* * *
His legs were aching, sweat was pouring into the metallic flight suit. Conditioned air from the external power cart was trickling into the suit but was hardly enough to change the temperature.
Through the canopy he could see Crowe nervously fidgeting inside the armored car, looking as if he was going to shoot himself in the face with his M-16 any second. He could also watch Howard’s careful preparations for the massive assault they knew had to come. Despite their plans, the moment they tried to start engines the full force of Dreamland’s security forces would be on top of them. Nearly fifty armed soldiers and two heavily armed tracked combat vehicles surrounding the flight line would be let loose to blow DreamStar to hell.
Amid it all James had to convince himself to relax, to empty his mind of all thoughts, to clear a path for the sleeping ANTARES computer to worm its way into his subconscious. Selfhypnosis, consciously forcing each muscle group to relax, was the simplest and usually the most effective way of achieving theta-wave state, but that seemed impossible. Muscles ached from the long climb up the platform, and the lactic acid that collected in his muscle tissue from heavy exertion would act like halon gas on a fire, blocking any conscious efforts to relax those muscles.
His mind kept straying to the thoughts of Major Briggs’ security forces—he had inspected those forces many times, acting only partially interested in them at the time when in fact he was taking careful notes on the exact numbers, equipment and deployment. He had examined the weaknesses of the force and planned possible escape routes out of Dreamland for himself should that ever have been necessary. He had devised several escape plans, depending on what, if anything, he was taking with him—one route was to be used if he was alone and on foot, another if he was driving a car, another if driving a truck, another if he was carrying a “black box” or another unit. But never had he expected to take DreamStar with him. Components, drawings, computers, electronic media, yes— never the whole plane.
Only one mind-set seemed to make sense—that morning in the cockpit he told himself he wasn’t going to make it but it was worth it to die trying. If he did beat the odds and lift off, he had to buck even greater odds to fly the eight hundred miles from Dreamland to the deserted airstrip in central Mexico for the refueling planned by his KGB contacts in Los Angeles and Mexico City. Then he’d have both the American and Mexican air forces to beat on his way to Nicaragua, plus American forces based on El Salvador and Honduras—none of them very large or effective forces, but a deadly threat to a battered and weaponless DreamStar.
But he had no choice. If he couldn’t have DreamStar, better to die in her cockpit trying to deliver her to the Soviet Union than let the Americans mothball her while they continued to perfect their research into the ANTARES interface. Were there other areas he could infiltrate, other research programs whose information could be vital to the security of the Soviet Union? Was there any other program that, if he lived, he could collect information on as valuable or as rare as his DreamStar? His? Yes, damn it, his . . .
The answer to all was no. Strangely, coming to that grim conclusion put him at ease, allowing him slowly to relax his knotted muscles and control his adrenaline-fired pulse and breathing.
“Do you want to live forever, Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov?” James said into his face mask. And with that he felt his body go totally relaxed, almost limp, held upright only by the tight body harness that secured him to DreamStar’s ejection seat. It was the first time in some ten years that he had spoken his given name. The words surprised him—it was such a totally Russian name. And right now he liked it, was proud of it. “Kenneth Francis James” sounded weak. He would not use it again.
He did not realize, though, that it had taken two hours for him to speak his Russian name to himself. Without warning the ANTARES interface had taken hold. He was once again one with DreamStar . . .
* * *
Patrick McLanahan could only stare. General Brad Elliott and Hal Briggs couldn’t speak. Applause broke out from somewhere behind them as they stared at a reincarnation.
The doors to Hangar Three of the HAWC research flight line were opened, and a yellow “mule” tow-tractor slowly chugged out of the massive structure. The mule pulled a hulking dark beast from its lair, an aircraft so large that it seemed to blot out the faint glow of the rising sun on the horizon. It seemed to take forever to move the giant machine from the hangar, but soon there it was, sitting on the concrete ramp like a winged black dragon.
“ ‘Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it,’ ” Angelina Pereira quoted. McLanahan and Briggs turned toward her. “Alan Valentine,” she added.
“Whoever . . . but that’s one mean-lookin’ mother,” Briggs said.
Ormack began his walkaround inspection of the Megafortress Plus, General Elliott and other members of the crew following. Actually Ormack and the engineers had already completed an extensive walkaround hours earlier before the crew briefing, and all items of the before-engine-start checklist had already been performed by ground crewmen and technicians. But no matter who performed the inspection, or when, Ormack could not resist the urge to do one last visual inspection before climbing aboard—as much a ritual as a race car driver’s kicking the tires of his car or a marksman’s rubbing the front sight of his rifle.
Elliott pointed at the Old Dog. “I still can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said to Ormack, once its copilot. What he was pointing at was the most radical change in the Old Dog’s appearance—her huge wings. Instead of drooping in a huge downward curve from the fuselage to the wingtips, the wings stood straight out, tall and proud instead of arched and aged- looking.
“The newest in composite materials went into her,” Ormack said. “We replaced the main wing spar, the spine, the tailplane spars and other skeletal components with fibersteel beams, the largest and thickest composite structures ever cast. I remember being called out to the hangar in Alaska when they put the wings back on—it looked like a damn optical illusion, those twenty-ton wings sticking straight out like that. They sagged when we filled them up with fifty tons of fuel, though—sagged a grand total of two inches. We used to be able to look into the outboard engines just by standing on tiptoes—now, they’re all so high off the ground we need a ladder to look into them. The takeoff distance has decreased by thirty percent. It used to take forever for the Buff to lift off because those huge drooping wings would ‘take off5 first, leaving the fuselage still rolling on the ground. No more, Brad. When this beast hits takeoff speed, it’s airborne. Period.”
Ormack continued the walkaround inspection, pointing out various new changes in the huge bomber. “Only two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles on this flight, but Carter’s Dog Zero Two can take up to ten on each wing now, instead of only the six we had on our first mission—that’s twenty air-to-air missiles total, the same as on five F-15 fighters. And computer-controlled fuel management helps us avoid the fuel problems we had on our last flight when damage forced us out of the automatic mode. No more wing spoilers that dragged in the slipstream for aircraft control and wasted so much energy. Now we use engine- bleed air-thrusters on the wings for roll control. It allows us much faster turn control, eliminates adverse yaw.’’
He pointed at the Old Dog’s wingtip, which had a long, pointed oblong device trailing aft from the wingtip. “No more twin tip-tanks on this baby. With fibersteel construction we were able to build large single jettisonable fuel tanks with greater capacity that are lighter, stronger and more aerodynamic than the twin tanks. We’ve also taken off the wingtip wheels—even fully fueled there’s no danger of these wingtips ever striking ground. Another weight saving.”
Hal Briggs turned to Ormack. “General, someone might think you’re a lieutenant on his cherry ride.” As he spoke Briggs glanced over Ormack’s shoulder down the flight line and, by force of habit, checked the guard posts.
“I have to admit, I get clutched every time I see this beast,” Ormack said. “I’ve seen her blown
up, crashed, broken, shot up, cut up, disassembled, and now I’ve seen her better than before. A regular phoenix, this bird.”
They walked around to the bomb bay and peered inside at the mix of glide-missiles and laser-guided smart bombs. “If this flight is a success,” General Elliott said, “this could be the beginning of a new day for the B-52 bomber. Even with all one hundred B-i Excalibur bombers operational and the first B-2 Panther Stealth bomber squadron finally operational, the antiair, standoff and border penetration capabilities of the Megafortress Plus may mean the refitting and reactivation of all the G-model B-52S that were retired last year. A few squadrons of B-52 Megafortress Plus bombers could fly along with the strike bombers, clear a path for them and then return to be used in reserve or for other long-range strike missions. It’s a new concept—armed flying battleship escorts for strategic bombers.” Hal Briggs listened but his attention was continually drawn to the guard posts down the flight line. Everything appeared normal, but something somewhere was out of place . . .
At first Briggs dismissed the feelings. All six high-security hangars had the proper guards stationed around them—six V-ioo Commando assault cars positioned properly. Straining, he could make out all six guards at their posts, a few standing to watch the crowd around the B-52, a few sitting in their V-ioos. A roving patrol in an M113 Armadillo assault vehicle was moving up and down the center of the ramp, cruising slowly, a couple of SPs hanging out of the gun turret on the roof to watch the Megafortress roll out. They had taken the twenty- millimeter machine gun off its mount so two guys could squeeze up through the roof to get a better look—he’d have to get on their case for that. But overall, it appeared normal. So what was it ... ?
“Hal?” McLanahan had stepped beside the security police commander and was scanning the flight line with him. “Problem?”
Hal noticed that Ormack, Elliott, Khan and Wendelstat had moved off toward the tail; he and McLanahan were alone beside the Old Dog’s bomb bay. “No . . . nothing. I’m gonna chew some butt—those guys rubber-neckin’ in the Armadillo over there.” He looked at the colonel. “Where you going?”
“Take a ride out to the range, I think. Get a good seat near the ground target before the fireworks start. I was going to ask if . . .”
But Briggs wasn’t listening; he was staring down the flight line toward Hangar Five, Sergeant Rey Jacinto’s post. He was still sitting in his V-100, doors closed. He wasn’t asleep—Jacinto was too good for that, and besides, Briggs could see him moving around inside . . .
“Hal? What about it? Can I get a ride out to the range?”
. . . but Jacinto was a high-tech aircraft freak. He knew all there was to know, all he was allowed to know, about the B-52 Megafortress Plus and the XF-34 A DreamStar. He would, though, gladly give his right nut to get a look at either bird up close. Jacinto had guarded Hangar Three before, but he had never been inside . . .
“He’s never seen the Old Dog before,” Briggs mumbled.
“What?”
“One of my troops. Jacinto . . .”
“Rey? Yeah, nice guy. You keep on bouncing back his requests to take a peek at DreamStar. You ought to let him before they mothball her. Is he on duty this morning?”
“Hangar Five.”
MacLanahan squinted through the semi-darkness toward DreamStar’s hangar. “I don’t see him.”
“He’s in the Commando.”
McLanahan grunted his surprise. “Looking out those tiny gunport windows? Get those guys in the Rover to relieve him on his post and have him come take a look at the Megafortress. I know he’s been itching to get a look at her too.”
“Yeah, right.” Briggs walked off toward his sedan. Patrick was about to repeat his request for a ride out to the bombing range but changed his mind—Briggs, he decided, must have a million things on his mind.
As he walked to his car Hal Briggs decided McLanahan was right. Jacinto had wanted to get a look at the Megafortress Plus and DreamStar for years. Now, with the huge bomber not three hundred yards away, Jacinto was sitting locked up in his V-ioo, watching through tiny gunports when he could be outside watching it. Why? Besides, Jacinto was a well-known roamer. He couldn’t stand being cooped up in a Commando for more than a few minutes.
It was then that Briggs noticed the blue Stepvan half-hidden from view beside Hangar Five. He also noticed that the doors to Hangar Five were open and that a missile-carrying trailer was parked inside. And he saw the orange safety cones arranged outside the hangar—MMS, or Munitions Maintenance Squadron, was already downloading weapons from DreamStar. They were four hours early . . .
Briggs pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt and set the channel for security control. “Red Man, this is Hotel.”
“Go ahead, Hotel.”
Ormack had finished his walkaround, and he, Carter and Elliott were shaking hands. Visitors began filing into buses to take them off the flight line. The crew of the Megafortress was climbing up the belly hatch into the massive bomber.
Briggs keyed the mike button: “Status check of Foxtrot posts.”
“Last status check one-five minutes ago reports all secure. Last Rover check zero-one minutes ago reports all secure.”
“Copy. Break. Rover Nine, this is Hotel. Report to Five Fox trot for relief. He wants to get a look at the monster up close. Five Foxtrot, you copy?”
* * *
Lovyyev, alias Airman Crowe, nearly pulled the trigger of his M-16 in panic when he heard his call sign over the security net. He was about to pick up the microphone and say something when he heard, “Break. Hotel, this is Rover Nine. Job Control has requested us to assist in clearing the flight line. We are moving into position. Please advise. Over.”
Lovyyev’s throat was stone dry. He didn’t dare try to speak. Nothing would come out. Should he walk out of the car? Wave? Should he do anything . . . ?
* * *
Briggs stared at the armored car in front of Hangar Five. Jacinto sure was acting strange. Normally he would have jumped at the opportunity to check out any aircraft, from an old Piper Cub to the hypersonic spaceplane. He was being oddly reticent this morning. Well, tough. He was too late.
“Rover Nine, continue to clear the flight line. Five Foxtrot, sorry, maybe some other time.”
* * *
Lovyyev still kept away from the mike button. He turned and saw KGB veteran Gekky Orlov, alias Sergeant Howard, standing inside the hangar, his M-16 out of sight, watching him. He knew Orlov had a tiny earpiece radio set to the security-net frequency. He was looking hard at him, trying to get him to calm down. Orlov could tell without seeing him that Lovyyev was ready to collapse. Don’t key that microphone, be silent...
* * *
No reply. Strange.
A crew chief was hauling a huge Halon fire bottle over to the left inboard engine pylon and several of his assistants were positioning themselves around the B-52 to act as safety observers for this engine start. Briggs suddenly found himself in the middle. He got inside his sedan, closed the windows against the sound of external power carts being started, switched on the engine, and headed for the security checkpoint to watch the taxi and takeoff.
But as the first dull roar of the number four engine began to invade the early morning air, Briggs stopped the car just short of the checkpoint. He was perhaps four hundred yards from Hangar Five. Still no sign of Jacinto. Hal picked up his car microphone. “Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. How copy?” No reply. “Five Foxtrot, this is Hotel. Come in. Over.”
There may have been a reply but Briggs couldn’t hear it over the steady scream of the eight turbofan engines on the massive B-52 bomber. The crew was running through their pre-takeoff equipment checks. The three-thousand-watt taxi lights on the front landing gear trucks flashed insistently at him, indicating that the B-52’s attack radar was on. Briggs was parked right in front of the bomber. He started his car and moved away from the B-52’s front quarter.
The pre-takeoff checks were running quietly. As Hal Briggs conti
nued to try to raise Five Foxtrot, the crew chief ran in front of the Megafortress Plus with two lighted wands, and using hand signals ordered his assistants to pull the B-52’s wheel chocks.
Hal considered cruising over to the guard post but it was too late. The crew chief swirled his wands in the air, a signal to Ormack and Khan in the cockpit that they were clear to run up their engines for taxi. The engines began a deafening roar and the huge bomber lumbered forward. It stopped briefly to test its brakes, then taxied out quickly onto the ramp and moved toward the open exit-gate. Rover Nine and Rover Seven, the two M113 combat vehicles, fell in on either side of the B-52, their gun turrets now manned and armed with automatic cannons.
Briggs let out a loud sigh of relief when the B-52 taxied clear of Hangar Five—if there had been a commando or terrorist there he would have struck then, as the Megafortress taxied right in front. He almost expected to see a bazooka or TOW anti-tank missile round hit the Old Dog’s jet-black surface, but there was no movement. Hal keyed his car’s mike:
“All units, be advised aircraft exiting main parking ramp heading for taxiway delta. Begin pre-launch sweep check and report to Red Man when complete. Red Man, report status to Hotel when complete.”
“Red Man, wilco.”
Hal put his car in gear and fell in well behind the B-52 as it headed down the taxiway toward the sand-colored four-mile- long runway. The security units surrounding Dreamland were reporting in to Red Man Security Control as briefed. Individual tactical units would report to their sector commands, who would report to their team leaders, who would report to Red Man. Everything was going smoothly.
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