It was outfitted with well-polished cherry furniture fit for a king.
“When I was a lieutenant colonel,” muttered Samson to his aides as he surveyed the office, “I had a tin desk.”
“Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax. “The colonel inherited this from the last commander, who was a major general. Rather than—”
“He’s disinherited. As of now, this is my office.”
“You’re moving in?” said Catsman.
“Major, what did you think my purpose in arriving here today was?” said Samson. Catsman was also high on his list of people to be replaced.
“Sir, we were under the impression—”
“Which impression is that?” thundered Samson.
Catsman seemed lost for words. “General Magnus, when he was in your position—”
“General Magnus had many things on his plate,” said Samson. “I am not him. Dreamland is my baby now. I saw no reason to wait several weeks before coming out here.”
“Well no, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Samson turned to Ax. “Find some men to move Bastian’s things to a secure location.”
“Uh …”
“How long have you been a chief master sergeant, Mr.
Gibbs?”
“We’ll get right on it, General.”
Maybe he can stay, thought Samson. Having someone around who knew where all the latrine keys were kept might be handy.
WHILE IT WAS OFTEN SAID THAT THE WHEELS OF GOVERNment moved slowly, Major General Terrill Samson did not.
Even though it was nearly midnight back in Washington, he got on the phone and did what he could to kick the paperwork into gear to move the transition forward and, most important, update the Whiplash order so it named him personally.
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161
Then he decided to call the National Security Advisor personally to discuss his new command. If Bastian could work closely with the White House, so could he.
Thinking he would simply leave a message with the over-night staff, Samson was surprised to find that Freeman was working. But as soon as he was put through, he was met with more questions than answers.
“How many warheads have been recovered?” demanded Freeman. “What’s the status?”
“I’m not up-to-date on all of the operational details,” said Samson, caught off guard. “Generally, I let my people in the field—I give them full rein.”
“Well, when are we getting an update? I realize Colonel Bastian is busy, but the President needs to know. He’s addressing the General Assembly at the UN first thing in the morning.”
“Understood.”
“The President wants every warhead recovered. We want that accomplished before news of the operation leaks. It has to proceed quickly.”
“Of course,” said Samson. “I can assure you we’re working on it. We’re going to do it.”
“Good.”
“There is one thing,” said Samson. He told Freeman, as delicately as he could manage, that some “legal types” had advised him that Whiplash orders should be directed to him so that the proper chain of command could be followed. This would facilitate the process—“speed up the operation,” said Samson.
“Why is that an issue at this moment?” said Freeman.
“It’s not an issue,” said Samson quickly. “Legal types, though—you know the red tape that can get involved.”
“Dreamland is about avoiding red tape.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll look into having the order reissued,” said Freeman.
“If it’s necessary.”
162
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“I’m told it is. The lawyers—if you could have my name there specifically, instead of Bastian’s …”
“I’ll have someone work on it,” said Freeman.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Indian Ocean
1100
“HAWK TWO REFUELED,” STARSHIP SAID, PULLING THE RObot aircraft away from her mother ship.
As far as the pilot was concerned, the differences between the first generation and the upgraded U/MF-3D
Flighthawks were generally subtle. The increased controllable range was the most noticeable change; depending on the altitudes, and to a lesser extent the atmospheric conditions, the Flighthawk could now operate at full throttle two hundred nautical miles from the Megafortress. The autonomous programming had also been improved, allowing the pilot to tell the computer to attack an opponent beyond the controllable range, then rendezvous along a vector or at a specific GPS point. The Flighthawk’s ground attack modes had also been upgraded, as had its capacity to carry small bombs and ground-attack missiles, a capability jury-rigged into the earlier models.
But it was still a robot. As Starship steered his two Flighthawks over the Indian desert toward their designated search area in Pakistan, he found himself longing to be behind the stick of a real airplane, like the F/A-18 he’d flown down to Diego Garcia in.
Robot planes were the future of the Air Force. But they just didn’t give you the same kick in the pants the heavy metal did.
He brought Hawk Two down through a thin deck of clouds, accelerating as he pushed toward a thousand feet. They were nearing the northern edge of a search zone designated as RETRIBUTION
163
I-17, after the warhead that supposedly had crashed here. He was over Pakistan, and though marked on the maps as desert, the area was far from uninhabited. He saw a cluster of small houses on his left as he leveled off. There was no activity, however; he was in the zone affected by the T-Rays.
Starship checked quickly on Hawk One, which was flying an automated search pattern to the west. That area was much more desolate, without even a highway in sight as the Flighthawk trundled along at five hundred feet, moving at just under 200 knots.
Unlike Zen, Starship preferred controlling the Flighthawks from the standard control panels rather than using one of the flight helmets. He could see more at a glance, and had no trouble zoning out the rest of the noise around him.
He punched a preset to flip his main screen back to Hawk Two, then nudged the joystick to nose the aircraft downward.
Just as he dropped through six hundred feet he spotted what looked like a large skid mark in the earth about five hundred yards to his right. The computer flagged it as well, sounding a tone in his headset.
Starship leaned Hawk Two gently onto her right wing, dropping his speed as he headed for the end of the ditch. He was moving too fast, however, and before he could get a good look was beyond his target. He came back around, lower and slower, and this time saw what looked like a garbage can half wedged in the earth.
“Colonel, I have something.”
“Roger that, Flighthawk leader. Give us the GPS points.”
Starship tapped the object on the screen, locking the data into the computer before transferring it. He put Hawk Two into an orbit around the warhead, then took control of Hawk One to begin a new search.
“Looking good, Starship,” said Dog a few minutes later.
“Dreamland Command confirms that’s warhead I-17. One down, five to go.”
164
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
On the ground in southeastern Pakistan 1120
“WE’RE JUST ABOUT WRAPPED UP HERE, COLONEL,” SAID
Danny, using his portable mike pack instead of bothering with the smart helmet. “We should be leaving for I-8 in about thirty minutes.”
“We’ve found I-17,” Dog told him. “It’s a little farther north than the projections show. There are some settlements nearby.”
Danny checked the paper map as well as his global positioning device. The device had been found about twenty miles outside of the projected landing points, the first time the projections had been wrong.
It looked to him as if the villages could be easily avoided.
However, there was a highway just a mile northwest of the site; they’d be in full view when they landed.
Danny debated whether they could afford to wait until nightfall, when villagers would be less likely to interfere.
Weighed against that was the possibility that the warhead might be discovered before they got there.