“We’re twenty minutes from our target area, P-1. What’s going on?”
“There’s a Pakistani army unit, two trucks, about two miles north of the possible warhead marked as P-3 on the Dreamland map,” Dog told him. “They haven’t moved, but they’re close enough to get over there in a hurry. We haven’t gotten low enough to verify that there is a warhead there.”
Dog explained that he wanted to check the site, and if it was a warhead, have Danny land there first.
“I got you,” said Danny. “You think they don’t know it’s there at all.”
“Exactly. The only way we can check it is by getting very low, and they’re likely to realize something’s going on. If they call for reinforcements, they might have a pretty good-sized force up here in a few hours.”
“Stand by.”
Dog furled his arms and leaned back in the seat, brushing against Daly as he did.
Dreamland’s present configuration scheme rarely called for all four stations to be occupied, but when the Megafortress went into service with regular Air Force units, all the stations would be filled. It occurred to Dog that another six or eight inches of space between the two stations would make things much more comfortable for the operators. There was room too, though it would call for a few modifications to the galley.
A small thing, maybe, but important to the guys on the mission.
“Colonel, this is Danny.”
“Go ahead, Captain.”
“We’re going to change course. We’re maybe thirty minutes from point P-3.”
“We’ll scout it and give you a go, no-go, when you’re ten minutes away,” Dog told him. “What do your rules of en-
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gagement say about deadly force?”
“To defend ourselves and the weapon.”
“Good. If they make a move toward you, we’re going to use our Harpoons. Bastian out.”
Dog switched over to the interphone, sharing Danny’s information with the rest of the crew.
“I can get us over the warhead exactly thirty seconds before they hit their mark,” Englehardt promised.
“Excellent,” said Dog.
“No action from the Pakistanis,” said Daly. “They don’t seem to know we’re here.”
“They will,” said Dog.
Aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln,
the Arabian Sea
0600
FEELING DISORIENTED, STARSHIP FOLLOWED HIS GUIDE
through the bowels of the aircraft carrier to the squadron ready room. He had heard carriers described as miniature cities floating on water, but the Lincoln seemed more like the under-belly of a massive football stadium. It smelled like one too, ten times worse than the locker room in Dreamland’s gym.
He thought he was somewhere in the maze of rooms below the flight deck and hangar—the playing field, to follow his metaphor—but how far down and where exactly, he had no idea. He’d gone down three flights of stairs—known to the Navy as a ladder, for some inexplicable reason—and through several hatchways—actually doors, though they looked like hatches to him. He had also learned the meaning of
“knee knockers”—the metalwork at the base of watertight openings.
“Ensign Watson reporting with Lieutenant Andrews,” said his guide as they entered a cabin about half the size of the closet in Starship’s Dreamland apartment.
“Lieutenant Bradley,” said the balding man on the cot.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Friends call me Brad.” He rose and shifted his coffee cup to shake Starship’s hand.
“People call me Starship.”
“Starship?” Bradley laughed. “You Air Force guys have the weirdest nicknames and call signs. You got a Buck in your outfit, I bet.”
“Uh, no Buck. A Dork.”
Bradley began to howl with laughter. But something about his smile made the laugh inoffensive.
“So, I hear you need the fastest sled ride to Diego Garcia that you can find,” said Bradley.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve come to the right place. Come on, let’s get you some coffee and gear, then go preflight.”
Starship wasn’t sure why a passenger would need to take part in a briefing, but figured that Bradley was just being ac-commodating for a visitor. His confusion grew as Bradley mentioned he’d need to know his hat size for the trip, meaning they were going to find him a helmet.
“Jeez, I didn’t think you guys took Osprey flights so seriously,” said Starship finally.
“Osprey?”
“We’re flying down on a V-22, right?” said Starship.
“Hell, no. You wanted to get there fast, right?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Admiral Woods arranged for you to backseat my Super Hornet, Lieutenant,” said Bradley.
“What’s a Super Hornet?”
“A toy you can’t have.” Bradley laughed. “The admiral says you need to be there fast. This is the fastest thing we can spare. Don’t worry. Just keep your hands inside the car at all times and you’ll be fine.”
THE SUPER HORNET—OFFICIALLY, AN F/A-18F—WASN’T
your run-of-the-mill swamp boat. An upsized version of the all-purpose F/A-18, this Super Hornet was one of three be-
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ing tested by the Navy before the aircraft entered full production.
Designed to replace the Navy’s heavy metal, the Grumman F-14, the new Hornet shared very little components with its look-alike predecessor and namesake. From the engines to the wings to the tail surfaces, the designers had reworked the aircraft, making it bigger, faster, and stronger. Close in size to an Air Force F-15C, it incorporated a number of low-radar section strategies, making it less noticeable to enemies at long range. It could carry about a third more munitions half again as far as the standard F/A-18s lining the Lincoln’s side.
As Starship buckled himself into his seat, Bradley gave him a quick rundown of the instruments and multifunction displays. Then the Navy pilot hopped into the front seat and got ready to rumble.
Engines up, the Super Hornet’s computer tested the control surfaces, recording the status of the aircraft equipment on the multifunction display.
“You ready for this, Starship?” asked Bradley.
“Good to go.”
Even though he had braced himself, the shot off the carrier deck jolted Starship. He felt like a baseball that had been whacked toward the bleachers. It took a good four or five seconds before he could breathe and relax; by then the Hornet had her nose pointed nearly straight up.
They climbed rapidly through the sparse cloud cover, the newly risen sun a giant orb below. Bradley turned away from the carrier’s airspace and began rocketing south.
“What do you think of the view?” asked Bradley.
“Very nice,” said Starship. Like the F-15, the backseater—technically an RIO, or radar intercept officer, in the Navy—sat in a clear bubble cockpit with a good view to the sides.
“So, you think you could handle this baby?” asked Bradley.
“Could I?”
“That’s my question.”
Starship scrambled to find the volume button to turn down 108
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
the sound of Bradley’s laugh.
“I think I can handle it,” said Starship. He’d told Bradley earlier that he had flown F-15s.
“Take a shot,” the Navy aviator told him, and he gave the stick a little waggle.
Starship treated the aircraft as if it were a baby carriage, holding it gently level and perfectly on course.
For about five seconds.
Then he gave the stick more input and snapped into a right aileron roll. He came back quickly—the Super Hornet seemed to snicker as she pushed herself neutral, as if asking, Is that the best you can do?
The aircraft was very precise, and while the stick required a bit more input than the Flighthawk’s, it felt sweet.
“So do you have your hand on the stick yet, or what?”
asked Bradley.
Starship did a full roll, then another. He nudged himself into an invert—a little tentative, he knew—and flew upside down for a few miles before coming back right side up.