put Boomer through a series of calmer tests, pushing her around the test range as special instruments recorded stresses on her frame and that of the laser housing. While the session was important—in many ways far more critical than the computer’s dogfight was—it was nonetheless routine, and Dog found himself struggling to stay focused on his job. He thought of his lover, Jennifer, who’d had her knee operated on back East and would be staying with her sister in New Jersey for at least another two weeks. He thought of his daughter, Breanna, who’d been injured as well. He’d seen her the night before at the hospital. She looked so small in the bed, so frag-ile. For some reason, it made him think of all the time with her he’d missed when she was growing up.
Leaving, the hospital, he’d run into her mother. Sur-prisingly, he didn’t feel any animosity toward her, and—uncharacteristically, he thought—she didn’t display any toward him. Like the specialists who’d seen her, Bree’s mother was baffled by the “coma-like unconsciousness”
she’d suffered after landing, but she was very optimistic about her prognosis.
Dog’s thoughts circled with the plane, until finally it was time to land. He let Sleek Top take the stick, and the copilot brought the plane in for a textbook perfect landing, taxi-
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ing right into the B-1 development hangar without help from either of the waiting tractors. Downstairs, Dog and Sleek Top prepared separate briefs on the mission, answering questions for the engineers who’d been monitoring the tests.
No matter how routine the pilots considered it, the geeks always had something to talk about, and it was going on 1900—7:00 p.m. in civilian time—before they were satisfied enough to let Sleek Top and Dog go.
“Probably wore them out with our duhs,” said Sleek Top as they rode up the elevator from the offices in the bunker directly below the underground hangar area. He mimicked one of the engineers’ voices: “ ‘What did it feel like at thirty percent power as you came through the turn?’ A lot like forty percent power, only slower, son.”
Dog laughed.
“They haven’t been up in the plane,” Sleek Top continued, his tone more serious. “You should have some jump seats rigged and take them aloft.”
“That’s a good idea, Sleek. But it’s not my call.”
“It’s your base.”
“Not anymore.”
“It’ll always be your base,” said the test pilot as the door opened.
General Samson was standing across the vestibule. It wasn’t clear that he’d heard Sleek Top’s comment—the elevator doors were sealed pretty tight—but Dog had a feeling he had.
So did Sleek Top. He grimaced, gave the general a wave, then strode quickly away.
“Colonel Bastian, a word,” said Samson.
Dog followed him to the far end of the hangar ramp. Gently sloped, the wide expanse of concrete led to a large blast-proof hangar where the B-1s were kept. It looked like the ramp of a very wide parking garage.
Before he’d come to Dreamland, Dog had been in awe of generals—if not the men (and women), then at least the 80
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office. Part of his attitude had to do with his respect for the Air Force and tradition, but a larger part stemmed from his good fortune he’d had of working for some extremely good men, especially during the Gulf War.
Dreamland had changed that. While he wouldn’t call himself cynical, he had a much more balanced view now. He realized that the process of rising to the upper ranks had a lot to do with politics—often a lot more than anything else.
Colonel Bastian had met some inept generals in his day.
Samson wasn’t one of them. He was capable, though bull-headed and cocky—characteristics critical to a combat pilot, but not particularly winsome in a commander, especially at a place like Dreamland.
“B-1 is a hell of a plane,” said Samson, walking in the direction of Boomer. “I commanded a squadron of them for SAC.”
“Yes, sir. I think you mentioned that.”
“I don’t know about some of these mods, though.” Samson stopped short and put his hands on his hips. “Airborne lasers?”
“Going to be a hell of a weapon.”
“Once it’s perfected—that’s the rub, isn’t it? You know how many iron bombs one laser would buy once it’s in production, Tecumseh?”
Dog actually did know, or at least could have worked it out, but the question was clearly rhetorical; Samson didn’t wait for an answer.
“And having a computer fly it—that was your test today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like it.” Samson practically spat on the ground as he spoke. “What we need are more planes and pilots. Not more gadgets. Widgets, I call them. They can’t replace pilots.”
Dog couldn’t help but smile.
“Problem, Colonel?”
“You sound a little like my old boss, General Magnus,”
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said Dog. “When he started. By the time he moved on, he was pushing for all the high tech he could get.”
“I know Magnus. Good man. Had to retire. Couldn’t play the Washington system.”
That was probably correct, thought Dog—a point in Magnus’s favor.
“But Magnus isn’t here. I am,” added Samson. He turned his gaze back to the aircraft. It seemed to Dog that he wished he were back in the pilot’s seat again—back as a captain flying missions.
Who didn’t? That was the best part of your career. Though it was a rare officer who understood it at the time.
“This airborne tactical laser can change a lot of things,”
said Dog. “It’ll revolutionize ground support. With some more work, the laser will do a credible job as an antifighter weapon as well. And to do all that, it needs a pretty powerful computer to help the pilots fly and target the enemy.”
“I don’t need a sales pitch,” said Samson sharply. Then he added, in a tone somewhat less gruff, “We’ve gotten off to a bad start, you and I. But I don’t think it’s necessary that we be enemies. In a way—in a lot of ways—you remind me of myself when I was your age. Ambitious. Tough. A bit strong willed—but that’s a plus.”
Dog didn’t say anything. He knew that Samson was trying to be magnanimous, though to his ears the general sounded like an ass.
“Congratulations on your Medal of Honor,” added Samson.
“You’ve heard about it, I understand. You earned it, Bastian.
You and the others did a hell of a job. Hell of a job. Made us all proud.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The President is coming. Or at least, I hope he can squeeze us into his schedule. I have made a request—I’m sure I’m going to get him here. Maybe as early as tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
Samson waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “I still 82
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have to do some paperwork—you know, there are going to be hoops with this medal thing, so don’t expect too much too quickly. But I thought it would be nice for the President to show his respect, and admiration.”
“You don’t have to go to any trouble. I don’t— Medals don’t really mean that much.”
“The hell they don’t!” Samson practically shouted. “They mean everything. They remind us how we should carry ourselves. What we’re about!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dog saw that some of the aircraft maintainers were staring at them.
“So, Colonel, as I said, we’ve gotten off to a bad start, you and I,” added Samson.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say?”
Dog wasn’t exactly sure what Samson was expecting, though he was clearly expecting something.
“Lieutenant colonel?” said Samson. “Is there anything you’d like to say?”
In normal conversation, a lieutenant colonel was always called a colonel; as far as Dog was concerned, the only reason Samson would use his full rank now was to put him in his place—which was made all the more obvious by the emphasis he put on the word.
“Not really, General.”
“Excuse me?” said Samson, raising his voice.