“Very good, Colonel,” Rebecca said. “The EB-1C uses adaptive skin technology—‘smart skin’—on the forward and aft sections of the fuselage and on the wings. The composite structure is reshaped by computer-controlled microhydraulic actuators that can create lift or drag as needed without the use of rigid control surfaces. Same on the wings: These planes don’t use spoilers for roll control or flaps for angle-of-attack control. We pretty much use full seventy-two-degree wing sweep for all phases of flight, because the smart skin is more effective in controlling angle of attack than anything else. If the adaptive-wing-technology computers fail, we need to go back to using wing sweep and the lift-and-drag devices, but the system is pretty reliable.”
As soon as Daren stepped up inside the plane, he noticed the difference. The two systems officers’ positions in the crew compartment behind the cockpit were gone, replaced by racks of solid-state black boxes. “My God, this is incredible!” he said for what seemed like the twentieth time. “It seems spacious in here now compared to before!”
“Hell, we had to put three thousand pounds of fuel tanks up here to compensate for all the crew stuff we took out,” Rebecca said. “The mission-adaptive technology takes care of the rest. We’ve increased range and performance another twenty-five percent by taking out all the human stuff back here.”
They crawled through the tunnel connecting the systems operators’ compartment to the cockpit. Rebecca saw that Daren was speechless with surprise as he looked at the completely empty space on the instrument panels. Almost all of the tape instruments, gauges, knobs, and switches had been replaced by multifunction displays — only a few backup gauges remained, relegated to lower corners of the instrument panel.
“Welcome to the electronic bomber, Daren. The B-1 was always a highly automated, systems-driven aircraft, but now the humans have been taken completely out of the equation. You don’t fly this thing anymore — you manage it.” Still looking at Daren, Rebecca spoke, “Bobcat Two-zero-three, battery on, interior lights on.” Immediately the lights in the cockpit snapped on.
“Don’t tell me you talk to the planes, like you talk to the duty officer?”
“That’s exactly what you do,” Rebecca said. “In fact, with most missions, you don’t even have to talk — the aircraft does its preflight according to the mission timetable.” She shrugged and added, “The computers are smarter, faster, and more reliable than human crews. Why not let them do the fighting and dying? The plane doesn’t care. In fact, it probably enjoys not having to lug around human beings with their need for warmth and their heavy life-support systems. We’re a slow, inefficient, wasteful redundant subsystem, totally unnecessary to the completion of the mission.”
“Jesus, Rebecca, you sound like some kind of Isaac Asimov robot character.”
“No, I’m doing an imitation of General McLanahan, General Luger, Colonel Cheshire, Colonel Law, and most of the brain trust here at Battle Mountain,” she responded. “Daren, just between you, me, and the fence post, the guys who run this place are the biggest technonerds you’ve ever met. They’ve all come from Dreamland, designing and building these things for the past fifteen-odd years, and their minds are in the friggin’ ozone. Everything is high-tech and computerized, from the phone system to the latrines. You’d think the whole bunch of them just beamed down to earth from the Starship Enterprise.”
“So you and me — we’re the old heads, right?”
“The HAWC guys, they’ve done some shit,” Rebecca said. “I’m not saying they’re total neophytes. They’ve been in some scrapes even since I’ve known them, so I’m sure there are dozens of other adventures they’ve been involved in that I just as soon don’t want to know about. There are some things you’ll learn about this place, the missions that we prepare for, that’ll curl your toes. But technology is the answer to everything for them. Everything has to be done by a satellite link or computer. The days of sitting down at a table, unfolding a map and a frag order, and building a strike mission from scratch are definitely over.”
“Fine with me. I’m perfectly happy to let a computer draw up flight plans and steer the plane,” Daren said. “So what do they need us for?”
“Because as brilliant and high-tech as McLanahan and his buddies from HAWC are, they don’t know very much about running a flying unit,” Rebecca said. “McLanahan has recruited kids — and I literally mean kids—to come here.
“I think it’s our job to build the squadron and let McLanahan and his egghead cronies build the machines. The kids these days know computers. As soon as they can sit in a chair by themselves, they know how to use a computer. What they don’t know is organization, discipline, esprit de corps, teamwork, and mutual support. It’s up to us to teach them.”
“God, Rebecca, you’re making me feel pretty damned old right now,” Daren said wryly. But he shrugged and patted the top of the instrument panel’s glare shield. “I’ll make them a deaclass="underline" If they teach me how to talk to B-1 bombers, I’ll teach them how to think like a team.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she said. “Listen, there’s going to be a lot of brass hanging around in the next few days. Rumor is the president and secretary of defense are going to stop by sometime in the next couple days for the nickel tour.”
“Cool. Well, this place will certainly water their eyes.”
“The general has this big project he wants to get funded.”
“He briefed me on his project,” Daren said. “It’s awesome, but we’ve got a lot of work to do. You want me to stay out of sight, Rebecca?”
Furness looked at the deck for a moment, then back at Daren and said, “Let’s just say that we’ve used some creative accounting practices to fund a few of the general’s pet projects.”
“So you need me to play along — make like I know and approve of all the ‘creative accounting practices.’ “
“Something like that.”
Daren shrugged. “I’m a team player. You got nothing to worry about from me.” He smiled at her, then nodded knowingly. “It’s nice to be sharing a cockpit with you again, Rebecca,” he said. “Really nice. I miss it.”
She squeezed his hand. “Me, too, partner,” she said, smiling back. “Me, too.”
A few minutes before six-thirty in the morning, an Air Force full colonel strode quickly and purposefully over to Daren Mace in the squadron lounge — Daren’s de facto office most of the time — and practically snapped to attention in front of him. “Colonel Mace?” He extended a rigid hand; Daren stood and shook it, stifling an amused smile at the guy’s officiousness. “Welcome to Battle Mountain, sir. I’m Colonel John Long.”
“Good to meet you,” Daren said. He looked around the room. “Is that two-star here again?”
“General McLanahan? No, sir.”
It was meant to be a half-joking, half-sarcastic remark, but this guy Long was all business here. “Then let’s dispense with the ‘sir’ stuff, okay, John?” Long was — contrary to his name — short, wiry, and tough-looking, with dark brown hair, beady little eyes, and a pointed nose. He looked like a bantamweight prizefighter — mean and jittery, his eyes, hands, feet, and mouth all in constant, rapid-fire motion. “We’re both full birds.”
“But you are senior to me,” Long explained with a strange expression on his face. Then he gave Daren a conspiratorial wink and added, “But we’ll dispense with the formalities when the bosses aren’t around, how about that?” Then he relaxed and did away with the academy routine.