The scrambled line snapped clear.
Bastian gave himself a moment to recover, then called to Ax to let his next appointment in.
The sergeant appeared in the doorway. “Bit of a complication, Colonel.”
“What happened, he got tired of waiting?”
“No, sir,” said Ax. “Problem is, he might not get through the door. It’s, uh, Major Stockard, Colonel,” added the sergeant. “he’s in a wheelchair.”
“Stockard’s next?”
“Yes, sir. Projects in alpha order. He’s the senior officer on the Flighthawks.”
Dog stood up. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this. Even before Stockard’s accident their relationship was at best chilly, at worst nonexistent.
“I suggest Room 103B,” added Ax. “That would be the conference room two doors down the hallway. It had double doors. He’s waiting. You’re backed up three appointments already,” added the sergeant as Bastian got up. Ax pointed to a side door, which opened into a vacant office. “Shortcut, sir.”
As he reached the door, Bastian realized the frame was actually fairly wide, more than enough for a wheelchair. His sergeant had arrange the meeting place to give both men more privacy. Typical Ax. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Lunch’ll be waiting.”
Zen rolled back and forth, trying to work off some of his energy, some of his nervousness. He felt like a nugget pilot, moving an F-15 up to the flight line for his first takeoff, jiggling the rudder pedals up and down. You could always tell who was new or at least nervous – the twin rudder whacked back and forth like loose shingles in the wind.
He willed himself to stop. You didn’t want to rip off the enemy to your vulnerabilities.
Everyone was the enemy, including his father-in-law. The fact that Zen greatly respected Bastian – whom he’d met during the Gulf War while liaisoning as an intel officer for his squadron – was an argument only for greater vigilance.
The creak of the side door took him by surprise. Zen sat up stiffly in his chair as Colonel Bastian brushed into the room.
“Major, good morning.” Bastian’s tone gave nothing away; he could have been greeting a Chinese military attache. He closed the door with a slap and then folded his arms in front of his chest. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re still assigned on the Flighthawk project.” Bastian’s tone was somewhere between a question and a statement.
“Yes, sir.” Stockard resisted the impulse to add something – anything – to the statement. He and his lawer had gone over and over this point. Don’t argue, don’t justify, don’t explain. Just state your assignment and presence as a fact. Anything else will inevitably weaken our position.
Zen’s position. As supportive as his lawyer was, Jeff was in this alone.
“I think we have an unusual situation,” said the colonel.
“The Flighthawks are an unusual project,” said Zen.
“Major, I’m going to spare you the rah-rah bullshit,” said Bastian. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Dreamlands on the chopping block. Even if HAWC survives, at least a dozen projects are going to be killed. everything’s in play. The Flighthawks especially. Playing with robots is a luxury we can’t afford right now.”
“Flying with a pair of Flighthawks is like having two wing mates at your beck and call,” said Zen. He was surprised to be talking about the project instead of himself. “We’re just scratching the surface.”
“Nonetheless –”
“Look at what UAVs did on the first day of the Air War in the Gulf,” said Zen. “They were the ones responsible for helping knock out the Iraqi air defenses.”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened on the first day of the Air War,” snapped Bastian.
“Excuse me, Colonel. I know you helped plan the attacks. But I can tell you, as someone who was there too – if we had Flighthawks, the F/A-18 that was splashed in air-to-air on Day One would not have gone down.”
Bastian said nothing. The Navy plane had been knocked down by an Iraqi air-to-air missile, the only air-to-air casualty of the war. Had the Iraqi Air Force been more capable, there would undoubtedly have been many more.
“Colonel, simply using these planes as scouts will double strike effectiveness and survivability,” continued Zen. “They can provide close escort to AWACS and transport types, freeing F-15’s and eventually F-22’s for more important work. Fit them with iron bombs and they can do the job of A-10A Warthogs, close-in ground support on the front lines without anywhere near the human risk. The Flighthawks are the future. I wouldn’t have come back here if I didn’t believe it.”
“That’s not the issue,” said Bastian dryly.
“If you want to cut something, cut the damn JSP. It’s a flying camel. Hell, the Warthogs go faster. You could build two hundred of them for the price of one F-119.”
The comparison to the A-10 was an exaggeration – but only just. Bastian scowled, but said nothing.
“The Flighthawks need work. I’m proof of that,” said Zen. “But in five years, maybe three, they’ll own the skies. I guarantee.”
“Robots will never outfly men,” said Bastian.
They glared at each other.
“We’re reorganizing our command structure,” said the colonel finally, still holding Zen’s eyes with his stare. “Each project will be its own flight. Pilots are going to be must more active and important in the command structure. It’ll be a lot like a combat squadron.”
“You mean I’m going to be in charge of the Flighthawks?”
“It means the senior pilot of officer will be responsible, yes. Everyone is going to be involved. Everybody responsible. No glamour-boy hotshots. No complicated chain of command where everyone can point finger – one project, one assignment.”
Zen nodded. “And if the Flighthawks get canceled?”
“We’ll deal with that when the times comes. I know where you stand.” Bastian winced, but plunged on. “And you know where stand. That’s the way I run things.”
“That’s a good way to run things,” said Zen.
“As for your relationship – marriage – to my daughter,” added the colonel, his voice regaining its formal tone, “that’s not my concern. And it would never be. You’re no different than any other officer on this base.”
“Fair enough.”
Zen began wheeling himself backward, swinging around to pull open the door.
The colonel beat him to it. Zen felt his face flush red as Bastian reached past him and opened it for him. He bit hit teeth together and rolled on.
Fort Two, move to Line One, await further instructions.”
Breanna acknowledged the controller’s transmission. She leaned against the left window of the big Megafortress, peering down past the plane’s drooping SST-style nose to give her crew chief the thumbs-up. Then she eased back in her seat, adjusted the headset’s microphone, and eased the big jet forward from its parking spot in front of the hangar entrance. One of three Megafortress test beds currently active at Dreamland, Fort Two had started life as a B-52H, the last production model of the Stratofortres. The enhanced B-52, also known as the EB- 52, was a pet project of General Brad Elliott, the past commander of Dreamland, who envisioned it as a relatively low-cost, high-capability twenty-first-century flying battleship. The first Megafortress had become famous as ‘Old Dog,’ aka Dog Zero-One Fox; it had at least arguably prevented World War III with a still highly classified preemptive strike on a Soviet laser system some years before. While various EB-52 scenarios had been proposed as production models, the Megafortress concept had never quite made it to permanent funding, losing out to ‘sexier’ – and much more expensive – projects like the B-2.
Each of the three Megafortress currently flying at Dreamland was configured differently, with different power plants, avionics, and weapons systems. Three more B-52’s, including one older G model, were being converted. All made use of the same basic skeleton: a carbon-titanium hull and remodeled bismaleimide (BMI) resin wings. All were considerably more capable than the admittedly versatile and robust design Boeing engineers had drawn up nearly fifty years before.
