Razor's Edge d-3

by Dale Brown

  And Breanna hadn’t fully recovered from her injuries either.

  “Want me to fuel and prep Two for launch?” asked Fentress.

  “I got it,” said Zen, louder than he’d intended. He worked quickly through the checklist, jumping momentarily into the cockpit of Hawk One, then handing it back over to the computer in its orbit around the airstrip.

  Fueled and powered, Hawk Two purred beneath the EB-52’s wing, eager to launch.

  “Can I take it?” Fentress asked.

  “Sorry,” said Zen, immediately telling Breanna they were set to launch because he didn’t care to debate with his sidekick.

  * * *

  “Ready?” Breanna asked chris after the ground controller gave them the all-clear.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Engines are yours,” she said. “Like we chalked it up.”

  “Gotcha, coach,” said Ferris.

  They brought the big plane out of her last leg on the approach pattern, lining up with the runway. They were at an off angle, their nose about fifteen degrees away from a straight-on run. Several simulations on the Megafortress control computer showed this would give them the best handle on the swirling winds.

  “Four’s too hot,” Breanna said. She had the power-graph in the configurable HUD, its green bars overshadowing the rocks as they approached.

  “Backing off four, five percent. Seven percent.”

  “Five thousand feet,” said Breanna, reading the altitude against the runway, not sea level — which would have added nearly seven thousand feet to the total. “On course.”

  “Crosswind!” warned Chris. Quicksilver moaned as he said that, the plane lurching slightly to their left as a gust of wind caught them.

  “I have it,” she said. “Gear.”

  “Gear,” confirmed Chris. The plane shook slightly, her airspeed quickly dropping below 150 knots against the stiff head wind as the landing gear doors opened. Their momentum bled away; within seconds they were no more than three knots over their stall speed, with a goodly distance to go.

  “Hold our power,” said Breanna.

  “Gear set and locked,” said Chris. “Okay okay okay.”

  “Systems,” prompted Breanna.

  “Green, we’re in the green, we’re in the green. Jesus — too low, Bree, we’re going to clip the rocks.”

  Breanna resisted the impulse to break off the approach and instead held back on her stick ever so slightly longer than she had intended. They did cut the lip of the ridge close, but they cleared it.

  “Chutes!” said Breanna and Chris together. They’d timed the deployment down to the millisecond, trying to balance the different effects and maximize the drag without ending up too far off course. The jet wobbled slightly but held herself in the air, the extended trailing edges on the wings adjusted by a series of small actuators that responded in micrometer increments to the pilot’s input.

  “Reverse thrust! Reverse!” Breanna shouted.

  The swirling gusts suddenly changed direction and died. The Megafortress’s tail threatened to whip out from behind her and the plane rolled faster than she’d wanted, its speed jumping nearly fifty knots, if the speedo were to be believed. Breanna’s fingers compressed around the stick, her soft touch suddenly gone, her biceps cramping.

  An alarm sounded in the cockpit, and Chris shouted another warning.

  Then she did something she’d never done before when landing a Megafortress: She closed her eyes. The plane’s wings seemed to hulk over her shoulders, extensions of her body. Her stomach felt for the runway, her legs dragging the brakes. She fought the muscle knots in her hand and back, pushing the plane as gently as she could, willing it along the path as she’d planned, compensating for the wind, feeling her way dead onto the middle of the runway.

  God, she thought. The word filled her head, the only conscious idea. Every other part of her belonged to the plane.

  “Holding, holding, oh yeah, oh yeah,” Chris was saying. “Fifty knots. Thirty. Oh mama! Stopping! We’re stopping! This is pretty, Captain!”

  Someone behind her started to cheer. Breanna opened her eyes, looking out the windshield of the jet for the ground controller who was supposed to meet them and steer them to their parking slot.

  Chapter 35

  High Top

  1800

  Danny Freah waited as the hatchway beneath the Megafortress hissed and began to lower. He jumped onto the steps as soon as they touched the ground. Hopping aboard, he popped up into the Flighthawk control deck, where Zen was busy bringing the U/MFs in for their landings. The major’s new sidekick, Captain Fentress, looked around with a surprised expression, but Zen remained oblivious, hunkered over his controls. Danny waved at Fentress, then clambered up the access ramp to the flight deck, where the crew was just stowing their gear.

  “Nice landing, Bree,” said Danny. “Welcome to the No-Tell Motel.”

  “Glad to be here,” she said.

  “Colonel Bastian wants to conference,” he told her. “I was hoping I could sit in Quicksilver with you guys when we take it. We don’t have the headquarters trailer down yet, and our only radio is the SatCom.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, stepping back as he climbed into the ship. Breanna caught his arm as he reached the deck. “We appreciate your getting that strip together so fast. Thanks.”

  It was the first thank-you he’d heard all day, and it felt incredibly good. “Thanks.”

  “Now that I’ve brown-nosed you,” added Breanna, “can I drive one of those bulldozers?”

  Chapter 36

  Dreamland Secure Command Center

  1012

  Dog paced back and forth across the front of the situation room like an anxious father-to-be waiting word from the delivery ward.

  He should have found a way to go himself. Nobody had ordered him not to this time — so why hadn’t he even thought of it?

  Because he was superfluous. Because his job was here.

  Because Major Alou and Breanna were much better Megafortress pilots than he was.

  Bree, at least. Alou was still a little new. But the arguments that had kept Cheshire here went triple for him.

  Except that he wanted to be out there, in the mix.

  Why had he sent Jennifer? Because she knew the computer systems better than anyone in the world, including her boss, Ray Rubeo, who was sitting at one of the nearby consoles. Not only had she helped develop half of the avionics in the Megafortress and Flighthawks, but she could probably figure out the rest with her eyes closed.

  If he was worried about Jennifer, why wasn’t he worried about his own daughter, Breanna? She was taking much more risk, flying the plane into combat.

  Because Breanna had never seemed vulnerable?

  Vulnerable wasn’t the right word.

  Rubeo sighed loudly, leaning back in his chair. He’d brought a book to read as well as a pile of technical fold-ers, and seemed to flit back and forth between them as if reading them all simultaneously.

  Losing two more F-16s — it still had not been confirmed that the planes had been shot down, though everyone assumed they were — had sent CentCom as well as Washington into a frenzy. It didn’t help that no one knew what had shot down the planes. The latest CIA theory was that the Iraqis had managed to acquire modified versions of the Russian Straight Flush radar, a low PFR radar that had been modified not only to frequency skip but to resist jamming. The theory held that they were able to use the radars in conjunction with older but also undoubtedly modified Fan Gong F radars, all of which were turned on for extremely short periods of time in a predetermined pattern. Data from these extremely brief bursts were then used to launch several missiles.

  The theory did explain some things, such as the many brief radar indications and the barrage missile launchings. But as Rubeo pointed out, it did not account for the uncanny accuracy of the missiles, most especially since some of them didn’t have their own terminal guidance and those that did should have been d
efeated or at least confused by ECMs.

  Perhaps the guidance systems had been altered. Perhaps the barrage firings increased the relatively poor odds of a single missile finding its target. Perhaps the Iraqis were just lucky.

  “And perhaps Pooh Bear is God,” Rubeo said.

  But a laser also seemed farfetched. If the Iraqis had it, why didn’t they use it on everything in the air?

  Whatever it was, the Dreamland team had to find it — and neutralize it.

  “Really, Colonel, when are we going to get on with this?” asked Rubeo. “We are wasting time that even at government rates is not inexpensive.” Rubeo frowned and fingered his stubby gold earring. He was brilliant — half the gear in the room had been designed by him or one of the people who worked for him — but Dog thought that sometimes he pushed the eccentric scientist a bit too far.

  “What are you reading there, Doc?” asked Dog, trying to change the subject.

  “Commentary on Plato. Wrong-headed, but diverting.”

  “High Top Base to Dreamland Command.” Major Alou’s voice boomed over the speaker system. “Colonel, do we have a connection?”

  Dog turned toward the screen at the front of the room, even though he knew there would be no video; they were using the Megafortresses to communicate. The Whiplash portable command center, with its full suite of com gear, hadn’t even been delivered from the MC-17 yet. “Go ahead, Major.”

  “You wanted to speak to us?”

  “I have information that may be relevant. We’re going to try to get Jed Barclay on the line to sit in on this.” He nodded at the lieutenant handling the communications, who punched in the commands to connect the NSC secure line. A signal indicated that the line — which had been open just two minutes before — was now unavailable.

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Breanna lightly. She sounded like a kid calling from college.

  “Captain.”

  “Weather’s fine, if you like windchills approaching fifty below,” she told him.

  “She’s exaggerating,” said Alou. “Windchill only makes it feel like thirty below.”

  “Colonel, High Top came through on Channel B, the uncoded backup,” said the lieutenant at the com board. “I can only invoke eight-byte encryption.”

  “Well switch it to the secure channel,” said Rubeo, whose tone suggested he considered the lieutenant about as intelligent as an earthworm.

  “I’ve tried, sir. I don’t know whether it’s the satellite or something on their end.”

  “Oh, just peachy,” said Rubeo, getting up from his console and walking toward the lieutenant.

  It was unlikely that the Iraqis could intercept the communications signal, let alone break it. The Russians, on the other hand, were capable of doing both.

  “I’m told we’re not secure,” said Dog.

  “That is not correct,” said Rubeo. “And from a tactical point of view—”

  “Excuse me, Doc, I’m talking here.” Dog gave the scientist a drop-dead frown. He couldn’t tell them about the laser; doing so would risk tipping the Russians off about Razor. “I have a matter that I want you briefed on. I’ll find a way of getting the information to you. In the meantime, we have to fix our communications glitch.”

  “I’m working on it,” said the lieutenant.

  “How long to fix this?” Dog asked.

  “Sorry, sir. I’m not sure.”

  Dog looked at Rubeo. The scientist shrugged. “Hours.

  Days.”

  “Better not be days.” Another thought occurred to him — was the glitch deliberate?

  The idea obviously hit Rubeo at the same time.

  “We haven’t been compromised,” said the scientist.

  “These are the difficulties inherent in new systems. Believe me, Colonel, it is perfectly safe to proceed.”

  Rubeo was undoubtedly correct — and yet Dog couldn’t take that chance. Security at Dreamland had been blown disastrously once before.

  Under General Elliott, as it happened.

  “What’s up, Colonel?” asked Zen.

  “I’m going to send you a visitor, I think,” said Dog, im-provising. “He has a theory I want you to hear about.”

  “We’re not going to tell them anything?” said Rubeo.

  “We’ve wasted all this time—”

  “The line isn’t secure,” said Dog.

  “Colonel, please, let me explain a bit about the encryption system we’re using as backup,” said Rubeo. “Once we invoke the key, even though—”

  “Dr. Ray is rehearsing his vaudeville act,” said Dog.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t explain.”

  “At least give them perspective,” added Rubeo. “General Elliott’s assessment of technology has always been overly optimistic.”

  “General Elliott?” asked Zen.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” said Dog. He walked over to the lieutenant’s console and killed Rubeo’s input line. “I’ll get the information to you.”

  “Okay,” said Alou.

  “Dream Control out,” said Dog.

  “Wait!”

  Jennifer’s voice pulled his head back toward the screen.

  Still blank, of course.

  “How are you, Doc?” he asked.

  “I’m kick-ass fine, Colonel. Yourself?”

  Dog wrapped his arms around each other in front of his chest. “I’m doing well. Was something up?”

  “Just to say hi.”

  “Yes.” He tightened his arms, squeezing them as if wringing a towel. “Dream Command out.”

  A slight pop sounded over the circuit as the feed died, the sort of noise a staticky AM radio might make when the lights were switched on in a distant part of the house.

  “The odds, Colonel, of the transmission being intercepted and decoded would surely be measured in range of ten to the negative one hundredth power,” said Rubeo.

  “I can’t take any chance on that if we’re discussing Razor,” said Dog.

  “We weren’t going to talk about Razor,” said Rubeo.

  “Please, Colonel, give me some credit.”

  “If I didn’t, I’d have you in front of a firing squad.”

  “If you want to question my adherence to security protocols, Colonel, I welcome a formal inquiry.”

  “Relax, Doc. Fix this coding thing.”

  “I doubt it’s more than a switch in the wrong position,” said Rubeo.

  “Communication pending, sir,” said the lieutenant.

  “NSC.”

  “Secure?” asked Dog.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s only the important communications that get screwed up,” said Rubeo.

  “Connect,” said Dog.

  The screen at the front flashed with color. Dog turned toward it as Jed Barclay appeared in the NSC secure room. His eyes were red and drooping, his hair disheveled even worse than normal. Uncharacteristically, he was wearing a suit that seemed to have been recently pressed, or at least dry cleaned.

  “I’m ready,” said Jed. “Sorry for the delay.”

  “That’s all right, Jed,” Dog told him. “We ran into some technical problems and we’re going to have to take another approach anyway. What’s the latest?”

  “Someone might suggest Major Smith sign up for some camera lessons. His photos were kind of blurry and the analysts all say inconclusive. The two F-15

  shoot-downs clinch it for me, but the CIA’s still holding out.”

  “Naturally,” said Rubeo.

  “Meantime, we’re reassessing targets,” continued Barclay. “CentCom wants ground action to help the Kurds.

  Your orders still stand.”

  All of this could have been prevented, Dog thought, if we’d simply nailed Saddam when we had the chance.

  Calling off a war simply because a hundred hours had passed — what a wheelbarrow of bullshit.

  “Uh, Colonel, I have someplace to get to,” added Jed.

  “The director himself will contact you if there’s any cha
nge or new developments while I’m, uh, in transit.”

  “Just one more thing,” said Dog. “Where is Brad Elliott right now, and can you get me through to him?”

  “Uh, that’s two things,” said Jed.

  Chapter 37

  Incirlik

  2100

  Mack Smith had begun the day with high hopes of finding a slot with one of the squadrons flying south.

  He’d begun at the top — the F-15C guys flying combat air patrol — and worked his way down. The message was always the same: no room at the inn.

  Which was bullshit. Here was, without doubt, the best stinking fighter pilot in the stinking Gulf, the hottest stick on the patch — bona fide, with scalps on the belt to prove it, for chrissakes — and he couldn’t even get a gig pushing A-10s across the lines.

  Actually, there were no Warthogs in Turkey, and Mack wasn’t sure he could fly them if there were. But he would have jumped at the chance. Hell, he’d have taken the copilot’s seat in a Piper Cub if it meant getting into the action.

  But nada. Stinking nada. Without exception, the idiot wing and squadron and section commanders, even the stinking D.O.’s and the intel guys and the maintenance people, for cryin’ out loud — every stinking anybody with any sort of authority had it in for him.

  Probably they were scared he’d hog all the glory.

  Jerks.

  Elliott was sequestered in some hotel somewhere with the CIA jerks. Mack ended up wandering around the base, looking for something, anything, to do. He finally found himself staring at CNN in an Army psyops office that was being shared with USAFSOC. The SOC guys were out, the psyops people were off planning their head-shrinking stuff, and Mack was left alone to view a succession of correspondents in Saudi Arabia talk about a situation they knew absolutely nothing about. Reports of bomb strikes were attributed to reliable sources speaking on condition of anonymity. None of what they said was wrong — they just didn’t know what was going on.