Nerve Center (3 page)

Lieutenant Colonel Bastian was, more than anything else, a front-line fighter jock. It did not matter that his last mission in combat had been more than five years ago during the Gulf War. Nor did it matter that that mission was actually in a bomber—the F-15E Strike Eagle, at the time one of the newest swords in the weapons trove. It did not even matter that his present post as a commander—a
ground
commander—was several hundred times more important than anything he had done during the war.

What mattered was that he
was
a fighter pilot. Dog thought like a fighter pilot. He talked like a fighter pilot. He walked—some might say swaggered—like a fighter pilot. One who had seen combat. One who had big hours in F-16’s as well as F-15’s. A fighter pilot who had flown F-4’s, F-111’s, and even an A-10A once or twice. A fighter pilot who had taken the stick of an F-117 and a turn in an F-22 demonstrator. In short, a zippersuit who could fly and had flown anything the Air Force had to offer, and had done it very well.

Except for today, when he was sitting at the helm of an antiquated, out-of-date, obsolete, lumbering, slow-as-a-cow-going-backward BUFF. A plane as old as he was, and twenty times as creaky.

Actually, if it
had
been simply a B-52, Dog might not have felt as bad. The Stratofortress’s vintage controls took a hell of a lot of getting used to. Levers and knobs stuck out at all angles, the dash looked like the display case in a clock shop, and there was no way to get comfortable in the seat until a dozen hard landings form-fitted your butt. But the B-52 he was flying had been rebuilt from the fuel tanks outward as an
EB-52.
Rebuilt and reskinned, reengined and recontrolled, the Megafortress retained the soul of the old machine—the most capable and durable bomber of the Cold War era. But she flexed twenty-first-century muscles. It was like having the wisdom and experience of a sixty-five-year-old—and the muscles and reflexes of a twenty-one-year-old young buck.

As Breanna somewhat gushingly put it after they landed.

“I can do without the metaphors, thank you, Captain Stockard,” snapped Dog, unhooking himself from the seat restraints.

Or rather, trying to unhook himself. Damn, he couldn’t even undo a stinking belt buckle today.

“All I’m saying, Daddy, is that Raven takes a little getting used to. It’s not your average F-16. I know that with a few more flights, you’ll be right on top of it.”

The restraint finally snapped clean. Dog unfolded himself from the seat, struggling to maintain what little was left of his dignity as he left the plane. The other crew members—he had foolishly agreed to fly with a navigator and a weapons officer—wisely made their way out the ventral hatch well ahead of him.

“Daddy—”

“And another thing, Captain.” Bastian twisted at the back of the flight deck before starting downward. “Do not, under any circumstances, while we are on duty—at
work—ever
refer to me as Daddy, Dad, Pop, Poppy, Father, Papa, or anything in that vein. Got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

The Megafortress’s stealthy carbon-resin skin was specially treated to withstand high temperatures. The runway apron, however, seemed to melt as Dog stalked from the plane, which was being refueled for a flight by another crew. He headed toward the ramp to the Megafortress’s subterranean hangar, where a state-of-the-art simulator waited to replay his flying mistakes in bold colors.

A black Jimmy SUV with a row of flashing blue lights whipped off the access ramp to his right, speeding toward him. Dog stopped, thankful for the interruption, even if the flashing lights boded a problem. The Jimmy belonged to his head of base security, Captain Danny Freah. Danny was loath to use the blue lights—he claimed they made the truck look like it was leading a fire department parade—so something serious must be up.

But instead of Freah, Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs pulled down the driver’s-side window as the truck rolled up.

“Colonel, you have visitors,” said the sergeant.

“Visitors who?” snapped Dog.

“Secretary-to-be Keesh for one,” said Ax. “A whole pack of muckety-mucks nipping at his heels.”

An ex-Congressman, John Keesh was the new Administration’s nominee for Defense Secretary. Bastian knew him vaguely from Washington, but hadn’t seen or spoken to him for months. He was expected to be confirmed next week.

Last November’s elections had completely rearranged the defense landscape, removing Bastian’s chief patron and booster, National Security Director Deborah O’Day. Her likely replacement, Philip Freeman, was unknown to Bastian personally. The only ranking holdover from O’Day’s staff was Jed Barclay, a young Harvard whiz kid who had more pimples than experience. His official title was Deputy NSC Assistant for Technology and Foreign Relations, though he had been more of a freelance troubleshooter for O’Day.

“Why the hell didn’t somebody tell me Keesh was coming?” Bastian asked Ax.

“Advanced warning systems completely smoked,” admitted the sergeant. “Captain Freah’s already giving them the two-dollar tour.”

Taken off guard, Dog settled for the passenger’s seat as he contemplated what the surprise VIP tour might mean. That was a mistake, as Ax’s screeching takeoff quickly confirmed. Bastian grabbed desperately for the door handle, trying to keep himself from shooting through the windshield as the sergeant threw the truck into reverse and whipped back toward the access road back to the main area of the base. Gibbs had no peer when it came to organizing an administrative staff and handling the paperwork of command. Driving was a different story.

“Flight go okay?” asked the sergeant. His voice sounded innocent, but Dog suspected it was anything but.

“It did not. Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Yes, sir. Papers for you to sign,” added the sergeant, thumbing toward the console between them where three thick folders were wedged tight.

“I’ll read them if you’ll slow down,” said Dog as Gibbs took a turn on two wheels.

“Ah, I keep telling you, you don’t have to read the stuff I give you. Requisitions for toilet paper and that kind of stuff.” Gibbs jerked the Jimmy onto the road to Taj, Dreamland’s command complex. “Anything important I forge.”

“I hope you forged me a will,” said Dog, gripping his handhold tighter.

“‘Xcuse me, Colonel?”

“Just watch the road.” Dog finally managed to buckle his seat belt. “Now why the hell didn’t you radio me when the Secretary’s plane was inbound? And didn’t someone on General Magnus’s staff call to give us a heads-up?”

“Well, thing is, Colonel, number one, the Secretary didn’t come by plane, he came via limo from Nellis. Second thing is, he just showed up there too, and made a beeline out to us without telling the base commander. Everybody is peed. General Magnus’s staff didn’t know anything about it. I think Captain Granson may lose a bar over it,” added Ax. “Sergeant Fulton says it was his turn to keep track of the brass’s brass.”

Dog’s stern frown cut Gibbs off in mid-chortle. Granson was an aide to Lieutenant General Magnus, Colonel Bastian’s immediate superior in the streamlined chain of command established when Dreamland and its Whiplash Action Team became operational some months ago. Until the last election, Magnus had seemed on the short track to head the Air Force and maybe the Joint Chiefs. The fact that Keesh didn’t give him a heads-up before inspecting one of his commands obviously meant he was off the track, at least for now.

“Last but not least,” added Gibbs, “you left explicit orders not to be disturbed.”

“Ax, if the President came, would you have radioed me?”

“Probably. Ought to be down in the Mudroom by now,” added Gibbs, jerking the SUV to a stop so quickly it was a wonder the air bags didn’t deploy. “Senator Densmore looks like he had a bumpy flight, Colonel. Might offer him a cocktail. Also, Congresswoman Timmons is wearing very expensive perfume, so she may have intentions. She’s a widow, you know.”

“Anything else, Ax?”

“Just my papers, sir.”

Dog frowned at the folder. “I have to read them.”

“Seriously, Colonel, they’re just routine. You know, sir, if I can say something out of line—”

“You were born out of line, Sergeant.”

“You’re wasting your time on a lot of diddly-shit with the papers. I’ll bring the stuff you really need to deal with to your attention. As for the rest—”

“Not my way, Ax.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Mudroom—only Gibbs called it that—was a secure command center on basement level three of the Taj. Dog found Danny regaling the visitors with tapes of Dreamland’s successful Whiplash raid into Libya three months before.

Not too subtle.

Dog stood for a moment at the railing on the observer’s deck at the rear of the room, watching the tape run on the composite screen. The entire twelve-by-twenty-one-foot surface was given over to a feed from one of the Flighthawks as it surveyed the bunker complex where American prisoners were being held. Keesh, five lawmakers from Congress, and an aide were standing about five feet from the screen, completely mesmerized by the action. A roof began moving on the left; puffs of smoke and small flames, carefully rendered by the equivalent of more than 250 laptop TFT displays, filled the big screen. The camera veered off, and Whiplash’s assault team arrived in a combat-outfitted Osprey at the left corner of the screen.

“Just getting to the good part, I see,” said Bastian from the railing.

Danny jerked his head around, surprised that Bastian had managed to come in so quietly. “Colonel,” he said, pushing the remote control to freeze the video.

“It’s okay, Danny. Don’t stop now.” Bastian rolled his arms together in front of his chest.

“We know how it ends,” said Keesh, readjusting his thick, brown-framed glasses. They matched his brown suit. “But it is impressive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Dog, not sure how to address him. “We did get some breaks.”

“I was referring to the equipment,” said Keesh, who obviously didn’t mind the title.

“I think the colonel and his people deserve a compliment,” said Congresswoman Timmons, the ranking member on the Defense Appropriations Committee.

“The colonel has already been complimented,” said Keesh. “He’s in charge of the most prestigious command in the Air Force.”

Uh-oh, thought Dog, his crap detector snapping from search-and-scan to dogfight mode.

Nella McCormack stepped forward. Identifying herself as the Assistant Secretary for Technology “elect,” she introduced the colonel to the rest of the delegation. “Colonel, we’re on a tight schedule this afternoon,” she said after Bastian pumped the hand of the Washington lawmaker. “We’d like to speak to you in confidence. Perhaps we could pick up the tour in your office?”

As he led the delegation back up to his office suite, Dog wondered if they had come to sack him. Prior to his arrival, Dreamland had been run by a three-star general. Bastian was almost certainly the lowest-ranking officer in command of a mainland base in the Air Force. Dreamland wasn’t exactly a remote operating area either. HAWC had two main tasks: developing next-generation weapons for the Air Force and much of the rest of the military, and projecting that technology into trouble spots via Whiplash, its combined action squadron. Whiplash had a ground component headed by Danny Freah, and could draw on any of a number of high-tech planes, including the Megafortress and Flighthawks.

Ordinarily, the person heading such an operation would have a shoulder lit—some would say burdened—by at least two stars. So Bastian half expected that, once the new Administration got settled and figured out where everything was, he would be patted on the head and replaced. But Keesh wouldn’t have brought an audience to can him, would he?

“Nice desk for a colonel,” said Senator Densmore as they passed through Bastian’s personal office to get to the conference room.

“It was actually the last commander’s,” said Bastian, placing his palms on the exquisite cherry of his desktop.

“Tecumseh, let me apologize for barging in on you unannounced,” said Keesh as they all took seats around the two large tables in the conference room.

“We’re here to give you some good news,” said Congresswoman Timmons.

Dog felt a sudden pang. They couldn’t be here to promote him, could they?

“We’re going to greenlight an expansion of the U/MF program,” said Densmore. “Both the Senate and the House will include it in their budgets, and of course the Administration is behind it.”

“Well, that is good news,” said Bastian. He meant it—the robot planes, in his opinion, were potentially the biggest development in aerial combat since AWACS. But he wasn’t exactly sure why that news had to be delivered in person—nor why Magnus had been cut out of the loop. His confusion only grew as Keesh praised the Megafortress and JSF programs as well. Dog waited for the punch line, but none came.

“We have to be in our hotel at six,” said Keesh finally. He rose. “Perhaps we could see the Flighthawks before we go? And the Megafortress?”

“Of course,” said Bastian. He pulled the phone off the table and dialed Ax.

“Major Cheshire is waiting out here to give the nickel show,” said Gibbs as soon as he clicked on the line. “Major Stockard seems to be tied up with another project today. I couldn’t find him.”

That had to be a lie, or at least a fudge; no one escaped the omnipotent intelligence of Chief Master Sergeant Terence Gibbs. On the other hand, Nancy Cheshire was the perfect tour guide. She headed the Megafortress project, but had worked with the Flighthawks enough to sing their praises. She’d also give the men in the delegation something to look at if they got bored. The fact that she had received the Air Force Cross for her role in the Libya action, as well as a Purple Heart, wouldn’t hurt either.

Besides, while Nancy had a way with VIP types, Stockard tended to get impatient with people he thought were airheads. Which pretty much summed up his definition of anyone in Congress.

“Very good, Ax,” said Dog. “We’ll meet her at the elevator.” As he put down the phone, he noticed Keesh nod to McCormack. So he wasn’t surprised that McCormack touched Bastian’s sleeve and signaled that she wanted to talk as the others filed out.