Wraith (17 page)

Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama

15 March 2003

Nick impatiently shifted the weight of his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, despite the sweat circles forming at the armpits of his blue uniform. The Alabama heat was just reaching its afternoon peak. His instructor had told him to show up on the flight-line side of Base Operations at exactly 5:00
P
.
M
.
, but he was desperate to get out of there and had arrived ten minutes early. He checked his watch. Two minutes to the hour.

Walker had sent Nick to Alabama to hone his Arabic skills, specifically in the Iraqi dialect. He'd spent the last ten weeks in isolation, living in the neglected Air University overflow dorms, a pair of buildings at the end of the flight line that hadn't been used since Congress started shrinking the military in the late nineties.

Nick checked his watch again. Less than a minute had passed. Where was his ride? “My room didn't even have cable,” he grumbled to himself. “What are we, the U.S. Army?”

Ten weeks.

He'd been allowed no human contact, except for his language coach, who refused to speak anything but Iraqi Arabic. For all Nick knew, the man didn't speak English at all. The only other voice he'd heard was Katy's during his allotted phone calls—one per week—and those felt cold and distant because he was lying to her about the purpose of his absence.

Two nights after the accident at Romeo Seven, Walker had put Nick on the Learjet. “Walk in like you own the place and nobody will question your presence,” the colonel had said, “but talk to no one. Don't go to the gym and for goodness' sake don't leave the base. Get groceries at the commissary. This is Covert Ops 101. You have to be seen as little as possible and never noticed at all, part of the background.”

“And how does this relate to Cerberus?” Nick had asked. “How do I fit in?”

“You're the stone that kills two birds. That's why you were singled out for this assignment. The Arabic language note in your personnel file got you noticed—along with a solid flying record as a night vision qualified pilot—and your little report on Al-Majid's relationship with Baghdad shifted you to the top of the candidate pile. All we had to do was line you up to gain proficiency as a T-38 chase pilot.”

“You set me up for this. You trained me for a year without even telling me. And all this time I thought Drag had just recognized my superior skills as a covert operative.”

“It doesn't work that way, Baron. Uncle Sam doesn't single out renegade supermen to do his dirty work like he does in the movies. It's all a numbers game. Your skill sets lined up with most of our search criteria. We gave you a boost in the chase department, set you up with an Arabic refresher to complete the qualifications, and here you are.”

At the time, Nick had wondered at the randomness of it all. His association with Cerberus and Dream Catcher was the result of computer number crunching. He was nothing but the output of a top secret Google search.

“Anyway, like I said, you were originally brought on board to kill two birds. You were supposed to fly chase during the test phase and then sit in the engineer's position during the operation, while Captain Sharp sat copilot. You were always slated to go to Alabama to bone up on your Arabic skills. Your job in the actual mission was, and still is, to listen to cell phone calls and radio signals that will help us zero in on a target's position. The only difference now is that you'll be listening from inside Dream Catcher while you fly her.”

Nick's watch read 5:00
P
.
M
.
Looking to the north, he saw his rescuer on final approach, right on time. The gray Learjet rolled to a stop right in front of him and the entry stairs immediately lowered. A no-nonsense face poked out. “You Baron?”

Nick nodded. “You ever arrive early, just for the fun of it?”

The Learjet pilot just frowned at him. “Get in.”

Nick stepped off the Learjet and surveyed the dark apron at the north end of Wright-Patterson's runway. Unsure of what to do next, he turned and glanced up at the pilot, who pointed emphatically at the nearest hangar, then ran up one engine and taxied away.

As his eyes adjusted, Nick found the crew door set into one of two huge sliding doors of the hangar. As was normal for this kind of door, there was no knob on the outside. He knew that simply knocking would be futile; the interior acoustics would mute the small sound into a feeble tap. Instead, he reared back with his boot and kicked the door three times. Then he waited.

Presently, the door cracked open. Someone in the shadows took stock of the intruder. After a moment's pause, Danny Sharp swung the door wide and vigorously pumped Nick's hand. “Good to see you again, Nick. How've you been?”

“Busy.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Me, too.
Boy
, have I been busy. We all have. I can't wait to show you your new ride.”

“And I can't wait to see it.” Nick felt exhausted, but he was beginning to catch a second wind. Maybe Danny's enthusiasm was contagious, or maybe it was enough just to have an English-speaking human being to talk to face-to-face after all this time. “Can I take it for a spin?” he asked.

“Not quite yet, but you can do the next best thing.”

Scott was waiting inside the enclosure with a couple of other team members. “Hello again, Lieutenant. How was class?”

“Long and painful, but I've never been more confident in my Arabic skills.”

“That's good,” Scott replied, “because the colonel seems to think you may get the chance to use them sooner than we expected.”

Without elaborating, Danny and Scott took Nick through a demonstration similar to the one they'd given Walker, spending a little more time on the operation of the systems.

Inside Dream Catcher, Nick found a Velcro seam in the vinyl padding. He peeled back a corner just to get a look at the structure and was surprised to see lines of orange and silver twine snaking back and forth, set into the composite surface. “Hey, guys,” he called from the belly of the jet, “what's this ropelike stuff on the interior structure?”

“Oh, that,” said Scott lightly. “That would be the explosive-incendiary cord.”

“The
what
?”

“It was part of the original design. If for some reason the drone was lost in hostile territory and had to be remotely destroyed, that cord would violently reduce the craft to a lot of dust and a few unrecognizable chunks. Considering some of the alloys in the structure, my guess is that it would actually be a dazzling display.”

“Phenomenal.”

“We designed the system to be activated by a covered toggle at the engineer's station in the bomber,” added Danny.

Nick crawled out of the jet and squatted beneath the hatch. “Let me guess, the cover was red.”

“
Is
red.”

“It's still there?”

“We have to cover all contingencies.” Danny shrugged and gave him an uneasy smile. “Never touch the big red button?”

“You better believe it.” Nick reached up into the cockpit and pulled out two long yellow straps. “Now explain these to me one more time.” He ran his fingers along a series of metal nodes set into the fabric. “I believe Scott called it the
pilot stimulation system
? You want me to strap these to my legs and shock myself once in a while?”

“I'm telling you,” said Danny, “you'll thank us in the end. There's no way to get from the mother ship to Dream Catcher after takeoff, so you'll spend the entire mission in that tiny cockpit. You could be lying in there for more than a day. The PSS is guaranteed to prevent blood clots in your legs by causing muscle contractions.”

Nick replaced the straps, stood up, and walked over to the two developers. “Can you also guarantee that the electric current won't burn me or set off the explosive cord in the walls?”

Danny cast a slightly worried look at Scott, who responded with an almost imperceptible nod. “Uh . . . yes.”

Scott held up his hands. “Just avoid any cotton, nylon, or rayon socks or long underwear.”

“What?”

“Those fabrics are prone to ignite, and
then
we might have an issue with the explosives.”

Nick shook his head, trying not to think about his underwear catching on fire or the aircraft blowing up around him. He held up his hands. “Okay. Let's step away from that topic, shall we? What about my helmet and mask? It doesn't look like there's enough room in there for them.”

“Good observation,” Scott replied. “That is why we melded a thinly padded alloy cap with a noise-canceling headset for you.” He walked over to the table and lifted a gray headpiece. The thing looked like no helmet Nick had ever seen—just a hardened skullcap with two foam ear-cups jutting out from the sides.

Scott handed over his creation. “Try it on.”

The odd helmet fit snugly, but comfortably, extending from the nape of Nick's neck to the hairline at the top of his forehead. He noticed a rubber tube hanging from the right side. “What's this?”

“That tube hooks into your harness, which has a small emergency oxygen bottle.”

“The mouthpiece reminds me of a scuba regulator.”

Danny nodded. “It's quite similar. Should you have to eject, or should Dream Catcher depressurize, simply put the mouthpiece in and bite down once to initiate the flow of oxygen.”

“Excellent work, Q,” said Nick, removing the helmet and tucking it under his arm.

A boyish grin stretched across Danny's face. “Don't let it go to your head, Double-Oh Seven. Now, follow us, and bring the helmet with you. We've got something else we think you'll really like.”

The developers led Nick to a blue Ford sedan in front of the hangar, and from there they drove to a small building on the other side of the flight line. As they exited the car, Nick thought he could hear a low hum emanating from the nearest wall of the structure.

Danny punched a few keys on the door's cipher lock, then looked back at Nick before turning the knob. “You're going to love this.”

The trio entered the building and the hum became a definite buzz. Nick glanced through an open door to his left and saw rows of aluminum shelving, holding what looked like hundreds of active computer hard drives. “I've seen a room like this before,” he said, “at the simulator facility for the stealth bomber.”

The intelligence officer glanced back at him and winked.

“You guys made a simulator?”

Danny pushed open another door and waved Nick on. “Only the best for our baby's pilot.”

Nick stepped through the door and immediately felt like the cartoon character who opens a broom closet, only to find himself leaning out the side of a skyscraper. What lay before him was so inconsistent with his expectations that he almost lost his balance. He stood on a yellow metal platform, gripping a railing in front of him to avoid vertigo. A room the size of a hangar opened up beneath his feet, extending at least fifty feet below him and another hundred feet in front, under the flight line. Stairs wound back and forth down to another yellow platform that was still a good twenty feet above the floor. From there, a drawbridge led to a hydraulic simulator.

A shiny, black cube topped four tubular legs that extended out at an angle to cylindrical actuators on the floor. The whole thing looked like an abstract pyramid with a box on top. Nick had used similar machines at Whiteman. When the simulator was piloted, the drawbridge would rise and the cube would stand alone on the hydraulic legs. Then each leg would move independently, giving the occupants the same seat-of-the-pants feeling they would get from actual flight.

“In this short time, you completely rebuilt Dream Catcher
and
you built a simulator to match?” Nick asked incredulously.

“We're just that good,” said Danny, but Scott frowned at him and folded his arms. “Okay, not really. This is an ASU—an adaptable simulation unit. We can remodel and reprogram it for almost any test aircraft in a very short amount of time.”

“Great, I can't wait to try her out,” said Nick, “but right now I could use some food and some sleep. Where am I staying?”

Scott looked confused. He turned to Danny. “What is he talking about?”

Nick's eyes shifted from one to the other. “You know, lodging, hotel, B and B?” His exhaustion was catching up with him again, and he was becoming impatient.

Scott furrowed his brow, but Danny's congenial smile remained unbroken. “Apparently you haven't heard.”

The sarcastic curl at the ends of Nick's lips fell away. “Haven't heard what?”

“Colonel Walker is in a hurry. We're moving the operation back to the test site tonight. The C-130 leaves in six hours. You have from now until then to familiarize yourself with the operation of this aircraft and practice in the simulator.”

Scott held open a hard case, from which Danny lifted a newly minted flight manual the size of a college dictionary. The intelligence officer slapped it into Nick's chest as he walked out the door. “Better get started.”

Romeo Seven Test Facility, New Mexico

16 March 2003

Nick gazed up and down the dilapidated old runway. “And . . . we're back,” he said in a haggard voice.

“Second time's the charm,” said Danny.

Nick peered at him quizzically in the dark. “I think the phrase is ‘
Third
time's the charm.'”

“I was trying to be optimistic.”

The noise of the hangar doors sliding open interrupted their conversation. Everyone dutifully moved their gear into the darkness and then, finally, after the doors slid closed, the lights came on. The sudden illumination revealed Walker, standing there with Drake.

“I should have known you'd already be here, sir,” said Nick.

“It's all part of my—”

“Personal mystique, we know,” Danny finished for him.

One of the colonel's eyebrows twitched. “Don't rob me of my catchphrases, Sharp. It angers me.”

Drake stepped toward the group. Nick reciprocated by stepping forward and offering a hand to shake, but the B-2 pilot ignored him and walked straight up to Amanda. “It's good to see you again, Miss Navistrova,” he said with a charming smile.

“I assume you brought us a bomber to modify?” Amanda did not smile. She was all business.

“Actually, uh, it never left the other hangar,” Drake answered, appearing stunned by her cold professionalism. “We couldn't take it back to Whiteman with the bomb bay looking the way it does—it would prompt too many questions. All the repairs were done on-site.”

The conversation faded and the group moved their gear toward the elevator. One load after another, they lowered their luggage and equipment into the bowels of Romeo Seven, and soon they stood clustered around the big screen in the control center.

“I guess that's it for tonight's business,” said Drake, spreading his hands. “Who's up for dessert and coffee in the galley?” He directed the question almost exclusively at Amanda.

Her reply had an icy edge to it. “I'm going to bed.”

Nick tried to process what was going on between them, allowing a few heartbeats of awkward silence before lifting up the Dream Catcher flight manual. “I'm out—if anyone cares. I've got some light reading to do.”

“I think everyone's pretty tired,” said Danny.

Walker stepped in. “Good. Everyone hit the sack. I want to get cracking first thing tomorrow. We'll meet in the conference room at fifteen hundred. That gives you nine hours for food, hygiene, and rack time.” His scowl zeroed in on Nick. “Sleep fast, kid.”

*   *   *

Twelve hours later, after a short rest and few mind-numbing meetings, Nick sat on the couch in the barracks common room. He stared uncomprehendingly at the thickly worded pages of his binder and muttered, “My brain is full.”

He felt wholly unprepared for the night ahead. In just a couple of hours, he would strap into what he considered to be a death trap, and he'd be expected to fly it with near perfect precision on his first try.

Nick winced at the thought of his simulator experience. On his first recovery attempt, he had smacked into one of the bomb bay doors. On his second try, he nailed a perfect recovery, but his success was more dumb luck than skill. The next five attempts were a montage of carnage as he slammed into every possible portion of the weapons bay until Scott finally begged him to take a break, because he just couldn't watch any longer.

During the break, the engineer was uncharacteristically sympathetic. He told Nick that the generic nature of the flight control logic in the adaptable simulator made it less responsive to operator input. Nick wasn't sure what that meant, but took it as encouragement and returned to the grind. To both of their surprise, he docked successfully during five out of the next six attempts. The two kept at it until Danny finally returned and told them it was time to board the C-130.

Nick couldn't remember how many attempts he'd made, but he knew his success rate couldn't have been better than fifty percent. He had tried to explain this to Walker earlier in the evening, but his warning seemed to go completely over the colonel's head.

“Sounds good, kid,” the old man had said. “You'll do fine.”

The door to the barracks opened, stirring Nick from his thoughts, and Drake walked in. The B-2 pilot appeared lost in thoughts of his own. Nick loudly closed his binder.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were in here.” Drake flopped down into an oversized chair. “Doing some last-minute cramming, are we?”

“Yeah, but it's not doing any good. I think my brain is leaking.”

“Don't worry about it, you'll do fine. Besides, it's the new Dream Catcher's first flight; so if you crash and burn, no one's going to blame you.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“Speaking of crashing and burning . . .”

“I'd prefer we didn't.”

Drake grinned. “Uh-huh, but seriously, what does that thing have in the way of an ejection system?”

“Oh, that.” Nick set his binder down and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That's one of the most entertaining parts of my new job. For me to get from trapped inside Dream Catcher, tumbling out of control, to gently descending under a parachute, requires four consecutive miracles.”

“Four miracles?”

“Four
consecutive
miracles,” said Nick, correcting him. “According to Scott, it's all based on timing. Once I pull the ejection lever, a series of ballistic charges will split the fuselage like a clamshell, causing both halves to fall away, leaving me in the center with the parachute pack. A quarter of a second later, a spring in the pack will eject the drogue chute, pulling me away from the aircraft pieces. At two seconds into the ejection, my chute should open and I should be able to watch the rest of Dream Catcher fall away to a safe distance. At four seconds into the sequence, the explosive cord lining the fuselage halves will detonate, shattering them into a hundred burning pieces, destroying the evidence.”

“That doesn't sound too complicated,” said Drake.

“Just wait.” Nick held up a hand. “Those are the functions of the system, not the miracles. You see, the ballistic charges that split the clamshell will explode rapidly from the back to the front of Dream Catcher, thus forcing the pieces away in a V shape to keep me from getting tangled up. This assumes I'm heading nose down toward the earth. That's miracle one, because, if I'm out of control, who knows what part of me will be pointed at the ground when I pull the lever? Additionally, the aircraft is so compact that the ballistic charges that split the fuselage to let me out had to be placed within inches of the explosive-incendiary cord that destroys the evidence. The second miracle will occur when the charge splits the fuselage
without
setting off the cord; otherwise, I'll be cremated right off the bat.”

The B-2 pilot nodded. “That
is
a bit depressing.”

“Oh, I'm not through yet. The parachute pack and the electric leg straps are all attached to the upper shell that, as we've already established, is going to violently explode four seconds after the ejection. These items are supposed to tear away from the shell and set me free. But how many times have you used a product that was supposed to tear away with a certain pressure and never did?”

“I see,” said Drake, getting the hang of Nick's game. “That's the third miracle. Everything that's attached to you
must
separate from the upper shell.”

“Exactly, and if they don't, I'll still be with the shell when the explosive-incendiary cord goes off.” Nick made a bomb-burst with his hands. “Once again: cremated. Finally, assuming the first three miracles work, my chute will open. But the chute pack's position in the fuselage is close to my upper thighs and—thanks to miracle one—I'm going to be facing head down at the time of the ejection. Between separation and the deployment of the drogue chute, the pack will be floating freely, along with more than four feet of exposed strap on each side. If the wrong part of me gets tangled with one of those chute straps, the force of the opening will tear me in half.”

Drake grimaced. “You paint a pretty picture.”

“Thanks,” said Nick, leaning back again. “I've always thought of myself as an optimist.”

“Well, at least you've led a long and full life.”

“No, I haven't. I'm only twenty-six. I'm just getting started.”

Drake got up and started for the door. “I'm no good at encouragement. I'd better get out of here before I drive you into doing something crazy, like accepting a suicide mission.” After turning the corner into the hallway, he leaned his head back into the doorframe with an impish grin. “Whoops. Too late.”