Текст книги "Drone Strike"

Senator Jeff “Zen” Stockard, member of the Senate Intelligence and Armed Services committees (Breanna’s husband)

Shahin Gorud, CIA paramilitary operative in Iran

Captain Thomas Granderson, commander of Delta Force special task group operating in Iran

Jeff “Grease” Ransom, Delta Force sergeant, assigned as Turk’s personal bodyguard

Iranians

First Air General Ari Shirazi, head of the Iranian Air Force

Captain Parsa Vahid, Iranian air force pilot

Lieutenant Nima Kayvan, Vahid’s squadron mate

Colonel Zal Vafa Khorasani, Pasdaran political officer

Contents

Key Players

Man Bomb

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Adventurer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Missionary

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Superman

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Orphan

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Refugee

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Survivor

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

About the Author

Also in Dreamland Series

Also by Dale Brown

Copyright

About the Publisher

MAN BOMB

1

Dreamland

THEY CALLED THE AIRCRAFT “OLD GIRL,” AND NOT without good reason.

Turk Mako was used to flying planes that had come off the assembly line before he was born. This one had been retired two years before he was welcomed into the world.

It was an F-4 Phantom, a tough old bird conceived during the early Cold War era, when planes had more steel than plastic and a pilot’s muscles mattered nearly as much as his tactics in a high-g fur ball. So it wasn’t surprising that the retirement didn’t quite take. Within weeks of being tarped, Old Girl was rescued from the boneyard to run some data-gathering experiments at Nellis Air Force Base. She soon found her way to Dreamland, the top-secret development area still off limits in the desert and mountains north of Nellis.

In the years since, the F-4 had helped develop a wide range of systems, from simple missile-launch detectors to completely autonomous (meaning, no humans anywhere in the decision tree) flight computers. The sheer size of her airframe was an important asset, as was her stability in flight and dependability—the last as much a tribute to tender maintenance and constant small improvements in the systems as the original design. But in truth she was important these days as much for her second seat as anything else—Old Girl could easily accommodate engineers and scientists eager to see the results of their work.

She could also ferry VIPs eager to glimpse Dreamland’s latest high-tech toys in action. Which was the case today.

Captain Mako—universally called Turk—checked his altitude, precisely five thousand feet above ground level. He made sure of his location and heading, then gave a quick call to his backseater over the plane’s interphone.

“Admiral, how are you doing back there, sir?”

“Fine, son,” answered Vice Admiral Blackheart, his voice implying the exact opposite. “When the hell is this damn show starting?”

Turk ground his back teeth together, a habit some two hours old. Blackheart had been disagreeable from the moment they met for the preflight briefing. Turk strained to be polite, but he was a test pilot, not a stinking tour bus driver, and though he knew better than to sound off, he couldn’t help but wish for deliverance—he, too, wanted the exercise over ASAP.

“Well?” demanded Blackheart.

“Soon as the controller clears in the B-1R, sir. I believe they’re actually running exactly on schedule.”

“I don’t have all day. See if you can get them moving.”

“Yes, sir.” Turk had never met a man whose personality was better suited to his name. But he had to be polite. Blackheart wasn’t just a vice admiral—he happened to be in charge of Navy technology procurement. He was therefore a potential client of the Office of Special Technology, Turk’s military “employer.” Special Technology was a hybrid Department of Defense unit originally chartered to operate like a private company, winning contracts from the different service branches to supply them with new technology. Which meant Blackheart was potentially a critical client, and he had to suck up to him.

Or at least not offend him. Which, he had been warned repeatedly, was ridiculously easy to do.

Turk clicked his talk button, transmitting to the controller. “Tech Observer to Range Control One. Requesting approximate ETA of exercise.”

“Perpetrator is at the southern end of the range and preparing to initiate exercise,” said the controller, who was sitting in a bunker several miles to the south. He repeated some contact frequencies and general conditions, running down flight information Turk already had. By the time he finished, the B-1Q was in visual range, making a low-altitude run from the south at high speed. Turk nudged Old Girl’s stick, banking slightly to give his passenger a better view. The B-1Q was flying at two hundred feet above the flat sand of the glasslike desert range. Old Girl was about a half mile from its flight path, and would keep that distance for the duration of the demonstration.

Like Old Girl, the B-1Q was a flying test bed. She, too, had undergone extensive refurbishing, so much so that she now belonged to the future rather than the past. Having started life as a B-1B Lancer, the plane had been stripped to her skeleton and rebuilt. Her external appearance and performance were similar to the B-1R; like the updated Bone, she was capable of flying well over Mach 2 for a sustained period and carrying armloads of both air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons. But the B-1Q’s electronics were very different than those in the B-1R model, and her internal bomb bay held something more advanced than any of the missiles other bombers could unleash.

Turk glanced at the B-1Q as the bomb bay door opened. A gray cloud spewed from it, as if she had been holding a miniature thunderstorm in her belly. The cloud grew black, boiling, then dissipating. Black hailstones appeared, rising and falling around the airplane, until it was enveloped in a loose black cocoon.

“That’s it?” said the admiral. “Looks like a net.”

“In a way. Sure,” said Turk. It was the least cantankerous comment the admiral had made all morning.

“Interesting.”

The admiral remained silent as the cloud and the B-1Q continued downrange. Turk tipped the Phantom into a bank, easing off his stick as he realized he should keep the g’s to a minimum for his VIP.

Old Girl bucked with a bit of unexpected turbulence as she moved through the turn. Even she seemed a bit fed up with tour bus duty this morning.

The B-1Q started an abrupt climb. As it did, the black cloud began to separate. Half of it stayed with the bomber. The rest continued forward, forming itself into a wedge.

“So that’s the swarm,” said the admiral. Not only was he not complaining, he sounded enthusiastic.

“Yes, sir,” said Turk.

“You’re going to follow it, aren’t you? Yes? You’re following it?”

“Yes, sir. I, uh, I have to keep at a set distance.”

“Get as close as you can.”

“Yes, sir. Working on it.” Turk was already as close as the exercise rules allowed, and wasn’t about to violate them—hot shit pilot or not, that would get him grounded quicker than pissing off the admiral. He tilted the aircraft just enough to placate the admiral, who remained silent as the Phantom followed the black wedge.

The wedge—aka “swarm”—was a flight of twenty nano-UAVs, officially known as XP–38UVNs. Barely the size of a cheap desk calculator, the small aircraft looked like a cross between lawn darts and studies for a video game. With V-shaped delta wings, they were powered by small engines that burned Teflon as fuel. The engines were primarily for maneuvering; most of their flight momentum came from their initial launch and gravity: designed to be “fired” from space, they could complete complicated maneuvers by altering the shape and bulges of their airfoil. Though their electronic brains were triumphs of nanotechnology and engineering, the real breakthroughs that made them possible were in the tiny motors, switches, and actuators that brought the skeleton to life.

Dubbed “Hydra,” the nano-UAVs stood on the threshold of a new era of flight, one where robots did the thinking as well as the doing. They could be preprogrammed for a mission; their collaborative “brains” could deal with practically all contingencies, with humans in the loop only for emergencies. It was a brave new world . . . one that Turk didn’t particularly care for, even if as a test pilot he’d been an important cog in its creation.

Cog being the operative word, as far as he was concerned.

The nano-UAVs headed for a simulated radar complex—a vanlike truck with a dish and a set of antennas transmitting a signal that mimicked Russia’s Protivnik-GE mobile 3D L-Band radar. The L-Band radar was generally effective against smallish stealthy aircraft, including the F-35. The exercise today mimicked a deep-penetration mission, where a B-1Q and its swarm would cut past enemy defenses, clearing the way for attack planes to follow.

As a general rule, L-Band radars could detect conventional UAVs, even the RQ-170 Sentinel, because their airframes weren’t large enough to create the proper scatter to confuse the long wavelength of the radar. But the Hydras were so small and could fly so low, they were dismissed by the radar as clutter. Once past the calculated danger zone, the individual members of the swarm suddenly bolted together, becoming a literal fist in the sky as they pushed directly over the trailer housing the radar’s control unit.

“Looks like an air show,” said the admiral. “Or a school of fish.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So they scored a direct hit on that antenna, by the rules of the encounter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the van?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Narrow target, that antenna.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hard to hit from the air?”

“Well, um . . .”

Actually, taking out a radar antenna or van was child’s play with even the most primitive bomb, and a heck of a lot cheaper: the nano-UAVs cost about roughly $250,000 per unit; a half dozen would have been used to take down the antenna and another half dozen the van—a $3 million pop. In contrast, a five-hundred-pound Paveway II bomb, unpowered and outmoded but incredibly accurate under most circumstances, cost under $20,000.

On the other hand, as air vehicles went, the individual units were relatively cheap and extremely versatile. Mass produce the suckers and the cost might come down tenfold—practically to the price of a bomb.

Hell of a lot cheaper than a pilot, Turk knew.

The flock that had attacked the radar climbed and reformed around the B-1 as it neared the end of the range. The big bomber and its escorts banked and passed the Phantom on the left; Turk held Old Girl steady and slow, giving his passenger an eyeful. Having exhausted a good portion of their initial flight energy, the Hydras now used their tiny motors to climb in the wake of the B-1, using a wave pattern that maximized their fuel as they rose. The pattern was so complicated that Turk, who had controlled the UAVs during some early testing, would never have been able to fully master it without the aid of the nano-UAVs’ flight computers. As one techie put it, the pattern looked like snowflakes dancing in a thundershower.

As the Hydras closed around the B-1Q, Turk did a quick twist back, putting the Phantom on track as the second part of the demonstration began—two F-35s flew at the bomber, preparing to engage. When they were about twenty miles apart, the F-35s each fired a single AMRAAM-plus2, the latest version of the venerable medium range antiaircraft radar missile. The missiles were detected on launch by the B-1Q; a second later a dozen UAVs peeled off, forming a long wedge above the mother ship. As they continued flying straight ahead, the B-1Q rolled right and tucked toward the earth.

“Missiles will be at two o’clock,” said Turk. “Watch the swarm and you’ll see them come in.”

The electronics aboard the UAVs were marvels of nanoengineering, but even so, space aboard the tiny craft was at a premium. This meant that not every plane could be equipped with the full array of sensors even Old Girl took for granted. One might have a full radar setup, another optical sensors. The different information gathered could then be shared communally, with the interlinked computers deciding how to proceed.

All of the units contained small radar detectors, and while their power was limited, the size of the swarm allowed them to detect the radar at a fair distance. Thus, the UAVs knew that they had been locked on even before the antiaircraft missiles were fired. They remained in formation as the missiles approached, in effect fooling the AMRAAMs into thinking they were the B-1. Then, just as it looked as if the AMRAAMs would hit the swarm, the Hydras dispersed and the missiles flew on through them.

The radio buzzed with a signal meant to simulate the warheads exploding in frustration.

“Nice,” said the admiral.

Turk cranked Old Girl around the range as the demonstration continued. The UAVs were now put through a series of maneuvers, flying a series of aerial acrobatics. They were air show quality, with the little aircraft darting in and out in close formation.

“Impressive,” said Blackheart as the show continued. “Nice. Very nice.”

Thank God, thought Turk to himself as the aircraft crisscrossed above their mother ship. The admiral seemed soothed and even enthusiastic. Breanna would be happy. And tomorrow he could get back to real work.

BREANNA STOCKARD RESISTED THE URGE TO PACE behind the consoles of Control Area D4. As head of the Department of Defense Office of Special Technology and the DoD Whiplash director, she knew very well that pacing made the people around her nervous. This was especially true of project engineers. And those in Dreamland Control Bunker 50-4 were already wound tighter than twisted piano wire.

Someone had started a rumor that the fate of the nano-UAV program they’d been working on for the past five years depended on whether the Navy bought in. To them, this meant their dreams and careers depended entirely on the tyrannical Admiral Blackheart.

Breanna knew that the situation was considerably more complicated. In fact, today’s test had nothing to do with the long-term survival of the program already assured, thanks to earlier evaluations. But if anything, what was at stake today was several magnitudes more important.

Not that she could mention that to anyone in the room.

The demonstration was going well. The feed from the Phantom played across the large screen at the front of the command center, showing the V-winged Hydras cascading around their B-1 mother ship. The maneuvers were so precise, the image so crisp, it looked like an animation straight out of an updated version of Star Wars: snip off the fuselage, extend the wings a bit, and the nano-UAVs might even pass for black-dyed X-Wings.

Almost.

In any event, on-screen they looked more like animated toys than real aircraft. It was for precisely that reason that Breanna had insisted on putting the admiral in the Phantom—if he didn’t see it with his own eyes, the cynical bastard would surely think it was complete fiction.

The bunker, part of the Dreamland facilities leased by the Office of Special Technology from the Air Force, was about four times too large for the small staff needed to run the demonstration. That seemed to be an intractable rule of high-tech development: despite the growing complexity of the systems developed here, the head count only went down. Soon, Breanna mused, she’d be running the entire show herself from her iPhone.

Walking down to the UAV monitoring station, she checked on the large radar plot that showed where all the aircraft were on the range. Turk was doing a good job in the F-4. Flying the plane was the easy part; keeping his mouth free of wise-ass remarks was surely harder. But with the stakes high, she wanted a pilot familiar not only with the program but with combat in general, available to answer whatever question the admiral thought to ask.

Unfortunately, Turk had seemed somewhat moody of late. There was no doubt about his flying abilities, or his adaptability—whether flying an F-22 Raptor, an F-16 Block 30, or the mostly automated Tigershark II, he handled himself with equal aplomb. A bit on the shy side, he lacked the outsized ego that hamstrung many up-and-coming officers; he might even be considered humble, at least for a test pilot. But like a good number of his peers, Turk had a tendency to snark first and think later.

This tendency had increased since he returned from Africa, where he’d spent time as a substitute pilot with an A-10E squadron. Even though they’d been greatly upgraded since their original incarnation, the planes remained intense mudfighters at heart. Perhaps working the stick and rudder of the old-style aircraft in the middle of combat had woken something deep in Turk’s soul. He seemed frustrated by his taste of combat; Breanna sensed he wanted more.

“Almost done,” said Teddy Armaz, looking up from his station. His right leg pumped up and down. Breanna wasn’t sure if this was a sign of nervousness or relief.

“Good distribution on the computing,” said Sara Rheingold, working the console next to Armaz. Rheingold’s team had built the distributed intelligence system that flew the nano-UAVs. In essence a network of processors aboard the Hydras, it was the most advanced artificial intelligence flight system yet, an improvement over even the system used in the Air Force’s new Sabre UAVs, which were still undergoing field testing.

And which had so recently given Whiplash considerable difficulty in Africa.

The Hydras evidenced no such problems. Rheingold began talking about some of the performance specs, quickly losing Breanna in the minutiae. She nodded and tried to sound enthusiastic. Meanwhile, she noticed that the two men working the flight control board were punching their screens dramatically. A second later they called her forward to their station.

“They just had an event over on Weapons Testing Range Two,” said Paul Smith, acting flight liaison. His job was to coordinate with Dreamland control, monitoring what was going on elsewhere at the massive test center.

“Does it concern us?”

“It may,” interrupted Bob Stevenson, the flight controller. “It sent a magnetic pulse out across the range.”

“I have some anomalies,” reported Armaz behind her.

“Me, too,” said Rheingold. “The root connection to the mother ship is off-line.”

“Restore it,” said Breanna.

“Working on it,” said Armaz, hunching over his console and tapping his foot more violently than ever.

“KNOCK IT OFF! KNOCK IT OFF!”

The radio transmission came as a complete surprise. Turk steadied his hand on the stick of Old Girl, holding the plane on course at the eastern end of the test area.

“Knock it off,” repeated the B-1Q pilot. “I have a complete system failure. My control panel is blank. Repeat—I have no panel. Is anyone hearing me?”

The tower acknowledged, clearing the B-1Q to proceed to the main runway. But the malfunction aboard the B-1Q had an effect on the radio as well; the pilot could broadcast but not hear.

“Tower, this is Tech Observer,” said Turk, interrupting the hail. “I’m about three hundred meters behind Perpetrator, five thousand meters above him. He doesn’t seem to have any damage.”

“Roger, Observer. We copy. He’s not hearing our transmissions. Can you get close enough for a visual to the cockpit?”

“Attempting.”

Turk nudged his stick and throttle, putting Old Girl into a gentle dive, warily drawing closer to the bigger plane. He let the Phantom get ahead of the B-1Q’s cockpit, making sure the pilot of the bomber knew he was there before sliding close enough to signal him.

“Do you have eyes on pilot?” asked the tower.

“Working on it,” answered Turk.

Old Girl balked a bit as he slid closer. A buzzer sounded, and Bitching Betty began complaining that he was too close.

“What are we doing, Captain?” asked Admiral Blackheart.

“We’re going to lead him down,” said Turk. “But first I want to make sure he can land. His gear is– Shit!”

Turk pushed the Phantom onto her left wing as a black BB shot past his windscreen. For a moment he was back in Africa, ducking bullets from rebel aircraft.

That was easy compared to what happened next. As Turk came level, the nano-UAVs began buzzing Old Girl, flitting back and forth within inches not just of the plane but the canopy.

“Control, I need an override on the swarm,” said Turk. “They’re looking at me like I’m an intruder. They’re in Divert One. Get them out of it.”

Divert One was a preprogrammed strategy, where the nano-UAVs would force another aircraft down. The Hydras would continue to push him lower and in the direction of a runway designated by the mother ship. Given the B-1Q’s malfunctions, however, Turk couldn’t be sure where the aircraft thought they were going—and in any event, he had no intention of complying. He banked into a turn, aiming to get away.

The UAVs continued to buzz around him. Damn things were staying right with him—he saw a small orange burst from one; apparently they still had plenty of fuel aboard.

“Tech Observer, state your intentions,” radioed Breanna Stockard from the control bunker.

“I’m trying to lead Perpetrator in. The swarm seems to have a different idea.”

“Negative, Whiplash. I want you to divert to Emergency Runway Three. We have two chase planes moving to escort Perpetrator home.”

“Uh—”

“Not a point for discussion, Captain.”

“Acknowledged. But, ma’am, I have the swarm on me. They’re in Divert One and they want me to land.”

“We copy.”

“How’s their fuel?” he asked.

“No less than three-quarters,” she told him.

Turk knew the nano-UAVs could touch roughly a thousand kilometers an hour if they went all out. While Old Girl had been around the block a few times since she was built, she could still push Mach 2, twice the speed of sound and approximately 1,236 kilometers an hour. But if he accelerated away, he would risk losing the robot planes over the range. And besides, they were more an annoyance than a threat.

He tacked north, toward the airstrip. There was a possibility, he reasoned, that they might land with him.

“What’s going on?” asked the admiral from the backseat.

“I’m being directed to an emergency landing,” Turk said. “The B-1’s on its own.”

“What’s with these aircraft?”

“They’re following a program intended to make an intruder land if they’re in a restricted airspace.”

“They’re awful damn close.”

“Yes, sir. That’s their job.”

“This isn’t part of the demonstration, is it?” asked the admiral.

“Negative, sir.”

BREANNA DROPPED TO HER HAUNCHES BETWEEN Armaz and Rheingold. “Can we get them back?”

“The systems in the B-1Q are completely shut down,” said Armaz. “If I could communicate with them, I might be able to walk the mission specialist through a restart—it might be all we need. But at this point I’m getting no telemetry from them, let alone radio. That magnetic pulse knocked them out good.”

Breanna glanced down at the controller. Dreamland Control had just declared a total range emergency, stopping all flight operations. The problem had originated in a weapon designed to fire small magnetic pulses at cruise missiles, destroying their electronics and therefore their targeting ability. It appeared to be more effective than its designers hoped.

Breanna turned back to the computer station. “Jen, what do you think?”

“Are you talking to me?” asked Sara Rheingold.

“I’m sorry. Yes.” Breanna realized her mistake: Jen was Jennifer Gleason, who had held a similar position years before. It was a kind of Freudian slip she made only in times of stress, under exactly the kind of conditions that Jennifer had dealt with so effectively.

Ancient history.

“We may be able to take them back from the ground station,” she said. “I’m trying the overrides.”

“We’ll take this in steps,” said Breanna. “Let’s get Old Girl down first, then we’ll work on the Hydras.”

“Can Turk land with them buzzing around him?” asked Rheingold.

“That’s why he gets the big bucks.”

TURK HELD THE STICK STEADY AS THE SMALL AIRCRAFT buzzed around him. It was like flying with a swarm of angry bees in the cockpit. The tiny aircraft darted every which way in front of him. Even though he knew they were programmed to get no closer than a foot, the psychological effect was intense.

“Control, the UAVs are still with me,” Turk radioed. “What’s their status?”

“We’re working to recapture them,” the controller said.

“Do you want me to land?”

“Negative at this time. Stand by.”

His altitude had dropped to 3,000 feet. He was lined up perfectly on the runway, a long, smooth strip marked out in the salt bed a few miles away.

“Tech Observer, can you remain airborne for a while longer?” asked the controller when he came back.

“Uh, affirmative—roger that. What’s the plan?”

“Turk, we want the B-1 to land first,” said Breanna. “We have a chase plane guiding him in. We think we can take over the UAVs when he lands.”

“Sure, but you know they’re still trying to force me down,” said Turk. “They’re pretty damn annoying.”

“Do you need to land?”

“Well, ‘need’ is a strong word. Negative on that.”

“Your passenger?”

Turk glanced behind over his shoulder, then selected the interphone.

“Admiral, they want us to stay up for a while more. That OK?”

“Do what you have to do, son. As long as these things don’t hit us.”

“Yes, sir.” Turk went back to the radio. “We can stay up.”

The B-1 was still without radio communications and, presumably, the bulk of its electronic gear. About half the nano-UAVs had stayed with it, flying behind the wings as it approached Dreamland’s main test runway. Turk caught a brief glimpse of it descending, wings spread, wheels down, as he began an orbit over Emergency Runway 3. He didn’t see much: the UAVs continued to pester him, buzzing in his path.

“What are these damn things trying to do?” asked the admiral from the backseat.

“They want us to land. The controller thinks they’ll break off when the B-1 puts down.”

“What do you think?”

The question caught Turk by surprise. “Not really sure, Admiral.”

“Are we in trouble?”

“Oh, negative, sir. It’s annoying, but I’ve seen this dance before. They’re actually programmed to fly very close, twelve inches close, but they won’t actually hit us.”

“This is a preprogrammed routine?”

“The command is, yes.” Turk explained that while the nano-UAVs used distributed intelligence—in other words, they shared their “brains”—the individual planes could also rely on a library of commands and routines, which was happening then. The first versions of the Flighthawks—much larger combat UAVs originally launched and controlled from EB-52s—had made use of similar techniques.

“So if it’s programmed, won’t the enemy be able to learn it and defeat it?” asked the admiral.

“They can be programmed for the specific mission,” said Turk. “And this—it’s kind of like a football team calling signals. They know they have to keep a certain position and get a certain result, which they all react to.”

“They seem angry,” said the admiral.

“Oh yes, sir.” Turk straightened the aircraft. “Definitely pissed off.”

The B-1 landed. If that had any effect on the UAVs, it wasn’t obvious.

“Control, what’s our status?” Turk asked when five minutes had passed.

“Still trying to get the connection broken, Whiplash.”

“Maybe I can break it myself,” offered Turk. “I’ll point my nose up and go afterburners. We’ll stay over the range, so if they drop into Landing Three Preset, they’ll come back to you.”

“Negative, Whiplash. Negative,” said Breanna sharply. “You have a passenger.”

“Roger that.” Turk toyed with the idea of explaining the situation to the admiral and asking what he thought—he suspected Blackheart, who was undoubtedly listening in, would approve—but decided he’d better not.

The controller guided him through a series of turns as they did whatever they were doing from the ground station, all to no avail.

As he continued to circle, Turk guessed that the engineers were trying to figure out what would happen when he landed—would the UAVs land with him, as they were programmed to do when landing with the B-1? Or would they reform and fly on their own? If that happened, there was no telling what they might do next.

Which explained the flight of F-22s from nearby Nellis air base that were being vectored to the north side of the range. The radars that worked the Dreamland defense lasers were also tracking them.

“Whiplash Observer, how much fuel do you have left?” asked the controller.

“We’re good for another half hour or so,” he told the controller, looking at Old Girl’s gauges. The instruments were still old-school clock-style readouts. “Add twenty to that in reserve. You know. Give or take.”