by Dale Brown
The upstairs or back bay of Quicksilver—the domain of the defensive weapons operators in a standard B-52—ordinarily contained two additional Elint stations, as well as space for the collection computers that processed and stored the gathered intelligence. The secondary control panels for the gear had been removed to save space, as had some of the black boxes. In their place sat a collection of spare parts, two medium tents, sleeping bags, and enough MREs to ruin appetites for a week. In between the supplies were Jeff Hiu, one of the electronics wizards responsible for Quicksilver’s “Deep Drink” ALR-98 intercept receiver suite, and Staff Sergeant Louis Garcia, who’d brought along a Walkman and a sizable portion of his Bob Dylan collection.
No change of clothes, though.
Sitting next to Zen downstairs in what would have been the radar navigator/bombardier’s post on a standard B-52 was Captain Michael Fentress, Zen’s apprentice and gofer on the mission. Zen had included him in the mission reluctantly — after being ordered to do so by Colonel Bastian.
“For those of you who aren’t regular passengers, Quicksilver is not quite an airliner,” Bree told them.
“Please keep your restraints on until we reach altitude.
We have a long flight, and a bit of weather along the way, but we should be well over it. I’ll wake you up when we’re getting close to Turkey. Any questions?”
“Where’s the bathroom on this thing?” asked Habib.
There were a few snickers.
“Chris, can you help the sergeant out once we’re under way?”
“You got it.”
“Can you cross your legs until then, Sergeant?”
“Guess I’ll have to.”
Quicksilver’s four single-podded power plants were a special set of Pratt & Whitneys, highly modified from the engines originally developed for the F-22 Raptor. This latest variation on engine configuration for the Megafortress traded off a bit of speed for greatly increased range, but the thrusters could definitely get the plane off the ground in a hurry. Cleared by Dream Tower, Breanna pushed the slider to maximum takeoff power, released the brakes, and pointed Quicksilver’s new and still unpainted nose toward the wild blue. The plane lifted off smoothly, her wings drooping ever so slightly because of the weight of the Flighthawks strapped below. Breanna felt a brief flutter of apprehension as the indicated airspeed dropped a few seconds off the runway, but the problem was momentary, maybe even just an indicator glitch.
“We’re green, we’re green,” said Chris quickly.
“Clean the gear,” said Breanna.
The plane began picking up speed as the massive wheels slid up into their bays.
“Looking good, crew,” she said as they climbed through five thousand feet. “Just thirteen hours and fifty-nine minutes to go.”
Chapter 27
Over the Pacific
1672
Among Dreamland’s less glamorous projects was designing a replacement for the venerable C-130 Hercules transport, a capable and highly versatile aircraft that came in an almost endless series of flavors. The Hercules was such a successful aircraft, in fact, that the wizards at Dreamland could not hope to fully top her — though even Herky bird partisans might claim they had come close with the MC-17B/W, which was taking Danny Freah and his six-man Whiplash advance team to Turkey. Based on the short-field capable C-17, the MC-17B/W had been thoroughly refashioned. Besides the dark black paint job, the most noticeable difference between the Whiplash mutation and the standard Globemaster III was the multicon-figurable wingtips that made up about a third of the outer wing, just inside the winglets. The leading and trailing edges had double trapezoid panels that generally operated as standard leading and trailing edge slats, functioning much as the C-17’s considerably smaller ones did.
But the slats also had narrow hinge stakes, allowing them to be set as miniature wings; when set, they looked a little like small biplane sections at the end of each wing. The effect increased the aircraft’s ability to land on short airfields, even with a full load. Where the standard C-17 could deliver 150 troops or 81,000 pounds of cargo to an airstrip of 625 yards — an incredible achievement in itself — the MC-17B could land the same load in half the distance. The stock P&W PW2040s with their 41,700 pounds of thrust could get a fully loaded C-17 into the sky at 1,200 feet; the Whiplash version needed a hair under eight hundred, though that involved a bit of prayer and a stiff wind. And the notoriously turbulent airstream that made certain parachuting deliveries difficult — especially those involving troops — had been tamed by the Dreamland experts.
To the seven men in the cargo area of the big plane, however, the major difference between the Dreamland mover and all others came down to eight regulation-size cots, one large-screen TV, and one oversize poker table, all squeezed into a self-contained, motorized trailer that had been designed to fit in the rear bay. Not only did it fit, but it left room for two large, skid-mounted bulldozers, which were to be air-dropped in a low-and-slow insertion at the temporary base.
Which they had never practiced from the aircraft.
Danny Freah was not worried about the drop; the mission specialists aboard the MC-17B/W had more than twenty-five years of experience between them, the pilot and copilot had been flying together for years, and, at least in theory, he thought the Whip Loader ought to be at least as good at delivering “packages” as the standard model. Nor was he concerned about Annie Klondike’s special-order AGM-86s; the diminutive weapons scientist had demonstrated her far-ranging talents often in the past. Freah wasn’t even bothered by the fact that “his”
MV-22 Osprey, which was too large to fit in the MC-17, wouldn’t be arriving in theater until a day, or maybe even more, after he arrived. After all, they weren’t expected to go anywhere.
Freah’s worries had to do with intelligence, or rather, the lack of it. His entire store of information on the area they were flying into amounted to a single paragraph, which itself could be summarized in one word: mountainous. The area to the south was populated by Kurds, and it had been surveyed by American forces during Operation Provide Comfort in 1991. But things had changed dramatically there in the past five or six years. Some of the Kurds the Americans had helped in their rebellion against Saddam Hussein were now allied with the dictator. Others were involved in an all-out war with the Turks. And the CIA backgrounder he had on his notebook computer said that the Iranians were funding two other Kurd groups, trying to foment revolution, or at least give their old enemy Saddam Hussein headaches.
The Iranians weren’t likely to be friendly. The Iraqis definitely were enemies. The Kurds might or might not be, depending on their mood. The Turks, ostensibly allies, were arguably the most deadly of all.
He had six men to hold the base with. The Marines wouldn’t be available for at least forty-eight hours.
“Read ’em and weep,” said Sergeant Kevin Bison at the poker table just beyond the cot where Danny was reading. “Ladies over jacks. Full house.”
“Nice, but not as good as four eights,” said Sergeant Lee Liu.
Bison threw down his cards. “You musta had that up your sleeve, Nurse.”
Liu laughed. He’d gotten the nickname “Nurse” because of his paramedic training, though in fact all of the Whiplash team members could pull duty as medics.
“Down your pants, more likely, Bison,” said Powder.
“Screw you,” snapped Bison.
“All right, boys, think about getting some sleep,” said Freah, snapping his laptop closed. “We have a long day ahead of us. We’re jumping in six hours.”
“Hey, Cap, can I ride the ’dozer down?” said Powder.
The others laughed, but he wasn’t necessarily kidding.
“Tell you what, Powder,” answered Freah. “I hear anything out of you or anybody else that doesn’t sound like a snore, I’ll strap you to the blade and push you out myself.”
Chapter 28
Dreamland
1810
Colonel Bastian glanced at his watch and jump
ed from his desk — he was supposed to meet Jennifer at the Dolphin dock ten minutes ago.
Then he remembered she’d deployed as part of the technical team supporting the Megafortresses. She was in Alou’s plane to monitor the launch of their tactical satellites — one to ensure wide-band instant communications between the team and Dream Control, the other a small optical satellite officially known as a KH-12/Z sub-orbital surveillance platform, and more generally as the KH-12-mini. Propelled by solid-fuel boosters, the sats would be launched from Raven over the Atlantic. Their low orbits and small size meant they’d only “live” for a few weeks before burning up in the atmosphere, but that was perfectly suited for the mission.
Dog sat back down in his seat slowly. He was done with Chief Gibbs’s paperwork for the day, but he had a pile of reports to look at on the right side of his desk. At the very top was one dealing with ANTARES, or Artificial Neural Transfer and Response System, the once-promising experiment to use human brain impulses to control aircraft.
To say that the experiment had failed was incorrect, or at least imprecise. What it had done was make its subject into a paranoid schizophrenic who’d actively participated in a plot to destroy an American city with a nuclear device. Intercepted before he could reach his target, he’d tried to strike Dreamland itself.
If it were up to Dog, the ANTARES equipment and all of the records would be ground into little pieces. But it wasn’t up to him. His job was only to make a recommendation to the NSC. He picked up the report, written by Martha Geraldo, who had headed the program, and began reading.
The potential of the human mind is awesome and incredible. We have seen its darkest side as a result of the ANTARES experiments and the so-called Nerve Center affair. In the future, artificial neuron connections may allow for the control of an entire squadron or wing of aircraft. At present, however, we clearly do not understand enough about the human brain to continue in the vein we have undertaken.
Dog realized that even though it sounded negative, Geraldo was gearing up to make an argument to continue the program, albeit in a drastically changed fashion.
Maybe she was right — maybe a great deal of good could come from it. But he just wasn’t in the mood to read an argument in favor of a project that had cost one of his best people and nearly killed his daughter. He tossed the report down on his to-be-read-later pile on the floor. It was already nearly a foot high.
He knew that Tony Priestman, aka Hammer, would have told him to deal with it right away. That was his main philosophy as a flight leader — attack.
Maybe that’s what got him shot down over Iraq, Dog thought.
He had been a freshly minted hotshot jock when he met Hammer. Then a captain, Hammer wasn’t all that much older than he was, and nowhere near as good a pilot. However, he did have five years more experience — five years that included a short but eventful stint over Vietnam at the very end of the war. Dog served as his wingman in an F-15 squadron, one of the first to fly what was then a hot new aircraft.
Hammer hadn’t been particularly kind at first. In fact, he’d never been particularly kind. It took Dog two days to get over the first dressing down — the new F-15 pilot had failed to keep his separation during their flight and had landed a bit fast. It was petty criticism. For weeks after-ward, anger mixed with the fear of really screwing up every time he prepped a flight, though they melted once he was in the air — he was, after all, a good pilot, and he knew it.
Gradually, Dog came to realize that Hammer’s harassment was a reaction of his own fears. Hammer was much harder on himself, something Dog learned when he sat in on a briefing for the wing commander following a training exercise. Later that same night they found themselves left at a bar together after the rest of their group drifted away. Dog told Hammer he thought he’d done pretty well, certainly better than Hammer seemed to think when he’d told the boss.
Instead of answering, Hammer flicked a cigarette out of the pack in front of him on the bar. He stared at it a moment, then took a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket.
“This lighter belonged to one of my commanders,” he said after a drag on the cigarette. “Left it to me when he went home.”
Dog expected a story would follow about the lighter or the commander, but instead Hammer slid the Zippo into his pocket and took another puff of the cigarette. Then he sipped his seltzer — he didn’t drink, at least not that Dog ever saw. After a few minutes, he went on.
“I got a MiG one afternoon. It was pretty funny, in a way. I should have been nailed myself. They had this tactic — this is end days in the war, remember; I’m just about the last guy out.” Hammer sounded almost rueful about the war ending. “Anyway, we go in, drop our sticks la-di-da, and just as we’re turning home — well, no, we had recovered and we were still in the process of getting bearings. I’m a little bit back of my lead and we’re about to saddle up when this MiG appears. MiG-21. Anyway, they have this tactic where basically what they would do was run one guy out as a decoy, suck you in. They get you to follow, or at least pay attention for a moment — they can turn like all hell, I mean, it’s like trying to follow a motorcycle with a tractor trailer. I’m in a Phantom, of course.”
“Right,” said Dog.
“So anyway, like an idiot — and I mean a true idiot — I bite. My Sidewinder growled on the guy — I’m that close.
It happens bing-bang-boom. My lead’s here, the MiG comes up out of the bushes there, I’m here.”
Hammer gestured in the smoky air of the bar, trying to conjure the remarkable fluidity of a three-dimensional dogfight with his hands. Dog could see it, or imagined he could — the glittering knife of the enemy plane cutting up out of the ground clutter, the tight cockpit of the Phantom, the Sidewinder screaming at him to fire.
“So he starts to turn — I slipped outside the firing envelope.” Hammer’s hands started to mimic not the flight of the planes but his action on the stick. “So I start to bite because I want the shot and then I realize — and maybe it was actually my backseater or even somebody else in the flight yelling at me, I don’t really remember — anyway, I suddenly realized there was going to be another one of these suckers coming at my butt. Because that’s what they did. You’re here, you start to follow, they get you flat-footed. So instead of following, I flick down — yeah, as incredible as that seems, I roll and duck, and I’m not kidding, I look up and I’m six hundred yards from the second MiG’s nose. Nose on nose. He winks — big balls of red and black pop out in front of me. It’s not slow motion. It’s more like I’m looking at a painting. Everything’s stopped. Those flashes are — you ever see that Van Gogh painting of stars at night? ‘Starry Night’ or something?
That’s what it is, and it’s the middle of the day. And I mean, he’s right here, I could have flown right into him.
Popped the canopy and shook hands. But I didn’t use the gun. It happened so fast, I couldn’t.”
Even if his weapon were charged and he was ready to fire, the likelihood of scoring a heads-on shot under the circumstances Hammer described were slim. But he sus-pended his story, blowing a deep puff of smoke into the air from his cigarette to underline his failure.
“So, I turn,” he continued finally. He turned his head to the left, as if watching the MiG pass. “He goes that way.
I’m — slats, flaps, I would have thrown out an anchor, if I could have, to turn and get on his tail. I would have put the engines into reverse. Rewind.”
A long pull on the cigarette took it down to the filter.
Hammer put it in the ashtray thoughtfully and picked up the pack for another.
“So I come out of the turn and the first MiG is right there, three-quarters of a mile. Sidewinder growls again.
Bing. Launch. And just about then the second MiG
splashed my flight leader.”
That was the end of the story, and though Dog waited for details — such as what happened to the two men in the Phantom that went down — Hammer didn’t offer the
m.
After a few minutes of silence, he added a postscript:
“Never underestimate the importance of luck.” Then he left the bar, without lighting the second cigarette.
Hammer’s criticism didn’t seem quite so harsh after that. In spite of it, Dog and he became reasonably decent friends. Dog was in his wedding party and had been invited to Hammer’s son’s christening, though he was in Germany at the time and couldn’t attend. The boy, whom he’d met several times, would be four or five now.
Hammer and his wife had waited to have kids, largely because he thought what he did for a living carried a hefty risk for a young family. He’d wanted to wait until he was close to retiring. Then he’d enjoy the kid and be safe — safe for him and the wife.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Ax, materializing in front of his desk. “I knocked, Colonel — sorry.”
“It’s okay, Chief.”
“Secure line for you. It’s back channel.” Ax pointed to the phone.
Dog hesitated, suspecting the call was from someone in the Pentagon looking for inside information he didn’t have.
“You’re going to want to take it, Colonel,” said Ax, who’d retreated to the doorway. “It’s Brad Elliott. He’s in Turkey.”
Dog nodded, then reached for the phone as deliberately as Hammer had sipped his soda that night.
“Hello, General,” said Dog.
“Colonel, I have some information I’d like to give you, so that you have a full understanding of the situation over here,” said Elliott.
Dog had only spoken to him once or twice; never had Elliott introduced small talk into the conversation. Which was just fine with him.
“It’s unofficial, of course,” added Elliott.
“Yes, sir, General.”
“I’m not in the Air Force and I’m not your superior,”
said Elliott. “I don’t believe the planes that went down were hit by missiles, contrary to what the analysts are saying.”