When the aircraft was flyable, she was taken by a special crew to Dreamland, where additional modifications were made to her frame. More equipment, including an AWACS-style radar for the bulge, was added.
The plane had completed final flight tests shortly before Thanksgiving, 1997. She’d received further modifications on Diego Garcia to make her systems impervious to T-Rays. Iron-ically, the work on those modifications had not been completed when the T-Ray weapons had to be used, and the Bennett remained on the ground. A subsequent glitch with her left outboard engine required her to turn back after being launched shortly afterward, much to her crew’s consternation.
The Bennett was making up for it now, her engines pushing the airplane to just under the speed of sound as she raced northward in search of the crew of the stricken Levitow.
“We should be in the area where they ejected within the hour,” Lieutenant Englehardt said as Dog looked over his shoulder at the situation map set in the middle of the dash.
“So far we haven’t heard the emergency beacons.”
Dog nodded. The emergency PRC radios had a limited range. Like everyone else in the Air Force, the Dreamland fliers relied on PRC radios, which used relatively old technology. Better units were available, but hadn’t been autho-
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rized for purchase because of budget issues. Dog suspected that if some congressman had to rely on one, money would be found for upgrades pretty damn fast.
“Incoming transmission for you, Colonel. This is from the NSC—Jed Barclay.”
Dog dropped into the empty seat in front of the auxiliary airborne radar control. As soon as he authorized the transmission, Jed Barclay’s face appeared on the screen. He was speaking from the White House Situation Room.
“Bastian. Jed, what’s up?”
“Colonel, I, uh, I have Admiral Balboa on the line. He uh, wanted me to make the connection.”
“OK,” said Dog, puzzled.
“Stand by.”
Balboa’s face flashed onto the screen. Dog had spoken to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff several times since taking command of Dreamland. Balboa didn’t particularly like the Air Force, and Dog sensed that he didn’t particularly care for him either.
“Colonel, how are you this morning?”
“It’s nighttime here, Admiral.”
“Yes.” Balboa scowled. “The President has decided to recover the warheads. He wants you to work with the Marines from the Seventh MEU. Admiral Woods will have overall control of the mission.”
Dog smiled. He knew Woods from exercises they’d had together—exercises where Dreamland had blown up his carrier several times.
“Problem with that, Colonel?” asked Balboa. The nostrils in his pug nose flared.
“Not on my side.”
“Admiral Woods has no problems,” said Balboa.
“What sort of support does he want?”
“Help him locate the missiles. He’ll tell you what he wants.”
“I’m going to need to gear up for this,” said Dog. “We’re down to one working Megafortress.”
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“Well, get what you need,” said Balboa. “Has General Samson spoken to you yet?”
“Terrill Samson? No.”
“Well, he will. We’re reorganizing your command structure, Colonel. You’ll be reporting to Major General Samson from now on. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The screen blanked. Dog didn’t know Samson at all. He’d had a Pentagon general to report to when he started at Dreamland, a good one: Lieutenant General Harold Magnus. Magnus had retired some months before after being edged out of the running for chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dreamland’s official “position” on the Pentagon flowchart had been in flux ever since. Dog had known this couldn’t last, and in some respects welcomed the appointment of a new superior: As a lieutenant colonel with no direct line to the Pentagon, he was constantly having trouble with even the most routine budget requests.
“Colonel, are you still there?”
“Yes, Jed, go ahead.”
“You want to speak to Admiral Woods? I can plug you into a circuit with him and the Marine Corps general in charge of the Seventh MEU.”
“Fire away.”
“Bastian, you old bully—now what are you up to?” asked Tex Woods, popping onto the screen. Dog could only see his head; the camera didn’t pan low enough to show if he was wearing his trademark cowboy boots.
“Looking for my people. They bailed out.”
“Yes, and we’re helping with that,” said Woods. He was more enthusiastic than he had been the last time they’d spoken. “The admiral told you what we’re up to?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Jack, you on the line yet?”
Marine Corps General Jack Harrison cleared his throat.
Harrison was a dour-faced man; he seemed to personify the 74
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nickname leatherneck.
“General,” said Dog.
“Colonel, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad we’re working together.”
“We’ll do our best.”
“That’s the spirit, Bastian,” said Woods. “Your people are to coordinate the intelligence, the Marines will be the muscle. Aircraft from the Lincoln will fly cover. Everybody on the same page?”
Dog reached for his coffee as Woods continued. The specific operation plans would have to be developed by the Marine Corps officers.
“Your people would be very valuable, Colonel,” said Harrison. “Your Whiplash crew?”
“My officer in charge of Whiplash is aboard the Abner Read, ” said Dog. “I don’t—”
“We’ll airlift him to the Lincoln, ” said Woods. “What other problems do I have to solve?”
“No problems,” said Dog. Harrison remained silent.
“Good,” said Woods. “Gentlemen, you have my authorization to do whatever it takes to make this work. This is the chance of a millennium. History will remember us.”
I hope in a good way, thought Dog as the screen blacked out.
THE NEW SEARCH PROGRAM JENNIFER HAD DEVELOPED
called for the Megafortress to fly in a path calculated from the weather conditions and known characteristics of the ejection seats and the crew members’ parachutes. The flight path aligned the plane with the peculiarities of the survival radio’s transmission capabilities; while it didn’t actually boost its range, the effect was the same.
The program gave Englehardt the option of turning the aircraft over to the computer to fly or of following a path marked for him on the heads-up display projected in front of the windscreen.
“Which do you think I should do, Colonel?” the pilot 75
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asked.
“I’m comfortable with however you want to fly it,” Dog said. “If it were me, I’d want the stick in my hand. But completely your call.”
“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll fly it myself.”
“Very good.”
Lieutenant Englehardt was one of the new wave of pilots who’d come to Dreamland in the wake of the Megafortress’s success. Young enough to be Dog’s son, he was part of a generation that had known things like video games and computers their whole lives. They weren’t comfortable with technology—they’d been born into it, and accepted it the way Dog accepted his arms and legs.
Still, the fact that Englehardt would rather rely on himself than the computer impressed Dog. It was an old-fashioned conceit, but some prejudices were worth keeping.
Dog went over to the techie working the sea surveillance radar, Staff Sergeant Brian Daly. Aside from small boats anchored near the coast for the night, Daly had only a single contact on his screen: an Indian patrol vessel of the Jija Bai class. Roughly the equivalent of a small U.S. Coast Guard cutter, the ship carried two 7.62mm guns that could be used against aircraft, but posed no threat to the high-flying Megafortress.
“Two Tomcats from the Lincoln hailing us, Colonel,” said Kevin Sullivan, the copilot.
“Say hello.”