Townsend's Revenge

By Woody McClendon

Greg Townsend is building a shuttle vehicle from an old F-4 Phantom, and launching it from a Boeing 707. What he doesn't know is that a secret government committee is bent on stopping him. On the first flight, the craft has a massive pressurization failure. Townsend and his old comrade from the Navy, Mitch Silvera land the stricken craft. Then the plot emerges. Will the shadow enemy win?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woody McClendon
• Release date: Sep 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452444062

Woody McClendon

Woody has been flying since he was sixteen. He was teaching flying at the age of nineteen. After college, he worked for Boeing as a Flight Test Engineer. Working with some of the big names in aviation, he learned how the flight test community works hard to avoid the dangers inherent in flight research. Still there were those moments when the best laid plans failed, and things got dangerous.Woody's experiences flying in Boeing jets, often with NASA flight crews, and his later service as a law enforcement officer were the base for Townsend's Revenge. His own true life adventures are blended in with his knowledge of space programs to spin a tale of excitement launching under rocket power into orbit, and the terrors of finding your way back when the space craft is coming apart around you. And suffering with the agony of betrayal and what's it's like to be surrounded by plots and intrigue.

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TOWNSEND’S REVENGE

By

Woody McClendon

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Woody McClendon on at Smashwords

Townsend’s Revenge

Copyright 2010 by Woody McClendon

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Prologue

The night was streaked with shadows, sharp angles between darkness and moonlight playing over the blacked-out hangars that were quiet in the late evening. Across the vast expanse of the Naval Air Station, the warm California air whispered of laughter and merriment. The lights of the Officers’ Club twinkled as sounds of dance music drifted across the ramp and the jets standing in stark silence.

In one hangar, off in a far corner of Miramar Naval Air Station, the glare of work lights shown through the gaps in its doors, spreading a cold blue glow over the ramp in front of it. A lone F-14 Tomcat, the U. S. Navy’s best and fiercest fighter airplane, lurked in one corner. It was formidable looking, its flat gray sides and the blunt-nosed missiles hanging from its wings stark evidence of its one mission in life: to kill any vehicle, air or sea borne, that threatened its home, the Navy’s great nuclear carriers.

The Tomcat’s canopy was open and pale white light flooded the cockpit. A thick set of black cables dangled from an open compartment in the nose. The cables snaked across the floor and into a dim, glass-walled room. A ghostly figure stood in the room, his face illuminated by the pale light rising from a set of computer monitors. The figure seemed to be communing with the Tomcat as he tapped information into its brain from the computer’s keyboard, then watched for a response on the monitors.

Greg Townsend, the Tomcat’s pilot, sat in the back seat of the airplane, his head bent in concentration as he watched the target display screen. His flight suit was rumpled and damp from the day’s flying. His short, brown hair was still matted from the press of his helmet. He tapped commands into the weapons system on the cockpit keyboard, then watched as the images on the screen danced in response.

Townsend wore a headset, the kind used by maintenance technicians. He spoke into it in a tense, low voice while he stared at the multi-colored screen. A red cross symbol hovered across the screen until it was suddenly captured by a green circle with a cross through it. The green symbol began to flash.

Mitch, the target acquired a lot faster that time, he said. I think you’re on the right track.

The ghostly figure in the glass walled room also wore a headset. He replied, Yeah, but I need some time to refine it. And I want to do it in increments so I can see when I have exactly the right number.

OK, Townsend replied, but if we can jump on ‘em as quick as this looks like we can, we’re gonna do well tomorrow.

There’s no ‘if’ to it, Greg. Now be quiet a minute.

Townsend ignored the sharp comment from his REO, Radar Electronics Officer Lieutenant Mitch Silvera, his friend and partner in the Tomcat. Mitch was brilliant at electronics, the smartest REO in the squadron, but also well known for his acerbic manner. He was re-programming the Tomcat’s weapons system so that it would acquire targets faster and more accurately than any other jet in the fleet. With their secret improvements in place, they’d be the top scoring plane in tomorrow’s combat exercise against their rival squadron.

What they were doing, though, was fraught with risk. If their squadron C.O Commander Paulson, found out they were fooling with the Tomcat’s systems, he would be furious. He could ground them, or worse, take away their wings and throw them out of the Navy.

But, here they were, and Townsend was nervous. Sure it’d be great to take the trophy, but sneaking around a U. S. Navy fighter base in the middle of the night and taking Tomcats apart was just plain crazy. His hands dripped sweat as he thought about trying to explain their shenanigans to Commander Paulson.

Paulson was a tough boss. He expected his pilots to be the best, and he made them train hard to make sure they were. Every pilot was expected to attend extra classes on combat tactics, and fly six training missions a week. Commander Paulson often led the squadron himself, particularly when they headed north in search of the F-16’s from George AFB, who let it be known when they were in the air, and how much they looked forward to a good air battle with the Navy.

Those encounters were brutal on the pilots as they yanked their Tomcats into screaming, tight turns to stay with the smaller, more nimble F-16’s. The radio channels crackled with the tense chatter between the pilots as they attacked and re-grouped, then attacked again, throwing themselves at their opponents, intent on gaining the elusive chirp of a weapons lock, the signal of victory. The fight would be over in mere minutes, as jets on both sides fell out after they were ‘locked up’ by their opponents. Then, as suddenly as it started, it would be over, and Navy and Air Force pilots would exchange laughs and promises of drinks at a meeting place to be determined by the winners.

Air combat flying is about turning. The airplane that can turn the tightest, in the smallest radius, will end up with his adversary in his sights more often. The Tomcat made up for its size with wings that could extend themselves straight out to make the airplane more maneuverable, or sweep back to go supersonic.

These encounters were good practice for the annual event that could make a young pilot’s career, the fleet combat exercises. The Navy’s fighter squadrons paired off against each other in a carefully planned series of war games whose sole purpose was to sharpen their killing skills to a fine edge, and to assure that the U. S. Navy would always own the skies against any enemy on earth.

The victorious squadron would take home a huge gold trophy, which would be displayed, in their ready room for the next year. The pilots with the highest kill scores would find their names engraved on a plaque that would hang on their squadron’s wall forever, giving them a kind of immortality, and their choice of duty station.

That exercise was coming soon, and Townsend was determined to have his and Mitch’s name on that plaque. They worked hard, studied hard and signed up for extra time in the Tomcat simulator, practicing against any enemy attacking from any direction with any weapon. They trained in the Base gym to toughen themselves for the grueling G forces that pounded them during combat maneuvers.

One night they’d been staring at the television in the squadron break room, exhausted from the day’s air battles and a tortuous workout in the gym. Townsend was sipping a Coke.

Suddenly Mitch said, I can make the plane’s targeting system better.

Townsend looked over absentmindedly at Mitch. What’d you say?

He stared at the television as he spoke. I can fix the plane’s targeting system, make it acquire faster than the other planes in the fleet.

I don’t what’re you talking about? Townsend asked, looking at Mitch. Sometimes he was impossible. He’d start talking like this, cryptic and short, almost to himself, then Townsend would have to drag it out of him, get him to explain what he was thinking. Mitch was a bit of mad scientist, but he was the best when it came to computers, and nobody knew the Tomcat’s complex weapons systems better than Mitch. He studied them in every free moment, picking through the Navy maintenance manuals, and scratching out strange-looking hieroglyphics that described the systems in a way only he understood. He was obsessed with understanding them down to the smallest processing chip.

Mitch looked across at Townsend, staring at him as if he were a child who understood nothing about grownup things. What part of what I said didn’t you get? If the targeting system acquired faster, we could pick off the other guys in the ACE next month, and get our plaque. That is what you want, isn’t it?

Townsend sighed as he put down his Coke. Sometimes you’re insufferable, you know that? Why are you beating up on the obvious? Of course we want to be on the plaque. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about, fixing the targeting system. It’s not broken.

Mitch shook his head. You don’t get it, do you? Why do you think I spend all my time studying this airplane? So I can quote boring Tomcat trivia at the ‘O’ Club? He leaned toward Townsend. This is how we make sure we win, Greg. I know how to do it.

Townsend looked at Mitch as if he’d just proposed robbing the local Bank of America. What the hell are you talking about?

Simple, Mitch said. We modify about four or five lines of code in the plane’s targeting system software, and nobody can touch us. That’s all there is to it.

Modify software? Townsend said. And how do you propose to get the Navy to agree to that?

Mitch sat back, staring at the television. Who says they have to know?

Townsend glared at Mitch. You’re crazy, you know that? The Navy keeps pretty good track of their planes, Mitch. How do you plan to tear ours open so you can fiddle with it, and not have the Navy notice? He took a gulp of Coke, then stood up, turning toward Mitch. By the way, I think they put guys in Leavenworth for that kind of shit!

Mitch chuckled, shaking his head. Greg, you’re so I don’t know, stuck with the rules. I mean, if we make the Tomcat fight better and prove it, don’t you think the Navy will like that? We’re just taking a shortcut, that’s all. I want to do it.

I really have to think about this. It’s crazy, you’re crazy, Mitch, but I will think about it. He walked away, shaking his head. I’m going to bed.

We can win, Greg, remember that. Mitch said to Townsend’s back.

Mitch tapped a command on the computer keyboard, his fine angular features glowing in the light from the monitor, making him look like a wizard. OK, run the target search, he said into his headset.

Townsend caressed several keys on the cockpit console, and then stared at the tactical screen. His face was now damp with sweat, the fear gnawing at him. He breathed a sigh as the target symbol crept into the edge of the screen, then was suddenly illuminated and captured by a red colored square. My god, Mitch. You’ve done it!

Suddenly the hangar exploded into light. Red lights shot across the hangar in blinding pulses. Tires screeched at the partially open door. Car doors slammed, and boots clattered on the ramp outside the hangar. Townsend sat straight up in the cockpit as a piercing white spotlight blinded him. Holding his hands up to protect himself while squinting in the glare and trying to focus in the sudden chaos, he heard the rattling of weapons being cleared.

A deep, loud voice boomed out, Mister Townsend, sir, please step down from the airplane, right now, sir!

Townsend stood up in the cockpit, still squinting, trying to see down to the hangar floor. Shore Patrolmen, dressed sharply in khakis, their boots polished and bloused, and their M-16 rifles shouldered and pointed at him, surrounded the Tomcat. The man commanding him to step down wore Chief Petty Officer rank on his shirt. He was squatting in a combat shooting stance, and pointing a large, black Beretta nine-millimeter pistol up at Townsend. The black hole in it’s front looked a lot bigger than nine millimeters.

Townsend slowly raised his hands. Sweat was now poring down his face. He took a deep breath before he spoke, so that his voice wouldn’t shake. It didn’t work. What the..., what the hell’s going on, Chief? He was disgusted with himself. He’d wanted badly to sound authoritative.

But the Chief didn’t waver. Right now, sir!

Townsend slowly stepped onto the boarding ladder, turned, and then, watching the sailors with their guns, carefully began stepping down the ladder. The guns followed him. Stepping off onto the hangar floor, he turned to face the Chief, straightening himself to his full height. Chief, why don’t you put that thing down before somebody gets hurt. Now, what’s all this about? Townsend waved at the sailors around him.

The Chief lowered his weapon, instinctively coming to attention as best he could with the gun still in hand. Arresting officers made him nervous. You never knew in this man’s Navy who your next C. O. might be. Orders, sir. There’s nothing in tonight’s base plan that says an F-14 should be out here in this hangar. We were told to investigate and detain anybody we found around this airplane. So, sir, you are detained until further notice.

He barked an order at the sailors, their weapons still pointed at Townsend. Stow your weapons. You, and you, stay with me, the rest of you, back to your patrols. The sailors returned to their cars, stowed their weapons and drove off into the night.

Townsend watched all of this, his mind racing in the few moments’ respite it had bought him. This was not good. Hopefully if Mitch stayed out of sight he could somehow calm this Chief down, and they would escape any further persecution. But it was not to be. Out of the darkness behind the Chief stepped Commander Paulson. He walked up beside the Chief, who stepped aside, still holding his Beretta.

Paulson stepped in front of Townsend.

Townsend came to attention. He could smell the cold walls of Leavenworth. Good evening, Commander. What brings you out here tonight?

Paulson laughed, a grim laugh. Well, Lieutenant, I’m not in the habit of riding around with the Shore Patrol looking for planes for which the Navy holds me responsible. But when one of them isn’t where it’s supposed to be, well, we get a little concerned.

Townsend’s heart beat faster. There was no bluffing now. Yessir, I’m sure that’s true, sir. Uh, I’m really sorry to have put you out, sir. I …

Cut the crap, Greg. What the fuck are you doing out here?

I, well, sir

It didn’t seem that things could get much worse, but they did. Mitch appeared out of the shadows. He walked over to them. He saluted Commander Paulson, casually. Only Mitch had that kind of balls.

Good evening, Commander. What brings …

Can it, Silvera, he said, still staring at Townsend. Then he looked over at Mitch, then back to Townsend. So, the plot thickens. With you both out here in the middle of the night, there’s got to be a good story. He folded his arms. I’m waiting.

Mitch answered. It’s really simple, Commander. We’re tuning up the targeting system in our plane. We’ve figured out how to make it acquire faster by just changing a couple lines of code. It’s really interesting, sir, and.

A couple of lines of code! A couple of... Paulson stammered. He cleared his throat, the incredulity of what he was hearing dawning on him, his own career threatened because of these two lunatics. He looked for the first time at the cables hanging from the nose of the Tomcat. Let me see if I have this right. He pointed his finger at them. You two are fiddling with the Navy’s most sophisticated weapons system, based on what?

He shook his head. The Navy would hang them all. He would spend the rest of his career at some Alaskan radar site, demoted to God knows what rank, if he didn’t end up in jail with these two. He shook his head, took a deep breath. When he spoke again it was through gritted teeth. You clowns have not only ruined your own careers, but you’re probably gonna take me down with you.

He paced in front of the airplane. What the hell ever prompted this shit? He stopped in front of Townsend.

Townsend’s flight suit was soaked with sweat, damp circles of it under both arms and on his back and chest. He watched the Commander pace. As Paulson accosted him, he again came to attention, staring straight ahead.

Sir, we know these mods will make our plane better than anyone else’s, and assure our squadron takes the trophy next week, sir! He raised a hand to emphasize his explanation.

Stand at attention, sailor! We’re just getting started here!

Townsend snapped back to attention.

Mitch stepped up beside Townsend. Sir, there’s nothing to worry about. The changes I’ve made will work, and Greg’s right, we will take the trophy. Then we’ll get the Navy to mod the rest of the fleet. I guess I don’t see the problem.

Mitch had balls, all right. Either that, or he really was a mad scientist, just as Townsend thought. He really didn’t care about the Navy’s rules, as long as he could play with his theories. God, this was awful. Townsend watched Paulson turning crimson as Mitch casually explained what they’d done.

The sailors watching all this were aghast at his aplomb. The Chief stood off to the side during all of this, incredulous himself at the thought that someone would fool with one of the Navy’s super secret planes. Commander Paulson’s rage made him nervous. What should he do? Should he step in and arrest these two crazy aviators? Probably not. Best to keep quiet and wait for orders. He gave a slight head gesture to his two subordinates, which they understood meant to lay low while the officers argued things out.

Paulson walked over to Mitch, his jaw working in his red face. He stopped in front of him, glaring. You’re a loose cannon, Lt. Silvera. I thought the Academy turned out better than that. You must’ve slipped through the lunatic filter somehow.

Sir, there’s really no problem Mitch began.

Townsend rolled his eyes. Mitch just didn’t know when to shut up.

Paulson glared at both of them. OK, boys, here’s what we’re gonna do. I don’t have time to court martial you before the fleet exercise, and I need every plane I can get so we can hold our own. He pursed his lips as he thought his way through the crisis. So, you will fly, and. he grinned wildly at them, ... who knows, maybe you’re geniuses, after all.

As quickly as the grin came, it left, his face reset into stone. Here’s the deal: you boys score better than anyone else in the whole exercise, and you’re heroes. We’ll forget this little fiasco ever happened. You do any less than that, and you two clowns are on your way to Leavenworth. He paced in front of them. Frankly, I’m not sure which way I want this thing to come out. Lieutenant Silvera, I hope you’re as bright as you think you are, ‘cause busting rocks in jail doesn’t take a lot of talent. As for you, Lieutenant Townsend, I hope you’re happy with the fact that your fate’s riding on your lunatic REO’s crazy theory.

Paulson turned on his heel and walked away. The Chief and his two subordinates fell in behind him.

Townsend and Mitch breathed a silent sigh of relief. Just as they were relaxing, Paulson stopped suddenly and turned back toward them. Remember, boys, it’s either the trophy or jail. He wheeled around and walked into the darkness.

One week later, the squadron arrived back at Miramar, swooping over the field and rolling into the traffic pattern in perfect formation. The tightness of their formation and the snap of their turns as they lined up to land was clear evidence of their victory.

As Townsend and Mitch stepped down from their Tomcat, Commander Paulson sauntered over from his plane, casually patting his gloves against his hand.

Townsend and Mitch stopped as he approached, then came to attention.

Paulson walked up to them. His face broke into a small grin. Well, you two did OK out there. Looks like the trophy came home with us, with you two clowns’ names on it to boot.

He laughed. I can’t believe it. But I’m relieved. No court martial, no jail. You two skated this time. I trust this will be the last little episode like this that we’ll have to live through. Townsend, what do you say?

Townsend stiffened as he answered. Absolutely, sir, and thank you for your confidence in us!

Bullshit! We all would’ve taken the fall if your little trick hadn’t worked. He turned and walked away.

A few days later, Paulson sent word that he wanted to see Townsend and Mitch in his office. They hurried to respond, terrified that the nightmare had come back to life. Both of them stood at attention in front of Paulson’s desk.

Paulson leaned back, his wooden chair squeaking in the silence. Well, it seems that you two attracted some attention with your little prank. I got a call from Admiral Trask today, and he wants to meet you. We’re having dinner at a private room in the ‘O’ Club tonight, if that fits with your schedule.

Townsend replied, Of course, sir, we’ll be there, but who’s Admiral Trask?

He’s in charge of the Navy’s Research and Development programs, the Test Pilot School at Patuxent River, and all that, Paulson replied. Now why don’t you boys go polish up your whites, and be at the Club at nineteen hundred hours. Dismissed, go on, get out. He waved them away.

At seven o’clock Townsend and Mitch walked briskly through the Officers Club, headed for the private dining rooms in the deeper bowels of the establishment. Some of their comrades were holding court in the bar, and they yelled at the two of them, demanding to know why they were in dress whites, and that they should stop whatever they were doing and return to their normal duty stations at the bar. Townsend and Mitch marched resolutely forward, ignoring the shouts of their comrades.

Arriving at the prescribed private room, they knocked quietly at the door, then stood back at am informal parade rest, awaiting some sort of permission to enter. Neither of them had had much experience dealing with admirals.

The door opened. Paulson stood there, motioning them in, then closing it behind him.

Admiral Trask, let me introduce Lieutenant Greg Townsend and his highly talented REO, Lieutenant Mitch Silvera, he said.

Townsend and Mitch found themselves facing a short but trim gentlemen in navy whites. His uniform included his wings and numerous combat medals. He stepped forward smiling, and put out his hand.

Gentlemen, welcome, he said. It’s a pleasure to meet a couple of entrepreneurs in this mans modern bureaucratic navy.

Townsend and Mitch fumbled through the introductions as Paulson stood off to the side watching intently. They were caught between the visiting admiral and their C.O. who, to this day, never liked having his two rogue aviators loose on society.

Dinner was good food, pleasant conversation between the admiral and Paulson, and Townsend and Mitch, like children, speaking when spoken to.

During the meal, Admiral Trask chatted amiably with Paulson, Townsend, and Mitch, recalling flying experiences, and telling them about some of his adventures in Viet Nam and the Middle East. Townsend warmed to the man, after getting over his fear of being around someone of such lofty rank.

After dinner, they adjourned to an even more private study for cigars and cognac, neither of which Townsend or Mitch had any experience. The Admiral got down to business. He told them about a special unit that solved technical problems throughout the Navy Air Wing. Its staff consisted of five PhD’s - engineering types, and a detachment at the Navy Test Pilot School. They had complete authority to order up and test any improvements to aircraft in the Navy inventory, and to hammer them through the procurement bureaucracy and into the fleet.

I'd like you two to consider working with us. We don’t often see your combination of initiative, technical savvy, and ability to come up with practical solutions. Your improvements to the F-14 tactical systems would have taken years and millions in research and development to bring to the fleet, the Admiral said. He put up his hands as Mitch and Townsend opened their mouths to protest their innocence. I know all about your famous mod; hell, your squadron waxed my old unit, and they were the best!

He took a sip of cognac as he continued. This may sound like a recruiting poster, but the truth is the Navy really needs you. The edge you've given the F-14 could mean everything in a fight against the latest Soviet MIG, which as you know is now in the hands of a number of our potential adversaries.

But there’re even bigger things at stake here. He puffed at his cigar and let the moment's silence work. Gentlemen, we're thinking about the next generation of combat airplanes, looking at far-out concepts that'll make the F-14 look like an antique. But we're our own worst enemy. We have trouble finding the right combination of real-world performance out of all the stuff the contractors throw at us. He got up and paced the floor, waving his cigar as he talked.

What we need is that magic combination you boys have, leading edge thinking, with the practical ability to make it work. He sat down across from them. Here it is, gentlemen. You re-enlist, and you'll be in our outfit in thirty days. Greg, you'll be on your way to Test Pilot School at Pax River in the next class. And Mitch, you have your choice, a Doctorate program while you work with us, or full time school, either way. Naturally we'd prefer you give us some of your time, but it's up to you. Of course they're regular commissions in this for both of you.

He leaned back in his chair. I know this is a lot to digest, so why don't you two think about it. He grinned, I'll be here another twenty-four hours, and I want to take your answer home with me.

Townsend and Mitch were flattered. No one knew that a spook unit like this even existed, and then to be asked to join it, well that was a lot for one evening. They asked to be excused, after agreeing to bring an answer to the Admiral the next afternoon.

It was early, and neither of them could think about sleep. They went out to the main bar to have a nightcap and talk about their offer. Finding a couple of seats away from the noisy crowd still celebrating the squadron’s victory, they ordered drinks. They were silent, each lost in his own thoughts about the revelations of the evening. When their drinks arrived, they gulped at them, relieved to be drinking at a great distance from the higher echelons they’d spent far too much time with this night.

What an evening, huh? All that brass, and then the big pitch. Sure screws up my big plan of being a happy airline employee.

I don't know. Mitch shook his head. It sounds great, but you know the real Navy. It's hard to believe that it's all as lovely as the Admiral made it sound. You really think being Pentagon staff, which is really what this is, is really all that special?

Townsend didn't reply for a while. We'll never know if we don't do it, will we? I know the Navy's hard up for re-enlistments, but since when do they send Admirals out to ask a couple of jet-jocks to re-up? These guys really want us, Mitch. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the Club, thinking out loud. I mean, nobody's special in the military, but we're about as close as anybody could be right now. Maybe we oughta take advantage of it.

Remember, Greg, Uncle Sam's not gonna pay for Test Pilot School for you and a Ph.D. for me without at least another six years of our lives. After that, what're we gonna do? With twelve years in on twenty, we're in for the duration. Then, you're too old for the airlines, I’ve missed my chance for a good job, and there we are, bought and paid for. He took a large sip of beer. That what you want?

I know, Mitch, but it sounds exciting, Test Pilot School, man!

"You remember that time we were stuck at Edwards for three days with a broken