Finally on the ground, Mack lay back, trying to blink away the pain—trying, in fact, to blink away everything: Africa, the mission, the shoulder-fired SAMs that had hit him.
Had to be shoulder-fired SAMs. He’d had no warning and they’d gotten his tailpipe. But Mack Smith wasn’t supposed to be the kind of pilot who got his fanny nailed like that, was he?
Finally, Knife rolled over and got to his feet. He removed his Beretta from the vest, checking to make sure the weapon was loaded. It felt heavy in his hand, a little greasy, as if it were covered with oil.
The ejection-seat survival kit and life raft sat at the very base of the hill a few yards away, looking as if someone had come and set them out for him. Besides flares, water, some candy bars, and other odds and ends, the kit included a PRC-90 survival radio, backing up the one he carried in his vest.
As he bent to open the kit, he heard something crashing through the bushes a few yards away. He slid to one knee, slowly raising the pistol to eye level.
Something moved and he fired.
There was a squealing, subhuman noise, a half growl. “I’m sure as hell glad that wasn’t me,” said a voice behind him.
As Smith jumped back, something grabbed his pistol hand. He began to fight back, found himself wrestled to the ground.
“Relax, pilot, we’re on your side.”
A green and black mask contorted over him.
It wasn’t until the teeth flashed white and gold that Knife was certain the figure was human.
“I’m Sergeant Melfi. My point man Jackson is around here somewhere. We’re Marines. Come on, Captain, let’s get the fuck out of here. Shooting that pig may have felt good, but it’s gonna bring a bunch of Somies runnin’.”
“Pig?”
“Whatever. Fuck, maybe it was a lion,” said Melfi. “Come on, Captain, let’s go.”
“I’m Major Smith.”
“Whatever. Come the fuck on. We have to get on the other side of these hills and find some real cover.”
Dreamland
21 October, 2030 local
DOG STOOD OVER HIS DESK, STUDIOUSLY IGNORING THE blinking light on his telephone. The light indicated that someone from Deborah O’Day’s office was holding—and had been holding now for at least ten minutes.
“The thing to do is split the Whiplash team between two planes,” he told Cheshire and Freah. “This way we can crew them. They’ll arrive loaded for bear.”
“We don’t have two planes ready,” said Cheshire. “Only Fort Two is in shape to fly. Raven’s computer and fly-by-wire systems are still being upgraded to take care of the problems Fort Two encountered. We should have them on-line by tomorrow night.”
“What about Plus?” Bastian asked, using the nickname for Megafortress One, officially carried on the books as EB-52-DT1A Megafortress Plus. Plus had been used a few months before to help recapture the stolen DreamStar experimental aircraft, flying all the way to Nicaragua.
“The wings are still being refitted. It will be at least a week before it’s ready. Raven’s the one to go. The ECMs will blast out anything the Iranians have.”
“They’ll overheat first,” said Rubeo.
Proposed as the next-generation electronic-warfare set, the xAQ-299 admittedly had some heating issues. But having decided to send the Megafortresses, Bastian was in no mood to let Rubeo’s dour puss derail him.
“All right, let’s do this,” he said. “Use Fort Two to take Whiplash to Africa. We’ll expedite the work on Raven, pack the two other crew members and more weapons in it, and ship it out as soon as it’s done. How soon can you take off?”
“Actually, Colonel, I think it would be better if I take the Raven,” Cheshire told him. “I’ve been flying it and its voice-command system has been trained for my voice. Besides, given the ECMs, it’s more likely to be the one that would see action.”
“Who flies Fort Two?”
“I took the liberty of alerting Captain Stockard,” Cheshire said. “She should be on base within a half hour.” Dog nodded, then glanced at his phone.
“Danny, this sound good to go?”
Freah nodded.
“Let’s do it,” said Bastian.
“Colonel, I must note that you’re sending a test aircraft into a war zone,” said Rubeo.
“I don’t believe it’s an official war zone yet,” said Bastian dryly. “I’m sending it as a transport. Both planes are going as transports.”
“Semantics—”
“Doc, I appreciate your coming, truly I do,” said Bastian. “I don’t know why you thought it important to show up, but I appreciate it.”
Dog held up his hand, cutting off himself as well as the scientist.
“Out, everyone,” he said as he picked up his phone. “This is a classified call. Go!”
* * *
BREANNA URGED THE SMALL HONDA FASTER, PLUNGING through the desert night toward the base. She was glad to escape, glad to run from the disaster that had become her life. On some level she knew Jeff’s attitude was just a phase, a plateau on his way to coping with his disability, adjusting to his new life. But on another level, she was starting not to care. There was only so much she could take.
The counselors had tried to prepare her for this; they’d been hopeful, predicting that it would soon pass. They all felt Zen would come back stronger than ever, his true nature winning out.
But how did they know? They all had perfect spines, working legs. None of them had been top-dog test pilots with blue-sky careers ahead of them.
He suspected her of seeing Knife? Jesus. Where the hell did that come from?
Major Cheshire hadn’t said what was up, but she did promise a helicopter would be waiting to whisk Bree from Nellis to Dreamland. Obviously something big was brewing.
Thank God. She needed a diversion.
MS. O’DAY HERSELF WAS ON THE LINE WHEN DOG picked up the phone.
“Colonel, I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Madame Advisor,” he replied.
“Don’t Madame Advisor me. I read your e-mail. Do you know what you’re up against on the JSF?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He heard a loud sigh from the other end of the line. He imagined the petite woman shaking her head back in her office, rolling her eyes before scrunching herself over the desk. She’d pull up the sleeves of her white blouse—O’Day always wore white blouses to work.
“Dog, are you damn sure about this?”
“The F-119 is not a workable design as presently configured,” said Bastian, repeating the bullet line of his memo. “It can be, but the changes it needs will mean missing the interservice target.”
“They’re going to come after you on this, Tecumseh,” O’Day said. Rarely if ever did she—or anyone, for that matter—use his given name. “Wait until morning.”
“I know.”
“I’ll back you up, if this is your considered opinion.”
“It is.”
“It may mean Dreamland closes.”
“I weighed the consequences.”
“All right. You’ve heard about Somalia?”
“Yes. We have a team getting ready for transport.” Dog debated whether to tell her exactly how he intended on supplying that transport, but decided it was best not to. If she didn’t know, she couldn’t order him not to.
Not that she could order him to do anything, at least not directly.
If he was so afraid of telling her, why do it in the first place?
“I may call on you to look over some estimates. It will have to be back-channel,” she said.
“Understood.”
“This is going to dominate things around here for a few days,” she added. “It will take some of the heat off you and the JSF. I suggest you use it to line up the ducks.”
“The ducks?”
“And next time my office calls, Colonel, don’t keep me on hold,” she said, hanging up.