Текст книги "Razor's Edge"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

while they’ve done a lot with the airfoil to reduce drag, it does add to drag. The C-17 is always a C-17. It’s never going to break the sound barrier. But imagine a cargo aircraft with a wingspan the size of an F-104—you remember those, the Starfighter? Tiny wings. Fast as hell. So imagine a plane with a fuselage the size of a 767 but wings like that. Takes off—all right, we’re still coming up with an acceptable propulsion system, but that can be solved, believe me; that’s my area of expertise. You have these narrow, small wings and can go incredibly fast, then, when you want to land, you slow down, pop!”

Firenzi yelled and threw his arms out at his sides. All of his audience, even Dog, jumped up in their seats as the scientist mimicked a plane coming in for a landing.

“Zip,” said Firenzi triumphantly. “Enough wing surface inside twenty-five seconds to land on a road. A road!

Really. It’s the future. Imagine the civilian commercial applications—airports could handle two, three times the traffic. We’d reconfigure runways, change approaches—there would be parking and no traffic jams!”

“You know, I think we’re probably all in the mood for dinner about now,” said Dog, sensing that any further performance from Firenzi would convince the congressman he was crazy. “Unless there are other questions.”

There were a few, but Firenzi handled them as they walked to the elevators. There wasn’t enough room for the entire party to fit comfortably; Dog stayed behind with Knapp to wait for the second gondola.

“Anything new from Iraq?” Knapp asked as they waited.

“No details of the raids,” Dog told him. He couldn’t assume that Knapp’s clearance entitled him to know that Dreamland had sent the Whiplash team and two Megafortresses to Turkey.

“Should’ve dealt with the SOB when we had the chance,” said Knapp.

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“Can’t argue with you, sir,” said Dog.

“Like to get a look at what’s shooting down our planes.”

“So would I.” Dog folded his arms.

“The President’s counting on you,” said Knapp.

“We do our best.”

“Joint Chiefs wanted to put you under CentCom for this, but he wouldn’t let them.”

Dog, unsure exactly how to respond, simply shrugged.

The elevator arrived. Knapp grabbed his arm as the door opened.

“Colonel, you understand of course that that was said in confidence.”

Dog smiled. “Absolutely.”

“I happen to agree that Dreamland and Whiplash should be independent. But best be careful. Dreamland’s future may well ride on your standing with the Secretary as well as the President.”

“I don’t get involved with politics if I can help it. Not my job.”

“Maybe you should help it,” said Knapp.

Dog had to put his hand out to stop the door from closing, since they hadn’t entered the car yet.

“General Magnus may not be your boss forever,”

added Knapp as they stepped inside.

Dog could only shrug again as the elevator started upward.

Aboard Quicksilver , on High Top runway 29 May 1997

0650

“POWER TO TEN PERCENT. ENGINE ONE, TEMP, PRESSURES

green. Two, green. Three, green. Four, green. Recheck brakes. Holding. I’d recommend new drums at twenty 162

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

thousand miles,” quipped Chris Ferris, deviating from the checklist. “You might get by with turning them down, but then you risk shimmy stopping at highway speeds.”

“Thank you, Mr. Midas,” answered Bree.

“We’re your under-car-care specialists,” said the copilot without losing a beat. “Power to fifty. System checks.

We’re in the green. Augmented list for assisted takeoff.

Green, green, green. My, we are good. Flighthawks are plugged in and ready to cook.”

“Jeff, how we looking down there?”

“Flighthawks are yours,” replied Zen.

“You sound a little tired this morning, Flighthawk leader.”

“Not at all, Quicksilver. I got two hours of sleep.”

Breanna knew Zen was in a bad mood and wouldn’t be kidded out of it. He’d told Fentress he wasn’t needed today, which had obviously disappointed the apprentice pilot. Fentress looked like he wanted to say something, but Zen had simply rolled himself away.

Not that Fentress shouldn’t have spoken up. He needed a little more of Mack Smith in him—not too much. Still, Mack had spent the morning pestering everyone with possible missions he could undertake, and while he was more than a bit of a pain, you had to admire his gung-ho attitude.

From afar.

“Takeoff assist module on line,” said Chris. “On your verbal command.”

“Computer, takeoff assist countdown,” said Bree.

The slightly mechanical feminine voice of the computer began talking. “Takeoff in five, four …”

“Okay, crew. Let’s go kick butt for little Muhammad Liu, Dreamland’s newest addition,” she told them.

RAZOR’S EDGE

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Someone on the circuit laughed, but the roar of the power plants drowned it out as the Megafortress accelerated. Controlled by the flight computer, the Flighthawk engines acted like rocket packs, augmenting the massive thrust of the EB-52’s own P&Ws as the plane shot forward on the mesh. Breanna held the stick loosely, little more than a passenger as the plane rolled past the halfway point of the runway. A slight sensation of weightlessness followed as the plane’s wheels skipped off the pavement.

“Gear,” she prompted, at the same time nudging the stick. The computer stepped away, content to remain only a backseat driver until called on again. Chris, meanwhile, made sure the landing gear was stowed, did another quick check of the instruments, and then worked with Zen to refuel the Flighthawks through the Megafortress’s wing plumbing. The mission specialists began the lengthy process of firing up and calibrating their gear.

The Cold War had given rise to a variety of reconnaissance aircraft, most famously the U-2 and SR-71, which were essentially high-altitude observation platforms able to focus cameras over—or in some cases alongside of—enemy territory. Less well-known were a series of collectors that gathered electronic data ranging from radar capabilities to live radio transmissions. B-29s and B-50s, essentially Superfortresses on steroids, were first pressed into this role; RB-47s replaced them. But it wasn’t until vast improvements in electronics in the late sixties and early seventies that the type really came into its own.

While a number of airframes were used, the workhorse was based on one of the most successful commercial aircraft of all time—the Boeing 707. Known as the C-135

(and later, E-3) and prepared in dozens if not hundreds of variations, the plane provided an unassuming platform 164

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

for some of the most sensitive missions of the Cold War.

Bristling with antennas and radars, a Rivet Joint or Cobra Ball aircraft might spend hours flying a track in international waters near the Soviet Union, monitoring transmissions during a missile test or a military exercise. It might note how the local air defense commanders reacted when American fighter aircraft approached. It might check the radars used, their capabilities and characteristics. It showed the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, helping to compile a considerable library of information.

As valuable as they were, the planes remained 707s—highly vulnerable to attack. Even JSTARS, a real-time flying command post that revolutionized combat intelligence during the Gulf War, had to stand off at some distance from hostile territory.

That was where the EB-52 came in. Bigger than the 707

or even the 757 airframes proposed to replace it, the Megafortress was designed to operate in the heart of the volcano. One aircraft such as Quicksilver could perform the functions of several, detecting and jamming radars, snooping and disrupting radio transmissions, all in places and at times previously unthinkable. Along with an AWACS version and their Flighthawks, the Megafortresses promised to revolutionize warfare once again.

Today’s mission, simple in outline, tested some of those basic concepts. Quicksilver would fly eastward thirty thousand feet, vectoring south at a point exactly equidistant between Kirkuk and the Iranian border. Thirty miles south of Kirkuk it would loop back north. At roughly the time it swung parallel to Kirkuk about four minutes later, two packages of attack planes would strike their targets, 88 Bravo and 44 Alpha. Quicksilver would listen to the Iraqi response, compiling intelligence that might locate the laser or whatever it was that was attacking the allied planes.

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“Looking good, Zen,” Breanna told her husband as the second U/MF rolled off their wing and sped off to the east. The robot planes had to stay within a ten-mile radius of the Megafortress because of their wide-band communications link.

“Hawk leader,” acknowledged her husband stiffly.

“Still cranky, huh?” Chris said as they began their run south.

“He’s not much of a morning person,” said Breanna.

“Have some J bands, gun dish—looks like a ring of Zsu-23s using their radars,” said O’Brien, who was monitoring the radar intercepts. The computer system guiding him would have been the envy of any Cobra Ball operator, able to glide between a dozen different sensors, prioritizing intercepts and pointing out suspicious activity without prompting. Then again, they might not have been envious—it did the work of eight crewmen, making all of them eligible for early retirement.

“Dog Ear detected—they’re looking for low fliers at Eight-eight Bravo,” added O’Brien.

“Let’s pass that on,” said Breanna. “They’re still a good distance away.”

“Coyote Bravo leader, this is Dreamland Quicksilver,”

said Chris.

“Coyote Bravo. Go ahead Quicksilver.”

“We have an active Dog Ear looking for you at Eight-eight Bravo. Indication is they have a Gopher missile battery along with their Zeus guns.”

“Coyote Bravo acknowledges. Thanks for the heads-up, Quicksilver.”

The Gophers—also called SA-13s by NATO—were short– to medium-range SAMs that used infrared radar to lock on their target, similar to the more common SA-9s though somewhat larger and more capable. The Dog Ear radar was used to detect aircraft at a distance. After detec-

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tion, a range-finding unit would allow the commander to launch the missiles; their all-aspect, filtered IR sensors would then take them to their target. The systems were relatively sophisticated but defeatable if you knew they were there.

“Have an E band radar that’s not on my menu,” said O’Brien. “Low power, really low power—lost it. Plotting.

Wow—never seen anything like this.”

Aboard Quicksilver , over northern Iraq 0742

ZEN WORKED THE FLIGHTHAWKS AHEAD OF QUICKSILVER, ALternating between One and Two. He was at twenty thousand feet, considerably lower than the EB-52 but well outside the range of the low-altitude AAA and shoulder-launched weapons that were ubiquitous below. His helmet visor was divided into two sections; the upper two-thirds fed an optical view from one of the Flighthawks, simulating what he would see if he were sitting in the cockpit. A HUD ghosted over altitude, speed, and other essentials.

The lower screen was divided into three smaller sections—an instrument summary for both planes at the far left, a long-distance radar plot supplied by Quicksilver in the middle, and an optical cockpit view from the other plane.

The visor display could be infinitely customized, though Zen tended to stick to this preset, using it about ninety percent of the time when he was flying two robots. The voice commands “One” and “Two” instantly changed the main view, a phenomenon he thought of as jumping into the cockpit of the plane. He controlled the small planes with the help of two joysticks, one in his right and one in his left hand. Control for the planes jumped with the view, so that his right hand always worked the plane in the main screen.

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“O’Brien, you find that E band radar?” asked Zen.

“Negative. Threat library thinks it’s a Side Net but it’s not clear what it would be connected to. Definitely early warning. I can’t even find the source.”

“How about approximately?” Zen asked.

They plotted it below 88 Bravo and a bit to the east, which put it fifty miles away and dead on in Hawk One’s path near the Iranian border. A Side Net radar was a long-range target acquisition unit, capable of detecting a plane the size of an F-16 at roughly ninety-five miles; with its uncoated nose, the Megafortress was possibly though not definitely visible around the same range. The Flighthawk would be invisible at least to ten miles, and might not even be seen at all.

Of course, with the radar off, it could see nothing at all.

Zen’s threat radar was clean.

“What do you think it’s working with?” Zen asked O’Brien.

“Ordinarily I’d say an SA-2 and SA-3 battalion,” answered O’Brien. “But at this point it’s anybody’s guess.

There are no known sites in the area.”

“Maybe this is the sucker we’re looking for.”

“Could be. They’re not on the air. Tracking some other stuff,” added O’Brien. “Man, there are a lot of radars up here—didn’t we put these suckers out of business five years ago?”

“I’m going to get a little lower and see if I spot anything,” said Jeff. “We’ll store the video for the analysts.”

“Sounds good, Captain. I’ll alert you if I get another read.”

“Strike aircraft are zero-three from their IPs,” said Chris, indicating that the attackers were just about to start their bombing runs.

Zen concentrated on the image in his screen as he tucked toward the earth, looking for the semicircle of 168

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launchers and trailers the Iraqis liked to set their missiles up in. SA-2s were large suckers always accompanied by a variety of support vehicles; they could be obscured by netting and other camouflage but not totally hidden.

SA-3s were about half the size, but they too should stick out if they were positioned to fire.

O’Brien’s rough plot was centered around a farming area on a relatively flat plain about two miles square.

With no indications of any military activity—or any activity at all—Zen nudged the Flighthawk faster and slightly farther east, widening his search pattern.

“Losing connection, ” warned the computer as he strayed a bit too far.

Zen immediately throttled back, letting Quicksilver catch up. As his speed dropped, a row of black boxes appeared in the lower left screen.

“Magnify ground image,” he told the computer. A scanner tracking his retinas interpreted exactly which images he meant.

“O’Brien, I have four stationary vehicles, look like they might be radar or telemetry vans. Not set up.”

“You see a dish?”

“Negative,” said Jeff. “No missiles.”

He slid the robot plane closer to the ground. Razor was mobile, roughly the size of a tank.

“Losing connection, ” warned the computer again.

“Bree, I need you to stay with Hawk One.”

“We’re at our turn,” Breanna told him. Her priority was the attack package, at least until they saddled up and headed home.

The first vehicle was a car, oldish, a nondescript Japa-nese sedan.

Two pickup trucks.

A flatbed.

RAZOR’S EDGE

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Not Razor, not anything.

“Radar—something,” said O’Brien.

“Connection loss in five seconds, ” pleaded the com -

puter. “Four, three—”

Zen flicked his wrist back, bringing the Flighthawk west to stay with the Megafortress.

“Vehicles were clean,” he told Breanna.

“Acknowledged,” she said.

“Got something else,” said O’Brien. “Jayhawk—airplanes on A-1.”

“Sitrep map,” Zen told the computer. “Identify A-1.”

A bird’s-eye view with Quicksilver and the Flighthawks highlighted as green blips materialized in the main screen. A red highlight and circle identified A-1

as a small airfield northeast of Baghdad, about 120 miles away.

“MiG-21 radars,” added O’Brien. “They must be getting ready to take off.”

“QUICKSILVER, BE ADVISED WE HAVE A PAIR OF BOGIES

coming off A-1 south of Eight-eight Bravo,” said the controller aboard Coyote, the AWACS plane. “Stick Flight is being vectored in. Please hold to your flight plan.”

“Quicksilver,” acknowledged Breanna. “We have radar indications from those planes. Looks like two MiG-21s.

Working on radio intercepts,” she added.

O’Brien and Habib started talking together behind her.

“One at a time,” scolded Ferris.

“Indications are MiG-21 or F-7 Spin Scan-style I band radars. Old soldiers, these boys,” said O’Brien.

“Tower has cleared four planes,” said Habib. “I have his transmission loud and clear.”

“Lost radars.”

“You’re sure about four planes?” Breanna asked.

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“Yes, Captain. No acknowledgments, though. I have some ground transmissions. Computer says it’s an HQ

code. I can put more resources on the descramble.”

“Concentrate on the planes,” Breanna told him.

“O’Brien—any sign of that laser?”

“Negative.”

“Coyote, be advised that we believe there are four planes, not two,” said Breanna.

“Tower remains silent,” said Habib. “No ground control radio that I can pick up. We’re doing a full spin,” he added, meaning that the snooping gear was now scanning or “spinning” through frequencies looking for hits at low power or wide distances.

“No radars,” said O’Brien.

“Thanks for the information, Quicksilver,” answered the AWACS. “We continue to have only two contacts, MiG-21s, in the bushes. Eagles are being scrambled.

Hold to your flight plan.”

High Top

0830

“I’VE RIDDEN MOTORCYCLES THAT GO FASTER.”

“Major, I’m telling you—two hours with these engines and you have twenty percent more power. Probably thirty.

Thieves, hungry for power.”

“That’s not another stinkin’ Dylan song, is it, Garcia?”

“Knockin’ on heaven’s door, Major,” said the techie, beaming as if he’d just hit Powerball.

A Pave Low heading in toward High Top began shaking the air, kicking off a sympathetic rattle in the Bronco’s props—and Mack’s teeth.

“If we were at Dreamland—five-bladed prop, variable RAZOR’S EDGE

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pitch—reinforce the wings, maybe a rocket pack for that quick boost, sellin’ postcards at the hangin’,” continued Garcia. “This is a great platform, Major. A fantastic aircraft. See this?” Garcia ducked under the wing and slapped the rear fuselage. “Four guys in here—five if they don’t have B.O. This ain’t workin’ on Maggie’s Farm, I’ll tell you that.”

“So if it’s such a great plane, how come the Marines gave it up?” Mack asked.

“They didn’t want to,” said Garcia. “You ask—they went kicking and screaming. These are boots of Spanish leather.”

“You know, Garcia, you ought to lose that speech im-pediment.”

Dust whipped toward them as the helicopter pushed in.

Mack turned his back and covered the side of his face. As the rotors died down, he turned back to Garcia. “Let’s refuel and get back in the air.”

“Uh, Major, didn’t you hear what I said?”

“That’s another Dylan song?”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that I have to re-tune the engines to work with the Dreamland fuel,” said Garcia.

“What?”

“Well, it all started during the first oil scare. See, what the problem is—ten-shutt!”

Garcia snapped to attention so sharply a drill sergeant would have swooned. General Elliott, lugging his overnight and a serious frown, tossed off a salute.

“Mack—when the hell are we taking off?” asked Elliott.

“I don’t know, General. There’s some sort of fuel thing.”

“Few minor adjustments to the engines, General,” said 172

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Garcia, who had served under Elliott at Dreamland. “As you recall, sir, it was under your command that JP-12B-2

was developed as a special blend for the Flighthawks, with the Megafortress engines tuned to accept it. The mix is just a little different from your JP-8 or JP-4, and over time or in extreme—”

“That’s quite all right, Garcia,” said Elliott. “Just make it work.”

“I just have to make a few adjustments. Not a big deal.

Now, if we were back home—”

“It’s okay,” said Elliott. He put out his hand as if he were a traffic cop. “Mack, I’m going back on the Pave Low. Get the plane back to Incirlik in one piece, all right?”

Aboard Quicksilver

0830

ZEN PUSHED FORWARD, HIS BODY LEANING TO THE RIGHT

as he whipped both Flighthawks in that direction, the U/MFs about five miles apart, parallel at a separation of three thousand feet. The radar detector screen in the middle of the lower visual band showed two large yellow clumps peeking upward at him; the transmissions were ID’d as I band and the yellow indicated that, while they were active, they did not yet pose a threat to the small, stealthy Flighthawks.

“Gun Dish,” said O’Brien, adding coordinates to his warning that a Zeus radar was looking for him.

The two MiG-21s were old and primitive aircraft, easy fodder for the Americans. Zen suspected that the Iraqis were using them as decoys for the other two planes Habib had heard—which he guessed would be MiG-29s using passive sensors. The planes were approaching RAZOR’S EDGE

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from the southeast, roughly eleven o’clock off Hawk One’s center line—they didn’t have a precise location, but they would have to be very low not to be detected by the AWACS.

If they’d been in Galatica, the gear would have them dotted by now.

“Connection loss in five seconds,” warned the computer.

“Bree!”

“Zen, you have to stay with me. The attack package isn’t clear. Let the Eagles get the MiGs.”

“I can nail them myself. There’s an RAF flight just south of them; if the MiGs divert, they’ll run right into them.”

“The AWACS is aware of that. It’s not our show. Let the Eagles do their job.”

“Connection loss in three, two—”

Zen yanked back on his sticks, pulling the robot planes back closer to the Megafortress. As he did, the radar in Hawk Two caught another plane flying from the south low enough to scrape a grasshopper’s belly.

“Contact, bearing 180—shit, I lost it,” he told Breanna.

“Nothing,” said O’Brien quickly.

“Blue Bandits!” shouted one of the Eagle pilots, his voice loud and excited at seeing the enemy MiG-21s.

“Nine o’clock.”

“Tally,” replied the other pilot, as calm as his wingman was excited. The two interceptors had run up from the south behind the two small planes at tremendous speed, closing to visual range to avoid the possibility—slim, but real—of locking onto friendlies in the tangled fray. With their limited radars and no ground controller to warn them, the two Iraqi jets probably didn’t even know they were in the crosshairs.

“I have the MiG on the left.”

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“Two,” acknowledged the wingman.

Zen could visualize it perfectly. The pilots would have their heaters—AIM-9 Sidewinders—selected as the enemy planes grew in their HUDs. The missiles would growl, indicating they could sniff the enemy tailpipes.

But the Eagle jocks would wait a few seconds more, closing the gap. At the last second the MiG pilots would sense something, catch a reflection, a shadow, a hint—they’d start to maneuver, but it would be too late.

“Fox Two!” said both pilots, nearly in unison, as they launched their heat seekers.

“Connection loss in five seconds,” warned the computer.

Zen tucked Hawk One back to the east and gave Two a little more gas, catching up to Quicksilver. He got another contact in the bushes; it seemed to be turning.

MiG-29. Bingo.

“Quicksilver, I have a bogie. I need you to break ninety,” Zen told Breanna, asking her to cut hard to the east.

“Negative, Flighthawk commander. Give the contact to Eagle Flight.”

Screw that, thought Zen. The MiG turned toward him, and now there was a second contact. The planes were flying so low they could be pickup trucks.

Twenty-five miles away. If the Flighthawks had radar missiles, they’d be dead meat. But the U/MFs were fitted with cannons only.

“Mission on Eight-eight Bravo is complete,” said Ferris. “We’re cleared.”

The MiG-29s continued their turns, heading south now, running away. They’d probably caught his radar.

He’d have to juice it to nail them.

Hit them now before they got within range of the RAF

flight.

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“Bree! I need you to stay with me. Check the Flighthawk screen.”

“Hawk commander, we’re following our game plan.

The bogies are out of reach.”

“Shit! I have them positively ID’d as MiG-29s. There’s an RAF attack package just southeast of them.”

“Location has been given to Eagle flight and Coyote, ”

said Ferris.

“Shit!” Zen fought the urge to rip his helmet off and throw it against the side of the cabin.

“Jeff, they’re out of range,” said Bree.

“Yeah, now.”

“Missiles in the air!” warned O’Brien. “Launch—no wait—no launch, no launch. Slot Back radar, may be looking at an SA-2. Jeez—everything’s crazy. What the hell? I’m blank.”

“ECMS,” BREANNA TOLD CHRIS.

“On it already. We’re clean.”

She nosed Quicksilver ten degrees to the west, following their briefed course.

“Bree—we could have nailed those MiGs,” said Zen.

His voice frothed with anger.

Her thumb twitched, but she stayed on her course.

“Flighthawk leader, our priority was the attack mission.”

“We could have nailed them,” Zen told her.

She didn’t answer.

“Our fuel’s okay,” Chris told her.

She nodded instead of saying anything, checked her instruments quickly, then asked O’Brien about the SA-2

contacts he’d reported.

“I’m not sure—I got some sort of indication, a flash from the east. I’m not sure if it was a screw-up or what.”

“No missiles?”

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“Not that I could find. Maybe they tried a launch and had an explosion, or it could have been something on the ground totally unrelated. Two or three radars flicked on at the same time, including at least one standard airport job.

Iran had a long-distance air traffic on as well. I haven’t had a chance to go back and sort it out.”

“Laser?”

“Well, not that I can tell. No IR reading. I can go back and run Jennifer’s filter over the data.”

“Wait till we get down. We’re fifteen minutes from High Top, maybe a little closer.”

“Hey, Bree, you might want to listen in to this,” said Chris. “AWACS is reporting they lost contact with an RAF Tornado. The plane disappeared completely from their screens.”

IV

Unnecessary Risk

High Top, Turkey

29 May 1997

1200

“NEVER EVER TALK TO ME THAT WAY WHEN WE’RE FLYING.

Never.” Breanna felt her heart pumping as she confronted her husband beneath the plane.

“I could have had those MiGs,” Zen said.

“The attack flight was our priority.”

“Those MiGs nailed the Tornado.”

“No way.”

“Listen, Bree—”

“No, you listen, Jeff.” Breanna clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Anyone else talked to me that way, I’d have them thrown off the plane.”

“Oh, bullshit. I outrank you.”

“I’m in charge of the aircraft, not you.”

“Those MiGs nailed the Tornado, and I could have gotten them,” said Zen. He pushed his wheelchair back slightly on the pavement below the right wing of the Megafortress. “We could have prevented that.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Bullshit yourself.”

“I have work to do.” Breanna turned, furious with him, furious with herself. She had done the right thing, she 180

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thought, and there was no way the MiGs nailed the Tornado. The F-15s would have been all over them.

Each stride was a grenade as she stomped toward the mess tent. Every glance pulverized the rocks around her.

The large tent was nearly empty; only Mack Smith sat in the far corner, nursing a cup of coffee. She took a bottle of water and a sandwich from the serving counter, then walked to the table farthest away from him, even though it was also the farthest from the heaters.

The wrapper claimed the sandwich was ham and cheese, though the meat looked suspiciously like roast beef. She bit into it; it tasted more like pastrami.

“Better than MREs, huh?” said Mack, coming over.

“Next Pave Low’s bringing steaks.”

“Leave me alone,” she snapped.

“Uh-oh, somebody’s in a bad mood. Tell Uncle Mack all about it.”

“One of these days, Major, someone’s going to knock that smirk so far down your throat it comes out your ass.”

“I only hope it’s you,” said Smith, taking another swig of his coffee.

ZEN FURLED HIS ARMS IN FRONT OF HIS CHEST. BREANNA was right—he’d been out of line to talk to her that way in the plane.

He was right about everything else, but he still shouldn’t have talked to her that way.

But damn—he could have nailed both of those bastards. The Eagles claimed they chased the MiGs away—they said they headed into the bushes and ran back to base—but that was just cover-my-ass bullshit, he thought.

If the MiGs didn’t get the Tornado, who did?

There were a dozen candidates, starting with a stray Zeus flak dealer and ending with General Elliott’s Razor clone. Not to mention plain old mechanical failure or RAZOR’S EDGE

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even pilot error; he knew of at least one Tornado that had pancaked into a mountain during the Gulf War because the pilot had lost his situational awareness.

Still, the Eagles should have made sure the MiGs were down. And out. He would’ve.

But Breanna was right about their priorities; where Quicksilver went was her call. His job was to escort, to protect her. Yes, he extended their reach, flushed out threats, and passed along the information to everyone else in the air. But his job, bottom line, was to protect her, not the other way around.

Had he wanted to nail the MiGs for the glory?

Bullshit on that.

But he could have nailed the mothers.

He owed Breanna an apology. Unsure where she’d gone, he wheeled himself toward the mobile Whiplash command post, then decided the mess tent was a better bet.

I’m sorry, he rehearsed. I was a hothead. I used to becool but now I’m just a hothead. I’ve lost a lot of self-control since the accident.

No. Don’t blame it on the accident. That was bush league.

I’m sorry. I was out of line.

Zen was still trying to decide exactly what he would say when he entered the mess tent. Breanna was there, sitting next to Mack Smith.

Zen pushed himself toward the serving tables. A small refrigerator held drinks; there was a pile of sandwiches next to it and a large metal pot of soup, or at least something that smelled like soup. Zen took two of the sandwiches and a Coke and wheeled himself over to the table.

“Hey,” he said to Breanna.

“Hey there, robot brain,” said Mack. “Have fun this morning?”

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“I always have fun, Mack.” Zen pushed his chair as close to the end of the table as he could get it, but that still left a decent gap between his chest and the surface.