by Dale Brown
“You better be careful, Colonel. If you get any good, we may slide you into the rotation.”
“I’ll help out anyway I can,” said Bastian, smarting a bit from her tone.
“You sure you don’t want to take this run? I still need another pilot.”
“Maybe I will,” he said. “As a matter of fact, let’s go for it.”
Dreamland Handheld Weapons Lab
23 January, 0807
“LATE, AS USUAL.”
Danny grinned at the gray-haired woman in the white lab coat. Her frown turned into a smile, even as she shook her head and wagged her finger.
“Captain, you need a secretary to look after you,” Annie Klondike told him. She turned and began walking briskly toward the back rooms of the handheld weapons lab.
“You want the job?” asked Freah, falling in alongside. “You wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.”
Klondike shuffled toward the large room where the firing ranges were located.
“Annie, those new slippers?”
“Don’t get fresh.”
Klondike walked to a large gray box that sat in front of a series of drawer-shaped lockers. About eight feet wide and another six feet deep, the box came up to the diminutive weapons scientist’s chest. It seemed to be made of a very hard plastic material. Klondike put her palms on the top and the box began to move. Fascinated, Danny watched as the box pulled itself apart, a shallow section remaining behind the top.
“Opens only with my palm print and could withstand a one-megaton explosion,” said Klondike.
“This thing?” asked Danny. The shell material was no more than three inches thick.
“As long as it’s not a direct hit. Of course, if it was one of my bombs—”
“You do nukes too, Annie?”
“In my youth, Captain. I’m retired from that.”
“You shittin’ me?”
Klondike lowered her face, but kept her eyes fixed on him, as if she were a Sunday school teacher peering over her glasses. She sighed, then again shook her head, shuffling over to the table.
“At the moment, the Combat Information Visor must be attached to the Smart Helmets,” she said, turning her attention to the device Danny had come to inspect. “I have some hopes of miniaturizing it further, so that it can be used as goggles. I find the visor cumbersome, and I’m told some troops do not like the helmet.”
“It’s heavy,” said Danny. The so-called Smart Helmet included a secure com link and a GPS system. It could withstand a direct hit by a fifty-caliber machine-gun bullet from fifty yards—though that produced a hell of a headache. Klondike’s prototype visor added two additional functions: a long-range multi-made viewer, and an aiming screen for a specially adapted M-16.
The visor looked like a welder’s shield. It shifted the helmet’s center of gravity far forward when it was snapped on, promising severe neck strain.
“There are four native modes to the viewer,” said Klondike, reaching to cinch the chin strap. “They select on the right, zoom and back out on the left. They toggle through in sequence. One is unenhanced. Two allows—wait, let’s kill the lights.”
Mode Two was infrared. Three was starlight-enhanced. Four actually did not work yet; they were perfecting a graphics Geiger counter, which would allow the unit to detect radioactive materials from twice the distance as the “sniffers” or portable Geiger counters Whiplash now packed on NBC missions. But the gear wasn’t quite ready.
“I’d trade it for making it lighter,” Danny said, fiddling with the helmet.
“Well, it won’t make it heavier, because we hope to press the functions into a pair of chips. I’m sorry, Captain. The weight comes from the LED panes and the carbon-boron sliver-plates at the side,” she added. “We’ve actually lightened it about a pound and a half since we began. Notice how the slide here is almost round?”
“Oh, yeah, first thing I noticed.”
Klondike turned the lights on. “The helmet can accept inputs from external sensor systems, assuming they meet MAT/ 7 standards. You’ll need an RCA plug, but once you plug in you’re slaved to a Pave Low’s infrared, assuming the helicopter’s gear has been modified for an additional output. The host thinks it’s the original screen. Adjustment’s easy; we’ll have it put on your C-17 the next time Quick-mover goes in for a lube.”
While she was talking, Klondike had approached the gun drawers. These were locked with an old-fashioned key, which she kept on a string around her neck. She bent to one and opened it, then removed an M-16.
“I prefer my MP-5,” Danny told her.
“Captain, please,” said Klondike. “With all due respect to my friends at Heckler-Koch, submachine guns are meant to be sprayed, even theirs. A fine weapon under certain circumstances, but hardly a one-bullet, one-kill solution. Now come on or I’m going to miss my soap opera—or worse, Jeopardy.”
The M-16A3’s laser sight had been replaced with a small, stubby bar that had only a small pinhole at the barrel end. Nudging a slider on the top of the gun activated a VSRT or Very-Short-Range FM Transmitter, which allowed the gun to communicate with the targeting screen. A pair of cursors appeared on the view screen; as the gun was aimed horizontally, the cursors merged. A tear-shaped ring appeared around the cursor, showing the probable trajectory if the shot deteriorated because of the wind or distance.
“The cursor is absolutely right on to two hundred yards in all conditions,” Annie told him after he’d put five bullets into the center of a target at three hundred feet. “But we haven’t been able to reliably compensate for weather conditions beyond that. Additionally, you can’t aim through water or glass as you can with the sniper rifle. But it’s an improvement over the laser dot, both in distance and detectability. And it has the added bonus of persuading men to keep their helmets on,” added Klondike, “no matter how heavy they may be.”
“Ready for field testing?” asked Danny.
“Didn’t you notice the helmet was formed for your head?” said Klondike.
“If I weren’t married already, Annie …” said Danny.
Klondike’s response was drowned out by the report of the rifle as he squeezed off the rest of the clip.
Dreamland, Aggressor Hangar
23 January, 0182
WHEN YOU WERE A GENERAL, YOU NEVER HAD A BAD day. Generals had drivers. Generals had staffs. Generals had people who made sure their stinking alarm clocks didn’t malfunction so they didn’t oversleep.
More importantly, when you were a general it didn’t matter if you overslept.
Mack Smith wanted more than anything to be a general. He’d had a master plan from the day he entered the recruiting office, and until getting shot down over Somalia three months ago, he’d followed it perfectly: combat experience, an air kill (two), serious seat time in the country’s most advanced planes. He had numerous connections inside and outside Washington, dozens of military godfathers—all of whom knew he had the right stuff and were willing to pull strings to make sure he got ahead.
His next step, command of a top-tier squadron, had seemed assured. For the last three months, though, everything seemed to be going wrong. The President—bit of a windbag, but still the commander in chief, don’t forget that—had shaken his hand and thanked him—thanked him!—for doing such a “good job over there.” Then he’d gone and lost the election. With him went the Defense Secretary, who had smiled and murmured something about a promotion to colonel.
Worse, Knife hadn’t been able to snag an important assignment. The gig testing Sharkishki was the best he could manage, a bit of an end run that had brought him back to Dreamland against his wishes. He’d taken it in hopes that it would lead to an assignment at Nellis heading the Aggressor squadron, which was where the MiG and its brethren were headed next. Recently, though, there were rumors that the Aggressor squadron, which trained top-rung fighter pilots for combat, was overstaffed. It was possible he’d get there only on temporary duty, assigned to show the boys how to work the stick and r
udder—a cushy job certainly, but not one calculated to take him to any great heights. It would also put him back where he had started, in search of a command billet.
Was he in the midst of a bad streak? Or were others out to sabotage him? Everywhere there were minor annoyances trying to trip him up. Like his alarm clock. And this morning’s Dolphin, whose pilot insisted on waiting at Nellis for nearly a half hour because he was the only passenger.
As if anyone else important might show up.
By the time Knife reached the hangar where he and the engineers were due to review the upgrades to the MiG’s passive avionics, he was nearly forty-five minutes late.
Which didn’t explain why his team wasn’t here.
One look at the man who was, Major Franklin Thomas. and Mack knew his luck was going from bad to absolutely terrible. Thomas was a bean-counter who always came up three beans short. He also never delivered good news.
“You missed the meeting,” said Thomas.
“What meeting?”
“0730. There was an e-mail on it last night.”
“To me? Musta missed it.”
“Major, I won’t sugarcoat this,” said Thomas. “The Advanced Aggressor program has been canceled.”
“What?”
“Completely. The MiGs are going to be mothballed.”
“You have to be shitting me.” He gestured toward the three fuselages to the right, in various stages of renovation. “There’s got to be ten million dollars of work tied up in those planes, and never mind what the airframes cost.”
“The Aggressor program isn’t going to make the cut,” said Thomas. “The new Administration believes it’s better to cut bait right now, rather than dragging it on. I can run through some of the numbers if you want.”
“Oh, fuck that.”
Thomas’s lower lip quivered and his cheek jerked up nervously. “The Russians have canceled most of their developmental programs, so our efforts to anticipate them no longer make sense. We would be training against a nonexistent threat.”
“Bullshit.”
“E-ev-everyone’s going to be reassigned to other Dreamland projects. Of course, we’ll be securing the airframes that we have. Now you’re not technically Dreamland personnel, so the colonel mentioned that he’d help find something for you if you need help.”
“I don’t need God’s help,” said Mack, practically spitting Dog’s very unofficial and not exactly flattering nickname.
“Major, this isn’t going to affect you adversely. It’s just a little bump.”
“Screw yourself, Thomas, okay? Just fucking screw yourself.”
Aboard Mo
23 January, 0915
EVEN THE PEOPLE WHO FLEW B-52’s CALLED THEM BUFFs—Big Ugly Fat Fellas, or Fuckers, depending on whether there was a reverend around. The venerable Cold War bombers looked clean on the first sketch pads, but even by the late sixties wore a variety of blisters and stretch marks across their approximately 160-foot bodies. Each modification made the bomber a more potent weapon, but most also took a slight nick out of its aerodynamic qualities. Never fast to begin with, latter-day Stratofortresses positively labored in certain flight regimes, including low-level maneuvers.
Not the Megafortress. With a sleek needle nose, an ultra-clean fuselage, carbon-fiber reinforced wings, and a modified tailplane assembly, the EB-52 could accelerate through a forty-five-degree climb from one thousand feet, its speed touching 423.5 knots even though it carried a simulated weapons load of 28,000 pounds of iron bombs.
“We can go faster,” Cheshire said as they climbed through seven thousand feet. She’d let him take the pilot’s seat to continue his training.
“Engines at max,” said Dog.
“Engines at maximum power,” concurred the computer. “We should have more thrust,” complained Cheshire. “Eight thousand feet, going to ten thousand.”
The outboard J57’s rumbled noisily, as if Major Cheshire had annoyed them. Still, the airplane’s indicated airspeed slipped back toward four hundred knots. Cheshire made some adjustments on her side of the control panel, but nothing seemed to have an effect. They reached ten thousand feet; Bastian began pushing the nose down, trimming the plane for level flight.
“Air speed 380 knots,” reported the computer.
“How can that be?” said Dog.
“Problem with Test Engine Two,” reported Cheshire, a moment before the computer flashed a warning on the status screen. The PW4074/DX engine’s oil pressure shot down, then up off the scale. The temperature went red as well.
“Shutting down Two,” reported Cheshire.
“Two, yes, shutting down Two,” said Dog. His mind hesitated for a moment, his brain momentarily caught between a dozen different thoughts. The synapses were temporarily clogged by the memory of the only time in his life that he’d lost an engine in flight and couldn’t get it relit.
Unfortunately, it was in an F-16 over the Atlantic. No amount of restarts, no amount of curses, could bring is back. He’d bailed out into a moonless night at ten thousand feet—and even with plenty of time to contemplate how cold the water would be, he’d underestimated the chill by half.
But he was in a Megafortress now.
“Trimming to compensate,” Dog said calmly, remembering the routine Bree had taught him during the simulations.
“Good,” said Cheshire. “Okay. Okay,” she sang, running through the instruments on her side.
The Megafortress wobbled slightly. Mo’s speed continued to drop steadily, but he was still in control.
“I’m going to bank around and try for Runway Two,” Bastian told Cheshire.
“Two’s no good,” said Nancy. “The Flighthawks are using it for touch-and-go’s. Three is our designated landing area.”
“Three then.” Bastian clicked his radio transmit button. “Dreamland Tower, this is Missouri. We have an emergency situation. One engine is out. Request permission to land on Runway Three.”
“Tower. We acknowledge your emergency. Stand by.”
Dog started to bank the plane. His hands were a little shaky and the artificial horizon showed he was tipping his wing a little too much.
“Temp in Engine Three going yellow, going—shit—climbing—red,” reported Cheshire.
She said something else, but Dog couldn’t process it. His stomach started fluttering to the side, as if it had somehow pulled loose inside his body.
Relax, he told himself. You can do this.
“Nine thousand feet, going to eight thousand,” said Cheshire.
“Shut down Engine Three,” said Dog.
“Through the turn first,” prompted Cheshire. “I’m on the engine, Colonel,” she explained.
Dog came out of the turn, leveling the wings while still in a gentle downward glide. Cheshire did a quick run through the indicators on the remaining engines, reporting that they were in the green. The tower came back, clearing them to land.
“Six thousand feet,” said Cheshire. “One more orbit?”
“I think so,” said Dog. But as he nudged into the bank, his left wing started to tip precipitously; the Megafortress began bucking and threatening to turn into a brick.
“Problem with the automatic trim control,” reported Cheshire. “System failure in the automated flight-control computer, section three—the backup protocol for the engine tests introduced an error. All right, hang with it. This won’t be fatal.”
She then began running through some numbers, recording the section problems that the flight computer was giving her on the screen. Under other circumstances—like maybe sitting on the ground in his office—Dog would have appreciated the technical details and the prompt identification of the problem. Now, though, all he wanted was a solution.
“We’re going to have to fly without the computer,” said Cheshire finally. “I can’t lock this out and it will be easier to just land and we can debug on the ground.”
“I figured that out,” said Dog, wrangling the big plane through the turn.
He felt his anger boiling up, even though he knew she didn’t mean it as an insult. “No, I’m okay,” he said. “Tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.”
“Wide turns,” she said. “Very wide turns. We’re more like an airliner than a fighter jet.”
“Yup.”
Part of him, a very, very small part of him, wanted to turn the plane over to Cheshire. A strong case could be made that it was the right thing to do—when all was said and done, he was a green pilot trying to deal with a very big problem. Even if he wasn’t in over his head, it made sense to turn the stick over to Cheshire.
But Dog was way too stubborn for that. And besides, he wasn’t in over his head—he came through another orbit much more smoothly, having worked the plane down to two thousand feet. They legged into final approach with a long, gentle glide.
“Come on, Mo,” said Cheshire, talking to the plane. “You can do it, baby.”
“Yeah, Mo,” said Dog. “Go for it, sister.”
Whether she heard them or not, the EB-52 stepped down daintily on the desert runway, her tires barely chirping.
She poked her nose up slightly, perhaps indignant to find a full escort of emergency vehicles roaring alongside her. But Bastian had no trouble controlling her, bringing her to a rest near the secondary access ramp at the middle of the field.
“Good work, Colonel,” said Cheshire. “You handled that like a pro. Maybe we will use you as a pilot when Pistol and Billy leave.”
ANTARES Bunker
27 January, 0755
KEVIN NODDED AT THE GUARD AS THE GATE SWUNG back from the road, the panel of chain links groaning and clicking as the metal wheels whirled. While the path was wide enough for a tractor-trailer, no vehicles were allowed past the checkpoint, not even the black SUVs used by Dreamland security.
