“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.
“My sergeant has some papers for me to sign,” Dog told them. “I’ll catch up with you at the hangar.”
He closed the door.
“You’re very smooth, Colonel,” said McCormack.
“Actually, I think I was pretty obvious,” said Bastian. “As were you.”
“It’s a game we play. Washington.” She laughed. In her late thirties and not unattractive, she wore a light gray tweed pantsuit that made her look several pounds heavier than she probably was.
“So what’s going on?”
“The Secretary is very impressed by your work here. He wants to make sure that the base is properly funded. He sees very big things in your future.”
If it hadn’t been for his combat training, Dog would have responded with a terse “bullshit” and asked her to get to the point. As it was, he strained several muscles keeping his mouth shut. McCormack finally filled the silence.
“We’re very impressed with the U/MFs. We’d like to see two dozen in the air by the end of the year.”
“Two dozen by the end of the year? That’s quite optimistic. At the moment, I only have four, and don’t even have the funds to train more pilots.”
“That can be taken care of.”
“Okay,” he said cautiously.
“We’d like them all in the air at the same time. The Secretary is very impressed with the Air Armada concept.”
Dog suddenly sensed where she was going, but held his tongue.
“We believe ANTARES should be revived to control them,” said McCormack.
“Oh,” said Dog.
ANTARES stood for the Artificial Neural Transfer and Response System, and was a method for merging electronic data with a pilot’s senses. It allowed a pilot to see—some suggested “feel” was more descriptive—radar data, engine-performance readouts, weapons status, and flight data in his brain. It also promised to allow him to control planes with just his mind. The multifaceted project had led to huge advances in computer-assisted flight controls, and in fact the Flighthawks’ C and the computer autopilots in the Megafortress were outgrowths of ANTARES. But after stupendous early success, ANTARES had been placed on permanent “hold” after being compromised by a Russian spy.
“Multiple-plane control was part of the original plan, under the Nerve Center option. It’s quite all right, Colonel,” McCormack added, obviously reacting to Bastian’s hesitation. “I’m up to speed. I was part of the original team that came up with the concept several years ago.”
“You knew Maraklov then.”
“Captain James, yes.” McCormack said the name so lightly she could have been talking about a friend from kindergarten—not one of the most devastating intelligence moles in history. “Colonel, let’s put our cards on the table, shall we?”
“Please.”
“Joining the Flighthawks to the Megafortress was a brilliant idea, a stroke of genius. Now we can move ahead and make the Flying Armada concept a reality. Nerve Center will give us a twenty- or even thirty-year lead on every other country in the world. Conflicts such as the Gulf War or Bosnia could be fought bloodlessly, at a fraction of the present costs.”
“As long as we’re being blunt,” said Dog, “I think ANTARES is a big, big mistake. Fifty years from now, maybe. But the computers we have, and maybe the human brain itself—maybe I’m just an old dog, but I don’t trust it. There were a lot of problems with the program.”
McCormack smiled smugly as he continued.
“If you’re talking about putting major resources into the project, reviving flight testing and that sort of thing, I think our money could be better spent in a million ways,” said Bastian. “The Flighthawk controls are heavily computerized as it is. Besides, there are only a dozen people or so with ANTARES experience left on the base, and all of them have other duties.”
“Dr. Geraldo would be the logical person to revive ANTARES,” said McCormack. “She was involved in the early stages before returning to NASA, which gives her the necessary experience while avoiding the James taint. I understand she has already done some work on it since transferring here in November.”
Martha Geraldo was a former NASA astrophysicist and psychologist with expertise in computer-human interaction. Her present assignment at Dreamland concerned development of the interfaces with flight computers. Dog had been aware of her ANTARES connection when she arrived, and in fact had asked her to prepare a study on what might be salvageable from the project. Now he realized that her transfer might have been part of a backdoor plot to revive the program all along.
“You’ve spoken to Dr. Geraldo about this?” he asked.
“No,” said McCormack. She said it quickly, but with enough of a neutral tone that Dog couldn’t tell if she was being honest. “That would be improper until I’m confirmed. But bluntly, Colonel—the new Secretary is very much in favor of ANTARES.”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then someone who is will be found to fill this command.”
Dreamland Shuttle Dock
9 January, 1745
MACK LEANED BACK AGAINST THE RAIL, SQUINTING AT the hills in the direction of Nellis Air Force Base, waiting for the Dolphin to arrive. Technically an Aerospatiale SA 366G Dauphin, the French helicopter had entered service as a Coast Guard recovery craft, and through a tortured series of events and horse trading, had come to serve here as part of the ferry service between Dreamland and Nellis. Known in military dress as a “Panther,” the whirlybird was a smooth and steady performer that made quick work of the trip to the larger, “open” air base. But there was only one helicopter, and it did not always run according to schedule. Even a patient man could find himself cursing as he counted the rivets in the Plexiglas shed that served as the Dolphin’s waiting area.
Major Smith was anything but patient. He paced, he turned, he muttered. He cursed. He kicked at the cracks. He stared at the mountain and the dry lake beds. He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the shelter, willing the stinking helicopter to appear.