Wentz had seen a lot of military trickery in his time—rubber submarines in Groton, Connecticut; “pseudopod” LF radar generators that cost $100,000,000 per unit; an entire communications complex in Lincoln, Nebraska, whose sole purpose was to manufacture counterfeit radio traffic—but this took it all. The elevator platform lowered the plane some twenty feet, after which a taxi crew zipped forward from out of the dark. Within thirty seconds, a Cushman electric goat pulled the plane backward, then the elevator rose again and sealed shut. Immediately afterward, another crew of men drove mobile vacuums over the platform grid, sucking up sand.
“Now you see the reason for the khaki paint job?” Ashton asked.
But Wentz was rocked. He popped the canopy, gazing out in questioning belief…or disbelief.
An entire installation beneath the earth. Wentz pulled off his flight helmet and air-mask, disconnected his CVC lines. Unconsciously, he unfastened his safety harness. His eyes felt sewn open as he looked around.
Hooded lights lit corridors of metal and cement which stretched further than he could see.
Droves of Air Force techs in white jumpsuits and white hardhats milled about like ants each with a separate duty.
“Fuckin’-A,” Wentz muttered.
“Come on, General,” Ashton prodded. Techs pushed a wheeled ladder to the cockpit. Wentz and Ashton climbed out and down.
“Group! Heads up!” one of the rankless techs shouted. “Officers on the floorwall!”
Another more authoritative voice bellowed, “Snap to, shit-heads! This ain’t the fuckin’ Army! This is the
“Group Level One! Atteeeeeen
Heels snapped in a single echoic
“What is this, the boys’ fucking choir!” the voice belted out. “This man’s a hero! He’s won medals! He’s risked his life for us! He was taking enemy flak when you all were all playing grab-ass and jerking off in high school! You will show him respect! Now sound off like you’re in the Air Force, not the National Guard!”
“GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR!”
The vocal report resounded like a canon shot. Wentz tremored, lifted an inch off his heels. He just stared at them all with his jaw hanging.
“General?” Ashton reminded.
“Oh…yeah.” He and Ashton returned the salutes.
Wentz, in a stunned moment, held the age-old military gesture. For as far as he could see, men in white jumpsuits stood straight as chess pieces, holding their salutes in dead silence.
“Sir?” Ashton whispered. “Drop your salute and offer a counter salutation.”
“You heard the General!” returned the bellow. “What the fuck is this, a Navy lunch break? You gonna eat quiche with a napkin in your laps? You gonna sip espresso and talk about art? Back to fuckin’ work, ladies, or I’ll send you all out into the fuckin’ desert and the last trace of
Wentz’s awe sat on his shoulder like a pet parrot as he followed Ashton down what appeared to be the main access passage for this veritable underground terminal. Luminous taxi lanes branched out from various angles, each ending at its own elevator platform.
“Where are the hangars?” Wentz asked
“Deeper, much deeper.” Ashton’s flight boots clicked on a floor that looked like seamless steel plate, painted glossy black. “Three of them, in fact, are six hundred feet deep, built into layered bunkers that will withstand a fifty-megaton subsurface detonation.”
“This place must’ve cost billions.”
“Nintey-five billion to be exact—”
Wentz gaped. “That almost one-third of the annual defense budget!”
“This is all black money, General. Uncle Sam has ways that would surprise you. The facility consumes nearly ten billion a year just in maintenance and operating costs. This is Level One, obviously the surface-access level— this is just the top of the cake.”
“Experimental aircraft is what we’re talking about here, right?”
“That’s right. Things even you have never flown, sir. Mostly the newer variant EM-Crafts.”
“EM-Crafts?” Wentz grew mildly jealous. He thought he’d flown it all. “What the hell is an EM—”
“Northrop makes them in Pennsylvania. You’ve heard of rail guns?”
“Sure, but its only theory.”
Ashton smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read in
“Isn’t that, like, an horrendous violation of the latest ABM treaty?”
“Yep. Anyway, the EM-Craft is a rail gun in reverse. A graduated chain of electromagnetic-pulse energy provides thrust for the plane. Top speed is 7000 knots.”
“Get out of here,” Wentz said. “Even the Aurora doesn’t go that fast.”
Ashton smiled at his objection. “General, compared to the aircraft in this facility, the Aurora is a Sopwith Camel. We’ve got three different nuclear ramjets, none of which you’ve flown, we’ve got F-18s refit with liquid- oxygen-stream propulsion systems, and we’ve got a new wingless stealth fighter—”
“Not wingless,” Wentz interrupted, “you mean a flying wing, like the B-2.”
“I mean
Wentz was getting ticked. “But that defies all the standard laws of aeronautics!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Ashton sniped back.
“Then how can it possibly maneuver in the air?”
“Vector vents in the rear, gyroscopes in the nose.”
Wentz didn’t believe it, but then what else
“So
“Nope,” Ashton said.
“What do you mean
“You’re far too valuable,” she oddly answered. “There are dozens of excellent pilots here. The Air Force would be crazy to let a man of your skill fly the planes we’ve got here.”
“Why?” Wentz nearly whined.
“Too dangerous. The planes here are
The comment disheartened him. “So the initial pilots are fodder…until the engineers can work out all the bugs.”
“It sounds cold, but, yes. You don’t want to know how many pilots died in Aurora prototypes before it could be improved enough to let you fly the first official test runs.”
Wentz swallowed dryly.
“I wouldn’t dwell on it, sir,” Ashton offered. “Like General Rainier said. It’s all about service, it’s all about duty. You were too valuable to the country to risk in a plane that hadn’t been sufficiently tested. That’s the bottom
