly, “Looks like we’re flying into a war.”
Karen felt her insides clutch. “Looks that way,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. “All right. Call the tech chief up here. This isn’t a test flight anymore.”
As the plane’s first engine rumbled to life Delany complained, “Christ, it’s colder inside this bucket than outside.”
Harry agreed. Cold and damp. Not good for my back, he thought as he followed Delany and the rest of the laser team past the color-coded pipes and gleaming stainless steel tankage toward the cramped compartment that was their station during takeoffs and landings. His nose twitched with the faint iron tang of iodine. Like dried blood.
A leak? Harry asked himself, alarmed. That’s all we need; the damned stuff is corrosive enough to damage your eyes and lungs.
“Wally!” he called to Rosenberg, three bodies ahead of him. “You check the tank pressures yet?”
“Last night,” Rosenberg called over his shoulder. “Like I do every night before a mission. We all went over the whole damned system, remember?”
The night before, Harry and the rest of the team had inspected every part of the laser system, from the bulbous turret in the plane’s nose to the COIL fuel tanks in the tail. Every pipe. Every electronics console. Every gauge and switch and display screen. Routine. They’d done it the night before every flight.
“Check ‘em again,” he said.
“Now?” Rosenberg turned around to face Harry, forcing Taki Nakamura to sidle past him in the narrow passageway.
Harry thought, If I make him check the pressures now it’ll delay our takeoff by half an hour or more. The new pilot won’t like that. He can check it while we’re flying out to the test range.
“Once we’re at cruising altitude,” he said.
Rosenberg nodded, muttering, “There’s nothing wrong with the friggin’ tank pressures.”
Yeah, Harry retorted silently. There was nothing wrong with them when the damned rig blew up in the desert, either.
They got to their compartment, sat in the padded seats, and began to strap in. There were twelve seats, six facing six. They had been scavenged from a commercial airliner, but the compartment was so tight that they couldn’t recline; the seat backs were smack against the bulkheads. The safety straps were Air Force issue: not merely a lap belt but a harness that went over the shoulders as well.
“What?”
“She got one of her Georgetown friends to tip off the AG that you’re having an affair with a married officer. She didn’t say with who. She’s too devious for that. She expects you to finger me once the AG investigation starts.”
Karen pulled away from him. “The Advocate General’s office is coming after me?”
“They’ll want to know who you’re sleeping with.” His voice was misery personified. “If you tell them, I can say good-bye to the MDA job and the second star.”
“But if I don’t...”
“They can’t do much to you,” he’d said. “A slap on the wrist, that’s all.”
A slap on the wrist, she thought. They bounced me out of the B-2 squadron and gave me this bus driver’s job with a bunch of tech geeks. Some slap on the wrist.
But now this bus she was driving might be heading into a shooting war. Karen almost smiled at the irony of it.
ABL-1: Flight Deck
Colonel Christopher saw that Lieutenant Sharmon and the communications officer were staring at her.
“You heard our orders?” she asked. Sharmon said, “I got the navigation data. Fed it into the flight computer.” He looked uneasy, almost scared.
“Good. We’ll need a couple of refuelings on the way. Must be a ten-, twelve-hour flight.”
Nodding, the navigator said, “Approximately ten hours, Colonel. They’re workin’ out the refueling rendezvous points at Andrews. They’ll send the fixes while we’re in flight.”
The communications officer, red-haired Captain Brick O’Banion, said grimly, “Looks like we’re flying into a war.”
Karen felt her insides clutch. “Looks that way,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. “All right. Call the tech chief up here. This isn’t a test flight anymore.”
As the plane’s first engine rumbled to life Delany complained, “Christ, it’s colder inside this bucket than outside.”
Harry agreed. Cold and damp. Not good for my back, he thought as he followed Delany and the rest of the laser team past the color-coded pipes and gleaming stainless steel tankage toward the cramped compartment that was their station during takeoffs and landings. His nose twitched with the faint iron tang of iodine. Like dried blood.
A leak? Harry asked himself, alarmed. That’s all we need; the damned stuff is corrosive enough to damage your eyes and lungs.
“Wally!” he called to Rosenberg, three bodies ahead of him. “You check the tank pressures yet?”
“Last night,” Rosenberg called over his shoulder. “Like I do every night before a mission. We all went over the whole damned system, remember?”
The night before, Harry and the rest of the team had inspected every part of the laser system, from the bulbous turret in the plane’s nose to the COIL fuel tanks in the tail. Every pipe. Every electronics console. Every gauge and switch and display screen. Routine. They’d done it the night before every flight.
“Check ‘em again,” he said.
“Now?” Rosenberg turned around to face Harry, forcing Taki Nakamura to sidle past him in the narrow passageway.
Harry thought, If I make him check the pressures now it’ll delay our takeoff by half an hour or more. The new pilot won’t like that. He can check it while we’re flying out to the test range.
“Once we’re at cruising altitude,” he said.
Rosenberg nodded, muttering, “There’s nothing wrong with the friggin’ tank pressures.”
Yeah, Harry retorted silently. There was nothing wrong with them when the damned rig blew up in the desert, either.
They got to their compartment, sat in the padded seats, and began to strap in. There were twelve seats, six facing six. They had been scavenged from a commercial airliner, but the compartment was so tight that they couldn’t recline; the seat backs were smack against the bulkheads. The safety straps were Air Force issue: not merely a lap belt but a harness that went over the shoulders as well.
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