by Dale Brown
“Is there a base gym?”
“Afraid not, sir. Each unit on base will probably set up its own facilities until the base builds one. Security Forces has a pretty good one, which you’re welcome to use until the Fifty-first builds its own.”
“The Fifty-first?”
“Your squadron, sir.” The Security Forces sergeant smiled mischievously. “That happens all the time, sir — my system knows more about you than you do. The duty officer will be able to direct you to motels in the area that can accept your PCS orders as payment until you find permanent quarters.”
“Already taken care of,” Daren said. “Mind if I just drive around a bit?”
“Not at all, sir,” the officer said. “Your duty officer will be able to direct you, and she’ll keep you away from any restricted areas. Call her using this.” He handed Mace a small plastic case. “This is your commlink. If you need anything, just call the duty officer. She’s expecting your call. Let me be the first to welcome you.” He shook Mace’s hand, then snapped him a salute. “Have a nice evening, sir.”
Daren Mace sat in his car and marveled at what had just happened. No one else around for what seemed like miles except him and a sky cop — and he was already in-processed into his new unit. Amazing. In-processing was normally a weeklong drudgery of meetings, briefings, and paperwork. He just completed it in ten minutes. He put the commlink away. Someone would have to explain how to use it later.
Instead of asking for directions, Daren thought he’d drive around a bit. Although there were very few buildings anywhere, the northeast side of the base seemed completely deserted, with only construction equipment and concrete-making stuff — Portland cement, gravel, sand, and stone — piled everywhere. He noticed a forty-foot steel trailer painted in desert camouflage sitting about a hundred meters off an access road, with a few cars and trucks parked nearby. He could see no evidence of the container’s having been dragged or trailered off the road — it must have been airlifted in, or brought in an awful long time ago.
Daren decided to check it out for himself, so he stepped out of his pickup truck and walked up the access road toward the big trailer. There was a power generator running — he could hear it, but he couldn’t yet see it. As he got closer, he could see a small satellite dish, a microwave antenna, and several smaller antennas on top. What in hell…?
He heard a loud fwooosh! and suddenly his path was blocked — by some kind of android-looking figure dressed in black. It had appeared out of nowhere. It wore a seamless dark suit, a full-head helmet with an opaque visor over the eyes, a thin backpack, and thick boots.
“This is a restricted area, sir,” the menacing figure said in an electronically synthesized voice. Daren stumbled backward in complete surprise, scrambled around, and started to run back to his car. “Hold on, Colonel Mace,” the figure said.
Daren didn’t stop running — in fact began running harder — until he ran headlong into what felt like a steel post. It turned out to be the android figure, again appearing right in front of him as if out of thin air.
“Relax, Colonel,” the android said. Daren thought about running again, but this time the figure clamped its right hand around his left forearm, and Daren could tell right away it was not letting go. “Let’s go, sir.”
The android led him toward the trailer. Daren hadn’t seen it from the road, but two camouflaged tents had been set up beyond the steel trailer, with two Humvees nearby. The android led him over to the smaller of the two tents, then released his arm. “He’s expecting you inside, sir,” the android said. It took three or four steps — then disappeared again after another loud, sharp fwooosh! sound stirred up a large cloud of desert dust.
Daren opened the tent flap and saw a man perhaps a few years younger than himself at a small camp table, typing on a laptop computer. Notebooks and computer printouts were scattered over the table. A small military field propane heater kept the tent reasonably warm, and on a small propane cookstove there were a pot of macaroni and cheese, half consumed, and another pot of water.
“C’mon in, Colonel,” the man said. “I didn’t know you’d be here on base so early. It’s my good luck you happened on us tonight.” He stood and extended a hand. “I’m—”
“I know who you are. Major General Patrick McLanahan,” Daren said. “I recognize you from the news reports — President Thorn’s first national security adviser.”
“I doubt that,” Patrick said tonelessly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, sir,” Mace said. They shook hands. “You were involved in that Korean conflict a couple years ago — you developed a squadron of B-1 bombers that launched ballistic-missile-interceptor missiles.”
“That’s right.” What was left unsaid was the rest of the story: that McLanahan got himself kicked out of the Air Force as a result of the recent conflict with Russia over activities in the Balkans and the much-publicized crash of a B-1B Lancer bomber in Russia. Before that, his name had come up a few times: his experience with the now-defunct (but soon to be resurrected) Border Security Force and his work in defending Korea right after unification made him the front-runner in both the Martindale and now the Thorn administrations for national security adviser.
McLanahan’s was a strange career, Daren thought, most of it shrouded in secrecy, rumor, and legend. Whenever there was some explosive, fast-moving international crisis that threatened to expand into a nuclear conflict, his name started popping up. “I would guess you were involved in that recent incident in Central Asia. Iran is claiming that one of our bombers illegally attacked Muslim forces inside Turkmenistan — then, the same day, that B-1 crashes in Diego Garcia. Iran claims it was the one that violated their airspace.”
McLanahan shrugged. “I don’t care much what Iran claims,” he said dryly, taking a seat and busying himself on the laptop. Mace noticed it was not a denial, but he knew better than to quiz the guy who was probably his new boss, or at least a very high muck-a-muck. “What makes you think I had anything to do with something in Turkmenistan, Colonel?”
“Your reputation definitely precedes you, sir,” Mace said. McLanahan glanced up; Daren couldn’t tell if it was an irritated glare or an amused look. “If it makes any difference to you, sir, I think it’s the kind of reputation I’d like to have,” Daren added.
“If you care about working here and about your career in the military, Colonel, I wouldn’t recommend it,” McLanahan said. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then he went on, “I was impressed with your work with the Global Hawk wing at Beale Air Force Base. Those unmanned aerial vehicles had been in use for many years, but they still had some problems. You were able to overcome them and stood up the wing in very short time — the very first unmanned air wing. I thought you should have been given command of the wing — but their loss is my gain.”
“Thank you, sir. I had a lot of good folks working for me. Actually, I ripped off a lot of the technology I used to bring the Hawks online from Zen Stockard and you guys at HAWC — specifically, your ‘virtual cockpit’ technology.”
“Glad to be of help. We’ve done great improvements with the VC, and we’re building a state-of-the-art facility to exploit it. What we needed was someone with both operational and engineering experience. We’re going to ask you to do the same for us that you did with Beale’s Global Hawks — get our aircraft and organization up to speed as quickly as possible. Your job will be to work with the wing commander and the engineering staff from the Tonopah Test Range.”
Daren shook his head. “I’m confused, sir,” he said. “I thought this was a tanker unit.”
“We’ve got tankers here, yes.”
“What other aircraft do you have here?”
“You haven’t spoken with anyone from wing headquarters yet?”
“Well… I did run into General Furness in town a little while ago, but we didn’t really talk.”
Patrick’s eyebrows raised in question at that. “I thought you two knew each other.”
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“It wasn’t a good time to chat,” Daren said, stumbling. He was thankful to see McLanahan nod, apparently willing to let it drop. “I just arrived tonight. My report date isn’t until next week, but I decided to show early. I didn’t imagine in-processing would only take ten minutes.”
“Now I see why you’re in the dark,” McLanahan said with a slight smile. “You haven’t had the nickel tour yet. I think I’ll leave that up to General Furness or Colonel Long.”
“What are you doing out here tonight, General?”
“Trying to nail down all the interface parameters between my virtual cockpit and my plane,” he replied, “but we’re missing something. We can’t find it in the VC, I can’t find it out here. It must be in the plane, but we still can’t isolate it.”
“What plane are you talking about, General?” Daren asked. “I haven’t seen any planes here yet. And why in hell are you—”
“Shh. Not so loud — and watch your French.” Patrick motioned with his head to his right, and Daren saw a small boy in a sleeping bag, lying on an inflatable mattress.
“Is… is that your son, General?” Daren whispered incredulously.
Patrick nodded. “Bradley James. I’ve been so busy the last several days, I haven’t been with him very much. I couldn’t stand being away from him any longer, so I told him we were going on a camping trip. I know it’s forecast to go below freezing tonight, and he’s got school, but I did it anyway. We cooked hot dogs and macaroni and cheese — his favorite comfort foods — we looked at the stars through a telescope, and he conked out.”
“You took your son out to the desert while you’re working on a project?”
“Couldn’t think of anything else to do,” Patrick said. He looked at his son and sighed. “I always wanted to take him out camping, but his mother didn’t relish the idea. He has a rough night if we do something that we used to do together, so camping seemed to kill two birds”—he swallowed a bit, then corrected himself—“I mean, it seemed to fit the bill nicely.”
Daren had heard something about some great tragedy in McLanahan’s life, but no one had laid it out for him, out of respect for the man. It obviously had something to do with his wife, Bradley’s mother. This was a very surreal scene: a young commanding general, personally monitoring a major project being conducted in his high-tech unit, but concerned — disturbed? — enough to bring his son out to the site in a sleeping bag. How weird was this?
“Anything I can help you with, sir?”
“I hope so. That’s why I got you assigned here from the Pentagon,” Patrick said. He ran his hands wearily over his face and his short-cropped hair. “This is not an official wing project, Daren. I’ve got no budget — not one dime. I’m stealing fuel and flight hours from the wing already as it is. But I promised the chief that I’d have something to show him.”
“I don’t get it, sir,” Daren commented. “Aren’t you the commanding officer here?”
“Officially, Daren, I don’t exist here,” McLanahan admitted. “The First Air Battle Force was stood up here, but we don’t have a mission. It’s my job to build one. The One-eleventh Wing is the only official unit here. My funding runs out September thirtieth of this year. I talked the chief and SECDEF into bringing them here to see if we can integrate them into a deployable force, but I don’t have a staff or a budget. When the money runs out, it closes down.”
“Excuse me, sir, but what exactly are you working on?” Daren asked.
McLanahan finished typing notes, got up, checked on Bradley to make sure he was warm enough, then motioned to Daren. “Come with me, Colonel.”
Daren followed McLanahan out of the tent. He immediately saw the tall, android-looking figure standing nearby, now carrying a huge futuristic-looking weapon. “Excuse me, sir, but what in hell is that?”
“You mean ‘who,’ “ Patrick corrected him. “Gunnery Sergeant Matthew Wilde, Air Battle Force ground operations,” Patrick replied.
“Ground operations? You mean, combat ground operations?”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’s he wearing? What’s he carrying?”
“He’s wearing electronic battle armor; he’s carrying an electromagnetic rail gun.”
“A what …?”
“I’ll explain later.” They stepped quickly over to the steel trailer. McLanahan unlocked the door by pressing his thumb on a pad; the door opened with a hiss of pressurized air. Inside the tightly packed trailer were two seats facing simple consoles with two hand controllers; on either side of the seats were computer terminals; on the leftmost side, facing the front of the trailer, was a fifth console with three computer monitors, manned by a technician furiously entering commands into a computer keyboard. The inside of the trailer was so loud from the sound of the air-conditioning that the tech had to wear hearing protectors. But all this occupied only about a third of the trailer. The rest was jam-packed with electronics, circuit-board racks, power supplies, communications equipment, and air-conditioning units.
Daren recognized it all instantly: “It’s a virtual-cockpit trailer,” he said, surprise in his voice. “It’s a lot bigger than I thought.”
“How much bigger?” Patrick McLanahan asked.
“Global Hawk’s entire control suite could fit in the back of a Humvee,” Daren said.
“This is definitely first generation,” McLanahan said. “We developed this trailer at Dreamland five years ago, and it was amazing that we fitted it all in here. I just flew the trailer out here today, but there’s some snafu in the satellite link.”
“The satellite link was the simplest part of the Global Hawk system,” Daren said. “It’s normally bulletproof. We had a simple satellite-phone hookup relaying instructions back and forth from the aircraft and control station.” He went over to the middle left seat. It was obviously the pilot’s seat, with a left-hand throttle control and a right-hand flight-control stick, but there were no other instruments visible — not even a computer screen. “What are you trying to control anyway?”
“Sit down and take a look,” Patrick said. After Daren was seated, Patrick handed him a headset; it looked like standard aviation issue except for some strange protuberances on the crossband. When Daren tried to adjust the small, sharp probes that dug into his scalp from those arms, Patrick said, “No, don’t touch those. You’ll get used to them.”
Daren sat with the strange-looking headset on his head and waited — and suddenly he was standing outside the tent, in the desert, in broad daylight, looking out across the runway! Superimposed on the image were all sorts of electronic data and symbology floating in space: magnetic heading, range readouts, a set of crosshairs, and flashing pointers. He whipped off the headset in complete shock, and the image instantly disappeared. “What in hell…? That was no projected image or hologram — I saw those images, just as clearly as I’m looking at you right now! How did you do that?”
“An outgrowth of the ANTARES technology we developed about seven years ago,” Patrick replied. “ANTARES stands for—”
“I know: Advanced Neural Transfer and Response System,” Daren interjected. “Zen Stockard is a good friend of mine. I know he was spearheading the resurrected program a few years back. I applied for it myself.” Jeff “Zen” Stockard was a flight test pilot at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center; along with the man standing before him, Patrick McLanahan, Stockard was one of the few people alive who had fully mastered the ANTARES thought-control system. Daren had applied for the ANTARES research program at Dreamland several times, thinking that surely the Pentagon would relish the idea of squirreling him away at that supersecret desert facility — but, like most of his requests for choice assignments, it was denied.
“Zen was big on any program at Dreamland that could help skilled pilots become better aviators,” Patrick said. That was most evident in Zen’s own case — he’d lost the use of his legs in a training exercise at Dreamland. “The system sends neural images to the wearer’s brain, so he
‘sees’ all sorts of images transmitted to him — TV cameras, sensor images, text messages, computer data, any number of things — just as if the optic nerve were sending electrical signals from the eye to the brain.
“The problem we always had with ANTARES was we were trying to design a system that could control an entire aircraft by thought,” Patrick went on. “Piping visual, sensory, or data images to the brain is a relatively simple task — it doesn’t require any specialized theta-alpha training. So instead of using heads-up displays or fancy holograms to replicate an airplane cockpit, we just pipe datalinked images directly to the brain. The user can control which images he sees with ease — as quickly and easily as thinking about what you want to see. And everything stays simple if we eliminated the need to control the aircraft with ANTARES.”
Daren donned the special headset again, and a few moments later the images returned. He could swivel his head and look all around the airfield. When he centered the crosshairs on a target such as the hangars on the other side of the runway, he got an exact range and bearing readout. When he turned his head to follow the flashing pointers, he found himself looking at a wooden box about ten feet square, exactly 425 meters away. “What am I looking at?” Daren asked.
“Some targets we set up south of the field.”
“Where is the camera?”
“You’re looking at what Sergeant Wilde was looking at.”
“The big guy with the electronic armor and rail gun?”
McLanahan nodded. “The computer stores what he’s already looked at in image files; when you tap in to his visual system, you can look at the latest stored image files that he’s sent, as if you’re looking at them yourself. You can look at what he’s looking at in real time, too, but he can control that.”
“Cool. How do I stop it?” But as soon as he thought about not looking at the image, it stopped, and he was again looking at the interior of the virtual-cockpit trailer. “Hey, I switched it! Very cool!” Daren switched the image back and forth with ease. “That works great. But what’s the purpose?”