Though only at the base for two years, Ax knew more about Dreamland than anyone, with the possible exception of Greasy Hands Parsons, who was, after all, a fellow chief.
Ax’s intelligence network extended far beyond Dreamland and even the Air Force. Information was a chief ’s currency, in many cases as valuable as money or even tickets to the Super Bowl—several of which Ax managed to procure and distribute each year. There was generally not a facet of Air Force life that Ax did not know once he decided it was important. He’d put considerable effort into building an efficient early warning system, capable of alerting him to the slightest pending move that would affect him or his command.
So it was amazing—dumbfounding, even—that when Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson (aka Terrill the Terror, in some circles) was appointed to be Dreamland’s new commander, Ax did not know it until several hours after the fact. Worse—far worse, as far as he was concerned—he didn’t know that Samson had decided to forgo protocol and play a surprise visit to the base several days ahead of schedule until Samson was well on his way.
In fact, Ax learned this so late that he didn’t arrive at the helicopter landing strip until the general and his staff were 152
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stepping out of their helicopter under the watchful eyes of the base security team. It was an intelligence failure of monumental proportions, though Ax would not be at leisure to contemplate its implications for several hours.
“General Samson, good to see you sir,” he shouted loudly.
“You’re, uh, several days ahead of schedule.”
“I move on my own schedule,” growled Samson.
“Yes, sir. Major Catsman is waiting for you.” Ax stiffened and pumped a textbook salute, as stiff and proper as any he had delivered in the past ten years—which was damning with faint praise, since he had perhaps saluted twice.
Samson returned it with a scowl.
“Why isn’t the major here herself, Chief?” demanded the general.
“Begging the general’s pardon, but there’s a Whiplash action under way. Things get a little—hectic.”
Samson frowned. Ax smiled ever so faintly in response, then turned his head toward the two airmen he had shang-haied to carry the general’s bags. Within a few minutes he had the security team placated and the general and his people en route to the Taj Mahal, the nickname for the base’s administrative center.
Samson’s arrival at the Taj caused another stir. In order for him and his aides to tour the base, biometric measurements and readings had to be taken from all of them. Samson balked, saying it was a waste of his time.
“Only about ten minutes per person,” said Ax. “It’s standard procedure.”
“Do you get major generals visiting this base often?”
“We’ve had a few,” said Ax.
Samson started for the elevator that stood at the center of the lobby. He got in, as did his aides. Ax stayed in the lobby.
“The thing is, sir, if you’re not in the computer, it won’t allow you access. You can get in the elevator car, but it won’t go down. And now that you’re in there, it won’t move until you’re out. I can get this straightened out.”
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Samson didn’t believe Ax until he had pressed all of the buttons and nothing happened.
“It will only take a few minutes,” said Ax. “If you’ll just come over to the security station …”
Samson stalked over to Security, nearly as angry as he’d been at the landing dock. His aides followed.
Or attempted to.
“I’m afraid—and no offense, sirs,” said Ax, making sure to spread one of his better chief ’s smiles across the arrayed majors and captains, “under a Whiplash order, you’re supposed to be confined to the non, um, technical parts of the base. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t even be here in the Taj.
We can do some temporary passes, but your access is going to be limited.”
“What the hell kind of rule is that?” said Samson.
“Begging the general’s pardon, but it would be a similar situation if somehow a busload of visitors had deposited themselves into his F-111 cockpit during his mission over Hanoi as a captain. Or when he personally led the squadron over Pan-ama. The general would have been so busy dealing with the enemy, that even the presence of well-meaning onlookers, no matter their rank, would have been a distraction.”
Samson frowned. For a moment Ax wondered if he had found the proverbial exception to the old chiefs’ rule that it was impossible to lay it on too thick for a general.
“All right,” said Samson finally. “Let’s get the lay of the land for now,” he added, speaking to his entourage. “Stay wherever you’re supposed to stay.”
The men nodded in unison, as if their heads were connected by hidden wires.
“As for this other thing, though,” said the general, to Ax again, “I don’t see the purpose.”
Ax finally realized why Samson was objecting to the biometric recordings.
“The process, General, is pretty straightforward. You step into a small booth and the computer takes its readings. No human intervention. The information is encrypted right away, 154
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and isn’t even accessible to the operator. Security precaution, in case someone was trying to duplicate your biometrics.”
“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” said Samson.
“Step over this way, sir,” said one of the security sergeants, leading Samson to a spot on the floor where a laser and weight machine would record his measurements.
Lieutenant Thomson pulled Ax aside.
“Why’d you say that about the operator? He can see the measurement. What would be the sense of hiding it?”
“General’s getting sensitive about his weight,” whispered Ax. “Too many nights on the chicken and peas circuit.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Indian Ocean
0800
NO MATTER HOW MUNDANE THE MISSION, HOW ROUTINE THE
f light, f lying an aircraft always gave Dog a thrill. It was the one thing he could count on to raise his heartbeat, the jolt that pushed him no matter how straight and slow the flight.
Whether it was a Cessna or an F-22 Raptor, simply folding his fingers around the control yoke of an aircraft filled Tecumseh Bastian with a quiet passion.
He was going to need it. He sensed that the crew resented his replacing their captain. They were too well disciplined and professional to do anything to jeopardize their mission, of course, and Dog knew that he could rely on them to do their best when and if things got hot. But the quick snap in their voices when he asked a question, the forced formality of their replies, the lack of takers when he offered to get coffee and doughnuts from the galley—a thousand little things made it clear that he might have their respect and cooperation, but not their love.
Then again, in his experience, love could be overrated.
“Flighthawks ready to start their pass,” reported the copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan.
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“Roger that. Flighthawk leader, proceed.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” said Starship downstairs. “I hope we’ll find something.”
“Me too.”
They had laid out their course north through the search area where Breanna and Zen were thought to have parachuted, hoping to put the long leg to some use.
It had been Englehardt’s suggestion.
“Flighthawks are at fifty feet, indicated,” said Sullivan.
“Ocean appears empty, as indicated by radar.”
Was Breanna really gone? Dog struggled to push away the feeling of despair. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford a moment of weakness.
“How are we looking, Airborne?” he said, trying to focus on his mission.
“Only friendlies, Colonel,” said Sergeant Rager at the airborne radar.
“Very good,” said Dog.
“Waymarker in zero-one minute,” said Sullivan, noting they were approaching a turn that would take them away from the search area. “Colonel, you want to extend the search?”