Wraith (13 page)

“Well, this is creepy,” said Nick as he stepped off the crew ladder. The crew chief who'd guided them into the hangar had disappeared and then the doors had closed behind them, leaving them in total darkness.

“Hello!” called Drake, his voice reverberating off the unseen walls. “At least it's got a nice echo.”

Nick jumped backward as the lights flashed on. An Army colonel stood directly in front of him. The man's expression was impossible to read. His eyebrows were set in a scowl, yet his lips were spread in a flat smile. “Welcome, gentlemen.”

Drake began to introduce himself, but the colonel cut him off. “No need for introductions, Mr. Merigold. I've read your file, along with your comrade's. My name is Colonel Walker. Consider me your new boss.” The scowl took on a hint of amusement. “The truth is I became your boss the moment you signed on to Cerberus. Drag is just an intermediary.” He nodded toward a black and yellow box painted on the floor. “Get your gear on that elevator over there and I'll show you the rest of the facility.”

While Drake clambered back up the ladder to get the flight gear, the colonel moved closer to Nick. “So you're the chase pilot,” he said, leaving Nick to guess whether it was a statement or a question.

Nick eyed the colonel warily. “Actually, sir, I'm not sure what I am to you.”

Walker nodded. “I know that. I just wanted to see if you were the standard cocky young pilot, or if you were smart enough to admit that you're out of your element.”

Nick glanced over at a small, alien craft siting on a rack in the corner of the hangar. Two men in lab coats appeared to be poking and prodding it with gloved hands. He felt like he had just stumbled into Roswell. “I'm a fish out of water.”

“Perfect. I like starting with a blank page.”

*   *   *

Down in the bunker, Walker led the pilots to the life support room, where they could unload their flight gear. There, he left Nick alone while he led Drake off to a safe to store the classified flight materials. Nick absentmindedly milled about the room until he noticed a felt board covered in unit patches hanging on the back wall.

The patch board formed a pictorial legacy of the individuals who had stood there before. There were a few patches from units Nick recognized, units that flew the F-16 Fighting Falcon or the F-15 Eagle, but there were also several patches with the silhouettes of aircraft he did not recognize, odd-shaped jets that looked like only a miracle would make them fly. One of them bore the title
Bird of Prey
, and depicted a small, strange aircraft with bent wings and no tail, drawn as the hilt of a sword. There were no A-10 patches, and Nick surmised that there had never been cause to bring the technologically deficient Hog to the secret test base. Feeling a bit slighted, he pulled an old 81st patch from his flight suit pocket and added it to the display. “There you go, guys,” he said quietly, “now we're spoken for.”

The patch at the center of the display seemed set apart, as if there were a deliberate effort to leave a few inches of empty space around it, giving it a place of honor. It was a triangle with long sides and a short base. A T-38 climbed heavenward, woven from gray thread so dark that it nearly disappeared into the black background. At the bottom of the patch the number 777 was emblazoned in blood red. Gray, ribbon-shaped banners curled around the wingtips of the T-38 as if it had flown through them and was dragging them skyward, both ends streaming in the wind behind. The two tails of the ribbon hanging from the left wing bore the mottoes
Triple Seven Chase
and
Third Time Lucky
. The tails of the ribbon hanging from the right wing each held a name:
Frank “Sideshow” Eubanks
and
Mike “Rat” Shaw
.

A heavy hand clapped Nick on the arm, startling him. He turned to find Colonel Walker standing behind him. He was about to make a smart remark about the senior officer sneaking up on him when he noticed that the pat was not just a friendly gesture. Walker had stuck a patch to the Velcro on the right arm of Nick's flight suit. It was the same triangular patch that he'd just been admiring.

Walker extended a hand. “Congratulations, Nick, you've just been inducted into the Triple Seven Chase Squadron.”

Nick looked at his new boss in bewilderment. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the hand, “but could you please explain what that means?”

“Don't blame Drag for keeping you in the dark. That was my call. In this business we don't give out details until it's absolutely necessary.”

“And now it's finally necessary to give me answers?”

The colonel nodded. “Some. For now, you need to know that you are the chase pilot for the Dream Catcher tests. On each mission, you'll follow the B-2 until it drops that drone you saw upstairs, and then you'll chase the drone through its maneuvers.”

Nick nodded. The fragments of information were finally fitting together. Now he understood at least part of his purpose here.

Most of the Whiteman T-38 instructor pilots were chase qualified. The unique environment of the B-2 wing demanded it. When one of the bombers suffered an airborne emergency and needed a chase plane, another bomber would not suffice. Nick or one of the other instructors would fly in close formation with the crippled stealth jet and provide its pilots with critical information about the flight controls or other systems they could not see from the cockpit.

Chasing a stealth bomber required more than simple formation-flying skills. Getting into position behind or beneath it demanded steady hands and precision flying. The unique aerodynamics of the flying wing caused massive vortices that could send a small aircraft out of control.

Nick's experience chasing B-2s would enable him to follow Drake and the drone safely during the tests. But Walker's short explanation still left him with many questions. He furrowed his brow. “Drag implied that I had another role to play in Cerberus. Can you tell me anything about that?”

Drake stepped up behind them. “Whoa, nice patch board.”

“It is, indeed, Mr. Merigold.” Walker's inexplicable scowl rested on Nick for just a moment longer. Then he started toward the control center. “Come on, gentlemen, time is getting away from us. You need to meet the rest of the team.”

The colonel led them through the main operations center, introducing them to the engineers as they went. Each said something to the effect of “Nice to meet you,” or “Welcome to the cave,” but really they seemed bothered by the interruption of their work. In one corner of the room, a woman sat hunched over a computer, clicking away with the mouse in her left hand and writing furiously on a yellow pad with the mechanical pencil in her right. Her blond hair was pulled back and held in place with a small clip, but the clip was insufficient, and frizzy tufts shot out from her skull at random angles. Walker strode up and lightly tapped her on the shoulder.

“What now?” she asked, not bothering to look up.

“Ahem . . .” Walker loudly cleared his throat.

The woman stiffened. She slowly swiveled her chair around. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize it was you.” Then she noticed the two pilots standing with the colonel. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

“Amanda Navistrova, meet Nick Baron and Tony Merigold, better known as Drake. Boys, this is Miss Navistrova, our lead propulsion engineer.”

Both men reached out their hands to shake hers. Amanda stood and started to reciprocate, then realized she was still holding her pencil. She smiled awkwardly and tried to place the pencil behind her ear, but as she did, her eyes met with Drake's and she missed the ear entirely. The pencil fell to the floor with a light clatter. Giggling at her own clumsiness, she knelt to pick it up, made a small show of gingerly placing it on the table, and then once again extended her hand.

But a simple handshake was not meant to be.

The clip that so poorly held her hair in place had been loosened by all the commotion. When Amanda reached a second time, it lost its grip entirely, allowing the mess of blond hair to fall in front of her face. As the clip fell, it managed to stop by the table and take the pencil with it. They both clattered obnoxiously to the floor at her feet. The engineer turned a deep shade of pink, clenched her fists, and closed her eyes as if that would make her—or maybe the others—disappear.

Drake bent down and picked up the wayward items. “Are you all right?” he asked placing them on the table.

She opened one eye at a time. “Fine, really. It's just been one of those days, you know?”

“Been there,” said Drake.

The colonel grumbled something unintelligible. “Keep moving, gentlemen,” he said loudly, and pushed the pilots toward the central workstation of the control center. “These two are our project director and project manager, Dr. Scott Stone and Captain Danny Sharp.”

“I guess I'll be driving the mother ship for that little UFO up in the hangar,” said Drake. “I can't wait to see how she flies.”

“Well,” said Scott, “if we've done our job right, you won't see her at all.”

“No, but he will.” Walker, tilted his head toward Nick. “Lieutenant Baron will be your chase pilot. He'll follow Dream Catcher in one of our Talons and try to capture her maneuvers on camera.”

“Nick Baron,” said Danny, shaking Nick's hand. “Great to finally meet you. I loved your report on Bin Laden and Al-Majid from 2001. Very insightful.”

Nick furrowed his brow. “You saw my report? But it never left my base in Germany. How—”

“How long before we can get the drone in the air?” interrupted Walker.

“We have one more day of ground tests planned,” said Scott. “This is the first time that Dream Catcher and the modified B-2 have been together in the same hangar, so we have to ensure that the release and recovery systems will work together as planned.” He looked to Drake. “Speaking of that, we'll need you to manage the B-2's electric and hydraulic systems during the tests.”

“If the tests are going to take a while, that becomes a two-man job,” said Drake.

Nick half raised his hand. “I can take the B-2's copilot seat—at least during the ground test. I know the systems well enough.”

At this, Danny Sharp stood a little taller and pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That won't be necessary, thank you. I'll be Drake's copilot from now on.”

“Okay, that's another good one, people.” Scott's voice crackled in Danny's headset. Down below, Dream Catcher rested beneath the stealth bomber on a foam-covered jack assembly. The team had just successfully tested the deployment system, releasing the drone so that its weight transferred from the rack in the bomb bay to the jack set up beneath it.

“It will take a few minutes to confirm the data,” said Scott over the comm link, “but if everything is still good, we can set up for the final test of the evening. Let's take ten minutes.”

The final test. Music to Danny's ears.

This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Only in a covert program like Cerberus could an intelligence officer act as a copilot in a stealth bomber. Danny's primary job was to operate Dream Catcher during the flight tests, but he would also help Drake run the B-2's checklists and maybe even get a little stick time.

A kid at Disneyland. That was how Drake had described Danny's eagerness when he first sat down in the cockpit. He couldn't argue. He had been almost giddy. He had spent hours in the barracks studying the bomber and its systems. Electrics, hydraulics, fuel—he learned them all backward and forward, hoping to impress the pilot. But the truth was, the bomber's systems practically managed themselves, and the night's activities had dragged on for several hours now. Danny had been sitting in one ejection seat or the other for most of it. Even the luster of Disneyland began to fade when your mind and your rear end were this tired.

“Do you want to go first, or should I?” asked Drake, nodding toward the bathroom in the corner of the hangar. Restroom breaks weren't simple for the bomber crew. With power and hydraulic pressure active on the aircraft, someone had to be in cockpit continuously in case one of the automatic systems got out of whack. The safety of the engineers below depended on it.

“You go ahead,” said Danny, “but hurry back. If I miss this break, my bladder won't be able to take it.”

“Roger that, I'll be right back.” Drake climbed down the ladder and headed for the restroom off to one side of the hangar. It was a one-size-fits-all affair, no fancy men's or women's accessories, just a sink and a commode.

As Danny watched Drake take his place in line behind four engineers, Amanda poked her head up the ladder.

Danny frowned. He had not expected to see her. “We don't need propulsion for this test,” he said. “Besides, we're almost done. Maybe you should call it a night and go get some rest.” He was doing his best to help her with her claustrophobia. She had been on edge for days now.

“Actually, I'm feeling much better. I was just catching up on some work in the control center and came up to stretch my legs.” Her normally frizzy hair flowed down to her shoulders in gentle waves.

“Did you do something different with your hair?” asked Danny.

“Hmm? Oh. Just used a little more spray this evening. Does it look okay?”

“It looks fine . . . I guess.” She was wearing a skirt. He could not remember her ever wearing a skirt. And was that lipstick? Danny cocked his head to one side. “So, how are you
feeling
?”

She didn't seem to catch his meaning. “Fine, of course.” She leaned to one side, trying to see into the pilot seat. “Isn't Drake up here?”

“No, you just missed him.” Danny turned and gazed longingly at the closed bathroom door. Drake had already gone inside. How long could that pilot possibly take? Danny had already drunk a gallon of coffee this evening. Now the cockpit suddenly seemed saturated with the aroma of a fresh brew. It was excruciating.

Danny turned back to Amanda and found that she was holding two steaming cups. “I thought I would bring you guys some refreshments,” she said, extending one of the cups into his personal space. “Would you like some coffee?”

Danny recoiled and held up his hands. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” With that, she disappeared down the ladder again.

Presently Drake came out of the restroom. Danny followed him with swimming eyeballs until he disappeared under the nose of the bomber, but then he did not reappear on the ladder. Danny heard him thank Amanda for the coffee. Small talk ensued. He heard giggling.

Danny had never been an aggressive man, or quick to anger, but he feared for the health of his bladder. “Drake!”

The pilot continued chatting with his engineer, oblivious, and Danny cursed the sound baffling material in the walls of the aircraft that had muted his shout.

Before he could try again, Danny heard a loud clap from below, then Scott's voice. “Okay, people, we've only got one more to do. Let's get to it.”

Drake climbed up to the flight deck and set the very same cup of coffee that Danny had just rejected on the center console next to him. “I'm back,” he said. “I brought you some coffee.”

“I hate you,” said Danny flatly.

“Oh, right. Your bathroom break. Sorry.” He patted Danny on the arm. “This last test can't take more than fifteen minutes. You'll be fine.”

Thirty minutes later, Scott finally voiced the words Danny's bladder was dying to hear. “All right, I'm going to call it good. That's a wrap, people. Let's break it all down and call it a night.”

By the time Danny returned from the restroom, Drake and the engineers had all gathered around Scott's analysis cart. “What'd I miss?”

“They're crunching the numbers,” whispered Drake, as if speaking too loudly might throw off the computers' calculations. “We're just waiting for the final results.” Then he took on a concerned expression and nodded downward.

Danny shook his head. He did not understand.

Drake rolled his eyes and nodded downward more emphatically. He mouthed the word “zipper.”

Danny finally took his meaning and looked down, reaching for his zipper, but he found it exactly where it was supposed to be. When he looked back up, he saw that Drake had taken a large step back. Everyone was looking at him.

“Are you all right, Daniel?” asked Scott.

“Uh . . . yeah . . . just fine.”

The engineers returned to their data.

Drake sidled back over, snickering.

Danny glared at him. “What grade are you in?”

“Ahem . . .” Scott cleared his throat, straightening up from the computer monitors. “The numbers are good,” he announced. “The catch and release mechanism is functioning exactly as predicted. We're finally ready for flight testing.”