Wraith (8 page)

“No, no, that's not right,” said a blond woman seated directly across the conference table from Danny. “It's going to take at least three additional weeks to get the kinks out of the engine design.”

Only a few hours had passed since Danny arrived on base, and already they had identified Scott's core group of ten experts and obtained Cerberus clearances for all of them. The twelve team members had now crammed into Specter Blue's tiny conference room—the room at the end of the short gray hall—for their first planning session.

While Danny was feeling claustrophobic, Scott did not seem to mind the enclosed space at all. However, from the expression on the genius's face, Danny could tell he
did
mind the pushback he was getting from the blond woman.

According to her file, Amanda Navistrova was a two-time graduate of MIT, with master's degrees in mechanical engineering and thermodynamics. She had never bothered to get a doctorate in her field, but Scott had confessed earlier that her breadth of experience more than covered for any lack in paper credibility, even if she could be—as he termed it—impertinent. Amanda would be the lead engineer for Dream Catcher's propulsion systems.

“And look how close the long-range transmitters are to the engine housing,” she continued, pointing to a blueprint projected on the far wall. “The heat and vibration will interfere with the signals. Have you allotted time to test for that?” Danny noted that Amanda was attractive in her own right and might even be striking if she made an attempt to fix her hair and put on some makeup, but such things apparently did not concern her.

“Look, Amanda, your concerns are noted,” said Scott testily. “But all of you are going to have to stretch your limits on this one. The president wants it done yesterday, not in five years.”

Two light-haired men occupied the seats to Amanda's left, both dressed in khakis and short-sleeved plaid shirts. Their names were Jeremy and Ethan and they were known in Specter Blue as the Comm Twins. When he first pointed them out to Danny, Scott had confided that he could never remember which of them was which. He didn't really care; they never spoke anyway. The Comm Twins always submitted their work on paper.

Suddenly one of them broke the mold. “What if we scrapped the long-range transmitters altogether?” he asked, looking up from his notes.

The unexpected outburst from the normally mute Comm Twin caught Scott off guard. “I'm sorry, Jeremy, what was that?” he asked.

“I'm Ethan. We've been working together for more than a year now.”

Scott waved his hand dismissively. “Whichever. Please repeat what you just said.”

Ethan glared at Scott for a moment and then turned to address the group. “We could control Dream Catcher from the host bird,” he said, rephrasing his idea. “As long as we're suddenly getting serious about building this thing, we might as well explore some shortcuts. If we flew it from a localized, airborne station we could get rid of a lot of the bulky long-range gear. We could also drop most of the satellite network plan and save a boatload of paperwork and coordination time.”

Danny leaned forward, intrigued. “What about the time and cost of putting a station in the B-2?”

“The B-2 was originally designed for three stations anyway; it was supposed to have a navigator behind the two pilots. All of the wiring is still there; it's just covered by panels. Terry worked for Northrup Grumman in those days. It could be done, right, Terry?”

The man to Danny's left slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, it could be done. The foundation is already there, and Ethan is right, a localized control station would save us time and cash.”

Danny scanned the faces around the table. There seemed to be no disagreement. “All right, everybody, I want your preliminary redesigns turned in to Scott by tomorrow afternoon.”

Southwestern Germany

21 January 2002

“Devil Zero One, your next target is one and a half units north of the long rectangular orchard. It's a pair of tanks.”

“Copy, Grunge, Devil One is tally,” said Nick, responding to the ground-based forward air controller. He kept his Hog just high enough to see over a short rise with his binoculars. He picked up the tanks easily enough. They left a long brown trail as they motored across a snowy field. “I have them, Grunge, twenty meters apart, moving north.”

“Correct, Devil, that is your target.”

“Devil Two, how're we doing?” asked Nick on his other radio.

“Two's tally,” replied Bug. “They're easy pickin's for some Mavericks.”

After a quick strike brief, Nick pointed his A-10 in the direction of the tanks. It took no time at all for him to close the distance to a half mile. Then he pulled the nose of the aircraft up, looked left to find his target, and rolled in. “Devil Zero One, final, hot,” he called over the radio.

“Grunge has you visual. Cleared hot.”

“Devil Zero One, solid lock. Rifle.” Nick fired off his missile as Bug rolled in behind.

“Devil Zero Two, final, hot,” said the wingman.

“Devil Two, cleared hot.”

Bug finished off the other tank, and the two A-10s turned back to their hold point.

Piece of cake
. Nick switched his radio to a new ground control frequency. “Spider-Man, this is Devil. We confirm two good releases against two tanks rolling north from bullseye two six zero at fifty-four.”

“Devil, Spidey copies,” replied the German controller. He was simulcasting on both the Red Force and Blue Force strike frequencies, acting as the referee for the exercise. “Red Tanks Three and Four, Devil Flight confirms good releases on your position . . . You're dead.”

Nick pulled his Hog up just enough to watch the two British Challenger tanks begin their slow 180-degree turn to head back the way they'd come.

“Devil, this is Spidey . . .”

“Go for Devil.”

“Red Three says you'd better be right or you're going to owe him some Guinness.”

“Copy, Spider-Man.” Nick took the challenge. “You can tell him that I'll have the HUD tapes waiting so he can see what his tank looked like just before I blew it up.”

Nick let down his oxygen mask, revealing a smile. He and Bug had just completed their first successful mission of Clean Hunter 2002, NATO's version of Red Flag, and both pilots had needed a win.

The investigation into Brent's accident had been emotionally exhausting. It had taken more than two months, during which Nick, Bug, and Oso were treated like criminal defendants. In the end, just as Redeye had predicted, the board found no fault in the surviving pilots' actions. Their final report sounded a lot like the answers Nick had first given to their questions. Brent had been lost and confused. He had mistaken Bug for Oso, merged with Nick, and then crashed while reacting to the near collision.

After a long, sanctimonious speech on caution and diligence, the chairman had restored them all to flight status, washing them clean with the strike of his gavel. Yet they each carried scars with them as they returned to the cockpit—Oso most of all.

In their first couple of training missions back on the flight line, Nick had noticed his boss laboring over every tactical decision. He was slow to commit his flight to any strikes more complex than a basic straight-in attack. Consequently, even though he felt guilty for abandoning his friend, Nick could not deny that he was relieved when Redeye had separated him from Oso's four-ship for Clean Hunter, allowing him to lead his own two-ship as Devil 01.

“Devil, this is Grunge. I have something else for you,” the forward air controller reported.

“Copy, Grunge. Go ahead.”

“If you have the fuel and weapons, there is another target that requires your attention.”

Nick glanced over at a grease pencil diagram he'd drawn on his canopy. Bug still had three five-hundred-pound Mark 82 bombs, two Mavericks, and a full load of thirty-millimeter bullets. He had the same, and they still had plenty of gas. Maybe Devil Flight could bring home two Clean Hunter victories today.

“Grunge, Devil Zero One. We have forty minutes of playtime remaining, with a variety of weapons. What did you have in mind?”

“I have a command directive to send you to an airfield at bullseye two three zero for sixty miles. It's protected by a surface-to-air missile system, but there will be a flight of Wild Weasels and another pair of Hogs there to help. Switch to frequency four and talk to Raven. This will be a joint attack with Blade and Wizard.”

Wizard. That was Oso's call sign. Nick didn't relish sharing a target with his boss, considering Oso's current state. Still, with the Wild Weasels there, the Hogs' work should be fairly straightforward.

“Wilco,” he responded to the controller. He checked his map. The new target was thirty miles to his south, across the French border. He gave Bug a wing flash and they turned for the international crossing.

“Devil Flight, push TAD four,” said Nick, and then switched his radio frequency. “Devil, check.”

“Two.”

“Raven, this is Devil checking in for target coordinates and picture south.”

Raven passed the coordinates. “Red Air in this area has been neutralized,” said the Airborne Command and Control operator. “There is an active SAM located in the northwest corner of the target area. Its call sign for kill removal is Red SAM Eight. Your mission is to take out the SAM and then destroy the aircraft and ordnance on the airfield. Contact Wizard on this frequency.”

Nick frowned; something was missing. “Raven, what about Blade? Is he on freq, as well?”

“Negative. Blade never launched due to a maintenance malfunction. Sorry, Devil, no Wild Weasels today.”

Nick's grip on the control stick tightened. Wild Weasels were special F-16s that could hold outside the limits of the SAM's range and lob radar-homing HARM missiles at it, leaving the A-10s to sweep in and clean up the airfield with easy strikes. Now, robbed of this support and paired with a flight lead who had lost his nerve, Nick felt his chances of walking away with another victory slipping away. He should have returned to base when he had the chance. A loss here, over French territory, would more than cancel his win.

“Devil Zero One, Wizard. How copy?” Oso's familiar voice came over the radio.

“Devil has you loud and clear,” Nick replied, then remained silent. He waited out of deference for Oso's rank and position, allowing him the opportunity to take command of the four Hogs that were now on scene. He didn't want to, but tradition and procedure demanded it.

“Wizard has on-scene command.” Oso took the cue. “Devil, assume a holding pattern six miles southeast of the target. I'll take the northeast.”

“Devil wilco.” Nick signaled Bug to follow him into a holding pattern. He reported his flight's weapons and fuel to Oso so that his boss would know what resources were at his disposal. Then he pulled out his map and drew a circle around the target airfield. He studied the area; there was not much terrain cover here. They'd have to contend with that SAM first, or they'd get picked off trying to attack the rest of the target. Nick knew there was only one attack that would work, but he had to wait and see what Oso would suggest.

Oso wasn't suggesting much.

The four Hogs continued to orbit for another few minutes, burning holes in the sky and burning precious fuel. Nick started to worry. If Oso didn't get things moving, they'd run out of gas and have to go home, abandoning the target—a
French
target. Finally he couldn't take it anymore. “Wizard, Devil One.”

“Go ahead, Devil.”

“I suggest we use an Irish Cross with Mavericks and bombs. It's the only way.”

“Negative, Devil,” Oso replied. “Save your weapons, I'll take care of this myself. After that we'll split up the airfield.”

Nick couldn't believe it.
Are you insane?
he wanted to ask. Taking on a SAM with just a two-ship of Hogs was suicide.

“Devil Flight, continue to hold,” said Oso. “Wizard Flight, strike pattern one, Maverick, decoy. Sound off when you're ready.”

“Wizard Two's ready,” responded Oso's wingman, Shooter. It was obvious from his tone of voice that Shooter did not like his flight lead's plan, and he certainly did not like being assigned the task of decoy within range of an active SAM.

“Wizard, execute.”

Nick watched from miles away with his binoculars, straining to see what was happening. Oso turned his A-10 toward the target area and Shooter followed a moment later. When the two of them were on the edge of the SAM's range, Oso split north, allowing Shooter to press in a little farther and then turn away.

At first it appeared as though it might work, with the SAM turning toward the decoy, but Shooter could only get so close before he had to turn away. Oso didn't have the time to build up his angle and when he pulled up and tried to point his Maverick at the target, the SAM was already turning back.

Nick shook his head as a white trail of smoke shot straight up from the SAM site. The Frenchmen on the ground had fired off a rocket called a Smoky SAM, a visual cue that the operator was simulating a launch. Shooter saw the Smoky SAM as well and rolled back in to attack the system with his gun, hoping to deny a second shot and save his flight lead.

A French voice calmly invaded their radio frequency. “In-range kill on the northern A-10 . . . confirmed.” The SAM operator hadn't needed a second shot.

Nick's jaw dropped as Shooter continued toward the SAM. Apparently the wingman had decided it was too late to retreat and thrown caution to the wind. Before Nick could warn him off, Shooter was well within the SAM's range, trying to get close enough for an effective gun shot.

The SAM operator was ready for him. He turned his missiles to greet the second attacker and another Smoky SAM shot skyward. The French voice taunted them over the radio. “In-range kill on the eastern A-10 . . . confirmed.”

“Wizard Flight, this is Spider-Man, you're both dead. Return to base.”

“Wow. That was fast,” Nick said out loud. Oso's two Hogs had been eliminated in a matter of seconds. It was like watching a friend throw a hundred bucks down on the roulette table in Vegas—in a flash the money was gone and so was his self-respect. “Devil Two, I guess it's up to us,” he told Bug, not bothering to mask his reluctance. “This attack will be a two-ship pincer: your gun, my Maverick. Try to build all the angles you can. Drive seven miles to northeast and call ready.”

Bug slowly turned his aircraft away. “We're both going to die, you know.”

“I know, but so will he.”

“Roger that. Stand by, One.”

Nick watched through his binoculars as Bug set up for the attack. “Devil Two is ready,” said the wingman finally.

Nick took a deep breath. “Devil Flight, execute.”

Bug angled his jet slightly away before rolling in to attack the SAM. Nick could see the missiles turning on their pivots to point in his wingman's direction. “Just a little farther, Bug,” he said under his breath.

As if he had heard Nick's utterance, Bug pressed even closer. Then he called, “Guns, guns, guns on Red SAM Eight,” simulating the shot still well outside the lethal range of his Hog's Avenger cannon.

When the SAM's rotating launcher appeared committed toward Bug, Nick rolled in with his Maverick. He felt a flicker of hope as his wingman pulled hard right in an effort to get out of range, but then he saw the familiar white smoke trail. Bug had pushed the envelope too far.

“In-range kill on the northern A-10 . . . confirmed.” The French voice was cool and calm. The launcher started to swing back the other way as its radar searched for Nick, but this time, the Frenchmen could not turn fast enough.

“Devil One, rifle, Red SAM Eight. In range, solid lock.” Nick spat the words into the radio.

Another Smoky SAM shot up. “In-range launch on the southern A-10 . . . stand by.” The imaginary projectiles passed each other in the air. In his final radio call, the Frenchman made no attempt to hide his disdain for the American pilots. “Kill . . . confirmed.”

Spider-Man released his final verdicts. “Devil One and Devil Two, this is Spidey. You are both dead . . . break, break . . . Red SAM Eight, you are dead as well.”

“Devil Two, this is One. I'm five miles to your south. Turn toward the exit; let's return to base.” Nick tried to keep his radio call cold and emotionless. He didn't want to sound unprofessional in front of the Frogs. But as he crossed the border into Germany a few minutes later, that suppressed anger simmered to the surface. He hammered the canopy with his fist. He had just bought a loss for his squadron—a loss to the French, of all people. One thought pounded in his brain.
This is all Oso's fault.