Powder whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail, rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.
“Hey, Nursy, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the admiral.”
Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then saluted Dog.
“Carry on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws, intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/exfiltrate aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s last deployment. The technies were now working on a number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a secure elevator, which opened only after scanning his retinas. Once you were inside, the elevator could be operated only by voice, and then only if the computer decided the vocal pattern matched its records.
“Fourth,” said Dog as the doors snapped closed. He folded his arms and waited.
And waited.
“Fourth,” he repeated clearly.
Still nothing.
“God damn it—”
Either finally recognizing the voice or the threat, the elevator snapped into action. Dog stepped off impatiently at his destination, and was immediately greeted by a familiar if not exactly affectionate hiss.
“Colonel, why is the admiral here and why weren’t we notified he was coming?” The thin lips of the senior scientist at Dreamland, Ray Rubeo, pursed into a funnel. “These scientists aren’t military people. They get nervous. It’s like dealing with a hotel full of prima donnas. There’ll be a run on Prozac tomorrow. We’ll be three weeks getting back on schedule. And Piranha is hardly the most important project here. Frankly, if it were up to me, it would be turned back to Naval Weapons, which is not only competent but is used to dealing with oversized Pentagon egos.”
“I wasn’t told either,” said Dog, continuing toward the project area. “And I believe Admiral Allen’s headquarters are in Hawaii.”
Dog passed into the main project development room, an open lab area dominated by low-slung workbenches and enough computer and electronic gear to outfit fifty Radio Shacks. Lieutenant Commander Delaford, the project specialist, was holding forth for the admiral and a small group of aides near the center of the room. His laser pointer danced over a Piranha chassis, highlighting the propulsion sections. This wasn’t a mockup — it was a live, though unfueled, unit. Delaford was talking about one of his favorite topics — the applicability of the unit’s hydrogen propulsion system to civilian applications such as cars. It was a noncontroversial selling point sure to win a few votes in Congress, though the admiral’s overly furled brow showed he wasn’t particularly impressed.
“Turning now to the program,” said Delaford, nodding at Dog, “our next phase of study adds autonomous modes and more stealthy communications techniques, useful for submarine applications. And, of course, the warhead launching modes. We’re confident we could put a fully suitable version, based on the test article, into production immediately. Using this propulsion system and the communications-link technologies Dreamland has developed, the production model would be controllable from fifty to seventy-five miles, either by airplane as we’ve demonstrated, or small surface craft. The submarine version is a little further behind, due to the detectability issues. We’re confident, though, of eighteen-month viability. That’s a year and a half from the word ‘go.’ ”
“Budget line,” said the admiral.
Delaford, who was unpracticed in the art of winning funds, hesitated and then lost his way, trying to argue for the project rather than simply giving Allen a number.
“Well, as a whole, compared to previous projects, say the probes for the Seawolf, the UUVs, it—”
“How much?”
“That would depend on the configuration, sir. And in, um, perspective—”
“What I think Commander Delaford is trying to point out, said Dog, who thought the program was worthwhile even though it belonged to the Navy, “is that you have to compare the cost to an entire weapons system. The fact that its intended to be expendable means the low per-unit cost ups the overall budget. Still, in a combat situation, the cost per engagement would be very low, since it would, by definition, be replaced.”
“Is it worth two nuclear submarines?” asked Allen.
“Well, that’s your call, Admiral,” said Dog.
“It’s not my call,” said the admiral. “But if It were, I’d take the submarines.”
“Actually, sir, at three hundred and forty million for the whole project,” said Delaford, regaining his balance, “it’s considerably less than a submarine. And tactically, it can do the job of a submarine without the exposure of, uh, risk, as the tests off Hawaii show.”
“I’m well aware of the results of the tests,” said the admiral.
Danny Freah, standing behind the admiral, suppressed a smile. Colonel Bastian belatedly realized what the visit was all about.
“Yes, the results were impressive,” continued Allen. “But once countermeasures are employed, the device will be easily countered.”
“Hardly,” said Rubeo, characteristically choosing the most undiplomatic moment to butt in. “Face it, Admiral, large ships are obsolete.”
Allen snorted. “That’s been said since galleys ruled the ocean. Colonel — I’d like some lunch.”
“I’m told it’s ready when you are,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said Allen. “I’m sorry, the colonel and I are meeting alone,” he added, as if Delaford and the others had actually volunteered to accompany them. “I’ll be back.”
“We’ll wait,” said Rubeo.
Fortunately for the scientist, Allen either didn’t hear what he said, or had a tin ear when it came to go acerbic irony. Dog led Allen back to the elevator, Captain Freah trailing behind him.
“Do we need a shadow?” the admiral asked as they got inside the car.
“I’m afraid close security is the order of the day here,” said Dog. “All visitors, no matter how high their rank.”
“Even a theater commander.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog. He could have told Danny to make himself scarce; the orders to shadow Allen were his own. But he was a bit ticked at the surprise visit, and even more so now that he suspected Allen had come to lobby him on the report. Allen seemed to mellow ever so slightly, and in fact his mood visibly improved fifteen minutes later in Cafeteria Two, a private dining area known as the Red Room because of the décor, when the airman serving them told him that Thai-infused salmon headed the menu.
“I don’t want sushi,” said the admiral.
“No, sir, of course not, sir. It can be cooked to your specification.”
“Medium then, but still moist.”
“To drink?” said the airman, with the precise intonation of a waiter in a high-class restaurant.
A true achievement, since the man was a bomb ordie on special assignment. Dog marked him down mentally for a weekend pass.
“Water,” said the admiral.
“Evian, or perhaps Dolmechi?”
“Dolmechi?” said the admiral. “The Italian mineral water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good,” said Allen. “I haven’t had that since I visited Naples.”
The waiter — who had obviously been heavily briefed by Ax — turned toward the colonel.
“I’ll have a burger,” said Dog. “And a Coke.”