by Dale Brown
“We will be leaving at dusk,” said the Iranian. His hands were folded in front of him; it was possible, probable, that he had his pistol in his sleeve, but it was not visible. In fact, he gave the impression not merely of being unarmed, but of being far removed from any conflict—far removed from here, as if he were in a mosque, preparing to pray or more likely to preach.
“How did it feel?” Smith asked.
The Imam’s eyes gave nothing away, yet he obviously knew that Mack was talking about shooting Jackson, for he answered, “Within Allah’s grasp, all is justified.”
“How do you know you’re in his grasp?”
“I know,” said the Iranian confidently.
“Why him and not me?” Mack asked.
“Your role has been ordained.” The Imam nodded, as if he had actually answered the question. He gazed at Mack as if he were a penitent seeking guidance. “You should not question your fate. You must learn to accept it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You are feeling guilty that your soldier died. But he would have died eventually.”
“I’m not feeling guilty about anything.”
“When you can say that truthfully, you will be at peace,” said the Imam. He nodded again. “I pray the day will come.”
Mack felt a surge of anger, but something seemed to hold him in place, fatigue or perhaps something else. He wanted to ask how a murderer could have the gall to cite God as his justification, to pretend to be holy and wise. But he stayed fixed in place, unable to move.
“Submit yourself to your fate, and to the will of Allah,” said the Imam. “Then you will find peace.”
He stepped backward, leaving the tent.
Dreamland
23 October, 0800 local
AS REAMINGS WENT, IT WAS FIRST CLASS. FOUR GENERALS tag-teamed Bastian during the conference call, chewing him out relentlessly for sending the Megafortress to Africa.
And all he could say in his defense was—a second was on the way, with even more untested top-secret weaponry and a civilian scientist aboard.
Magnus especially was angry. “I spoke to you less than twenty-four hours ago,” said the general who’d earlier congratulated him for his JSF report. Though influential, he was actually the junior member of the chew-out team. “You sure as hell could have given me a heads-up.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“You, Colonel, should not think,” Magnus snapped.
Bastian was being treated as if he were a green-gilled tadpole airman, not the commander of the country’s most advanced weapons-testing facility. He bridled, but he kept his cool, holding his tongue as the generals continued to berate him. Because he knew—and they knew—that in the end, he’d been right. The Megafortress had made it possible for the downed F-117 to be destroyed. And, according to preliminary intelligence, Whiplash had just barely missed snatching the pilots back—again, thanks largely to the Megafortress. One major Somalian base had been smashed, two Iranian MiGs had been shot down, and two others apparently forced to ditch. The Iranian plan for a pan-Islamic rebellion against the West was falling apart, largely because he’d decided to send an “experimental” aircraft as a transport.
Well, more or less.
“The bottom line here, gentlemen,” said Ms. O’Day, finally rejoining the conference call after the others had vented for nearly twenty minutes, “is that we have a continuing situation. Colonel Bastian has helped us considerably. You and I may not approve of what he has done—and undoubtedly we may consider sanctions in the future. But at the moment, well, let’s make some lemonade here. His aircraft and personnel are under operational control of the Madcap Magician commander. I believe that’s where they should stay—with the local commanders, who are in the best position to know what they need to get the job done. Now if you want to reverse that, it’s possible. I will carry the recommendation personally to the President. I won’t support it, but I will relay it.”
“We can relay it ourselves,” snapped General Gold, the Air Force Chief of Staff.
“Your call, Martin,” said O’Day.
Dog wished the conference call had been made via video. He’d give anything to see his bosses fuming at O’Day.
On the other hand, they might see him gloating. And that would be fatal. Assuming he wasn’t already cooked.
“I don’t think we should reverse it,” said Magnus. “Frankly, between you, me, and the lamppost, Tecumseh, I would have done the same thing.”
“Then you’d be out of line,” snapped General Alcane.
“In line, out of line, the bottom line is results. We’ve got them,” said Magnus. “What we need now is for Madcap Magician to pull the pilots out. If that takes Mega-fortresses and robot planes, I’m all for it.”
“What we need now is to nuke Iran,” said Alcane.
“If that’s your recommendation, I’m sure the President will want to hear it personally,” said O’Day coolly.
“Gentlemen, Ms. O’Day, there’s no need to discuss this further with Colonel Bastian,” said Gold. “Colonel, you have a difficult assignment at Dreamland. You’re trying your best and doing better than expected, but I realize that you may be slightly in over your head.”
“I hope not,” said Bastian.
“Brad Elliot is still well thought of around here,” continued Gold. “And he supports you.” Gold laughed. “Hell, he thinks you should have sent more. But—and this is an important but—we have a chain of command that must be followed. Granted, your situation is special. But from this moment on, you are to report directly to General Magnus. That pertains to everything—testing, operations, budget, latrines. Keep him informed. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog. Before he could say anything else, his end of the call was shut down.
“How’d you do?” asked Ax, barging in a millisecond after Bastian hung up.
“Well, I got my head chewed off and threatened with unspecified sanctions. Then about twelve layers of bureaucracy above us were cut away, and the only general in the Air Force who thinks I’m worth anything was just made my boss. The Chief even said I was doing a good job.”
“Not bad,” said Sergeant Gibbs. “You’re learning. Keep going and in a couple of weeks you may be ready to take over for me when I go on vacation.”
Ethiopia
23 October, 1820 local
THEY USED AN OLD SAC TRICK TO HELP RAVEN GET airborne with a full load of fuel, firing the Flighthawks in sequence with the main engines, as if the UM/Fs were rocket-assist packs. They then refilled the Flighthawks’ fuel tanks in-flight, siphoning off fuel from the Megafortress. Between the takeoff and the tanking procedures, Jeff felt drained; fortunately they had a lull before he was due to drop the Flighthawks.
“It’ll be easier next time,” said Gleason as he pulled off his heavy helmet. She was sitting next to him in the converted weapons station.
“You think so, don’t you?” Zen joked.
“I hope so.” Briggs had tried to keep Jennifer from flying the mission because she was a civilian, but her protests and Cheshire’s insistence had kept her aboard. Zen was glad she’d come.
“We are twenty minutes from Alpha,” said Cheshire. “You want to break open your snacks, go for it.”
“I thought I’d grab a brewski,” said Zen.
“Make mine a Sam Adams.”
“I’m in for a Chardonnay,” said Gleason.
Zen reached for his mission folder, laying out the latest overhead photos and the grid map that showed the area they would be surveying. Their search pattern looked like an upside-down W with a backward Z on the last leg; they would start about ten miles northwest of Malakal, heading for the Libyan border. The Flighthawks would fly ahead roughly five miles, about seven miles apart. While the Flighthawks would vary their altitudes between six and twelve thousand feet depending on conditions, Raven herself would stay above 25,000 in a warm and dry layer of air unlikely to produce contrails. The altitude wou
ld give the plane a considerable buffer against triple-A and shoulder-fired SAMs likely to be in the area. Anything larger would have to be jammed once detected; until then, they would fly without the powerful radars activated, hoping to get in and out unnoticed.
“Zero-five to Alpha,” announced Cheshire.
Zen looked up in shock—had he just dozed off? He glanced at his controls; they were indeed five minutes from the drop point.
“Initiate C3 self-test sequence on Hawk One,” he told the computer as he pulled on his helmet.
“Test sequence begun. Test sequence complete,” announced the computer.
“Initiate C3 self-test sequence on Hawk Two.”
The computer came back quickly, showing all systems in the green. Cheshire had already pushed the nose of the Megafortress upward; they would launch in a shallow dive, the pilot initiating a zero-alpha maneuver at release. The wind shear across the Megafortress wing surface would help accentuate the separation. They’d then repeat the process again for the second plane. Although technically it was possible to launch both at the same time, Stockard had never done so.
Zen selected Hawk One’s infrared view for his main visor screen, ghosting the flight instruments and data in it as if it were a HUD. The world looked dark and cold from the UM/F’s nose.
“Alpha,” said Cheshire.
“Computer, launch sequence on Hawk One. Countdown from five.”
The computer took up the chant, counting down in its mechanical voice as the engine ignited. Prodded by the Megafortress’s 480 knots of airspeed, the turbine spun hot and ready. Zen let the computer proceed as it automatically released Hawk One.
“Maintain programmed course,” he said after a quick review of the instrumentation indicated all systems were good. “Main viewer optical from Hawk Two. Begin Hawk Two launch sequence. Countdown from five.”
Hawk Two’s turbine stuttered. Zen nearly pulled the trigger button on his left joystick, which in launch mode automatically stopped the takeoff. But the graphics hit green and he let the Hawk go, this time maintaining personal control over the plane.
Good launches, quick and smooth. Better by far than either of his drops at Dreamland.
It was like flying, and it wasn’t. It was like riding in the back of a roller coaster, imagining you had control. In the dark, the total dark.
Plus with your left hand.
“Infrared view, Hawk Two,” he said, staying in Hawk Two’s cockpit. The screen snapped into a yellowish red haze. Hawk One’s tailpipe glowed at the top of the left end of the screen. Zen prodded Hawk Two gently to the right, gliding and quickly building momentum. He checked the instruments, then gave control to the computer, skipping over to UM/F. It was easier there, maybe because he was right-handed. Like playing baseball and batting from the right side, even though you’d learned to switch-hit.
“Computer, split top viewer, add optic feed from Hawk Two on left.”
The computer complied. He now had a panoramic view of the twilight. Both planes descended at near-Mach speed, running through clear, dry air.
“We’re green and growing,” he told Cheshire.
“Roger that.”
“Feeding infrared views to flight deck,” said Jennifer. The Flighthawk feeds came through the test system. She punched something on her console. “They’ll get the FLIR no matter what you select. I can feed them radar and optics too, if they ask.”
“Looking good back there,” Cheshire told them.
Baseball. This was ten times more difficult than switchhitting—you were going at it from both sides of the plate at once, facing two different pitchers. Zen felt as if his mind were splitting in half; sweat began creeping down his neck.
A Sudanese city—or what passed for one—loomed in the view projected from Hawk One as Zen began leveling the planes off at ten thousand feet. A group of low-slung concrete buildings sat above a shantytown of trailers, discarded metal containers, and ancient vehicles. The computer, working with parameters programmed by Jennifer, studied the different shapes for the possibility of an aircraft. Meanwhile, Raven’s weapons officer scanned for transmissions that might indicate their quarry’s presence.
“You have a shape on that northwest quadrant,” Jennifer said. “The computer’s not flagging it as hostile. Grid AA-4.”
“Yeah, I have the quadrant,” said Zen. Holding Hawk One steady toward the Sudanese city, he moved Two lower to check out the unexpected contact off its left wing. The sweat now began to pour in buckets as he rolled the plane into a tight dive, dropping it quickly to five thousand feet. The Hawk’s radar transmitted a detailed image back to the mother ship; Jeff left it to Jennifer to examine as he flew the plane low and fast across the edge of a Sudanese settlement that apparently had been obscured by clouds on the photos. He brought the Hawk lower, picking up speed; he straightened his wings now at five hundred feet, three hundred, sensors blazing.
RWR clear. No SAMS, no defenses.
A building and a shed, if you could call them that. Neither was as big as a cottage back home.
A bus lumbered ahead. Zen began to pull off, then saw something flash to his left. Not sure what it was, he stayed on his course, accelerating.
Another vehicle, this one an ancient pickup. He nailed his throttle down, streaking past before rocketing back upward, hewing right. He pushed his left hand toward him, riding Hawk Two closer to the other half of his mind, which was just passing the Sudanese city.
“Whoo, that was fun,” said Jennifer. “Initial analysis clean. I’m playing the optical sensors back to recheck those buildings.”
Zen shut her out. It was difficult enough being in the Flighthawks.
It hadn’t seemed this hard when he flew them before the accident. And yet he’d been controlling three planes then—his own as well as the two UM/Fs.
His head felt like it was going to break in half.
“Clean,” announced Jennifer. “No visible life-forms, Dr. Spock.”
When Zen didn’t respond, she added, “Our ten-year mission, to explore new worlds—”
“Yeah, I got the joke,” he snapped.
“Sorry.”
Zen saw a small truck off the side of the road, then another.
Hawk One screen, right? They were starting to blur together, despite the purple separator line.
The trucks weren’t significant, he decided. The Hawks crossed the Wadi al Madi, a trench that emptied into the Nile much further to the east. He couldn’t tell if there was water in it or not as he passed, holding both Flighthawks at eight thousand feet.
They were invisible, dark birds in the desert night, riding the wind. He selected both FLIRs in the top screen, trying to get more comfortable. They came up toward the east-west railroad line that perforated Sudan; he took the Flighthawks down it to nearly the limit of their safe separation distance before edging back.
Maybe he shouldn’t think of them as if they were two planes. Maybe they were really one, a coordinated being, an extension of himself. Like his arms or eyes, working together.
There was a rhythm; once he found it he’d be fine. Once he found it.
“We’re coming to Bravo,” Cheshire told him. “We’ll follow your turn.”
“Roger that, thank you, Raven,” Jeff said.
“Hawk Two at Bravo,” the computer told him.
Though a basic element of formation flying, coordinating a parallel turn was tricky, and even experienced pilots could have trouble doing it. It was not easy to hold position, and the pilots had to coordinate their maneuvers carefully. In some ways it was even harder with the Flighthawks, since he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—use the throttle to cover any mistake. But Zen didn’t need to; he had the planes moving in tandem, perfectly balanced against each other, working like the hands of a prizefighter prodding his enemy. He came around to the new bearing southeastward with the Hawks nailed on beam precisely seven miles apart. He allowed himself a brief exhale of congratulations and relief.
A boxer
probing his opponent. This one was a cipher, without noticeable weaknesses. The desert went on forever, admitting no secrets. Finding Smith in it would be impossible.
If it weren’t for the fact that there were other people with Knife, Zen wouldn’t mind missing him completely.
The idea snuck up from behind, curling around his spine as if it had risen through the sweat beneath his flight suit.
He hated Smith.
Because of the accident? Or because of Bree?
He wanted her back. And not to be friends. He was wrong about the divorce. He had to fight for her.
How the hell did you do that in a wheelchair? He couldn’t even do his goddamn job without sweating buckets.
A herd of cattle materialized on the right side of the viewer, crowding out his thoughts about his wife, bringing him back to the Hawks. The warm bodies milled back and forth in the rapidly cooling desert air. There were some tents, a vehicle.
“Nomads,” said Jen.
“Yeah,” he acknowledged.
Something moved in the far corner of the left end. Zen pushed his attention toward it, realized he was seeing a gun emplacement.
“Ground intercept radar active,” warned the computer. Information spat at him—ID’ing a pair of twin 35mm GDF antiaircraft weapons controlled by a Contraves Skyguard system. The Swiss-built system was relatively sophisticated, though its maximum range was well under twenty thousand feet. According to the threat screen, the Flighthawks had not been locked, though the radar was active.
“I’m going to get close and personal,” he told Cheshire after filling her in.
“Copy. We’ll hold to our flight plan.”
Zen looped Hawk Two into a turn about three miles from the radar source. He changed the main viewer from optics to FLIR. It was a military installation. The guns were mounted at the northern edge of a complex that included several dug-in shelters and four tanks. Several vehicles were parked at the southern end; the Flighthawk camera caught a soldier on guard duty smoking a cigarette. The UM/F passed within two miles of the radar unit without being detected.