“Torpedo one has passed. Torpedo two has self-destructed,” said the computer.
“They’re running for it,” said Eyes.
“They can’t run fast enough,” answered Storm. “Full active radar. Target the missile ship. I want him for dinner.”
Dreamland
3 November 1997
0901
DOG LOOKED UP AT THE FAMILIAR KNOCK. CHIEF MASTER
Sergeant Terrence “Ax” Gibbs appeared in the doorway, head cocked in a way that indicated the chief wanted to talk to the colonel in confidence for a few moments. Bastian might be the commander of Dreamland—the Air Force’s secret high-tech development facility in the Nevada desert—but Ax Gibbs was the oil that made the vast and complicated engine run smoothly.
“Chief?”
“Couple of things, couple of things,” said Ax, sliding into the office.
Dog knew from the tone in the chief’s voice that he was going to once again bring up their chronic personnel short-ages. He reached to his coffee cup for reinforcement.
“Need a refresher?” asked Ax.
“No thanks.”
“I’ve been looking at head counts …” Ax began, intro-
SATAN’S TAIL
23
ducing a brief lecture that compared Dreamland’s overall workforce to a number of other Air Force commands and facilities, as well as DARPA—the Department of Defense Advanced Research Program Agency—and a number of private industry think tanks. The study was impressive for both its breadth and depth. Ax’s numbers not only compared overall positions, but broke them down to real-life instances, such as the number of people sweeping the floors. (Dreamland had exactly two people doing this, both airmen with a long list of other duties. The men had been drafted—to put it euphemistically—into the service when budget cuts eliminated the contract civilian cleaners.)
“… and we’re not even considering the fact that a good portion of the head count here is also involved in Whiplash,”
added Ax. He was referring to Dreamland’s “action” component, which included a ground special operations team, headed by Danny Freah, as well as whatever aircraft were needed for the mission.
“Preaching to the converted,” said Dog.
“Yes, but I do have an idea,” said Ax. “Congresswoman Kelly.”
“Congresswoman Kelly?”
“Congresswoman due in next week on the VIP tour,” said Ax. “She has a staffer who has a brother in the Air Force. If a nonclassified version of the report were to find its way into the staffer’s hands …”
“No thank you,” said Dog curtly. He reached for some of the papers Ax had brought in.
“Colonel—”
“I don’t want to play Washington games.”
“With respect, sir.”
Dog put down the papers and looked up at the chief. Ax’s lips were pressed together so firmly that his jowls bulged.
“Ax, you know you can speak freely to me any time,” said Dog. “Hell, I expect it. None of this ‘with respect’ shit. You want to call me a jackass, go for it. You’ve earned it.”
“Colonel … Dog.” The chief pulled over the nearby chair 24
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.
“Your people are really busting. Really, really busting.”
“I know that.”
“We have to get more people here. And that’s true everywhere. Dr. Rubeo was saying—”
“Ray could find a cloud over the desert, and does so regularly.”
“Even the scientists are overworked. Jennifer has what, five different projects going? She’s been the main test pilot on the Werewolves after Sandy Culver and Zen. Did you know that?”
“Did I?” Dog laughed. “She brags about it all the time.”
“Well, now I like her a lot, but she has other things she’s gotta do. And the rest of the people here, hell, they’re as bad or worse. Civilian scientists, military officers, and enlisted—they’re all overworked workaholics. Problem is, Colonel, sooner or later the people who can leave will leave.
Sooner or later, when you haven’t had a chance to sleep in a week, it catches up to you.”
“Who hasn’t slept in a week?”
Ax rose from the chair.
“I’ll do what I can, Ax,” said Dog. “But I’m not sneaking through the back corridors of Congress to get what we need.”
“Yes, sir. Major Smith is outside, reporting for duty.”
Ax opened the door before Dog could say anything else.
Mack Smith was sitting in the outer office, flirting with the secretary.
“Mack,” said Dog, getting up. “I thought you were in rehab.”
“I am,” said Smith. He turned awkwardly in his wheelchair and rolled toward the doorway. Even though the door had been widened after Zen returned to active duty, it was a tight squeeze. It took Mack a few seconds to maneuver through the doorway.
“Major Mack Smith, formerly of the Brunei Royal Air Force, reporting for active duty,” said Smith.
SATAN’S TAIL
25
“I thought we agreed you would use the facilities here but wait to get back to work until the doctors gave you a clean bill of health.”
“Ah, the doctors say I’m fine.”
“The doctors said there’s no reason you won’t get your legs back. That’s not quite fine.”
“What do the doctors know? Besides, Zen didn’t wait.”
“Zen’s circumstances were different,” said Dog.
“Sure. He had a high-powered lawyer read the Air Force and the DoD the riot act,” said Mack. “And he was related to the base commander.”
Dog bristled. Zen was his son-in-law, but he had had nothing to do with his reinstatement.
“Zen was posted here before I arrived,” said Dog.
“Look, Colonel, the thing is—I’m bored out of my skull, right? I’m going through rehab. I have to come onto the base every day. Might as well put me to work, right?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to put you to work, Mack.”
“I can get a high-priced lawyer if I have to,” said Mack. “I hear Zen’s is available. Us gimps have to hang together.”
Dog felt his face flush at the word “gimps.”
“You’re worried that I won’t do the crap work, right?”
added Mack. “You’re looking at a new man, Colonel. Brunei taught me a lot.”
“One of the things it taught you is that you don’t like administrative crap work,” said Dog. “You told me that yourself. Several times.”
“I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. Same as you. We’re not that different, you and me, Colonel. We like to have our sleeves rolled up,” he added.
God help me, thought Dog, if I have anything in common with Mack Smith. “All right,” he said. “There are a lot of things that need to be done. None of them involve flying.”
“Who’s flying? Bring them on.”
“The Piranha program needs a liaison. Someone who can work with the Navy people to help them move it to the next phase.”
26
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Right up my alley,” said Mack. “A big part of my job in Brunei was interfacing with Navy people.”
He was referring to his position as head of the Brunei air force, which had in fact required him to work with members of the country’s other military services. From all reports—including Mack’s—it had not gone well.
Piranha was one of several Navy projects being developed under contract at Dreamland. An underwater robot probe, it could be controlled by ship, submarine, or aircraft and operate for several weeks without needing to be refueled. The technology that guided it was similar to the technology used in the Flighthawks, which was one of several reasons it was being developed here. Dreamland had used Piranha to halt a nuclear war between India and China.
“What else do you want me to do?” asked Mack.
“Let’s start there. Remember, you’re a liaison, not the program director.”
“I’m the idea guy,” said Mack. “Got it.”