Frankly, that’s not my job.”
Dog took a step away from the podium, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in. Nearly two hundred men and women had crammed into the bowl-shaped lecture hall. Most had been either just going off duty or already at home, which in some cases meant Las Vegas, some miles to the southwest. A few looked like they had been sleeping. There were sharp divisions in the crowd, and not just between civilians and military. Air Force officers who had strictly administrative functions at the base were front-row-center. Two knots of senior noncoms filled the flanks, wearing respectful though perhaps slightly skeptical expressions. The scientists filled most of the middle and back rows; their eyes betrayed a ‘now-what’ attitude. That sentiment was common too among the senior officers standing along the back row. Unlike the civilians near them, they stood ramrod-straight – though Dog suspected this was more because they didn’t want to touch their neighbors than out of any respect toward him.
And then there were the pilots, sitting in the two rows nearest the door, barely concealing smirks, each undoubtedly teeming with wisecracks.
Dog gave them his most severe frown before continuing.
“You’ve taken a lot of shit here in the pas six or seven months,” he said. “I know all about Maraklow – or Captain James, as he was calling himself.” Dog made sure to spit out the name of the traitor, who had wreaked so much havoc during his so-called Day of the Cheetah. “I’m not going to belabor the point. You’ve all had to put up with enough BS on that account. Dreamland is in trouble. You know it. I know it. people are talking about closing it down. Important people, including Congress. And including the President.”
The requisite jeers followed. Dog let them get out of their system for a moment before putting his hand up.
“I can tell you right now, that’s not going to happen.”
The jeers turned to silence, and then something deeper, as if his words had created a black hole in the room, as if they had sucked every sound and every potential for sound away.
“I’m here to kick some ass,” Bastian said quickly. “And I’m going to put Dreamland back at the top of the agenda, anyone who doesn’t want to be part of that, leave now.” He waited a beat, then continued. “Good. At 0600 hours tomorrow, we’ll start mission-orientation flights. That means everybody – engineers, scientists, security, secretaries – hell, everybody, even the cleaning people – every last person on this base is going aboard an aircraft to see just exactly what the hell it is we do.”
Dog ignored the murmurs of approval from the staff people and turned to Major Thomas, who had been acting as base director of operations until his arrival. “Major Thomas will work with whoever needs to be worked with to make it go off smoothly.”
Thomas looked at him as if he’d just declared war on Canada. But Dog wasn’t about to get into a discussion.
“Dismissed,” he said, waving his hand. “I’ll see you on the tarmac in the morning.”
Dog hadn’t actually expected applause, but he took it in stride. The surprising thing was that it seemed to have started with the NCOs. He buttoned his mouth tight about a grin, gesturing to Thomas so he could explain what he had in mind while people started to file out of the room.
“No offense, Colonel,” said Thomas, whose forehead was dotted by beads of sweat, “but I would have appreciated, uh, maybe a heads-up?’
“You just got it,” Dog told him. Assuming Dreamland survived, Dog intended on picking his own staff and Thomas wasn’t going to make the cut. Still, he meant him no ill will. “There’s no problem with arranging flights, is there?” he said, trying to modulate his voice into something almost friendly.
“Well, we have to work around the spy satellites. And the pilots aren’t going to like it,” sputtered Thomas.
“I’ll take care of the pilots,” said Dog. He smiled. “I speak their language.”
“Yes, sir. But, uh, is it worth it? If we get the order to, uh, to, uh –”
“Abandon ship?” suggested Dog.
“Well, uh, no, I think they’ll keep us open. I mean, there’s so much invested here it would be foolish, but, uh –”
“I didn’t come here to mothball Dreamland, Major. Yes, I’m aware that I’m replacing a three-star general. The political implications are not entirely lost on me,” added Dog in his most severe voice. The matter was more than merely one of prestige, since in effect it demoted Dreamland far down the command chain. “However, we will carry on. Maybe they’ll even promote me,” he added wryly.
“I’m sure, uh, yes, sir,” said Thomas, taking a step backward.
“Colonel, can I have a word?”
Dog couldn’t immediately place the voice, or the face that went with it.
“Mack Smith.” A tallish major grabbed his hand and began pumping. “You might remember me from the Gulf, Colonel. I was just a captain back then, fly CAP while you were at the Black Hole. A lot of guys call me Knife.”
“Mack, of course. How the hell are you?” Dog mimicked the pilot’s aw-shucks routine, trying to put the name and face together.
Chapter Two 2
“First Tactical Wing,” said Smith.
“Smith. Knife. You bagged a MiG,” said Dog, suddenly putting the name – and deed – to the face.
“Actually two,” said Smith. “Glad to have you with us. I heard you were coming in tomorrow.”
“I was restless.”
Smith gave him a puckish grin. “About those, what are we calling them, morale-booster flights?”
“Mission-orientation flights.” Dog grinned wider than Smith had. “Don’t make anybody throw up when you put them in the backseat.”
Smith lost his grin, but only for a second. “I’m lead pilot on the F-119 project, Colonel, the Joint Strke Fighter. I’ve had that assignment since DreamStar was canceled.”
“And?” Dog let just the hint of impatience creep into his voice. He remembered Smith pretty well now. He was a great pilot. And he had bagged two planes – except that the second was initially listed as unconfirmed, due to some problem on the AWACS covering the area. Smith had raised a fuss about getting credit, bypassing his squadron commander and complaining to Centcom about it as soon as he heard the kill was in doubt.
“The, uh, we have the prototype,” Smith continued, growing less sure of himself. “The F-119. I don’t know if you’re up to speed on it yet, Dog.”
If Dog was up to speed on anything, it was the F-119. And while ordinarily he didn’t mind another pilot using his handle, something about the way Smith said it bothered him.
“I realize it’s a one-seater,” said Bastian. “So unless you’re planning on strapping someone on the wing, Knife, I think we can leave it in the barn for these missions.” He paused just long enough to let Smith think he had wormed his way out of the morale flights. “But your combat record shows you’re the best Eagle pilot – by – far – on the base. So obviously you ought to be the first one off the flight line. Hell, I insist on it. you’re top man; you get the most seat time. I believe there are two F-15s here. You have one all day. Move up the starting time to 0500.”
Bastian started to step away from Smith when a bony hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see Rubeo, the scientist he’d met outside earlier.
“Colonel, do you really feel these airplane rides are necessary?” asked Rubeo.
Before Dog could reply, a squeaky voice piped up behind the scientist.
“Hell, I think it’s blastoff idea. About time the enlisteds got into the game.”
Dog peered around Rubeo – it wasn’t exactly difficult – and smiled at Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs.
“Hey, Graybeard,” he said to the burly, gray-haired sergeant, who had adopted the falsetto to mock the scientist.
Not that Dog officially approved of that sort of thing.
“Colonel, what too you?” said the sergeant. “I’ve been here since lunchtime.”
“Then why weren’t you on the runway waiting?” Dog asked.
“Priorities, sir. Priorities.” If regulations allowed beards, Ax would look like Santa Claus after a year’s worth of Nautilus sessions. He’d served in various capacities with Dog over the past decade on a dozen commands. The colonel had asked him to come to Dreamland as his senior NCO; there was no one better at slicing red tape and tending to things that needed tending.
