by Dale Brown
“Just getting to the good part, I see,” said Bastian from the railing.
Danny jerked his head around, surprised that Bastian had managed to come in so quietly. “Colonel,” he said, pushing the remote control to freeze the video.
“It’s okay, Danny. Don’t stop now.” Bastian rolled his arms together in front of his chest.
“We know how it ends,” said Keesh, readjusting his thick, brown-framed glasses. They matched his brown suit. “But it is impressive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Dog, not sure how to address him. “We did get some breaks.”
“I was referring to the equipment,” said Keesh, who obviously didn’t mind the title.
“I think the colonel and his people deserve a compliment,” said Congresswoman Timmons, the ranking member on the Defense Appropriations Committee.
“The colonel has already been complimented,” said Keesh. “He’s in charge of the most prestigious command in the Air Force.”
Uh-oh, thought Dog, his crap detector snapping from search-and-scan to dogfight mode.
Nella McCormack stepped forward. Identifying herself as the Assistant Secretary for Technology “elect,” she introduced the colonel to the rest of the delegation. “Colonel, we’re on a tight schedule this afternoon,” she said after Bastian pumped the hand of the Washington lawmaker. “We’d like to speak to you in confidence. Perhaps we could pick up the tour in your office?”
As he led the delegation back up to his office suite, Dog wondered if they had come to sack him. Prior to his arrival, Dreamland had been run by a three-star general. Bastian was almost certainly the lowest-ranking officer in command of a mainland base in the Air Force. Dreamland wasn’t exactly a remote operating area either. HAWC had two main tasks: developing next-generation weapons for the Air Force and much of the rest of the military, and projecting that technology into trouble spots via Whiplash, its combined action squadron. Whiplash had a ground component headed by Danny Freah, and could draw on any of a number of high-tech planes, including the Megafortress and Flighthawks.
Ordinarily, the person heading such an operation would have a shoulder lit—some would say burdened—by at least two stars. So Bastian half expected that, once the new Administration got settled and figured out where everything was, he would be patted on the head and replaced. But Keesh wouldn’t have brought an audience to can him, would he?
“Nice desk for a colonel,” said Senator Densmore as they passed through Bastian’s personal office to get to the conference room.
“It was actually the last commander’s,” said Bastian, placing his palms on the exquisite cherry of his desktop.
“Tecumseh, let me apologize for barging in on you unannounced,” said Keesh as they all took seats around the two large tables in the conference room.
“We’re here to give you some good news,” said Congresswoman Timmons.
Dog felt a sudden pang. They couldn’t be here to promote him, could they?
“We’re going to greenlight an expansion of the U/MF program,” said Densmore. “Both the Senate and the House will include it in their budgets, and of course the Administration is behind it.”
“Well, that is good news,” said Bastian. He meant it—the robot planes, in his opinion, were potentially the biggest development in aerial combat since AWACS. But he wasn’t exactly sure why that news had to be delivered in person—nor why Magnus had been cut out of the loop. His confusion only grew as Keesh praised the Megafortress and JSF programs as well. Dog waited for the punch line, but none came.
“We have to be in our hotel at six,” said Keesh finally. He rose. “Perhaps we could see the Flighthawks before we go? And the Megafortress?”
“Of course,” said Bastian. He pulled the phone off the table and dialed Ax.
“Major Cheshire is waiting out here to give the nickel show,” said Gibbs as soon as he clicked on the line. “Major Stockard seems to be tied up with another project today. I couldn’t find him.”
That had to be a lie, or at least a fudge; no one escaped the omnipotent intelligence of Chief Master Sergeant Terence Gibbs. On the other hand, Nancy Cheshire was the perfect tour guide. She headed the Megafortress project, but had worked with the Flighthawks enough to sing their praises. She’d also give the men in the delegation something to look at if they got bored. The fact that she had received the Air Force Cross for her role in the Libya action, as well as a Purple Heart, wouldn’t hurt either.
Besides, while Nancy had a way with VIP types, Stockard tended to get impatient with people he thought were airheads. Which pretty much summed up his definition of anyone in Congress.
“Very good, Ax,” said Dog. “We’ll meet her at the elevator.” As he put down the phone, he noticed Keesh nod to McCormack. So he wasn’t surprised that McCormack touched Bastian’s sleeve and signaled that she wanted to talk as the others filed out.
“My sergeant has some papers for me to sign,” Dog told them. “I’ll catch up with you at the hangar.”
He closed the door.
“You’re very smooth, Colonel,” said McCormack.
“Actually, I think I was pretty obvious,” said Bastian. “As were you.”
“It’s a game we play. Washington.” She laughed. In her late thirties and not unattractive, she wore a light gray tweed pantsuit that made her look several pounds heavier than she probably was.
“So what’s going on?”
“The Secretary is very impressed by your work here. He wants to make sure that the base is properly funded. He sees very big things in your future.”
If it hadn’t been for his combat training, Dog would have responded with a terse “bullshit” and asked her to get to the point. As it was, he strained several muscles keeping his mouth shut. McCormack finally filled the silence.
“We’re very impressed with the U/MFs. We’d like to see two dozen in the air by the end of the year.”
“Two dozen by the end of the year? That’s quite optimistic. At the moment, I only have four, and don’t even have the funds to train more pilots.”
“That can be taken care of.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously.
“We’d like them all in the air at the same time. The Secretary is very impressed with the Air Armada concept.”
Dog suddenly sensed where she was going, but held his tongue.
“We believe ANTARES should be revived to control them,” said McCormack.
“Oh,” said Dog.
ANTARES stood for the Artificial Neural Transfer and Response System, and was a method for merging electronic data with a pilot’s senses. It allowed a pilot to see—some suggested “feel” was more descriptive—radar data, engine-performance readouts, weapons status, and flight data in his brain. It also promised to allow him to control planes with just his mind. The multifaceted project had led to huge advances in computer-assisted flight controls, and in fact the Flighthawks’ C and the computer autopilots in the Megafortress were outgrowths of ANTARES. But after stupendous early success, ANTARES had been placed on permanent “hold” after being compromised by a Russian spy.
“Multiple-plane control was part of the original plan, under the Nerve Center option. It’s quite all right, Colonel,” McCormack added, obviously reacting to Bastian’s hesitation. “I’m up to speed. I was part of the original team that came up with the concept several years ago.”
“You knew Maraklov then.”
“Captain James, yes.” McCormack said the name so lightly she could have been talking about a friend from kindergarten—not one of the most devastating intelligence moles in history. “Colonel, let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?”
“Please.”
“Joining the Flighthawks to the Megafortress was a brilliant idea, a stroke of genius. Now we can move ahead and make the Flying Armada concept a reality. Nerve Center will give us a twenty- or even thirty-year lead on every other country in the world. Conflicts such as the Gulf War or Bosnia could be fought b
loodlessly, at a fraction of the present costs.”
“As long as we’re being blunt,” said Dog, “I think ANTARES is a big, big mistake. Fifty years from now, maybe. But the computers we have, and maybe the human brain itself—maybe I’m just an old dog, but I don’t trust it. There were a lot of problems with the program.”
McCormack smiled smugly as he continued.
“If you’re talking about putting major resources into the project, reviving flight testing and that sort of thing, I think our money could be better spent in a million ways,” said Bastian. “The Flighthawk controls are heavily computerized as it is. Besides, there are only a dozen people or so with ANTARES experience left on the base, and all of them have other duties.”
“Dr. Geraldo would be the logical person to revive ANTARES,” said McCormack. “She was involved in the early stages before returning to NASA, which gives her the necessary experience while avoiding the James taint. I understand she has already done some work on it since transferring here in November.”
Martha Geraldo was a former NASA astrophysicist and psychologist with expertise in computer-human interaction. Her present assignment at Dreamland concerned development of the interfaces with flight computers. Dog had been aware of her ANTARES connection when she arrived, and in fact had asked her to prepare a study on what might be salvageable from the project. Now he realized that her transfer might have been part of a backdoor plot to revive the program all along.
“You’ve spoken to Dr. Geraldo about this?” he asked.
“No,” said McCormack. She said it quickly, but with enough of a neutral tone that Dog couldn’t tell if she was being honest. “That would be improper until I’m confirmed. But bluntly, Colonel—the new Secretary is very much in favor of ANTARES.”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then someone who is will be found to fill this command.”
Dreamland Shuttle Dock
9 January, 1745
MACK LEANED BACK AGAINST THE RAIL, SQUINTING AT the hills in the direction of Nellis Air Force Base, waiting for the Dolphin to arrive. Technically an Aerospatiale SA 366G Dauphin, the French helicopter had entered service as a Coast Guard recovery craft, and through a tortured series of events and horse trading, had come to serve here as part of the ferry service between Dreamland and Nellis. Known in military dress as a “Panther,” the whirlybird was a smooth and steady performer that made quick work of the trip to the larger, “open” air base. But there was only one helicopter, and it did not always run according to schedule. Even a patient man could find himself cursing as he counted the rivets in the Plexiglas shed that served as the Dolphin’s waiting area.
Major Smith was anything but patient. He paced, he turned, he muttered. He cursed. He kicked at the cracks. He stared at the mountain and the dry lake beds. He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the shelter, willing the stinking helicopter to appear.
It did not.
Two more passengers approached the platform from the hangar area. Mack glanced at them, saw they were civilians—and more importantly, male—and glanced away, uninterested. One of the two men stood in the shed for a second, lighting a cigarette, then nervously approached him. Mack turned and stared at him for a few seconds before realizing it was Kevin Madrone, in jeans and a baseball cap.
A Yankees cap. Figured.
“Hi, Major,” said Madrone, taking a long pull on his cigarette.
“Hey, Twig.”
Madrone winced at the nickname, which Mack had recently invented. It hadn’t stuck yet, but it would.
Knife had worked with Madrone a lot during his earlier hitch at Dreamland. The Army wanted a secure weapons link with the Joint Strike Fighter, allowing it to provide target data to ground units and receive data from them. Madrone had come to the project as a weapons expert, but had proven adept at dealing with all sorts of complexities; he’d actually engineered part of the link himself when problems arose. But he seemed abnormally quiet, even for a geek.
“Major, you mad I killed the exercise?” Madrone asked Mack.
“Ah, shit, no,” said Knife. “Don’t worry about what Stockard says. He’s so fucking competitive. He doesn’t know when to turn it off, you know?”
Madrone shrugged.
Stockard probably chewed his ear, Mack thought. Just like the SOB. Zen was a good pilot—not great, but good, certainly. But like a lot of guys Mack knew, he had a serious ego problem. He just couldn’t accept that anyone was better than him.
“Think we’ll get off tomorrow? Weather’s supposed to be bad,” said Madrone. “Storms in the mountains. Worst winter in years, they say.”
Talking about the weather. Poor guy was probably desperate to make conversation. Who could blame him, though? It sucked horse meat to stand out here waiting for the damn Dolphin.
“I’m thinking clear skies,” said Mack.
“You’re flying that Fulcrum?”
“Shit, yeah. I’ll cook Stockard’s ass. You watch.”
“Problem is, he can’t control four planes at once.”
“I’d cook his butt one-on-one,” said Mack. “I have plenty of times.”
Madrone took off his baseball cap and looked at it, as if trying to decide whether to wear it or not. Finally he folded it up and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Smart move, thought Mack. He considered saying something about how Jeff had screwed up so badly one time that it had cost him his legs, but he held off. He didn’t like to hit a guy when he was down, even if it was true.
Besides, Stockard had helped save his butt in Africa. So maybe he owed him a little.
“The way they’ve reworked the MiG,” he told Madrone, “it’s a pretty nice piece of hardware now. I can outaccelerate an F-15. Stock F-15 anyway. Tough little customer. Anything less than an F-22, I think you’d have a tough time one-on-one. The simulated F-16 we were using? That’s not even half as capable as the Fulcrum, not with Dreamland’s alterations. Shit. We only used that model because they couldn’t code the Fulcrum in—it was too far off the charts. Damn plane is beyond even the computer boys, it’s so hot. Simulates what the Russkies will be flying in 2030—assuming they’re not part of Iowa by then. Which they will be if they ever try and start something.”
Madrone nodded. Almost down to the filter on his cigarette, he took one more pull, then tossed it to the ground.
“Of course, it all depends on the pilot,” Mack went on. “Right pilot in an F-5E could take out the wrong pilot in a Raptor. All depends on using your plane. Knowing it. That’s why I beat Stockard today. That’s why I always beat Stockard.”
“Yeah,” said Madrone. He glanced in the direction the Dolphin ought to be coming from, as if trying to decide whether or not to have another cigarette.
“See, nothing against Zen personally,” said Mack, “but he’s a bit of an egomaniac. You know, figures he’s the hottest stick on the patch, that kind of thing. Now with Libya—which, nothing against Zen, but hell, think about who we went against. Qaddafi? Come on. Guy wears dresses, for Christ-sake. So Jeff did well, or at least well enough, and that inflated his head. Shrink would probably tell you it’s because he had a fragile ego to begin with. Penis envy or something like that.”
Mack laughed, though he was only half kidding. Madrone seemed to smirk, then reached into the pocket of his shirt for another pack of cigarettes.
“Now his wife, Breanna? She’s not that good a pilot at all. But she’s lucky, and that’s a lot more important. That, and she has one hellacious set of knockers.”
Madrone lit his cigarette without saying anything. He didn’t seem to be that bad a sort, just a little shy. And Army, but you could overlook that.
The Yankees thing, though. Well, he did come from New York, so maybe you could excuse that too.
“Say, I’m thinking of heading into Vegas tonight,” said Mack. He unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Check out MGM, maybe pick up some women. Been a while since I been to the City of Sin
.” He laughed—it had been a while for a lot of things. “Want to tag along?”
“Can’t, sorry,” said Madrone, lighting up.
“Heavy date?”
“Kinda,” said the Army captain. He took a puff, then turned to his left—the Dolphin was just clearing the range. “Shit. I just lit this.”
“Bad for you anyway,” said Mack. “Who’s the lucky girl?” Madrone shrugged. “A friend of a friend.”
“And?”
“It’s Abby something or other. Rap is setting me up.”
Mack suddenly got the picture. “Rap as in Bree Stockard?”
“Yeah. Zen and Breanna invited me to dinner.”
The roar of the approaching helicopter helped drown out the sound of Mack grinding his teeth.
Allegro, Nevada
9 January, 1913
BREANNA SMOOTHED THE SHEET OF ALUMINUM AGAINST the top of the pan, her fingers sweeping the edges taut. The clock clicked over and now she had exactly sixty seconds to ignition. Plenty of time—she grabbed her freshly sharpened chef’s knife and whipped through the scallions, stockpiling a supply of perfect two-mm-long ovals at the side of her chopping block. The timer binged and she hit the burner to finish steaming the carrots.
Of course, if Madrone didn’t show up in ten seconds, she was going to have to put everything on hold. The carrots would survive, but the rice was iffy—it had only ten minutes to go.
Kevin was late. Not too late—she’d guessed that he’d be about fifteen minutes late, and had calculated dinner accordingly. But the outside parameter of her estimate was rapidly approaching.
Could it be that Jeff had warned him about Abby?
Not that Abby deserved a warning. On the contrary. But sometimes men were such geeks about meeting people of the opposite sex, especially when they were obviously perfect for each other.
If he didn’t show in thirty seconds she was going to use the knife on him. And the ovals she cut wouldn’t be pretty.
