“Colonel, you were saying?” prompted Rubeo.
“A survivable tanker,” repeated Bastian. “The thinking is to replace KC-10 Extenders and HC-130’s at the same time. It would be connected to the JSP project.”
“So it has to be fast and slow,” said Janlock.
He didn’t mean it as a joke, but everyone laughed. Except Rubeo, of course.
“Seriously, if we did have one aircraft that could refuel helicopters as efficiently as CAP aircraft, in combat situations as well as on ferry flights, it would be a hell of an asset,” said Bastian, reining them in. “I can tell you from experience, a fighter with battle damage can have trouble reaching normal tanking altitude and speed. KC-135 and KC-10 tankers did a hell of a job during the Gulf War, doing things they weren’t technically capable of. I’d say more than a dozen lives were saved. At least. And ten times that number of planes. So what we’re talking about, if you guys could pull it off – the potential would translate into a lot less orphans and widows. I realize it’s not the conventional thinking, but I’ve seen what you guys can do.”
With the exception of Rubeo, who was wearing his customary scowl, the engineers and officers nodded their heads. They hadn’t thought about the problem in those terms before.
“What if we take the C-17 apart?” asked Jeremy Winters, a tall engineer with a hawk’s nose and thick, wire- rimmed glasses. “Good capacity, short takeoff so we can use forward bases.”
“Piffle,” said Rubeo.
“All right, Doc,” snapped Bastian, who’d had enough of the scientist’s chronic pessimism. “What do you suggest?”
“It depends on our goal,” said the scientist. He pursed his lips as if he had just bit into a lemon. “If our goal is simply to sustain funding, I suggest we take any aircraft we’re interested in and claim that it should be studied as a tanker.”
“All right, that’s enough,” said Bastian. “I’ll deal with the politics. I want real ideas, not fodder for Congress.”
“Colonel, you and I both know that the JSF is our lifeline,” said Rubeo, refusing to back down. “And charitably put, it’s a camel. So the most optimum solution would b another camel. But as for a survivable tanker” – the scientist’s voice rose an octave as he finally made a serious point – “the C-17 is a large and easily hit target. There is no way to change that.”
“Escorts could protect it,” said Smith. “Going to need them for the JSF.”
Uncharacteristically, Smith hadn’t said much at all. Dog suspected that he had decided to say as little as possible about JSF now that he was leaving; probably he was watching his political backside.
Smart, even though it pissed Bastian off.
“We already have a project study for a survivable deep-penetration tanker on the shelf,” said Major Nancy Cheshire. “It would need some work for low-speed refueling, but it would certainly meet the requirement for near- Mach speed, high-altitude regimes.”
“What are we talking about?” Bastian asked, still glaring at Rubeo.
“The Megafortress KC.”
Rubeo opened his mouth to object, but Cheshire cut him off.
“Some studies were done two years ago, but they never went anywhere. The idea was that we would need something that could keep up with the flying battleship concept, refueling it in a hostile environment, she explained. “Survivability was an important consideration and on that score, I know the plane got high marks.”
“Megafortress, back from the dead,” said Rubeo.
“What’s your objection to that idea?” Bastian asked the scientist.
“None as far as the specific plane goes,” said Rubeo, surprising Bastian. “My objection is one of the principle. The Megafortress – all manned aircraft are redundant.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. “Colonel, if you’re looking to tie a project to the F-119’s tail, tie the Flighthawks. They’re the future.”
“We’ve been down that road,” said Bastian. “And in any event, the robots can’t even refuel themselves.”
“Piffle. We simply haven’t thought about it properly.”
Dog wanted his people to feel that they could speak freely; he didn’t want a group of yes-men and suck-ups around him. And he knew that for a place like Dreamland to succeed, discipline had to be pretty loose.
But Rubeo really pushed the envelope.
“I appreciate your comments, if not your tone,” Dog told him. “The debate about robot planes isn’t relevant at the moment,” He turned back to Cheshire. “How far along was the tanker project?”
“I don’t know that it got beyond one or two proof-of-concept flights,” she said. “But I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to dust if off.”
“The plane kicks out some fierce vortices,” said Janlock. “We barely have them controlled enough for stable flight. We all saw how difficult it was to handle without the flight computer. if anyone other than Rap was at the controls when the gear crashed, we would have lost the plane.”
“Okay,” said Bastian. “Let’s find out.”
“Even though Fort Two and the others have been cleared for operations, we’re not one hundred percent sure the voltage spikes were due to the Army tests,” said Jennifer Gleason, one of the computer scientists. Her main assignment was the Flighthawks, but she had also had a hand in designing the advanced flight-computer components Fort Two was testing. “There are at least three other possibilities. We really ought to work through the test regimes to make sure.”
“I’m confident that was the problem,” said Cheshire. “And with the shielding and the backups, I think we’re fine. Fort Two is due for a check ride this afternoon.”
Bastian glanced at his watch. It was a little past ten o’clock. “I need to know by 1800. Doable?”
“Absolutely, sir,” said Cheshire. “Rap should be getting suited up as we speak.” She turned to Gleason. “We can run through some of your tests – all of them – at the same time.”
Gleason nodded – clearly reluctant, but nonetheless in agreement.
“So this our first choice,” said Bastian. “Choice number two, I take it, would be to study the C-17.”
“Not our project,” hissed Rubeo. The implication was clear – a C-17 tanker wouldn’t help keep Dreamland alive.
“Yes, well, there’s nothing we can do about that,” said Dog. “Anyone has any other ideas, let me know ASAP. In the meantime, let’s get this done.”
Several hours later, Knife sat in the hangar where the conference had been, staring down from the F-119 cockpit. He was waiting for the security officer to green-light the plane from the hangar. A Russian optical satellite was just completing its overhead tour. The satellite was an old Kronos model incapable of resolutions greater than a meter in diameter, but Dreamland’s operating protocols strictly prohibited the F-119 from being on the runway while it was overhead.
Ordinarily, Smith would be more than a little impatient to get going. But this afternoon he was feeling almost a little nostalgic. He’d gotten word just before suiting up that he was to expedite reporting to Wing A; an Air Force transport due to take off from Nellis at ten that evening was holding a seat. So this would be his last flight at Dreamland, as well as in the F-119.
The Congressional committee’s decision on the F-119 didn’t particularly surprise him; the project’s various contractors had plants in over 150 Congressional districts, which added up to a hell of a lot of muscle, if not brains. That was the way appropriations went these days.
Smith had decided he was in a no-lose position on the JSF. If the program continued and the F-119 was finally cleared as a production model, his resume would note that he had helped develop it. If it was killed as an ill- conceived project – which, in his opinion, it was – he could point to the fact that he had seen this and gotten out. His final reports on the project would be worded so vaguely that they could be used to support either scenario. In the meantime, he’d be doing some real flying, and probably – though admittedly not definitely – adding good notes to his career folder.
He was learning this political game well.
The lieutenant at the front of the hangar said something into his walkie-talkie, then gave the up-and-’em wave to the crew. The tractor sitting in front of the F-119 cranked her engine; Knife let go off the brakes and he began to roll out onto the tarmac. The fighter’s engines had to be started from an external power cart or ‘puffer.’ Three crewmen had the cart in place almost as soon as the plane and its tow truck stopped in front of the hangar. They moved quickly; the crew chief pumped his arm in the air and, bam, Knife had his engines up and running.
