“Maybe it’s time for you to get out.”
Mack frowned but said nothing.
“You want me to hang around for a few days longer?” she asked.
Mack shrugged. “Nah. My guys are probably about as up to speed as they’re going to get.”
“Don’t be too hard on them, Mack. They’re not terrible pilots. They just need more flight time. Same with the equipment ops. Deci’ll work with them for a few more days. They’ll get it together.”
“Yeah. The whole country is not very serious about the military here. That’s the problem,” said Mack.
“Well you’re turning it around.” She meant the compliment; Mack was working hard at straightening out the air force—surely harder than she would have thought. “McKenna’s working at it, too.”
“She’s good,” said Mack. “Maybe I ought to send over to Canada for more contract pilots.” He got up. “Listen, Bree, I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Don’t mention it,” she told him.
“I’d buy you a drink but I have a pile of things to go through.”
“It’s all right. I have to get up early tomorrow for my flight. It leaves at 4 A.M. If I miss it, I’ll be here until Tuesday”
“You stopping over in Japan?”
She shook her head. “I was thinking of it, but I want to get home”
“Don’t blame you:’ he said, his voice almost wistful.
Dreamland
10 October 1997, 1310
Dog realized that things between him and Jennifer had been derailed for reasons unknown—at least to him. Rather than spending a lot of time analyzing why, he decided to go on the offensive. Big time.
He made sure all of his work was squared away early Friday afternoon, skipping both breakfast and lunch to get his various duties finished. Chief Master Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs, who functioned as a combination right-hand man and ward healer in the stripped-down Dreamland hierarchy, ran interference for him. He also facilitated the first strike in the operation, helping Dog arrange for a dozen roses to be delivered to Jennifer’s lab first thing in the morning.
The roses sat in a makeshift vase—a sawed-down Coke bottle—on one of the tables near the entrance to the computer lab. As Dog came into the lab, Ray Rubeo had just gotten down on his knees next to Jennifer, seemingly praying over something on the computer.
“You never struck me as the religious type,” said Dog.
“Colonel. Hmmph,” said Rubeo, giving Dog his usual scowl.
“Problem?”
“Just the usual avalanche,” said Rubeo. “We need more personnel, Colonel. I need coders. Real coders.”
Rubeo made a similar plea at least once a week, and usually Dog would cut him off after a few words. But today the colonel let the scientist go on, using the opportunity to watch Jennifer working over the nearby computer. She pounded the directional keys, repeating numbers to herself as she stared at the screen.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
“So when do we get more personnel?” asked Rubeo finally. “We may be able to get some extra heads as part of the Megafortress program,” Dog told him.
“The Megafortress? Why?”
“Because we’re selling three to Brunei.”
“Piffle,” said the scientist.
“Piffle? In what way?” Dog continued to watch Jennifer, who was absorbed in the screen.
“Piffle in that they’re about as useful to Brunei as a toaster is on the Australian outback,” said Rubeo. “And we shouldn’t even be wasting our resources on the EB-52. The unmanned bomber and satellite stations are much more important—they’re the future, Colonel.”
“Ray, sometimes you’re just too much to take,” said Dog. He looked over at Jennifer, still staring at the screen. “But I love you anyway.”
“More piffle,” said the scientist, muttering to himself as he left the room.
Finally alone, Dog put his hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said.
“Mmmmm. “
He ran his fingers along the back of her neck, tickling the light down that grew there. “Come on. You’re taking the rest of the day off. And the weekend.”
“I am?”
“Yes you are. I cleared it with the base commander.”
“Ax?”
“Very funny.”
“And what am I doing with this time off?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said.
“I really have to work.”
“No, as your commanding officer, I order you to take the weekend off.”
“I think that’s a violation of military law.”
“I think you’re right,” said Dog, gently coaxing her to her feet so he could kiss her.
“Do I have to pack?”
“Your suitcase is already in the car.”
JENNIFER LEANED BACK IN THE SEAT AND CLOSED HER EYES, letting the sound of the tires on the pavement soak through her body. The steady hum hypnotized her the way a rocking chair did. Dog was trying, really trying. Roses, a weekend away—she had to admit he was really trying.
Did she still love him?
That was a difficult question, one she couldn’t answer right now.
Maybe Monday.
The car began to slow. Jennifer opened her eyes just as Dog turned off the highway onto a narrow, dusty back road. She had no idea where they were; she wasn’t even sure if it was still in Nevada.
A plane engine roared nearby and a shadow passed over the car. Dog turned left and a trio of small airplane hangars, each not much larger than a garage, appeared across a chained entrance.
“You have a plane here?” she asked.
“Borrowing it from a friend,” said Dog.
“Really? You can fly a light plane?”
He started to laugh and she felt embarrassed, realizing how silly the question was.
“It does take more adjustment than you’d think,” Dog told her. “Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone but you.”
He put the car in gear, driving past the small chain separating the road from the airport lane. He got back out and rechained it—there was something charming in the informality of it all, even if it wasn’t exactly the most secure facility in the world. The small airstrip was all about informality—Dog rolled down the window before driving any further and stuck his head out.
“Have to make sure no one’s trying to land,” he told her.
It wasn’t a joke: just after they crossed the apron to the hangars, a small Cherokee came in, passing within twenty or thirty yards of the car. A short, balding man wearing a grease-stained flannel shirt appeared from the side of the hangar as Dog parked the car.
“Hey, Colonel!” he yelled. “Been waitin’ all day for you”
“Traffic was tough,” said Dog, winking at Jennifer.
“And hello to you,” said the man, bending low to Jennifer. Dog introduced the man as William T. Goat.
“Billy. Get it?” said Goat, who owned the tiny airfield as well as the services connected to it. Goat had been in the air force, working as a maintainer, or aircraft technician. The air operation, land and all, had been in his family for four generations.
“Great-grandfather was a barnstormer,” said Goat, showing them to their plane. “Supposed to have flown under the Brooklyn Bridge upside down”
Goat went over some details of the aircraft quickly with Dog. Jennifer climbed in; within a few minutes Dog had joined her in the cabin, worked through a checklist on a laminated card, and started up the engine.
“You know, I’ve never been in a plane this small,” said Jennifer as they taxied out to the head of the runway—a grand total of forty yards away.
“Nothing to it,” said Dog. “All you do is sit and relax.”
The engine’s growl turned into a loud whine, and the plane bolted forward.
“I think—” she started, but before she could finish the sentence the plane lurched upward. Jennifer felt her lungs bump into her stomach.
“Oh boy,” she said when she finally got her breath back. “Oh boy.”
Off the coast of Brunei
11 October 1997, 0500
The target sat at the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Dazhou Ti stared at the green and black shadows, waiting for the indicator at the center to show they were in range of the missile.
Dazhou had once marveled at the
Barracuda’s
technology, not simply the propulsion system but the gear that allowed his small crew to run the boat: the global positioning locator, the different screens for passive infrared detection, and the radar receiver, which showed if others were looking for them. The faceted sides of the vessel made it as difficult to see on radar as its low-slung profile and black paint made it hard to spot with the naked eye. The passive detectors and burst radar targeting system allowed them to operate nearly invisibly, minimizing the electronic signals that indicated a conventional warship’s presence as surely as a searchlight on an otherwise darkened deck. But now, barely six weeks since his first trial voyage, Dazhou took it all for granted.
“Captain, we are within range,” said the weapons officer. “Speed stablilizing at eighty knots.”
“Prepare the missiles.”
The weapons officer touched two buttons on his panel. The metal grate below Dazhou’s feet vibrated as the hatchway above the missile launcher separated. Information on the target—a large oil tank at the center of a tank farm near Muara on the northern coast of Brunei—was downloaded into the guidance system of the missile.
“Missile ready,” replied the crewman.
“Fire,” said Dazhou.
There was a snarl on the rear area of the
Barracuda
as the Exocet took off. The French-made anti-ship missile accelerated upward, approaching the speed of sound. After a few seconds, its nose tilted slightly downward and it began skimming along the waves, making it very difficult to track, let alone intercept. When it came within ten kilometers it would activate its own radar and use it to close in on the tank.
“On course,” reported the weapons officer, tracking the missile’s progress.
“Unknown contact bearing one-zero-eight, at thirty kilometers, making ten knots,” said the radarman. “Appears to be a patrol vessel. Brunei. One of their new Russian craft. Not close enough for positive identification.”
“Does it see us?”
“Negative.”
Dazhou was tempted to destroy the patrol ship, one of two recently purchased by the sultan to equip his paltry navy. But his orders from the general were to avoid engagements if possible. Striking the patrol ship, as tempting as it might be, might prematurely alert the enemy to the existence of his ship.
Turning back now meant there would be no chance of seeing the fire his missile would cause. But vanity was not among Dazhou’s weaknesses. The more difficult decision involved whether to proceed away at high speed or not. Taking the turn at high speed involved a tilt maneuver that made the craft visible by sophisticated radars, including the one aboard the Brunei ship. A slow turn, which for the
Barracuda
meant roughly twenty knots or a little less, kept the ship’s profile low in the water and almost surely invisible. But dropping the speed to turn would mean he’d lose the flight effect; he would be turning the
Barracuda
back into a “normal” ship. Not only would he lose his momentum, but he would have to wait until he was a good distance from the Brunei ships to pop up. The “takeoff regime”—the word they used for initiating the effect—could not be made radar efficient. And besides, achieving the thrust necessary taxed the cooling capabilities of the ceramic baffles at the rear; he would be visible on infrared. Dazhou had to decide: remain unseen but go slow, thereby increasing the length of the mission, or go fast and hope the men on the Brunei ship didn’t believe their sensors.
Throughout his career, he had taken the risky path, preferring its quick rewards. But there were no rewards in this case; he wanted to keep the ship secret for as long as possible.
“Rig for full stealth mode,” he told his crew. “Return to base as planned. Remain on passive detectors only.” The men moved silently to comply.
Brunei
11 October 1997, 0530
Mack Smith groaned as the phone rang, then reached over to the side of the bed and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Mack, McKenna. We got some sort of terrorist thing going over at Muara. Looks like the navy’s screwing everything up. You want me to get the Dragonflies up?”
“Hold on a second.” Mack pulled himself upright, trying to will himself back to full consciousness. He hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep in weeks. “What exactly is going on?”
“Terrorists attacked a tank farm out near Muara, where petrol is stored before it’s picked up by tankers,” said McKenna. “Navy has a patrol boat in the area but they’re coming up empty. I want to launch Dragonflies to patrol the area.”
“What sort of attack?”
“I don’t have all the details yet. May have been some sort of missile or mortar rounds.”
“Missile? From terrorists? More likely they snuck in there and planted a bomb.”
“Could be. Should we get up in the air or not?”
“We have fuel?”
“We have fuel.”
“All right. Send up a two-plane patrol and have another stand by. You lead the first flight; report in when you know the situation. Get the Megafortress ready.”
“Done and done,” said McKenna.
“I may marry you yet, McKenna.”
For the first time since they’d met, she didn’t have a snappy comeback. “Coffee’ll be waiting at the hangar,” she said.
AS HE GOT DRESSED, MACK DECIDED HE WOULD TAKE Breanna up on her offer to hang around for a few more days; he could use an aggressive pilot in the cockpit of the EB-52. Then he realized that her flight home would have left an hour ago.
So he decided he’d take the plane up himself.
While Mack respected the capabilities of the EB-52, he’d never been particularly enamored with the plane. Early on during his stay at Dreamland, he had gone through the familiarization courses and did well enough to have been offered a pilot’s slot in the program. But for all the sleek modifications and sophisticated upgrades, the big jet was still a big jet, a lumbering bomb truck, a B-52. Mack Smith flew pointy-nose go-fast jets, not big ugly fat fellas.
But you did what you had to do. By the time he got to the airport, the ground crew was fueling the plane. Mack stopped at the tower where his ground operations center was coordinating mission information and getting updates from the other services. McKenna’s flight had taken off twenty minutes before and was patrolling over the tank farm, twenty miles away. Meanwhile, other guerilla attacks were reported on the outskirts of the capital.