by Dale Brown
“It doesn’t have to be that big,” said Zen. “Razor’s not big at all. It moves a tank chassis.”
“I don’t think the Iraqis could make it that small,” said Ferris.
“I bet it’s in a mosque,” said Mack.
“Whatever size, they’d try to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible,” said Bree.
“There — we look for what’s inconspicuous,” said Mack.
He meant it as a joke, but nobody laughed.
“Our best lead is the radars,” said Zen. “Because even if it were mobile, it would have to be getting a feed from them somehow. Maybe it can go from one unit to another.”
“Or they have a dedicated landline, with high speed connections, fiber optics,” suggested Bree.
“You really think the Iraqis can do that?” said Ferris.
“They’re doing something,” said Mack.
“I think I can narrow the area down on where that Slot Back radar was if you give me a half hour,” said O’Brien.
“It wasn’t briefed. There may even be another one down there, though the signal was really weak. I’ll tell you one thing,” he added, “either the operator is damn good or they’ve got some sort of new equipment down there, because the computer couldn’t lock it down.”
* * *
Jennifer Gleason folded her hands over her mouth and nose almost if she were praying. She had only a rudimentary notion of how the coding for the program governing the IR detection modes worked, and without either the documentation or the raw power of Dreamland’s code analyzers, she could only guess how to modify it. The secure data-link with Dreamland was still pending; once it was in place, she would be able to speak with the people there who had developed the detector. But the pilots wanted the plane to fly before then, and she thought it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out. She replayed the EB-52’s recorded inputs from the last mission, watching the coding to see how she might tweak the IR detector to find a momentary burst in the infrared spectrum.
Shorter than a launch, but stronger?
Jennifer reached for her soda on the floor of Quicksilver’s flight deck, pulling it up deliberately. She took two sips and then set it down, all the while staring at the blank multipurpose screens at the radar-intercept operator’s station. She ran the detection loops over again, watching her laptop screen where the major components of the code were displayed. The interface program took data from different sensors and configured it for the screens; it was monstrously complex because it had to accept data from a number of different sensors, which had been designed without a common bus.
Her laptop flagged a bug in the interface that had to do with an errant integer cache. It was minor — the interface program simply ignored the error.
Odd. It should have been trapped out by the interface.
The error handling section was comprehensive, and in any event included an “if all else fails” section where anything unexpected should have gone.
But it hadn’t. Jennifer traced the error to an ambient reading from the sensor. The detector had flicked onto something and sent a matrix of information about it on to the interface. The interface didn’t understand one of the parameters.
An error in the sensor that hadn’t been caught during the rigorous debugging of the interface at Dreamland?
Certainly possible. Happened all the time.
Except …
Jennifer reached down for her soda again. It could just be an error — there must have been a million lines of code there, and mistakes were inevitable.
But if it wasn’t a mistake, it would be what they were looking for.
Well, no, it could be anything. But anything wasn’t what she was interested in. She needed a theory, and this was it.
She could get a base line with some flares, see what happened, try to screw it up. Use those numbers to compare to the error, calculate.
Calculate what, exactly?
Something, anything. She just needed a theory.
If Tecumseh were here, she thought, he would tell her to figure it out. He would fold his arms around her and rub her breasts and tell her to figure it out.
Jennifer jumped up from the station, scooped up her can of soda, and ran to find Garcia.
Chapter 47
Incirlik, Turkey
1230
Torbin finished his Tae Kwon Do routine, bowing to the blank wall. He was alone in the workout room, still a leper despite the semiofficial admission from General Harding that his gear and the mission tapes checked out; he wasn’t at fault in the shoot-downs.
Not at fault, but impotent nonetheless. The Phantom remained grounded until further notice. Its next flight would undoubtedly be to the boneyard.
Torbin folded his arms at his sides, trying to maintain his composure. He belonged back in the rear seat of the Weasel, back over Iraq. They could nail the damn radars one by one, no matter what bullshit tactics they were pulling. Hell, maybe he could jimmy around with the gear somehow and scope out their tactics.
Whatever.
Something heavy roared off the nearby runway.
Ought to be me, he thought, deciding to run through his routine again.
Chapter 48
High Top
1300
The heat was so high in the trailer, Danny felt sweat rolling down his neck as he studied the map. On the other side of the table Major Alou finished telling the others about CentCom’s plans. There was no doubt now that Iraq had some sort of new weapon or weapons. Six planes had been shot down; four men were still missing. The ratio of sortie to loss was just above twenty to one. Even the most conservative reckoning of the statistics from the Gulf War put the sortie-to-loss ratio well over a hundred to one. Maybe it wasn’t a laser, but something big and bad was going down.
“They’re bringing in a pair of U-2s from the States to increase surveillance,” said Alou, “but they’re worried about how vulnerable they’ll be, and in any event they won’t arrive for another twenty-four hours or so. The game plan in the meantime is to take out every radar and missile site we can find.”
“The bastards keep rolling them out,” said Chris Ferris.
“They’ve been keeping them in the closet, or what?”
“They’ve spent the money they got for food the past five years on rebuilding their defenses,” said Alou.
“Damn country’s starving while Saddam’s buying new radar dishes and vans. The missiles they’ve had. They just haven’t fired them until now.”
“They’re not on long enough to hit anything,” said O’Brien. “Has to be a laser.”
“They might be synthesizing the radar input,” said Ferris. “If you had a sophisticated computer, you could compile all of the inputs from a diverse net, then launch. No one radar would ever stay on long enough to seem like the culprit. They could move the radars around, use some and not others — that would explain why they duck the Weasels and the other jammers.”
“Pretty sophisticated,” said O’Brien.
“Jennifer said it’s doable,” said Ferris. “And then they barrage launch at the contacts. That’s what they’re doing.”
“We’re jamming like hell. Guidance systems ought to be confused.”
“Maybe they’ve improved them,” said Ferris.
“If that is what’s going on,” said Zen, “then what we should do is nail the coordinating site.”
“How do we find it?” asked Breanna.
“We follow the communications net,” he suggested.
“Listen in. See where the center is. That’s what Quicksilver’s good at.”
“I still think it’s a laser,” said Mack. “Got to be.”
“Sure,” said Zen. “But we can find that the same way.
Instead of looking for the weapon, we look for the guidance system. That’s how Weasels work, right? They nail the radar van.”
Danny straightened from the map. He felt like the odd man out as they continued to discuss the situation and what to do. He felt
like he ought to contribute something, help plan a mission somehow. He and his guys were sitting on the ground playing babysitters — literally, with the Kurd kid Liu had plucked out.
Protecting the planes was an important job. Still, the Marines provided more than enough security, and the Navy Seabee guys they’d brought in with them were going great guns expanding High Top — if they had their way, it would be the size of O’Hare in another forty-eight hours.
So Whiplash was free to do more important things.
Like?
“All right,” said Alou. “Let’s work up some surveillance tracks to coincide with the missions for CentCom.”
“You know it seems to me that if this radar computer gear is that sophisticated, we ought to try to get a look at it,” said Danny. “Get pictures, data, that sort of stuff.”
“Hey, Captain, why don’t we just grab it?” said Mack.
He probably meant it as a put-down — Smith could be a real asshole — but the idea struck Danny as eminently doable.
Or at least more interesting than babysitting.
“If I can get a Chinook or a Pave Low in here, we could take it out, no sweat,” said Danny.
The others seemed to ignore him.
“I still think it’s a laser,” said Mack.
“That would be worth taking,” said Danny. “Big-time.”
Finally, everyone realized he was serious. The conversation stopped; they all turned and looked at him.
“We could,” said Danny. “Or at least get intelligence about it.”
“You serious?” asked Zen.
“Shit yeah.”
“Unnecessary risk,” said Alou. “Even if we could find it.”
“Risk is our job,” said Danny. He knew he was pushing further than reasonable, but what the hell — Whiplash was created exactly for missions like this. Besides, except for the target, it was a straightforward armed reconnaissance mission behind enemy lines. Anyone could do it.
Pretty much.
“We’re not even positive where the site is,” said Breanna. “We don’t have a target for you, Danny.”
“So get me one.”
* * *
As the others finished working out the details for the missions, Zen wheeled himself through the narrow door and down the ramp. A gray CH-46E Sea Knight or
“Frog” was just arriving, bringing in more Marines. The two-rotored helicopter looked like a scaled-down version of the more famous Chinook — though in fact the development had been the other way around, with the Frog coming first.
Darkening the sky behind the Marine helo was an Osprey, just tipping its wings and rotors to land. The MV-22 was Whiplash’s chariot of choice, twice as fast as most helicopters, with considerably longer range.
Zen wheeled toward Quicksilver’s parking area. He’d rejected numerous suggestions that he get a battery-powered chair — definitely a macho thing — but at times like this, skidding through potholes and ducking rocks, even he would have admitted it’d be useful.
He hadn’t apologized to Bree. He knew he’d have to, and the sooner the better — stale apologies were even more difficult to make.
Send flowers or something. Blow her away if he could get them up here.
Jennifer Gleason and Louis Garcia were standing beneath Quicksilver’s tail, pointing at the large black semi-sphere and wire guts of the coverless IR sensor above.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he shouted, rolling toward them.
“Lousy,” Jennifer told him. “I tried to recalibrate the programming and now there’s a bad circuit on the sensor.
It’s going to take at least an hour to get it working.”
“An hour? We’re supposed to take off then. Forty-five minutes, actually.”
“Oh,” said Jennifer.
“I can get this back together quicker than a rolling stone,” said Garcia. “But then I have to help prep the plane.”
“Okay.” Jennifer took a strand of her hair and pulled it back behind her ear. “We’ll toss flares off the Flighthawk.”
“What for?”
“I want to see what the data sequence should be.
There’s an error I’m trying to make sense of.”
“I can launch the flares, no sweat.” Zen glanced toward the U/MF already loaded onto the Megafortress’s wing.
“Good. I’ll grab something to eat and my flight gear.”
“Hold on, cowboy.” Zen whirled his chair across her path as she started to duck away. “Who says you’re coming with us? It’s a war zone.”
“And Somalia wasn’t?” Jennifer put her hands on her hips defiantly. “If there is a laser out there, you need me in the air. Don’t worry, Jeff, I can take care of myself.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“Hmmmph,” she said, stomping away.
“I’m having a bad day with women,” Zen said softly.
“Honey, give me just one more chance,” sang Garcia.
“Huh?”
“Just a song, Major.”
“Garcia — is everything in life a Dylan song?”
“Pretty much.”
Chapter 49
Dreamland
0523
“Test code checks, sir,” said the lieutenant at the communications desk in the secure situation room triumphantly. “You’re good to go.”
“Make the connection,” said Dog. He stood in the middle of the floor in front of the screen, waiting for the transmission from Turkey. The test pattern on the screen blipped blue. The words CONNECTION PENDING appeared in the middle of the screen.
He wanted to talk to Jennifer in the worst way. But of course that wasn’t what this was about.
“Hey, Colonel, good to see you finally,” said Danny.
The screen was still blank.
“Well, you can see me but — wait, there we go,” said Dog as the video finally snapped in. Danny Freah sat at the table in the Whiplash trailer. His eyes drooped a bit at the corners, but his face and hands were full of energy.
Before Dog could say anything, Danny launched into an argument for undertaking a ground recon of the Iraqi Razor clone.
“And hello to you too, Captain,” said Dog when he finally paused for a breath.
“It’d be a real intelligence coup,” said Danny. “We could use the helmets to beam back video. Then we can take key parts back.”
“Do we know where it is?”
“No, sir. But the missions they’re on now — they’ll find them.”
“Assuming, of course, it exists.”
“Hell, if we can get some help, we could grab the whole thing.”
“Let me get Rubeo and our Razor people down here to talk about this,” said Dog. “It may be useful.”
“It’ll be damn useful.”
“Relax, Captain. From what I’ve heard out of CentCom, they’re not even one hundred percent sure it’s a laser. No one can explain how Saddam would have built it.”
“If it’s not — let’s say it’s a radar and missile setup we don’t know about — we should take a look at that too,”
said Danny. “See what they’re up to. Jennifer Gleason suggested that they may have some way of taking a lot of different inputs and cobbling them together. Software for that would be worth grabbing too, don’t you think?”
“Captain, while I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm,” said Dog, “why don’t we take this one step at a time. How about an update on your status?”
“Sure,” said Danny. He gave him a complete rundown, working backward from the last mission. Then he told him about the baby who’d been born the previous night. It sounded like just the thing the Pentagon PR people would eat up — except, of course, that the mission was code-word classified, and would undoubtedly remain so.
“Kinda makes you a grandpa, huh, Colonel?” said Danny.
“I don’t think so,” said Dog. “What kind of shape are our people in?”
“Top notch, sir.”
Danny’s me
ntion of Jennifer gave him the perfect excuse to talk to her — he ought to hear about her theory from her, he thought. Certainly if it were Rubeo or one of the other scientists, he’d ask to talk to him directly.
But Dog hesitated. He didn’t want to cross over the line.
Of course he should talk to her.
“Is Dr. Gleason there?” he asked, finally giving in. “I’d like to hear her theory on the radars.”
“She’s up with the Megafortresses, sir,” said Danny.
“She’s going on a mission.”
“Mission?”
“Yes, sir. They’re modifying the IR detection gear to search for lasers.”
Dog pursed his lips but said nothing.
Chapter 50
High Top
1510
Mission prepped, Breanna gave in to an impulse before heading back up to the Megafortress and jogged over to the baby’s tent after relieving herself in the Marines’ new latrine. She wanted to see the cute little guy before she took off.
For good luck. Just for good luck.
She expected mother and child would be sleeping, but as she neared the tent she heard laughter. The tent was crowded with Whiplash members and Marines, who were taking turns holding and cooing the infant.
“Guarding against a sneak attack?” said Bree, trying to squeeze inside.
“Can’t be too careful about colic,” said one of the men, deadly serious.
“Well, let me hold him for good luck,” she said, sliding near Sergeant “Powder” Talcom, who was holding him.
The sergeant gave the baby up very reluctantly.
“You’re a cute one,” she said, gently cradling the baby.
Little Muhammad Liu looked at her with very big brown eyes. Then he furled his nose and began to cry.
“Aw, Captain, you made him cry,” said Powder, immediately reaching for the infant. The other men closed in; Bree suddenly felt very outnumbered.
“There there,” she told the infant, rocking him gently.
“Aunt Breanna isn’t going to hurt you.”