was trying to treat her like one of the guys, which probably in his mind was a big honor. His approach to Cheshire – the senior project officer on the EB-52 Megafortress and Breanna’s immediate superior – was very different, stiff to the point of being overly correct.
“Your dad’s sure gonna stir things up,” added Parsons. “He’s a bee-whacker.”
“A bee-whacker?”
“Really likes to whack the old bees’ nest,” explained the sergeant. “Shakes things up. Got all the officers jumpin’, even the pilots.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Bree.
“He’s a butt-kicker,” Parsons told Jeff. His admiration seemed genuine. “You best watch your fanny, Major. Place isn’t going to be the same with him in charge. Now I admired the general – a damn fine man. An excellent officer. But Colonel Bastian, hell, he’s a bee-whacker. Just what we need,” Greasy Hands added, shaking his head and grinning. “I’ve heard stories.”
“So have I,” said Breanna sharply. “Jeff, I have to go get ready for a mission.”
He ignored her. it was pretty much what she expected; pretty much what he’d done in the hospital and all during rehab, after the doctors had told him he’d never walk again.
Not sure what else to do, she turned quickly and started for the Megafortress’s underground bunker.
Colonel Bastian looked up as Ax made his way across the office.
“Cup number two, not quite as strong,” said the sergeant, placing down the coffee mug. “As per request.”
Dog grunted and rubbed his eyes. He’d gotten less than two hours of sleep last night, spending the rest of the time reviewing project notes and trying to correlate some of the reports with the Pentagon data he’d come west with. His desk was littered with folders, printouts, white pads, photocopies, notes, index cards, Post-its, and even a few old-fashioned carbons.
“Sunday Times crossword puzzle in that mess somewhere?”
“Very funny, Ax.”
“You want to run through the day’s agenda yet, Colonel? I figure we wait any longer the day’ll be over and then we’ll be behind.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dog took the coffee and leaned back in the well-padded leather chair. One thing about Ax’s coffee: Even the weak cups were gut-burning strong. And hot – Dog backed his lips off without taking a full sip.
“It’ll cool down,” said the sergeant.
“Thanks for the advice. Well?”
“Okay, let’s see. Number-one priority – hire a secretary. Preferably one who can make coffee.”
“Agreed.”
“Number-two priority, we need some typist, clerks, etc., etc. I can’t be expected to do real work forever, you know.”
Ax folded his arms in front of his chest. He was joking. Dreamland had a full complement of military and civilian clerks, probably more than the ever-efficient Ax needed. But instead of giving himself away with a laugh as he usually did, his expression turned serious.
“You okay, Colonel? Usually, you’re rolling on the floor by now.”
“This is a worse mess than I thought, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Ax ran his left hand up behind his neck, scratching an imaginary itch. Gibb’s actual age was a closely guarded military secret, but he gave every impression of being old enough to be Bastian’s father. There were many times, like now, when he reminded Dog of the old man – kinder, without the temper. Maybe smarter, though Bastian’s father had been sharp enough to make admiral and himself elected to Congress.
“Colonel, you’re been in worse messes,” said the sergeant. “It’s just the paper-shuffling’s got you down.”
“Five of the these programs have to go,” said Bastian, pointing to the paper. “Ms. O’Day is calling this morning for my recommendation.”
Deborah O’Day was the National Security Advisor and the reason Bastian was here.
“Eenie, meeney, minee, moe.”
Dog laughed.
“Finally,” said the sergeant. “I was beginning to worry you left your sense of humor back in Washington somewhere.”
Dog smiled and took a sip of the coffee. The problem wasn’t deciding which program should be cut. The problem was that the programs that should be cut were exactly the ones the brass, the White House, and the Congress wouldn’t cut. Worse, by recommending they be cut, all he would succeed in doing was anger people and administer the final coup de grace to Dreamland.
An argument could be made to close the base. The spy scandal aside, in many ways HAWC belonged to an earlier era. Bastian realized that the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War meant that big- ticket development projects with almost unlimited budgets were a thing of the past. Without the constant threat of high-tech arms race, Congress would be loath to approve the immense ‘black’ budget lines than had funded Dreamland.
But on the other hand, the end of the Cold War didn’t remove the threats to national security; it just changed what they were. In Bastian’s opinion – and in the opinion of the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor, and the President, as far as he could tell – cutting-edge technology would be even more important in fighting the sort of brushfire wars and terrorist actions America would fact in the twenty-first century. With the future so unpredictably fluid and budget constraints the order of the day, high-tech weapons were going to be a critical force-multiplier. Delta Force was the model of the twenty-first-century Army – a highly trained, extremely mobile group ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The Air Force needed an equivalent. And it needed to multiply its limited resources with the country’s top asset – brainpower. That would be Dreamland’s role, providing cutting- edge technology to deal with a myriad of next-generation crises.
Bastian had written a briefing paper to that effect while working for the NSC under President Bust after the Gulf War. While it had gone largely unnoticed in the Administration at the time, it had attracted the attention of Deborah O’Day, a policy wonk and university professor doing consulting work for the NSC back then, o’’ay had struck up a friendship with Bastian, even having him in to talk to her classes at George Washington University. Her appointment as National Security Advisor by President Lloyd Taylor had surprised a lot of people outside the government, but not Bastian, who realized she was as sharp as anyone in D.C.
Technically, Bastian was a long way down the chain of command from O’Day. But he’d worked for her in D.C. and she had personally pulled strings to get him here.
“Assuming your phone call with O’Day is only its normal marathon length,” said Az, “we can do this today like you wanted. You start seeing your section commanders, one by one, at 0800. Fifteen minutes a pop, that gets you to 1145, with a thirty-minute time-out for Ms. O’Day. Lunch at your desk. Senior scientist, two minutes apiece, you’ll be done by one.”
Dog looked up from his papers. “Two minutes?”
“Just checking to see if you were awake,” said the sergeant. “Fifteen minutes for the eggheads, like everybody else. Brings you to 1545, or maybe 1630. I can’t quite figure out their damn organization chart.”
“That will be fixed by tomorrow,” said Dog. “Each project gets a specific commander, with staff attached. Line officers in charge. This is a working squadron.”
Bastian hadn’t worked out all of the details yet, but his idea was relatively simple and followed the plan he had outlined years before. You got the technology onto the front lines by using it right away. The best way to do that was to slim down your organization. The people who had to use the weapons would be the people running the show.
“I’ll have the paperwork in two batches for you this morning,” said Ax. “Usual routine. And seriously, there are two guys I’d like to bring in to fill out the staff.’
“There’s a personal freeze,” Dog reminded him.
“Oh, that’s no problem.” Ax grinned. He glanced down at the desk. “You want a piece of unsolicited advice, Colonel?”
“No.”
