Razor's Edge

by Dale Brown

  “God had to be watching out for you that day,” said Alou. “Peter, you ready back there?” Peter Hall, the engineer in charge of the Hydro test, replied that he was. Breanna concentrated on her instruments. She hadn’t thought about what role, if any, a higher power had played in her survival. She rarely if ever thought about God at all. Not that she was an atheist; she and Zen had been married in a church, and after his accident she had often found herself praying. For him, though. Not for herself. And probably more out of habit than any firm conviction.

  Lying on the stretcher, waiting for the ambulance to take her to the hospital, she’d thought at first she’d lost her legs. She hadn’t prayed then.

  “How’s our altitude?” Alou asked.

  “Ten thousand feet precisely,” she said. “Clear skies.

  We’re set.”

  “Quicksilver is ready when you are, Hydro Team,” said the pilot.

  They hit their mark and turned the aircraft over to the computer for the launch. The handles grasping the long pipe snapped open as the plane nosed upward in an alpha maneuver, a shallow dive and recovery that transferred launch momentum to the Hydro. The missile’s nose angled toward the earth at precisely fifty-three degrees once loosened; the angle increased slightly as it fell. The pilots watched the flight with the aid of cameras in Quicksilver and the nose of the Hydro; it wobbled unsteadily as it continued to pick up speed.

  “Gonna be a problem when the wings deploy,” said Peter. “Deployment in five, four …” Breanna watched the screen as the tube seemed to burst apart. The screen showing the feed from the Hydro’s nose whipped into a frenzy.

  “Just a spin,” said Peter. “It can deal with that.”

  “Coming to our turn,” said Alou, who’d retaken control of Quicksilver from the computer.

  By the time they came out of their bank, the onboard controller for Hydro had managed to recover from the spin and turned the craft toward its designated landing area. Breanna and the others watched on their monitors as it skidded into a rough landing about two hundred yards beyond its target line—not great, but not horrible either, especially since they weren’t particularly worried about accuracy. The Hydro’s nose camera showed the recovery crew’s vehicle kicking up dust as it approached.

  “Want to take the wheel?” Alou asked.

  “Oh, sure, let me drive now that all the fun stuff is done.” Breanna laughed, but then pulled back on the stick abruptly and hit the slider for maximum power, pushing the big plane into a sharp climb.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our pilot is now Captain Breanna ‘Rap’ Stockard,” said Alou over the interphone in his best tour guide voice. “Fasten your seat belts, please.

  Remember to keep hands and body fluids inside the car at all times. Things are likely to be hairy. The all-time record for climb to eighty thousand feet is in jeopardy.” Breanna had in fact started to level off. But a remark from Garcia about working on a farm—another obscure reference to a Dylan song—did encourage her to add a quick invert to the flight plan.

  Dreamland

  0845

  DOG MET MAJOR CHESHIRE AS SHE CAME DOWN GALATICA‘s access ramp in the Megafortress bunker.

  “Better than new,” Cheshire told him. “I think the tweaks on the engines add ten knots to the top speed—we’ll break the sound barrier in level flight yet.”

  “Major, come here a second,” he said as another crewman started down the ladder. They walked a few yards away, where he could tell her about the Whiplash order.

  “We’ll need the two Elint planes, Raven and Quicksilver,” he said after giving her a brief overview of the situation. “Assuming Quicksilver can go.”

  “She’s fine. The new nose hasn’t been coated because we didn’t want to take her out of service during the Hydro tests, but she can fly fine. The increase in the radar profile won’t make much of a difference.” Dog nodded. He had already considered that, but wanted to make sure Major Cheshire agreed. The increase in the radar profile compared to a standard Megafortress had been calculated at roughly thirty-five percent, which was still a considerable improvement over a standard B-52. Given that unstealthy planes flew over Iraq all the time, it would not be much of a handicap.

  “Major Alou and I will be ready to fly as soon as the planes are serviced,” said Cheshire.

  “You’re not going,” said Dog. “Sending you will disrupt too many things. We still need to select a team for the Unmanned Bomber Project, and the congressional inspection of the new Megafortresses is set for Tuesday. I need you here.”

  Cheshire’s face turned to stone. “With respect, sir, I believe I should be on the mission. I have the most experience of the Megafortress pilots.”

  “You’re also project officer for both the Megafortresses and the XB-5 Unmanned Bomber.”

  “I’m giving the XB-5 up.”

  “We’re going to need someone on duty in the secure center twenty-four hours a day,” said Dog. “You may have to sit in for me there, and help with some of my other duties as well. I want you to take charge of drawing up the deployment plans. I would imagine Major Alou should head the mission. Choose another crew. Danny’s already on his way over.”

  Though still unhappy, Cheshire was too good a soldier and knew Bastian too well to argue further. Her sentiments could only be read in the crispness of her “Yes, sir” before she left to change.

  Over Dreamland Test Range C

  0930

  THEY HAD JUST COME BACK LEVEL WHEN THE CONTROLLER hailed them.

  “Quicksilver, we have a message for Major Alou and Captain Stockard,” said the controller. “You’re needed back at base, stat. Priority Whiplash.” Alou clicked the mike to answer but Breanna cut him off. “Acknowledged,” she said. “We’re inbound.”

  “I have it,” said Alou.

  “Sorry,” said Breanna. She concentrated on turning the big plane onto a new course for the runway as Alou cleared the security protocols to allow a coded communication with Major Cheshire. The direct link was available on their com sets only.

  “We have a deployment situation,” Major Cheshire told them as soon as the line snapped on.

  “I’m ready,” Breanna said.

  “We both are,” added Alou.

  “It’s a Rivet mission over Iraq,” said Cheshire. “Rivet” was shorthand; it referred to Rivet Joint, top-secret Elint missions they had both flown in RC-135s. Two Megafortresses, Raven and Quicksilver, had been equipped to undertake similar missions, though under considerably more dangerous circumstances.

  “Not a problem,” said Alou.

  “Major, I’d like to speak to Captain Stockard alone.

  Would you clear off the circuit?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Alou, who voided his connection with a verbal command. Bree felt her cheeks flashing red, embarrassed.

  “Breanna, do you think you can handle a mission?” Damn sure, she wanted to say. Let’s go kick some butt.

  But instead she answered, “Yes, ma’am. Not a problem.”

  “I want you to be honest with me.”

  “I try to be. I was out of line the other day.”

  “That’s forgotten. I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Piece of cake, Major,” said Bree lightly. Then she asked about her plane.

  “Engineers and ground crew did a great job,” said Cheshire. “I want you to pilot Quicksilver,” she added, changing the subject. “Do you want Chris with you?” Chris Ferris was Galatica‘s—Breanna’s—copilot.

  He’d flown with her on every important mission she’d had at Dreamland.

  “Yes. When are we taking off?” Bree asked.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “You ready?”

  “I’m not going,” said Cheshire. Her words were so flat her disappointment was obvious. “Colonel Bastian wants me here to help monitor things from the command center.

  Major Alou will lead the mission in Raven.” Alou?

  Of course Alou. He ranked her, even
though she had more combat hours in the Megafortress than anyone, Cheshire included.

  Why did that bother her? Because she’d shown him the ropes on his first few orientation flights in the Megafortress? That was three months ago.

  “The deployment may last awhile,” Cheshire told her.

  “Meet me in my office in the hangar bunker as soon as you land. Both of you.”

  Incirlik, Turkey

  2100

  IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE WIND OR THE STICKINESS OF THE black vinyl cushions against his face or the thousand thoughts rushing through his head, Mack Smith might have caught a quick nap on the couch in the lounge while waiting for General Elliott. Instead he spent nearly three hours sliding back and forth on the thoroughly uncomfortable chair, kicking against the rail and wedging his head in the crack at the back. When he finally drifted off, the lights flicked on.

  “Sorry, General,” he said, rolling upward. But instead of Elliott he saw a tall man in chinos and white shirt.

  “Garrison. CIA,” said the man. He frowned, as if Mack were sleeping on his time. Or maybe his couch.

  “Smith. USAF,” said Mack, annoyed.

  “I’d like to speak to you about what you saw at the crash site.”

  “Yeah, you and the rest of the world,” said Mack. “But I’m not talking to anybody except General Elliott.”

  “General Elliott is busy,” said Garrison.

  Mack got up slowly, his body kinked from the couch.

  At six feet, he was tall for a fighter pilot, but Garrison had at least six inches on him. The spook’s hair was so white and thick it looked like a carpet.

  “I’ve already been debriefed. Twice,” said Mack.

  “Sometimes details have a way of slipping away.”

  “Don’t you have some insurrection to start?” said Mack. He started toward the door, deciding he was hungry.

  “Major.” The CIA agent grabbed his sleeve.

  Mack spun and stuck his finger in Garrison’s chest.

  “These aren’t my clothes, Jack. Don’t rip them.” Garrison let go so sharply—maybe it was a spook technique, Mack thought—that he nearly fell backward.

  “You’re a real jerk, you know that?” Mack said.

  “That’s what they say about you.” Shaking his head, Mack turned toward the door, where he nearly knocked into General Elliott.

  “General—”

  “Mack, I see you’ve met Agent Garrison.”

  “We were just getting introduced,” said Garrison.

  “Real personable spy,” said Mack.

  “I’d like to hear you describe the wreckage,” Elliott told him. “Agent Garrison should listen too.” Mack frowned, then began recounting what had happened.

  “We don’t need a blow-by-blow of your courageous encounter with the Iraqi army,” said Garrison caustically when Mack began to describe what had happened when the tanks came.

  “I just wanted to show that we didn’t have enough time for leisurely inspections,” Mack said.

  “Burn marks?” asked Garrison.

  “No,” said Mack.

  “The edges of the metal where it sheered off—powdery white?”

  Mack shrugged. “Look at the pictures.”

  “They’re blurry as hell. You need photography lessons.”

  “See how good you are at taking pictures when a tank’s firing at you.”

  “Mack, did you see any trace of the missing wing?” asked the general.

  “No,” said Mack. “I didn’t see it in the area, and when all hell broke loose, we had too much else to worry about.

  How’s the PJ?”

  “He’s fine. They’re a tough breed,” said Elliott.

  “This is inconclusive at best,” said Garrison. “I’d still like to get in there.”

  “Not possible,” said Elliott.

  The frown Garrison had been wearing since waking Mack deepened. He stared at the general for nearly a minute, then walked from the room.

  “What the hell’s up his ass, sir?” Mack asked, adding the “sir” belatedly.

  “Mr. Garrison and his agency are going to have to defend some rather rash predictions they made,” said Elliott.

  “I expect that accounts for a small portion of his hostility.”

  “What’s going on, General? Do the Iraqis have a new missile?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” said Elliott.

  “How did they target those planes? The SA-2 radars?

  Impossible,” said Mack. “The F-16, sure, okay. The Weasel operator let it slip through and the Iraqis got seriously lucky. But two Eagles? And what got them? I have a hard time believing they could get nailed by flying telephone poles.”

  Elliott said nothing.

  “How did they do it?” asked Mack.

  “How do you think they did it?” asked Elliott.

  Mack had flown over Iraq during the Gulf War and nailed a MiG-29 in air-to-air combat. He’d had several encounters with SA-2s, including one where he had seen a missile sail within five or six hundred feet of his canopy.

  But he couldn’t imagine how a pair of Eagle pilots could get shot down in the same engagement, especially with a Weasel flying shotgun; it just shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t happen.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what hit the F-16 I saw,” he told Elliott. “Maybe it was a new kind of missile, something like the Russian SA-4 with a proximity fuse and shrapnel, or maybe just a fluke whack that got the wing, shattering it without exploding or at least without a fire.

  But I don’t know, operating in a bizarre radar band the jammers didn’t see? And that not even the AWACS could track? I really don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Neither do I,” said the general.

  Dreamland

  1002

  DANNY LOOKED AT THE CALLER ID SCREEN, TRYING TO puzzle out the number. It had a New York City area code but wasn’t Jemma’s apartment or school. It might be Jimmy Ferro, or even Blaze, his buddy from the bad days in Bosnia.

  Then again, it probably wasn’t.

  He grabbed it just before it would have rolled over into the answering system.

  “Danny Freah.”

  “Daniel, hello. Jim Stephens.”

  Danny couldn’t place him.

  “I used to be Al D’Amato,” said Stephens. It was obviously meant as a joke, but the name still didn’t register for Danny. “I worked for the senator. I was his alter ego. I was talking with your wife Jemma the other day and I told her I’d call.”

  Oh yeah—the politico. “Hi,” said Danny.

  “Listen, I’d like to sit down some time and talk about your future.”

  “My future?”

  “I like to think of myself as something of a scout. I have a lot of friends, a lot of people who are interested in giving other people the right kind of start.” In his junior year of high school Danny had been briefly—very briefly—recruited by two colleges, which offered athletic scholarships for his football skills. That was his first introduction to the wonderful world of unadulterated bullshit. He fought off the flashback.

  “I don’t need a start,” he told Stephens.

  “No, you’ve actually got it all started already. Headed in the right direction, definitely. Can I talk frankly? There aren’t many people like you in government right now.

  Straight-shooters. Honest. Military background.”

  “That’s a plus?”

  “I checked with some friends in Washington. You have quite an impressive record, Captain.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Long-term, you could make important contributions to your country, very important contributions. There aren’t many of us in important jobs right now,” he added.

  “And the Republican party is wide open. Believe me, Captain, you have a real future. An important future. The country needs a wide base of people in government. Congress. There are too many lawyers and milquetoasts there now. We have a duty to straighten it out.” Stephens sounded sincere; he proba
bly was sincere, Danny thought. And the duty card, if not the race card, did resonate with him.

  But he wasn’t quitting the Air Force, certainly not to become a politico.

  Could he stay in here forever? Away from Jemma?

  It was important, and it was thrilling, but it was dangerous, very dangerous. And it made it very difficult to raise kids.

  Which he did want.

  “A job in D.C. helping a committee make the right choices for the military, hop from that into an election inside a year,” Stephens continued. “Fast-track to Congress if we pick the right district. From there, who knows? The sky’s the limit.”

  “Yeah,” said Danny finally. “You know what? You got me at a bad time.”

  “Oh, not a problem, Captain. Not a problem at all. We should talk in person sometime. Have lunch. No pressure or anything like that—this is a thing you’d want to think about for a long time. Talk with Jemma about, of course.”

  “Yeah. Well, listen, I have your number here. I’ll give you a call soon.”

  Stephens hesitated ever so slightly, but remained up-beat. “Great. Think about it, Captain.”

  “I will,” said Danny, hanging up.

  Dreamland

  1357

  COLONEL BASTIAN SAT BACK FROM HIS DESK AS GIBBS barged into the office.

  “Your meeting, sir,” said Ax. “Everyone’s down in the torture chamber wondering where you are. But you didn’t sign my papers.”

  “I’ll get them later, Ax.”

  A frown flew across the chief master sergeant’s face.

  “Let’s take them in the elevator,” offered Ax. “You can sign them on the fly and be done.”

  “I have to read them.”

  “Ah, these aren’t reading ones. I didn’t read half of them myself.”

  Dog pushed his chair back and rose, shaking his head.

  But instead of picking up one of the three piles of forms and files on Bastian’s desk, the chief put up his hand.

  “Colonel, a word.” Gibbs’s voice suddenly became uncharacteristically officious. “I have the identity of the F-15 pilots. Back channel, of course.” Bastian nodded.