Authors: Dale Brown
Washington suburbs
T
he Nationals took it hard, losing 7–2. They were never really in the game, getting clobbered with a five-run first inning.
Just as well, thought Zen as he drove home. He didn’t have to invest much emotion in the game, only to see them lose. And Senator Dirks was an admirable guest, insisting on paying for the food and the single beer Zen allowed himself at the games when he had to drive home.
All the lights were on in the house as he drove up. That was unusual. Breanna generally holed up in bed the nights he was out at games, either with work or with a book or a movie. Usually he found her out like a light, her computer or Kindle lying next to her.
Maybe she wants to apologize, he thought. Or maybe she just left the lights on.
The smell of coffee as he rolled himself up the ramp from the garage tipped him off that it was probably none of the above. And sure enough, she was sitting in the kitchen, frowning at a laptop.
“Hey,” he said, coming in. “We lost.”
“So I heard.”
“Check the scores?”
“I wanted to see what kind of mood you’d be in.”
He laughed. “Nah. You can’t really expect the Nats to win. So when they lose, it doesn’t really bother me. Someday, maybe.”
He couldn’t quite read her expression. Was she working? She was using the family laptop, so he thought not.
“Checking the news?” he asked.
“The weather. My flight schedule has been changed. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Oh. OK.”
“I talked to Caroline. She’ll be here right after class. From what I understand, she’s very excited about going to Prague.”
“I told you she would be.”
“I also spoke to General Magnus today,” said Breanna.
“How is he?”
“He’s going to Prague, too.”
“Really? Suddenly, it’s the cool place to be.”
“He wants to show off the Tigershark to the Germans and the English. He thinks he can sell it as a next-generation NATO fighter.”
“Tigershark?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Hey, being dumb is something I don’t have to pretend to be.” Zen popped the top on a Rogue Porter—he could tell he needed something substantial.
“You set this up, didn’t you?” said Breanna. “So I’d come with you.”
“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Tigershark—it’s a dead deal. You can’t even get it past your own Air Force brass. Manned interceptors have no future in the Air Force. It’s not what I want, but—”
Breanna got up from the table and stormed away.
“Hey—what’s up?” asked Zen. “I didn’t talk to Magnus. Is that what you think?”
The Tigershark had been to air shows before. It was just a coincidence.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if it was too late to call Magnus and see if there was something else involved.
More than likely, not.
Quarter past eleven. Far too late to call. Too late, really, to do anything but drink his beer.
Northeastern Moldova
D
anny, Nuri, and Flash spent the night planting video bugs along the roads, making sure that all of the approaches to the farm were covered. Meanwhile, the Predator V circling overhead was joined by its companion shortly after daybreak. The second aircraft had a ground-penetrating radar that could see into the buildings, as well as hunt for bunkers and other surprises. The pair could stay over the farm, orbiting at roughly 40,000 feet virtually undetectable, for a week.
There were two men inside the main house, in what seemed to be some sort of control room at the back. Probably it was a security post. Otherwise, the place was empty.
Surveillance network established, Danny and the others drove south to find a place to rest. Worried that stopping nearby might inadvertently tip the people at the farm off, Danny drove almost thirty kilometers away, not stopping until he spotted a small inn that sat above a twisting path from the highway. He pulled off the road and waited for the others. It was just after 6:00
A.M.
“That says restaurant and hotel in Russian,” said Nuri when they drove up. He pointed to the sign, hand painted in a neat script.
Danny had seen the Romanian sign in Latin script but not the smaller Cyrillic, which was on the other side of the road.
“How come the sign’s in Russian?” asked Flash. “I thought all the Russians were on the eastern end of the country?”
“That’s the greatest concentration,” said Nuri. “But remember, this was part of the Soviet Union before the breakout. Russians are everywhere.”
There was no special reason to be suspicious, but Danny still decided to look for another place. They found a small café about two miles farther down the road. Two trucks were parked out front.
“You sure you’re not getting paranoid, Colonel?” asked Flash as they got out of their cars.
“I’m always paranoid,” said Danny. “Let’s get some grub.”
T
hey left their mikes open while they ate, hoping the MY-PID would pick up and translate useful local gossip. But the talk was mostly about the weather and a hike in government-controlled gasoline prices, planned to go into effect in a week. The fact that the three strangers in the corner were American didn’t provoke any comments.
Nuri went over and spoke to the hostess, asking about hotels. Bits and pieces of French and Spanish flooded into his head as he spoke. This was both a help and a hindrance, giving him more vocabulary and at the same time making it harder for him to get the right pronunciation.
Nuri had always had a certain fluidity with languages. It was one of his prime assets as a CIA officer. MY-PID helped tremendously—but it also made his ability less important. The next generation of field officers would operate with implants in their head, speaking fluently in any language they dialed up.
The waitress mentioned a few chain hotels back close to the capital. Nuri said he wanted something local.
“You are an American, though,” she said, switching to English. “You want to stay here?”
“Yes,” he said. “My friends and I are researching locations for a movie. We’re from Hollywood.”
“Movie?”
“The Sound of Music,”
he said. “We’re doing a remake.”
Nuri was particularly happy about this cover story, and he had to practically bite his tongue to keep from embellishing it. There was always a temptation to add details when you had a good story. And this one was perfect—a movie version of the famous musical, to be shot here in Eastern Europe, with elaborate village scenes. Who wouldn’t eat it up? But the more details, the more likely you were to be tripped up.
“Hollywood,”
said the waitress, practically gushing.
She started talking about a movie she had seen being made in the States some years before, when she had been an exchange student in California. If it was during her college days, thought Nuri, it must have been at least twenty years ago.
The memories sprang out in a jumble. Even if her accent had been pure, Nuri was sure he would have understood only a third of it.
Finally, he managed to steer the conversation—or monologue—back to hotels. There were several places in the area, she said, but none worth the trouble.
“Well, we do have to sleep,” he told her.
“Then the Latino, two kilometers on the road, that direction,” said the woman. “And I know just the place where you can set your movie.”
Nuri listened to her suggestions, mentally noting that they were all to the south. He asked if there might be anything to the north, trying to get information about the farm without mentioning it. But even when he named the town it was located in, she just shrugged and said she didn’t know that area very well.
“Give you her life story?” Danny asked when he came back to the table.
“Just about. There are a couple places down the road.”
They found the motel the waitress recommended in the center of a village two miles away. It wasn’t hard: A large 1950s era farm tractor stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, as much a landmark as mascot.
During the Soviet years the town factory had churned out tractors, as many as five hundred a week. The plant had closed soon after independence, and the old buildings now housed a variety of small businesses, including two that repaired and rebuilt the tractors originally produced there.
The town had a population of about five thousand, most living in the village center. Housing projects from the 1970s and early 1980s, their yellow bricks weathered to a dull brown, crowded around somewhat newer structures, brightly painted, which sat around the edges of the small business district. Main Street was the local highway; a pair of blinking lights slowed cars down as they approached, though crossing from one side to the other could be a dangerous undertaking.
The motel was wedged in beside a small grocery store and one of the factory buildings. Two stories tall, it was a narrow box of rooms with a balcony on the left. It presented its narrow side to the street, running back fifteen rooms deep toward a large fence that bordered a set of warehouses.
The clerk took little interest in them once Nuri proffered his credit card. They got three adjoining rooms on the second floor toward the rear. They checked them out, planted some video sensors around the rooms and the motel to keep guard, then drew lots to see who had the first watch.
Flash lost. He set up the laptop in his room, watching the farm via a satellite feed, while Nuri and Danny went off to bed.
Nuri felt as if he had only just drifted off when his satellite phone began ringing. He jerked upright in bed, dazed, before grabbing the phone.
“Yeah?” he said, fumbling for the Talk button. “Yeah?”
“This is Reid. Can you talk?”
“Uh, yeah.” He pushed upright in the bed and glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past one. He’d had two hours of sleep.
“Are you awake?”
“I just—we’re trying to nap a little.”
“Where’s Danny?”
“He’s sleeping, too.”
“Get him, please. Contact me through MY-PID.”
D
anny didn’t particularly like the idea of cooperating with the Moldovan government, but he had no say in it. Reid made it clear that the decision had been made by the President.
“It’s window dressing only,” said Reid. “One of our people in Chisinau is already working on the arrangements. If the Moldovans decide to send someone along on the raid, then you simply arrange for them to show up after the area is secure.”
“What if the Moldovans tip the Wolves off?” asked Nuri.
“That should not be a problem as long as the operation is addressed as a drug one,” said Reid. “And by simply limiting the details they have, there should be no chance of that kind of double cross. Besides, it’s doubtful the Moldovans have any real links to the Wolves. We’d have picked up information about it.”
“Maybe,” said Nuri skeptically.
“Dr. Rubeo has some information for you,” Reid continued, ignoring him. “There’s some equipment that will be arriving with your people in Ukraine tonight. I take it that he wants to explain how it works. You had best wait until a reasonable hour to contact him. He’s cantankerous enough as it is.”
D
anny had already given Boston the heads-up that they would probably need a strike force. As soon as he got off the phone with Reid, he told him to get it in the air. A C–17 with the team and much of their equipment was due to land in Germany a little after eight. After refueling, it would fly on to Chernivtsi in southwestern Ukraine. There it would meet a second C–17 with their Rattlesnakes. A pair of armed Osprey MV–22s were scheduled to arrive at roughly the same time, completing the assault force.
In theory, they could launch an assault just before dawn. But the force would be tired from the long flight, and Danny still didn’t have much intelligence on the farm. He wanted to move as quickly as possible, but he also knew he would only get one chance at this.
He also thought it would be best to go in at night. More than likely, the men at the farm would be prepared to fight whenever they struck, but attacking at night would make it less likely a stray passerby would wander across the operation.
So he decided to hold off for twenty-four hours. It was a logical decision—they wouldn’t have to rush the planning, and he and the others would be able to rest. But it was also the sort of decision easily second-guessed, not least of all by Danny himself. He lay awake for another hour, trying to beat off the doubts, until finally, exhausted mentally as well as physically, he slipped into a fitful slumber.
Dreamland
B
reanna paused at the door of the aircraft, preparing herself to go down the steps. Though she’d been back to Dreamland several times since leaving the active Air Force, the return was always emotional. She had spent some of the best days of her life here, and while not ordinarily given to nostalgia, it was impossible to keep the memories from flooding back as soon as she saw the low-slung silhouettes of the research bunkers and nearby hangars.
Some of her hardest had been spent here. Yet for some reason the difficulties, the trials and tribulations—the stays in the hospital, the long nights watching over Zen, her own dramas in the emergency room—all of that faded. Only the good times remained.
“Hey, boss!” bellowed a familiar voice from below. “You’re late!”
Breanna pushed herself out onto the steps.
“I knew you weren’t flying this old crate,” continued Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, standing at the bottom of the rolling steps, “because you woulda had it here a half hour early.”
“Even I can’t fight head winds,” said Breanna, coming down the steps. “How are we doing, Chief?”
“Chief” was a reference to Greasy Hands’ title fifteen years earlier, when he was responsible for making sure every aircraft Dreamland had could get into the air.
There had been officers over him—plenty—but ask any maintainer on the base who they answered to—and who they didn’t want to cross—and “Greasy Hands” would be the immediate answer.
The same with the pilots.
“Brass is already here,” said Greasy Hands in a stage whisper as she came down the steps. “Got enough of them to stock a hardware store, if there were hardware stores anymore.”
“The chief of staff here?”
“First one to arrive,” said Greasy Hands. “They’re all over the Sabre like ants at a picnic. I’m thinking maybe we can tie a few of them to the wings. I just don’t know which ones.”
Greasy Hands winked. He still had a chief’s perspective on what he liked to call “upper management.”
Dreamland had changed a great deal since her father had the command. There were many more buildings. Taj Mahal—the command center back in her day—was now a research laboratory. It was flanked by two much larger buildings. What had been a tiny residential area used by perhaps a hundred or so military and research personnel, most of them single, was now a small city more than ten times as large. There was a day care center, an interdenominational chapel, and a small school.
And an outdoor swimming pool. She would have killed for that when she’d been stationed here.
Breanna turned toward the sound of advancing rotors. An Osprey was settling down a few yards from the rear of the C–20B that had just brought her here.
“Recognize this bird?” Greasy Hands said as they walked toward the aircraft.
“Should I?”
“You betchya. Picked you up out of that jam in Vietnam.” He said the words as if they were lyrics to a song. “Now it’s a ferry. I remember the oil pressure in that starboard engine used to like to jump up and down. Used to drive Spokes nuts. Which wasn’t necessarily a hard thing to do.”
With a wary glance toward the large props on the tilt wing, Breanna walked to the aircraft as the steps folded down. She clambered into the utilitarian interior, taking a seat on the thinly cushioned bench in the middle of the cabin. Greasy Hands sat alongside her.
“Please fasten seat belts,” said a voice.
Parsons started laughing.
“Please fasten seat belts.”
“What’s so funny?” asked Breanna, pulling the belt tight.
“I remember when Carla Agrei recorded that. It took her more than an hour. Four little words—she couldn’t get them out of her mouth.”
“You were there for the session?”
“You don’t remember Carla Agrei? I think half the base was there watching her. The male half.”
The door to the Osprey closed.
“Prepare to take off, please,” said Carla’s disembodied voice. “Please remain seated while flying.”
It wasn’t just the cabin crew that was automated; the entire aircraft flew on its own. The base flight controller could step in at any time if necessary, but that hadn’t happened in anyone’s recent memory.
“Flight transit time is computed at fifteen point three minutes. Please enjoy the ride.”
Brown Lake Test Area had not existed when Breanna was here. There was only one building, and most of that was underground. It served as a hangar and a small laboratory area. There were no offices, and workers had to be ferried in and out via Osprey. One entered through a set of cement steps that looked as if they’d been dropped into the middle of the desert. The surrounding area was, as the name implied, brown and smooth as glass, and considerably sturdier—heavily laden Megafortresses had landed and taken off from it back when it was a test range.
The Tigershark and a half-dozen Sabres stood in a neat line at the south end of the airstrip area. A pair of large tent canopies had been erected to the east for the VIPs, but no one was under them—as Greasy Hands had said, they were swarming around the Sabres.
The Tigershark, by contrast, stood all alone.
It certainly didn’t look dowdy. But was it the future?
“Put on your smiley face,” said Parsons as the Osprey settled into its landing pattern.
“Am I frowning?”
“Like you just drowned a kitten,” he told her.
T
urk saw Breanna Stockard coming out of the Osprey as he emerged from the hangar. He waved in her direction but she didn’t see him; she was immediately engulfed by a small gaggle of officers to witness the test flight.
Turk liked Breanna. It would have been hard not to. She was older than him, but still very easy on the eyes. And as a boss, she was remarkably easygoing. Admittedly, he didn’t have many direct dealings with her, but she was one of those people who not only listened to what you said, but cared about understanding it.
Then there was the fact that she was a pilot and a war hero. Her exploits—and those of her husband and father—were among those that had inspired him to join the Air Force in the first place. He’d never spoken to her about them, nor had he met her husband, but he hoped to do both soon.
“Cap, you ready?”
“Hey, just daydreaming on you,” he told Tommy Stern. The former tech sergeant was a contractor responsible for the environmental systems on the aircraft—“da HVAC guy,” as he often joked. He and Turk had become friends, and Stern really functioned as Turk’s unofficial babysitter, bodyguard, and drinking buddy.
Two crewmen and the crew chief were waiting at the plane with a dozen Air Force and Office of Technology tech people. With a cocked smile, Turk glanced over at the VIPs swarming nearby, then put his helmet on and got ready to fly.
They’d barely buttoned up the plane and gotten the last green light on the system check when the radio crackled.
“Tigershark, status,” said Colonel Johnson.
No automated controller today, thought Turk, unsure whether he preferred the computer or Johnson.
The engineers had isolated the problem with the UM/Fs and corrected it, but just in case, he had added another fifty meters of distance to the routines. No sense in giving the brass too much of a thrill.
“Tigershark, status,” snapped Johnson.
“Prepared for takeoff,” said Turk.
A
s Breanna took her place in the reviewing area, her thoughts were far from the aircraft, or even Dreamland. She was thinking about Zen.
Worrying about him, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.
She owed him an apology. He had nothing to do with the air show—the idea had come from the British, who were suddenly worried about their aging air force. The new prime minister also seemed to be hoping that a production line for the new aircraft might be opened in south England. He’d talked to Magnus, and suggested taking the plane to the air show. Apparently it had participated in routines there two years before, part of the private company’s last ditch efforts to speed up the procurement process and stave off bankruptcy.
It was completely Magnus’s idea. He even suggested that she go with him, though he didn’t seem too disappointed when she begged off because of work.
Why had she snapped at Zen? Because she was worried about him.
Irrationally. He’d faced much worse dangers, right on this very field.
T
he show went well enough, with Turk pushing the Tigershark through its maneuvers as the Sabres tagged along. He even threw in an unscripted barrel roll after the UavS completed their bombing run.
Twenty minutes of that, all done precisely according to script, and it was time to call it a day. The big shots had to have their lunch.
Turk clicked the mike button to talk.
“Tigershark to ground. Control, we’re clear of scheduled activities. Looking to land.”
“Negative, Tigershark,” replied Johnson. “Stand by.”
Negative?
Turk was in an orbit at the northern end of the test range, about two miles from the Sabres and out of everyone’s way. Still, being put on hold like this irked him. He ground his teeth together, then told himself to relax. He was only pissed off because it was Johnson. Anyone else giving him direction, he’d be fine with it.
And really, it wasn’t even Johnson’s fault. The brass was probably hassling him for some sort of photo shoot.
Bingo. Johnson came back, directing him to perform a series of maneuvers with the Sabres. None of it was too taxing. Turk concentrated on the flight, hitting his marks with precision.
A fresh set of requests followed. Once again Turk and the Sabres flew through them. Medusa made the process seamless. The little planes flew all around him as he flew tight to the ground, then pulled up sharply to accelerate toward the sky. They followed upward as fast as they could, flying impressively for robots.
Then came a request to replay the bombing sequence.
“Ground, be advised I’m into fuel reserves,” said Turk.
“Roger that, Tigershark. We’re aware of your fuel state. Complete the requested exercise.”
“Sabre control, line up for Series Exercise Three,” he told Medusa. “Pattern Alpha Two.”
An image of the preprogrammed set of maneuvers came up on his far-right screen. Turk reached over and tapped it to confirm.
“Sabre control, commence bombing run on target. Pattern Alpha Two.”
“Pattern Alpha Two. Sabre copies.”
Turk slipped down his throttle, easing the Tigershark’s speed. The Sabres danced in and did their thing, and Turk banked toward the landing pattern.
Just as the flight computer warned that he was low on fuel.
“Right on cue,” he said.
He checked in with ground—no protests this time—then lined up for his landing. The Sabres were right behind him.
Which wasn’t right. They were supposed to be off to the east, following the new safety protocols.
Suddenly he got a warning from the flight computer—the Sabres were too close.
They sure were—the planes were following the same pattern as they had the day before.
Shit.
“Knock it off! Knock it off!” he called.
As he did, one of the Sabres made a sharp cut toward his tail.
T
he moment Breanna saw the small aircraft cutting to the north, a pit opened in her stomach.
The Sabre was far too close to the Tigershark. The fierce vortices of wind off the complex airfoil made the U/MF hard to control. It began fluttering, then flew directly at the Tigershark’s right stabilizer.
It was almost precisely the same type of accident that had claimed Zen’s legs.
Breanna leapt up from her seat.
“Jeff!” she yelled involuntarily.
B
y the time the proximity alarm blared, Turk had managed to pull the Tigershark’s nose up and swing his tail down and away in a low-altitude, high-g cobra that dropped the plane to within a dozen feet of the smooth desert surface. The Sabre buzzed overhead, oblivious to his presence.
In any other aircraft, he would have been dead, killed either by the collision or his maneuver to get away. But between the Tigershark’s aerodynamics, razor-sharp controls, and his piloting skills—thank you very much—he was just pissed off.
Turk landed without comment and taxied to the recovery area. He remained silent as the crew helped him out of the aircraft.
“It’s something in the low-altitude routines,” said the head project engineer, running over from his SUV. “It has to do with the landing routines. They’re cutting into an emergency break-off because—”
“You know what?” said Turk. “I really don’t care. Just fix the damn thing before I get killed.”
“I
’m sorry for my outburst,” Breanna told their guests as they gathered for the debrief back at Dreamland. “Obviously, we had a bit of a problem there at the end. The Sabres were not in their proper position. We need more work on the low-altitude flight control sections.”
“And you want us to back the project?” said Admiral Brooks.