October's Ghost by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page A

pair of images are from a ninety-degree aspect—straight overhead. It’s a wider view of the airfield, so the same aircraft are visible in relation to the other facilities.”
    “What are these and these?” the President asked, pointing with his pen to two groups of what he surmised were aircraft.
    “These objects nearest the maintenance hangar, here, are cannibalized MiGs. They’ve had to strip perfectly good aircraft to keep the others up and flying.”
    “What’s their rate of removal from service been?” Bud asked.
    Merriweather turned to Drummond. “Wasn’t it fifty percent over the previous two years?”
    “That’s right,” the DDI confirmed. “At that rate they’d—”
    “That point is moot,” the DCI interrupted.
    Another look was exchanged between Drummond and Bud, this one not hinting at anything friendly or pleasant.
    “And the others, sir, are something we’ll touch on in a few minutes.” Merriweather motioned to the Oval Office’s television and video player, which he already moved to a position where the group, other than Bud, could watch it unobstructed. The NSA would have to look over his shoulder to see what was going on. “Before that, though, are these.”
    The President noted that the four photos the DCI had just laid before him corresponded in views to the ones just covered up. Bud noticed this, too, and something else. Damn .
    “Sir, these were taken from the same KH-12 just over an hour ago. Look carefully at the front of the aircraft in the low-angle views.”
    What Merriweather wanted the President to see was obvious. All twelve of the MiGs, while appearing intact, were nose-down on the tarmac. Some had odd-looking bulges in the area aft of the cockpit.
    “What was done here?” the President asked. “It looks like the front landing gear is gone, but I don’t see any other damage.” He looked alternately at Bud and the DCI.
    “Bud, you have extensive BDA experience from your Nam days, right?”
    “Right.” The word was spoken flat and quickly. He would have preferred no part in the validation of this, but that wish was now out the window. “Mr. President, what you see before you is artwork.” Bud swallowed imperceptibly.
    “Explain.”
    Both Merriweather’s and Drummond’s eyes were on him, though each subtly expressed very different emotions. The DDI’s showed empathy; the DCI’s, satisfaction.
    “What has happened is the same thing the Viet Cong sappers did when they snuck onto Tahn Son Nhut airbase back in ‘69. The aircraft’s nose wheels have been severed, actually the entire strut. Apparently the rebels were able to get their own people close enough to place a small amount of explosives on the upper portion of each strut. It can be placed up in the wheel well with a simple timer so that no one would notice it unless they took a real close look. That probably gave them time to get away or do other damage.”
    “So what does this mean? Are these planes out of commission?”
    Bud was hoping the DCI would answer the President but the silence dictated that he finish his line of thought. “Down for the count Mr. President. It’s a smart way to disable an aircraft. When the strut blows, the weight of the aircraft comes straight down. The strut then impales the fuselage and does major damage to the airframe and the innards. That’s the bulging you see at the back of the canopy there. The strut is pushing equipment up and to the sides and deforming the fuselage.”
    “But why not blow the planes up completely?” the President wondered. “Wouldn’t you get a bigger bang by tossing a bunch of explosives in the air intake? I admit I saw that in some shoot-‘em-up movie somewhere, but it seems logical. Couldn’t these be repaired?”
    “Not really, sir,” Bud responded. “If you’re trying to just take out a target, you want to use the minimum force necessary. As for repair—not with the reduced capability the Cubans are exhibiting. There’s not much