Dale Brown's Dreamland

by Dale Brown

  “Dog?”

  “What exactly is it that you want, Patrick?”

  McLanahan glanced up as the sergeant returned with menus. Dog took the card silently, scanning it quickly.

  Roast leg of lamb in a raspberry mustard sauce. Pureed lentils in a sake-cream soup. Pheasant saltimbocca with squid-ink linguine.

  Dog looked up at the sergeant. The man’s arms were straight down at his sides, his thumbs circling rapidly around his fingers. His cheeks were purple, but his forehead was white.

  “Look,” Dog told him, trying to smile, “can you get me a medium-rare burger with fries?”

  “Gladly, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “Me too,” said McLanahan, handing the menu back to the sergeant. “Although I have to say that pheasant was tempting.”

  “You didn’t set this up with Ax, did you?” Dog asked McLanahan.

  McLanahan laughed and shook his head. “I wish I did. Just to see your face.”

  “Are you here to lobby for Megafortress or Cheetah?”

  “Neither actually,” said McLanahan, his tone instantly serious. “And not DreamStar or ANTARES either. If you want, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about any of the projects I was involved in. But they’re not why I’m here.”

  “Megafortress isn’t going to make the cut, Patrick,” said Dog. “As much as I liked what the Old Dog did, and whatever I think of the flying-battleship idea, there’s no support.”

  “I’m not here about that,” said McLanahan. “This is all your headache, not mine. I have new ones to deal with.”

  “Such as?”

  “ISA,” said McLanahan. ISA stood for Intelligence Support Agency, a high-level covert project funded by the CIA and DOD to support “special” actions. Dog knew it well—he had helped develop the briefing papers and the draft intelligence finding that established the organizational framework. ISA operated outside of the normal military command structure, to put it mildly.

  “What’s up?” Dog asked.

  “ISA is putting together a special strike package. One of the pilots and two of the support personnel on Dreamland’s roster are going to be asked to join. It’s strictly voluntary, but, uh, there have been some back-channel discussions, as I’m sure you would expect.”

  “They need my permission?”

  “No, but some of the people back East thought you’d want to be in the loop,” said McLanahan carefully. “I was at Nellis and since we know each other, they asked me to give you a heads-up.”

  “You’re running ISA?”

  “No. I’m more like a consultant. A freelancer,” said McLanahan. “The pilot is Mack Smith.”

  “You want the F-119 too?”

  Dog hadn’t meant it as a joke, but McLanahan laughed. “Just Smith,” he said. “The 119 can stay in the shed forever as far as I’m concerned. The technical people are listed as specialists in avionics and engines respectively, but their records show they could build planes from scratch.”

  While Smith was an arrogant SOB, Colonel Bastian didn’t particularly want to lose him; the fighter jock was the hottest stick on the patch. And he was the senior officer on the JSF.

  “It’s about Somalia,” added McLanahan, obviously sensing his reluctance to part with the pilot.

  “Oh,” said Dog. He hadn’t seen the intelligence briefings since a few days before leaving Washington, but McLanahan’s tone made it clear that things there had continued to worsen. The Iranian mullahs had been equipping one of the warlords in the eastern African country, apparently with the intention of helping him take over the government. That would allow them to control access to the Red Sea and Suez Canal, as well as the Gulf of Aden—and thereby manipulate the price and flow of oil. Which itself was supposed to be a prelude to their “Greater Islamic League,” a coalition of Middle Eastern countries dedicated to the prospect of giving America a headache.

  “ISA is involved with Somalia?” Dog asked.

  “ISA is part of a contingency plan.” McLanahan took a sip of his water. “Iran’s warlord will be in charge inside two weeks.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “Well, maybe nothing. The analysts are all over the place.”

  “I wouldn’t count on nothing,” said Dog. “If the mullahs are feeling strong enough, they’ll base the Silkworms they bought from China there. And after that, they’ll move in the new aircraft they’re buying from Russia. Two dozen Su-35’s and the same number of Su-27’s equipped for surface attack could bottle up half the world’s oil fleet within three hours.”

  “Oil prices will go to one hundred dollars a barrel,” said McLanahan. “I read your white paper on it. Hard to believe you wrote it a year ago.”

  “The Sukhois are good warplanes.”

  “CIA says they haven’t been sold.” McLanahan frowned, but it was impossible to tell whether he believed that or not. “They have the Silkworms ready to go. And rumor has it that they’re working with the Chinese on an aircraft carrier, which should be ready within a few months, if not weeks. The NSC is recommending that this thing be cut off quickly. Which is why I—ISA, that is, wants Smith.”

  The sergeant emerged from the kitchen pushing a large cart. On top of it were two deluxe burger plates, with oversized hamburgers on grilled potato-bread rolls. Large saucers of ketchup, mustard, and relish flanked a massive heap of steak fries at the side of the plates.

  “Now this is what I call first class,” said Dog, thanking the sergeant.

  “I would have thought you’d be used to fancy food, having come from Washington,” said McLanahan. “I hear they love you at the White House.”

  “I met the President exactly once,” said Dog. “And that was in a room with fifty people.”

  The burger was excellent, perfectly charred on the outside and pink on the inside. Maybe not the healthiest lunch, but tasty enough to justify the risk.

  “Like I say, the analysts are all over the place on this. We’re not exactly knee-deep in intelligence on what Iran is up to,” McLanahan said, picking up the napkin from his lap and dabbing at the side of his mouth. “Good burger.”

  “Very good,” said Dog. “The Iranians have studied the Oil Shock of the seventies. They know what the impact on the Western economies would be of doubling or quadrupling the price of oil. And don’t forget, they’ll benefit from the extra money. They’ll go straight to Russia and lure another fifty or sixty scientists for their nuclear program. As well as plutonium.”

  “You sound like you’re still working for Ms. O’Day.” McLanahan picked up one of the large steak fries with his fork. “CIA says they’re at least six years away from a bomb.”

  “They’re crazy. More like six months. You should talk to Jack O’Connell.”

  “I have,” said McLanahan. O’Connell was a CIA ground officer who’d been in Africa and the Middle East as well as Russia, tracking Russian nuclear technology.

  “Is ISA hooked up with Madcap Magician?” asked Bastian.

  McLanahan didn’t answer. From what Dog had been told at the NSC, Madcap Magician was an interservice Spec Ops “program” consisting of volunteers from different branches trained to operate as a covert intervention or first-strike force in the Middle East. Different Spec Ops groups—including a small unit at Dreamland under Danny Freah known as Whiplash—were attached as call-up units; they were supposed to be available on twenty-four-hour notice. Madcap Magician itself was so secret that Bastian didn’t know much about it—but he realized from McLanahan’s silence that he had just nailed the connection.

  “Obviously, you can have Smith,” said Dog. He held his half-eaten burger and roll in his hand. It was too good; it tempted him to reconsider his “all ranks” decision.

  He put the burger down and pushed the plate away. McLanahan looked at him with an expression close to shock.

  “What else do you need?” Dog asked.

  “Food’s fine.”

  “I mean planes. Hell, I’ve got the hottest weapons on the planet h
ere. Cheetah? The Scorpion AMRAAM-Plus? Tell me what you need and it’s yours.”

  “Sounds tempting.”

  “We’re an important part of the Air Force,” continued Dog. “With the top talent the military and private enterprise can offer. I have a base full of cutting-edge weapons just begging to be used.”

  “I used to work here, remember? You sound like you’re making a funding pitch.”

  “No. I’m stating a fact. And maybe a pitch. A little pitch,” conceded Dog. “Because if we put some of these high-tech doodads we’re working on here to work, no one will close us down.”

  “Those high-tech doodads you’re working on still have bugs in them,” said McLanahan. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Nothing’s without risk. If Dreamland’s going to survive—now there’s a white paper you should read,” he added, referring to the report that had led him to this post.

  “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  Dog stood up. “I have to get back to work, Patrick. Whoever you need, he’s yours. And I’m serious about the planes and weapons. You know more about what Dreamland can offer than I do.”

  McLanahan nodded thoughtfully. “Say hi to Rap for me when you see her.”

  Dog nodded, then turned and started back for his office.

  THE FIRST THING BREANNA THOUGHT AS THE Megafortress slammed downward was: Damn, this is going to screw up the project big-time.

  The next thing she thought was: Damn, we have a serious problem here.

  The plane didn’t respond to her yoke. Rap commanded the computer to restore full pilot control. As she did, the legends on the heads-up displays, or HUDs, glowed bright and then flashed out.

  “Computer, restore pilot control,” Breanna calmly told the computer, but even as the words left her mouth she realized the computer had been taken off-line. Fort Two’s nose was aimed toward the earth. The g’s were piling up; they were pulling four, then five, the pressure increasing exponentially.

  “Okay, we’re going to backup hydraulic control,” she said calmly, reaching for the heavy lever to the right of her seat that would kill the fly-by-wire system and bring the backup hydraulics on line. “Chris, change places with Dr. Ray.”

  Her thoughts and actions blurred in chaotic soup smeared by the effects of adrenaline and gravity. She had both hands on the control wheel as the hydraulics kicked in, pulling back for all she was worth and trying to prevent the plane from going into a spin at the same time. She had no engine indicators, but guessed the power plants must be close to flaming out, if they hadn’t already.

  No, she had power; she could tell by the light hum somewhere in the back of her brain.

  Chris slid in beside her. Rubeo was hanging on to her seat, shouting something about the electronic systems.

  “They’re off-line. There’s been a massive computer failure,” he yelled.

  “Well, no shit, Doc,” Breanna said. “Relax and enjoy the ride, please.”

  There were any number of possible causes, from a loose wire—highly unlikely—to an anomaly caused by the Army’s weapon tests on the range below. There’d be time to sort it all out later.

  Assuming, of course, she regained control.

  “Still accelerating and dropping,” said Chris tersely. “Passing five thousand on the way to four thousand, three thousand.”

  He could easily have said zero. The aircraft began to shudder; they were through the sound barrier and still accelerating. The windshield filled with a brown blur.

  Somewhere around here, she thought, the wing aerodynamics are going to help us. Eventually, the shape of the wing and the speed of the air flowing over it are going to give us enough lift to pull up. Then the trouble will be controlling it.

  Breanna felt their momentum shifting and checked her trim tabs quickly, making sure the plane’s control surfaces weren’t working against the rest of the airfoil. The nose lifted steadily as the plane’s inherent flying capabilities finally took over.

  “Good, okay, good. Chris?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said as they roller-coasted upward. Blue flew into the windshield.

  “This is easy,” she lied. The plane pulled sharply to the left, as if it were trying to turn itself into a Frisbee.

  “We just lost an engine,” guessed Chris. “No instruments. Sorry. I can’t get power into the panel no way, no how.”

  “Restart. Just go for it,” she told him. Without the instruments they could only guess by feel which engine it was—probably number one, the furthest out on the left wing. “It’s got to be number one.”

  “Yeah. No restart. Retrying. Nothing.” He was flying through the procedures, hitting the manual backup switches instead of using the recalcitrant computer.

  “Kill four,” she told her copilot. “Balance us out before I lose it.”

  “Throttling back,” he said, reaching for the control.

  It worked. The loss of power was also in their favor, in effect helping to slow the plane and bring it back under control. Breanna was back on top, flying the plane instead of being flown. She felt it starting to stall, and nosed down gently, had it in her hands. Fort Two was a colt that had bolted in fright; all she had to do was pat its sides gently, reassure it, then ease it back to the barn.

  If she could get the landing gear down and fly the mammoth airplane with no instruments or gauges except for a backup altimeter and compass.

  Actually, the compass seemed to have quit too. “Radio circuit completely dead, even on backups,” reported Chris. He was hyperventilating.

  “You may be able to get power into the circuits by using the remote-start battery array,” said Dr. Rubeo.

  Bree turned and saw him leaning over her. His face was whiter than a piece of marble, but the words were flat and calm.

  “Won’t the circuit breakers prevent that?” Breanna asked.

  “I’ll get around it,” he said.

  Before she could say anything else, Rubeo slipped out of the cabin, passing back into the defensive weapons station where the revamped Fort Two’s flight-control computers were now located.

  The plane began sheering sideways again. Breanna punched her rudder pedals, holding the yoke against the sharp turbulence. She brought her spoilers up to compensate.

  “We’re losing another engine,” she told Chris.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” It was theoretically possible to fly the plane on one power plant—but only just. Breanna had never done it outside the simulator. “I think it’s time to land,” she told Chris.

  “We can eject,” he suggested.

  “Crew will never make it,” she said, dismissing the idea.

  “I agree.”

  She had miles of dry lake bed in front of her. All she had to do was get the wheels down. “Beginning descent,” she said, trimming and preparing her flaps. “Gear?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chris, pulling on the manual control without noticeable effect. “We may have jammed the backup release or something in that descent.”

  THE INSTANT FORT TWO DIPPED INTO ITS DIVE, Sergeant Parsons felt déjà vu hit him in the chest.

  It was either that or the extra helping of bacon he’d had for breakfast.

  No, definitely déjà vu. He’d been aboard a stinking B-36 in what? 1962 maybe? ‘63? Done the same damn thing.

  Engines out, tearing up to shit.

  B-36, now there was an airplane. Had to be before 1963, though. Damn things were retired in the late fifties.

  Parsons hooked his thumbs against his restraints and waited for the pilot to regain control. He didn’t put a lot of stock in females in the military, let alone as pilots. But Rap was different. He knew she’d get the upper hand, sooner or later.

  Greasy Hands thought back to the B-36 that had taken its nosedive. If he remembered correctly, the plane had been hit by a massive bolt of lightning and a serious wind shear.

  So that wasn’t much help here, because they were flying in a clear sky. Still, the lights w
ere out on the displays in front of him, so maybe it was a working model for what was happening here. Always good to have a working model when you were chewing into a problem.

  The Convair had hydraulic controls—real controls, in his opinion. But something like this had happened in one of their E-3 testers, oh, five or six years before. Freak accident—pilot lost his flight computer. He’d been on autopilot and the damn thing went psycho, taking out the fly-by-wire system somehow. Had to go to manual reversion.

  No, he was thinking of the two-seat A-10. It lost its hydraulic pumps and the pilot had to muscle it in.

  The E-3 did lose its fire-by-wire system. Went to the backup. Not really a big deal. Landing gear was the only problem. Had to land on foam because the gear just wouldn’t unstick. Turned out one of the idiot computers had locked the doors. Damnedest thing. Sounded like all hell was breaking loose.

  Nasty sound, metal on concrete. No way he wanted to hear that again, especially up close.

  They figured out later that the only real problem was the damn fuses—if they’d simply bypassed the blown circuit breakers, the plane would have been fine. Instead, half of his people had spent nearly a month fixing the damn thing. Hell of a waste.

  The Megafortress roller-coasted upward and pushed Greasy Hands back in the seat. Wouldn’t be long now before Cap’n Rap got her even. Then he’d go play with the breakers, just in case.

  Parsons waited patiently for the plane to level off. As soon as the forces pushing against his ancient frame eased, the sergeant squeezed out of his seat restraints.

  “Well, now, I’d appreciate you skippin’ forward an’ telling the captain that I’ll give her electricity as soon as I can,” Greasy Hands told the staff sergeant next to him as he started up to the defensive-weapons station.

  ZEN HAD JUST ROLLED OUT INTO THE HANGAR AREA when he heard the alert. He looked up and saw the black hull of a Megafortress flashing out of the sun, obliterating the huge yellow disk. He pushed his chair back half a foot, then shielded his eyes; he knew even before he saw the engines it was Breanna’s plane.