Air Battle Force

early and wander around anonymously to get the overall layout and a sense of the pace, the tone, and the mood of the place. But he quickly realized that this place didn’t have a pace, a tone, or a mood — in fact, it didn’t have very many paved roads, a front gate, or even very many human beings for that matter.

The government had been working on Battle Mountain Air National Guard Base, outside the town of Battle Mountain in north-central Nevada, for three years, and they had virtually nothing to show for it. All he could see were a few sterile-looking multistory buildings scattered across the high desert plain. There was a runway out there, of course: twelve thousand feet long, he knew, three hundred feet wide, stressed to take a million-pound aircraft, but he couldn’t see it at all. He remembered reading the Internet articles about the world’s biggest boondoggle — a twelve-thousand-foot-long runway in the middle of nowhere, with no air base around the monstrous strip of reinforced concrete. The control tower’s location didn’t give a clue as to where the runway was, because there was no control tower.

Further, it really didn’t look like very much work was being done now — he would’ve thought there’d be armies of construction workers swarming all over the place. What had they been doing here all that time? Was this base going to open or not? He did see a few aircraft hangars and decided that was the only place his new unit could be.

As it turned out, Battle Mountain Air Force Base did have a security force — a few minutes after driving onto the base, he was stopped by a patrol car. “Good evening, Colonel Mace,” the officer, an Air Force sergeant, greeted him, after stepping up to his car and snapping a salute. “I’m Sergeant Rollins, One-eleventh Attack Wing Security Forces. Welcome to Battle Mountain Air Force Base.”

Mace returned the salute. “How do you know who I am, Sergeant?”

“We’ve been monitoring your arrival, sir,” Rollins replied. “I’ve been asked to start your in-processing.”

“ ‘In-processing’?” Mace asked incredulously. He looked at his jogger’s Timex. “It’s seven p.m. Is the Support Group still open for business?”

“I just need your ID card and orders, sir,” Rollins said. After Mace fished out the paperwork from his briefcase, the sergeant held out a device and asked Mace to put both his thumbprints on it, like an electronic inkpad. “Thank you. Please stand by, sir,” the sergeant said, and he returned to his vehicle with Mace’s ID card and orders. Mace had to wait almost ten minutes and was just on the verge of getting out of the car to complain about the delay — but he was pleasantly surprised when the officer returned with a base decal, an updated ID card, a flight-line pass, and a restricted-area pass. Mace looked at all the documents in wonder. “Where did you get this photograph?” he asked, motioning to the new ID card.

“I took it, sir.”

“When?”

“The moment I walked up to your vehicle, sir,” the officer replied. Sure enough, the guy’s flashlight contained a tiny digital camera, because the face on the picture was him, sitting in his car.

“You can’t use that picture on my ID cards, Sergeant,” Mace protested. “I’m not in uniform. I haven’t even shaved yet.”

“Doesn’t matter, sir,” the officer responded. “We use biometric identification equipment now — you could have a month’s growth and we’d still be able to ID you. We’ve already taken your picture a dozen times since you’ve been driving around the base. We’ve registered your vehicle and correlated the registration with your identity, we’ve scanned you and your vehicles, and we’ve even noted that you’re carrying unloaded weapons in your trunk. If you’d like, I can register them for you right now.” Mace opened the trunk for the officer and took the guns out of their locked cases. The officer simply scanned the weapons with his flashlight again, and minutes later he had electronically added the registration information to Mace’s ID card. “You’re all in-processed,” he announced.

“I’m what?”

“Security Forces can network in with the wing’s computer system from our cars, so we can initiate in- processing when the newcomers arrive on base, sir,” Rollins said. “Everything’s been done — housing, pay and allowances, official records, medical, pass and ID, uniforms — even predeployment. You’ll be notified by e-mail if anyone needs to see you in person, such as the flight surgeon or base dentist. Orientation briefings are conducted by videoconference or by computer. Your unit duty section and the wing commander’s office have also been notified that you’re on base. Are there any questions I can answer for you, sir?”

“Is there a base gym?”

“Afraid not, sir. Each unit on base will probably set up its own facilities until the base builds one. Security Forces has a pretty good one, which you’re welcome to use until the Fifty-first builds its own.”

“The Fifty-first?”

“Your squadron, sir.” The Security Forces sergeant smiled mischievously. “That happens all the time, sir — my system knows more about you than you do. The duty officer will be able to direct you to motels in the area that can accept your PCS orders as payment until you find permanent quarters.”

“Already taken care of,” Daren said. “Mind if I just drive around a bit?”

“Not at all, sir,” the officer said. “Your duty officer will be able to direct you, and she’ll keep you away from any restricted areas. Call her using this.” He handed Mace a small plastic case. “This is your commlink. If you need anything, just call the duty officer. She’s expecting your call. Let me be the first to welcome you.” He shook Mace’s hand, then snapped him a salute. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

Daren Mace sat in his car and marveled at what had just happened. No one else around for what seemed like miles except him and a sky cop — and he was already in-processed into his new unit. Amazing. In-processing was normally a weeklong drudgery of meetings, briefings, and paperwork. He just completed it in ten minutes. He put the commlink away. Someone would have to explain how to use it later.

Instead of asking for directions, Daren thought he’d drive around a bit. Although there were very few buildings anywhere, the northeast side of the base seemed completely deserted, with only construction equipment and concrete-making stuff — Portland cement, gravel, sand, and stone — piled everywhere. He noticed a forty-foot steel trailer painted in desert camouflage sitting about a hundred meters off an access road, with a few cars and trucks parked nearby. He could see no evidence of the container’s having been dragged or trailered off the road — it must have been airlifted in, or brought in an awful long time ago.

Daren decided to check it out for himself, so he stepped out of his pickup truck and walked up the access road toward the big trailer. There was a power generator running — he could hear it, but he couldn’t yet see it. As he got closer, he could see a small satellite dish, a microwave antenna, and several smaller antennas on top. What in hell…?

He heard a loud fwooosh! and suddenly his path was blocked — by some kind of android-looking figure dressed in black. It had appeared out of nowhere. It wore a seamless dark suit, a full-head helmet with an opaque visor over the eyes, a thin backpack, and thick boots.

“This is a restricted area, sir,” the menacing figure said in an electronically synthesized voice. Daren stumbled backward in complete surprise, scrambled around, and started to run back to his car. “Hold on, Colonel Mace,” the figure said.

Daren didn’t stop running — in fact began running harder — until he ran headlong into what felt like a steel post. It turned out to be the android figure, again appearing right in front of him as if out of thin air.

“Relax, Colonel,” the android said. Daren thought about running again, but this time the figure clamped its right hand around his left forearm, and Daren could tell right away it was not letting go. “Let’s go, sir.”

The android led him toward the trailer. Daren hadn’t seen it from the road, but two camouflaged tents had been set up beyond the steel trailer, with two Humvees nearby. The android led him over to the smaller of the two tents, then released his arm. “He’s expecting you inside, sir,” the android said. It took three or four steps — then disappeared again after another loud, sharp fwooosh! sound stirred up a large cloud of desert dust.

Daren opened the tent flap and saw a man perhaps a few years younger than himself at a small camp table, typing on a laptop computer. Notebooks and computer printouts were scattered over the table. A small military field propane heater kept the tent reasonably warm, and on a small propane cookstove there were a pot of macaroni and cheese, half consumed, and another pot of water.

“C’mon in, Colonel,” the man said. “I didn’t know you’d be here on base so early. It’s my good luck you happened on us tonight.” He stood and extended a hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are. Major General Patrick McLanahan,” Daren said. “I recognize you from the news reports