Текст книги "Dreamland"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

It hadn’t been easy. Zen had had to call in every favor, and lean heavily on his family connections besides. He’d had to find a service lawyer who knew the Disability Act and could wangle and bluff its language into places where it didn’t belong.

Worse—much worse—he’d had to play the pity angle.

His lawyer, an Army captain wounded in Panama, was also in a wheelchair. Louis Whitson wasn’t so much an inspiration as a slap in the face. “The bottom line,” Whit-son had said one morning when things looked particularly crappy, “is this: We use whatever we can use. Pity, fear, ignorance, stupidity. If it’s to our advantage, we use it. Bottom line.”

Like almost everything Whitson said, it was useful advice. They found a sympathetic Senator and an important Congressman. And an Air Force general whose brother had been confined to a wheelchair since he was six. They built a case for remaining on active duty. Reed-thin—hell, thinner than air. But with favors and pity, they got him a chance.

Better than that. Brad Elliott, the former commander of Dreamland, was under a cloud. But he still had a lot of influence—and he also had an artificial leg. The general helped twist arms and bend ears for Jeff, who had been one of his “boys” before the accident. Elliott managed to find a way to use his dismissal and the resulting confusion at Dreamland to Jeff’s advantage. Technically, the general pointed out, Zen was still on the active-duty roster as a test pilot assigned to the Flighthawk program, which was one of the few Dreamland projects besides the F-119 not suspended in the wake of DreamStar. So technically, that’s where he had to report.

Air-thin.

But now, as the helo pushed through the thin desert air en route to its landing, Zen felt something he hadn’t had the luxury of feeling since his accident: fear. He realized he might not be ready to come back—certainly not here.

He slipped the chair backward against the restraining straps as the Super Jolly Green Giant began banking into its final approach. Earlier HH-53 types had been used as rescue choppers during the Vietnam War. More than likely somebody else with a broken spine had been sitting where he was sitting, staring at a door, wondering what he was going to do for the next fifty or sixty years, wondering if he was ready.

Wondering was a sucker’s strategy. Zen fixed his eyes on a bolt in the door handle, then bit his teeth together. The helicopter settled downward, the T64-GE-413 Turboshafts throttling back as the craft touched onto the long, smooth run of concrete. Zen kept his eyes pasted ahead as the crew chief kicked open the door; he waited without moving a muscle until the restraints on his wheelchair were removed. As the last belt slipped off, he pushed forward, rolling to the open portal.

There wasn’t a ramp. His choices were to banzai it, or wait for the crew chief and copilot to lift him down.

He waited.

“Here you go, Major,” said the copilot, a paunchy six-footer who strained as he took hold of the side of the chair.

Zen grunted. The sun threw its yellow arms from over the nearby mountains, greeting him. It would soon get warmer, but at the moment it was barely fifty. Zen felt cold despite his thick jacket as they released him onto the tarmac.

Two members of the security detail—specially assigned Air Force Spec Ops troops with rifles ready—stood a few yards away, near the entrance to Hangar One. There had been a few changes in his absence; he thought two of the hangars had been painted. Otherwise, it seemed very familiar.

Different, but familiar.

Zen waited as the crew chief retrieved his briefcase and bag from the helo.

“Sergeant. Put the bags on my lap, please.”

The sergeant looked down at him.

Pity. The worst thing.

“The guards won’t let you past them,” Zen said. “Let’s go.

“Sir—” The sergeant seemed to lose his voice for a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said finally. He placed the bag and briefcase on Zen’s legs, then stood back and snapped off a respectful and well-intentioned salute.

Zen was only vaguely aware of it. He’d turned his attention back to the guards, who had been joined by a third person just emerging from the hangar.

It was his wife.

SHE KNEW HE’D COME EARLY, TRY TO SNEAK IN without any fanfare. He’d been vague on the telephone, and that was a dead giveaway.

Breanna watched Jeff take the bags and wheel his way toward the security men. For a moment she twinged with anger that the crewman hadn’t carried the bags for her husband; then she realized Jeff had probably told him not to.

The Air Force security sergeants snapped to attention before challenging him. She’d stopped to talk to them earlier, warning them that Jeff would be arriving soon. She’d brought them coffee, then asked for a favor—treat him no differently than anyone. In fact, if they could be a little surly, that would be better.

He hated people treating him like a cripple. He’d told her that the very first night, when he regained consciousness—used that ugly word, “cripple,” before he even knew he was one.

It hurt to watch him wheel across the open cement. It made her want to cry, but that was the last, the very last thing she could do. It would be like kicking him in the face.

Breanna forced her arms to hang down at her sides. She could do this. She had to do this.

“Sir, your orders, sir,” snapped one of the two sergeants, his voice cold enough to chill the heart of a Russian paratrooper.

Zen scowled. The look was so familiar Breanna felt her heart snap. He placed the bag with his clothes and other personal items on the ground next to him. He undid the clasp on his leather attaché—an old gift from his mother before she died—and slipped out a small sheaf of paperwork. The routine was, of course, not necessary, since the captain was well known and in any event would soon have his identity checked at a retina scanner at their station inside the hangar. His status and orders, like those of everyone at Dreamland, were recorded on the security computer. But it was a good touch.

The first sergeant inspected the documents while the other sergeant remained watchful. “Sir, I have to ask you if you are armed,” said the man finally, holding the papers in his hand.

Before, Jeff would have smiled wryly and said something like, “The girls all think so.”

Now he stared straight ahead, his words snapping taut in the chilly morning breeze. “My personal weapon is in storage. I am presently unarmed.”

The guard handed him back his orders.

“Your bags, sir. I have to ask that you present them for inspection.”

Zen handed them over.

“If you’ll follow us, Major, we can complete the protocol inside. We require a retina scan. It’s a new procedure.”

The men turned smartly and began striding toward the hangar. One of them gave Breanna the faintest wink.

“Jeff.” The word slipped out faintly as he drew parallel to her. He didn’t answer; she put her hand gently on his upper arm, stopping him.

“I’m okay, Bree.”

“I know that,” she said.

She stepped back and watched him wheel into the hangar. An F-15C Eagle—coincidentally the one Mack Smith had been flying when the accident happened—sat at the far end. Jeff kept his head pointed straight ahead, following the two sergeants to the computerized security device.

Breanna held her breath as Greasy Hands—Chief Master Sergeant Clyde Parsons, the senior NCO in charge of the maintenance crews—ambled up with a cup of coffee in his fist.

“Yo, Zen. Good to have you back, Major. About goddamn time.”

Jeff snorted.

“Been a slew of changes around here during your R&R. Flighthawks only got back in the air two months ago. Civilian pilot—nice guy, but not for nothin’ his nickname’s ‘Rock.’ “ Greasy Hands offered Jeff the coffee. “Dab .a milk. Alzheimer’s hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

She couldn’t see Jeff’s face. He didn’t say anything, but did take the coffee. Jeff and Greasy Hands had gotten along particularly well before the accident, the sergeant looking after the pilot like a doting parent.

Parsons caught her gaze. “Megafortress’ll be ready for you in ten shakes, Captain. Just checked with the crew chief.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

The old geezer smirked. “Better watch out for Major Cheshire. Hear she’s on the rag today.”

Breanna wasn’t exactly sure how to take that; she was rarely sure exactly how to take anything Parsons said. Though Dreamland’s excellent work teams were a testimony to the first sergeant’s abilities as an organizer and mother hen, Parsons was old school and very uncomfortable with women being in the military. She thought that he was trying to treat her like one of the guys, which probably in his mind was a big honor. His approach to Cheshire—the senior project officer on the EB-52 Mega-fortress and Breanna’s immediate superior—was very different, stiff to the point of being overly correct.

“Your dad’s sure gonna stir things up,” added Parsons. “He’s a bee-whacker.”

“A bee-whacker?”

“Really likes to whack the old bees’ nest,” explained the sergeant. “Shake things up. Got all the officers jumpin’, even the pilots.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Bree.

“He’s a butt-kicker,” Parsons told Jeff. His admiration seemed genuine. “You best watch your fanny, Major. Place isn’t going to be the same with him in charge. Now I admired the general—a damn fine man. An excellent officer. But Colonel Bastian, hell, he’s a bee-whacker. Just what we need,” Greasy Hands added, shaking his head and grinning. “I’ve heard stories.”

“So have I,” said Breanna sharply. “Jeff, I have to go get ready for a mission.”

He ignored her. It was pretty much what she expected; pretty much what he’d done in the hospital and all during rehab, after the doctors had told him he’d never walk again.

Not sure what else to do, she turned quickly and started for the Megafortress’s underground bunker.

COLONEL BASTIAN LOOKED UP AS AX MADE HIS WAY across the office.

“Cup number two, not quite as strong,” said the sergeant, placing down the coffee mug. “As per request.”

Dog grunted and rubbed his eyes. He’d gotten less than two hours of sleep last night, spending the rest of the time reviewing project notes and trying to correlate some of the reports with the Pentagon data he’d come west with. His desk was littered with folders, printouts, white pads, photocopies, notes, index cards, Post-its, and even a few old-fashioned carbons.

“Sunday Times crossword puzzle in that mess somewhere?”

“Very funny, Ax.”

“You want to run through the day’s agenda yet, Colonel? I figure we wait any longer the day’ll be over and then we’ll be behind.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dog took the coffee and leaned back in the well-padded leather chair. One thing about Ax’s coffee: Even the weak cups were gut-burning strong. And hot—Dog backed his lips off without taking a full sip.

“It’ll cool down,” said the sergeant.

“Thanks for the advice. Well?”

“Okay, let’s see. Number-one priority—hire a secretary. Preferably one who can make coffee.”

“Agreed.”

“Number-two priority, we need some typists, clerks, etc., etc. I can’t be expected to do real work forever, you know.”

Ax folded his arms in front of his chest. He was joking. Dreamland had a full complement of military and civilian clerks, probably more than the ever-efficient Ax needed. But instead of giving himself away with a laugh as he usually did, his expression turned serious.

“You okay, Colonel? Usually, you’re rolling on the floor by now.”

“This is a worse mess than I thought, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Ax ran his left hand up behind his neck, scratching an imaginary itch. Gibbs’s actual age was a closely guarded military secret, but he gave every impression of being old enough to be Bastian’s father. There were many times, like now, when he reminded Dog of the old man—kinder, without the temper. Maybe smarter, though Bastian’s father had been sharp enough to make admiral and get himself elected to Congress.

“Colonel, you’ve been in worse messes,” said the sergeant. “It’s just the paper-shuffling’s got you down.”

“Five of these programs have to go,” said Bastian, pointing to the papers. “Ms. O’Day is calling this morning for my recommendation.”

Deborah O’Day was the National Security Advisor and the reason Bastian was here.

“Eenie, meeney, minee, moe.”

Dog laughed.

“Finally,” said the sergeant. “I was beginning to worry you left your sense of humor back in Washington somewhere.”

Dog smiled and took a sip of the coffee. The problem wasn’t deciding which programs should be cut. The problem was that the programs that should be cut were exactly the ones the brass, the White House, and the Congress wouldn’t cut. Worse, by recommending they be cut, all he would succeed in doing was anger people and administer the final coup de grace to Dreamland.

An argument could be made to close the base. The spy scandal aside, in many ways HAWC belonged to an earlier era. Bastian realized that the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War meant that big-ticket development projects with almost unlimited budgets were a thing of the past. Without the constant threat of a high-tech arms race, Congress would be loath to approve the immense “black” budget lines that had funded Dreamland.

But on the other hand, the end of the Cold War didn’t remove the threats to national security; it just changed what they were. In Bastian’s opinion—and in the opinion of the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor, and the President, as far as he could tell—cuttingedge technology would be even more important in fighting the sort of brushfire wars and terrorist actions America would face in the twenty-first century. With the future so unpredictably fluid and budget constraints the order of the day, high-tech weapons were going to be a critical force-multiplier. Delta Force was the model of the twenty-first-century Army—a highly trained, extremely mobile group ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The Air Force needed an equivalent. And it needed to multiply its limited resources with the country’s top asset—brainpower. That would be Dreamland’s role, providing cutting-edge technology to deal with a myriad of next-generation crises.

Bastian had written a briefing paper to that effect while working for the NSC under President Bush after the Gulf War. While it had gone largely unnoticed in the Administration at the time, it had attracted the attention of Deborah O’Day, a policy wonk and university professor doing consulting work for the NSC back then. O’Day had struck up a friendship with Bastian, even having him in to talk to her classes at George Washington University. Her appointment as National Security Advisor by President Lloyd Taylor had surprised a lot of people outside the government, but not Bastian, who realized she was as sharp as anyone in D.C.

Technically, Bastian was a long way down the chain of command from O’Day. But he’d worked for her in D.C. and she had personally pulled the strings to get him here.

“Assuming your phone call with Ms. O’Day is only its normal marathon length,” said Ax, “we can do this today like you wanted. You start seeing your section commanders, one by one, at 0800. Fifteen minutes a pop, that gets you to 1145, with a thirty-minute time-out for Ms. O’Day. Lunch at your desk. Senior scientists, two minutes apiece, you’ll be done by one.”

Dog looked up from his papers. “Two minutes?”

“Just checking to see if you were awake,” said the sergeant. “Fifteen minutes for the eggheads, like everybody else. Brings you to 1545, or maybe 1630. I can’t quite figure out their damn organization chart.”

“That will be fixed by tomorrow,” said Dog. “Each project gets a specific commander, with staff attached. Line officers in charge. This is a working squadron.”

Bastian hadn’t worked out all of the details yet, but his idea was relatively simple and followed the plan he had outlined years before. You got the technology onto the front lines by using it right away. The best way to do that was to slim down your organization. The people who had to use the weapons would be the people running the show.

“I’ll have the paperwork in two batches for you this morning,” said Ax. “Usual routine. And seriously, there are two guys I’d like to bring in to fill out the staff.”

“There’s a personnel freeze,” Dog reminded him.

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Ax grinned. He glanced down at the desk. “You want a piece of unsolicited advice, Colonel?”

“No.”

“I’d eighty-six this fancy desk and the bookshelves and the paintings, the whole bit. I mean, if you were a three-star like the last commander, it would be austere. Hell, simple even. But some Congressman comes wandering in here, he’s going to wonder why your office is fancier than his.”

“No Congressman’s wandering around Dreamland,” said Dog. “But thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime, Colonel. It’s free.”

“And worth every cent.”

SMITH PUNCHED THE TWO-PLACE F-15E NEARLY straight up, letting the big warbird feel her oats. The Pratt & Whitneys unleashed nearly sixty thousand pounds of thrust, easily overpowering gravity.

“Eeeeyow ! ! ! !” shouted the major’s backseat rider, a young staff sergeant selected from the engine maintenance shop. His yell of enthusiasm was so loud Smith had to knock the volume down on the plane’s interphone circuit.

At five thousand feet, Knife sliced the plane’s right wing in a sharp semicircle, leveling off in an invert that had the sergeant squealing with delight.

“Hot shit! Hot shit!” said the man as Smith brought the Strike Eagle right-side-up. His next comments were lost as Knife pulled a six-g bank and roll, literally spinning the plane on her back before heading off in the other direction.

“I love it! I love it!” said the sergeant when he got his breath back.

Knife grinned in spite of himself. He loved it too. The F-15E was designated as a strike aircraft, a bomber. But she had been developed from the basic F-15 Eagle design, and was still an Eagle at heart—a balls-out hard rocker that could load g’s on her wings like feathers and accelerate as easily as a bird hummed a tune.

Rolling through a fresh invert at near-supersonic speed, Knife realized he’d been on the damn F-119 project so long he’d almost forgotten that flying was supposed to be fun. This was why he’d joined the Air Force.

Two weeks before, Major Smith had been offered a slot in a provisional unit known only as Wing A. The details about its mission were sketchy—according to a friend who was helping put it together, it was going to be a blood-and-guts quick-response unit, a kind of Air Force equivalent of Delta Force. Smith would be Director of Operations for a four-plane F-16 sub-squadron connected with a black operation called Madcap Magician. It had been a while since he’d flown F-16’s, but all in all it sounded promising. When he checked it out through the back channels, however, he got mixed responses. One general whom he trusted a great deal thought it would be an A-1 career ticket to the upper ranks. Another said it was Hot Dog Heaven, a sure way to be shunted off the fast track into a career culvert.

But damn—it was a real live flying gig, and if it was like Delta Force, he’d at least be where the action was. Besides, it seemed obvious that Dreamland was about to be flushed. The previous commander was a three-star general; no way they were going to put a lieutenant colonel in charge if they were intending on keeping HAWC up and running.

And what a colonel. If last night’s self-important rant was any indication, Colonel Bastian—aka “God,” as everyone in the Gulf had called the one-time hotshot pilot turned Centcom strategic planner—had succumbed to serious delusions of grandeur. Knife was willing to concede that Bastian was an okay pilot and a reasonably good thinker; he knew that Dog had helped set up some good mission schemes while working with Black Hole, the central planning unit that ran the Gulf Air War out of a bunker in Riyadh. Bastian had also briefly served as a wing commander in action after the war, again supposedly doing a good job. But Dog’s ego had obviously gotten the better of him since.

Knife had been ninety percent sure he would take the new gig when he slipped into the Eagle this morning. Now he was committed. Good riddance, Dreamland. Good riddance, F-119, chariot of slugs.

Knife yanked the Eagle into another hard turn, leveled off, then reached for the throttle to see if the afterburners would work this early in the morning.

They did. His backseater let out a yelp as the plane threw off her shackles and started to move. The plane bucked for a moment, then seemed to tuck her wings back, sailing through the sky as if she were a schooner gliding across a glass-smooth lake.

“You ever break the sound barrier, Sergeant?” Knife asked as the engines swirled.

“Sir—no!” yelled his passenger.

“Well, now you have,” said Smith. He backed off the engines as they passed the boundary into Test Range K, which he’d been cleared to use as long as he stayed above five thousand feet. The airspace below was reserved because of static tests of an Army electronic-pulse system, due to begin within the half hour.

“See the tank down on the ground, Sergeant?” Knife asked.

“Affirmative, sir. That’s the EMF target. Think it’ll get nuked?”

“Couldn’t tell you. We’re talking Army here.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant with a laugh. “We’re shielded against those pulses, aren’t we?”

“Well, allegedly their weapon defeats standard shielding,” answered Knife, who knew that the test had been conducted about twenty times over the past month—obviously because the device didn’t work. “But, like I say, we’re talking Army.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, snickering again.

“We’ll give it plenty of room,” said Smith, starting to bank.

They’d been using Range K the day Stockard got nailed.

Poor bastard.

Stockard was a good pilot, but he hadn’t been quite good enough. A blink too slow, and it cost him.

Knife curled his hand around his stick and took another turn, a truly hard one this time, briefly touching eight g’s.

“What’d you think of that one?” Knife asked, easing back on the stick. “Sergeant?”

There was no answer.

“Sergeant?”

There was a low moan. Apparently the force of the turn had knocked his passenger unconscious.

Laughing out loud, Knife gunned the plane back toward the runway.

* * *

“CAN’T DISAGREE, MS. O’DAY. CAN’T.” COLONEL Bastian picked up his pen and began tracing a series of triangles on his white notepad. He leaned his left elbow against the chair’s armrest, the phone pressed against his ear. The National Security Advisor had just reminded him how important it was to keep Dreamland going.

“Well, then,” said O’Day, “what can we give them to cut?”

Bastian sighed. “I’ve been here a little more than twelve hours.”

“The Joint Chiefs’ recommendation is full closure and shutdown,” said O’Day. “I’m meeting with them in less than an hour. What bones do I throw them?”

“Well, I’d say preliminarily Megafortress, the Achilles laser array, definitely the Nightfighter A-10 upgrade. The Flighthawk U/MFVs, all the crap we’re doing for the Army—”

“Crap?”

“Excuse me. All of the joint-service projects can go.”

“No,” said O’Day firmly. “Those contracts are going to help keep you alive. I’m fairly certain we can keep the Army Secretary on board. They’re gaga over the EM pulse weapon and their smart bullets. And that carbon-boron vest thing, the body-armor project.”

Bastian rolled his eyes. “If we let politics guide weapons development—”

“Oh, cut the crap, Colonel,” snapped O’Day. “Since when hasn’t it? Look, the first battle we wage is for survival. We keep Dreamland running, then we move it into the twenty-first century. I’ll take care of the politics,” she added, her tone softening. “Just give me a bottom-line number. We’ll work the details out later.”

“If we could take the money from the F-119 project—”

“Why don’t you just suggest you’d like to sleep with the Speaker’s wife?” snarled O’Day. “That would go over better.”

Dog laughed despite himself. One thing he’d say for O’Day—she could be as irreverent as anyone he knew in the military. She was just very choosy about it.

“It wasn’t meant as a joke,” added O’Day.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Bastian contritely.

“All right, listen, Dog, I have a subcommittee meeting on Somalia and Iran in thirty seconds, so I’m going to have to sign off. Solid numbers by Tuesday.”

The scrambled line snapped clear.

Bastian gave himself a moment to recover, then called to Ax to let his next appointment in.

The sergeant appeared in the doorway. “Bit of a complication, Colonel.”

“What happened, he got tired of waiting?”

“No, sir,” said Ax. “Problem is, he might not get through the door. It’s, uh, Major Stockard, Colonel,” added the sergeant. “He’s in a wheelchair.”

“Stockard’s next?”

“Yes, sir. Projects in alpha order. He’s the senior officer on the Flighthawks.”

Dog stood up. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this. Even before Stockard’s accident their relationship was at best chilly, at worst nonexistent.

“I suggested Room 103B,” added Ax. “That would be the conference room two doors down the hallway. It has double doors. He’s waiting. You’re backed up three appointments already,” added the sergeant as Bastian got up. Ax pointed to a side door, which opened into a vacant office. “Shortcut, sir.”

As he reached the door, Bastian realized the frame was actually fairly wide, more than enough for a wheelchair. His sergeant had arranged the meeting place to give both men more privacy. Typical Ax. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Lunch’ll be waiting.”

* * *

ZEN ROLLED BACK AND FORTH, TRYING TO WORK OFF some of his energy, some of his nervousness. He felt like a nugget pilot, moving an F-15 up to the flight line for his first takeoff, jiggling the rudder pedals up and down. You could always tell who was new or at least nervous—the twin rudders whacked back and forth like loose shingles in the wind.

He willed himself to stop. You didn’t want to tip off the enemy to your vulnerabilities.

Everyone was the enemy, including his father-in-law. The fact that Zen greatly respected Bastian—whom he’d met during the Gulf War while liaisoning as an intel officer for his squadron—was an argument only for greater vigilance.

The creak of the side door took him by surprise. Zen sat up stiffly in his chair as Colonel Bastian brushed into the room.

“Major, good morning.” Bastian’s tone gave nothing away; he could have been greeting a Chinese military attaché. He closed the door with a slap and then folded his arms in front of his chest. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re still assigned on the Flighthawk project.” Bastian’s tone was somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Yes, sir.” Stockard resisted the impulse to add something—anything—to the statement. He and his lawyer had gone over and over this point. Don’t argue, don’t justify, don’t explain. Just state your assignment and presence as a fact. Anything else will inevitably weaken our position.

Zen’s position. As supportive as his lawyer was, Jeff was in this alone.

“I think we have an unusual situation,” said the colonel.

“The Flighthawks are an unusual project,” said Zen.

“Major, I’m going to spare you the rah-rah bullshit,” said Bastian. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Dreamland’s on the chopping block. Even if HAWC survives, at least a dozen projects are going to be killed. Everything’s in play. The Flighthawks especially. Playing with robots is a luxury we can’t afford right now.”

“Flying with a pair of Flighthawks is like having two wing mates at your beck and call,” said Zen. He was surprised to be talking about the project instead of himself. “We’re just scratching the surface.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Look at what UAVs did on the first day of the Air War in the Gulf,” said Zen. “They were the ones responsible for helping knock out the Iraqi air defenses.”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened on the first day of the Air War,” snapped Bastian.

“Excuse me, Colonel. I know you helped plan the attacks. But I can tell you, as someone who was there too—if we had Flighthawks, the F/A-18 that was splashed in air-to-air on Day One would not have gone down.”

Bastian said nothing. The Navy plane had been knocked down by an Iraqi air-to-air missile, the only air-to-air casualty of the war. Had the Iraqi Air Force been more capable, there would undoubtedly have been many more.

“Colonel, simply using these planes as scouts will double strike effectiveness and survivability,” continued Zen. “They can provide close escort to AWACS and transport types, freeing F-15’s and eventually F-22’s for more important work. Fit them with iron bombs and they can do the job of A-10A Warthogs, close-in ground support on the front lines without anywhere near the human risk. The Flighthawks are the future. I wouldn’t have come back here if I didn’t believe it.”

“That’s not the issue,” said Bastian dryly.

“If you want to cut something, cut the damn JSF. It’s a flying camel. Hell, the Warthogs go faster. You could build two hundred of them for the price of one F-119.”

The comparison to the A-10 was an exaggeration—but only just. Bastian scowled, but said nothing.

“The Flighthawks need work. I’m proof of that,” said Zen. “But in five years, maybe three, they’ll own the skies. I guarantee.”

“Robots will never outfly men,” said Bastian.

They glared at each other.

“We’re reorganizing our command structure,” said the colonel finally, still holding Zen’s eyes with his stare. “Each project will be its own flight. Pilots are going to be much more active and important in the command structure. It’ll be a lot like a combat squadron.”

“You mean I’m going to be in charge of the Flighthawks?”

“It means the senior pilot or officer will be responsible, yes. Everyone is going to be involved. Everybody responsible. No glamour-boy hotshots. No complicated chain of command where everyone can point a finger at everyone else. Each person will have one flight—one project, one assignment.”

Zen nodded. “And if the Flighthawks get canceled?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. I know where you stand.” Bastian winced, but plunged on. “And you know where I stand. That’s the way I run things.”