Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (30 page)

 
          
His
mind kept straying to the thoughts of Major Briggs’ security forces—he had
inspected those forces many times, acting only partially interested in them at
the time when in fact he was taking careful notes on the exact numbers,
equipment and deployment. He had examined the weaknesses of the force and
planned possible escape routes out of Dreamland for himself should that ever
have been necessary. He had devised several escape plans, depending on what, if
anything, he was taking with him—one route was to be used if he was alone and
on foot, another if he was driving a car, another if driving a truck, another
if he was carrying a “black box” or another unit. But never had he expected to
take DreamStar with him. Components, drawings, computers, electronic media, yes—
never the whole plane.

 
          
Only
one mind-set seemed to make sense—that morning in the cockpit he told himself
he wasn’t going to make it but it was worth it to die trying. If he did beat
the odds and lift off, he had to buck even greater odds to fly the eight
hundred miles from Dreamland to the deserted airstrip in central Mexico for the
refueling planned by his KGB contacts in Los Angeles and Mexico City. Then he’d
have both the American and Mexican air forces to beat on his way to Nicaragua,
plus American forces based on El Salvador and Honduras—none of them very large
or effective forces, but a deadly threat to a battered and weaponless
DreamStar.

 
          
But
he had no choice. If he couldn’t have DreamStar, better to die in her cockpit
trying to deliver her to the Soviet Union than let the Americans mothball her
while they continued to perfect their research into the ANTARES interface. Were
there other areas he could infiltrate, other research programs whose
information could be vital to the security of the Soviet Union? Was there any
other program that, if he lived, he could collect information on as valuable or
as rare as his DreamStar? His? Yes, damn it,
his .
. .

 
          
The
answer to all was no. Strangely, coming to that grim conclusion put him at
ease, allowing him slowly to relax his knotted muscles and control his
adrenaline-fired pulse and breathing.

 
          
“Do
you want to live forever, Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov?” James said into his
face mask. And with that he felt his body go totally relaxed, almost limp, held
upright only by the tight body harness that secured him to DreamStar’s ejection
seat. It was the first time in some ten years that he had spoken his given
name. The words surprised him—it was such a totally
Russian
name. And right now he liked it, was proud of it. “Kenneth
Francis James” sounded weak. He would not use it again.

 
          
He
did not realize, though, that it had taken
two
hours
for him to speak his Russian name to himself. Without warning the
ANTARES interface had taken hold. He was once again one with DreamStar . . .

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Patrick
McLanahan could only stare. General Brad Elliott and Hal Briggs couldn’t speak.
Applause broke out from somewhere behind them as they stared at a
reincarnation.

 
          
The
doors to Hangar Three of the HAWC research flight line were opened, and a
yellow “mule” tow-tractor slowly chugged out of the massive structure. The mule
pulled a hulking dark beast from its lair, an aircraft so large that it seemed
to blot out the faint glow of the rising sun on the horizon. It seemed to take
forever to move the giant machine from the hangar, but soon there it was,
sitting on the concrete ramp like a winged black dragon.

 
          
“
‘Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it,’ ” Angelina Pereira
quoted. McLanahan and Briggs turned toward her. “Alan Valentine,” she added.

 
          
“Whoever
. . . but that’s one mean-lookin’ mother,” Briggs said.

 
          
Ormack
began his walkaround inspection of the Megafortress Plus, General Elliott and
other members of the crew following. Actually Ormack and the engineers had
already completed an extensive walkaround hours earlier before the crew
briefing, and all items of the before-engine-start checklist had already been
performed by ground crewmen and technicians. But no matter who performed the
inspection, or when, Ormack could not resist the urge to do one last visual
inspection before climbing aboard—as much a ritual as a race car driver’s
kicking the tires of his car or a marksman’s rubbing the front sight of his
rifle.

 
          
Elliott
pointed at the Old Dog. “I still can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he said to
Ormack, once its copilot. What he was pointing at was the most radical change
in the Old Dog’s appearance—her huge wings. Instead of drooping in a huge
downward curve from the fuselage to the wingtips, the wings stood straight out,
tall and proud instead of arched and aged- looking.

 
          
“The
newest in composite materials went into her,” Ormack said. “We replaced the
main wing spar, the spine, the tailplane spars and other skeletal components
with fibersteel beams, the largest and thickest composite structures ever cast.
I remember being called out to the hangar in Alaska when they put the wings
back on—it looked like a damn optical illusion, those twenty-ton wings sticking
straight out like that. They sagged when we filled them up with fifty tons of
fuel, though—sagged a grand total of two inches. We used to be able to look
into the outboard engines just by standing on tiptoes—now, they’re all so high
off the ground we need a ladder to look into them. The takeoff distance has
decreased by thirty percent. It used to take forever for the Buff to lift off
because those huge drooping wings would ‘take off
⁵
first, leaving
the fuselage still rolling on the ground. No more, Brad. When this beast hits
takeoff speed, it’s airborne. Period.”

 
          
Ormack
continued the walkaround inspection, pointing out various new changes in the
huge bomber. “Only two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles on this flight, but Carter’s
Dog Zero Two can take up to ten on each wing now, instead of only the six we
had on our first mission—that’s twenty air-to-air missiles total, the same as
on five F-15 fighters. And computer-controlled fuel management helps us avoid
the fuel problems we had on our last flight when damage forced us out of the
automatic mode. No more wing spoilers that dragged in the slipstream for
aircraft control and wasted so much energy. Now we use engine- bleed
air-thrusters on the wings for roll control. It allows us much faster turn
control, eliminates adverse yaw.’’

 
          
He
pointed at the Old Dog’s wingtip, which had a long, pointed oblong device
trailing aft from the wingtip. “No more twin tip-tanks on this baby. With
fibersteel construction we were able to build large single jettisonable fuel
tanks with greater capacity that are lighter, stronger and more aerodynamic
than the twin tanks. We’ve also taken off the wingtip wheels—even fully fueled
there’s no danger of these wingtips ever striking ground. Another weight
saving.”

 
          
Hal
Briggs turned to Ormack. “General, someone might think you’re a lieutenant on
his cherry ride.” As he spoke Briggs glanced over Ormack’s shoulder down the
flight line and, by force of habit, checked the guard posts.

 
          
“I
have to admit, I get clutched every time I see this beast,” Ormack said. “I’ve
seen her blown up, crashed, broken, shot up, cut up, disassembled, and now I’ve
seen her better than before. A regular phoenix, this bird.”

 
          
They
walked around to the bomb bay and peered inside at the mix of glide-missiles
and laser-guided smart bombs. “If this flight is a success,” General Elliott
said, “this could be the beginning of a new day for the B-52 bomber. Even with
all one hundred B-i Excalibur bombers operational and the first B-2 Panther
Stealth bomber squadron finally operational, the antiair, standoff and border
penetration capabilities of the Megafortress Plus may mean the refitting and
reactivation of
all
the G-model B-52S
that were retired last year. A few squadrons of B-52 Megafortress Plus bombers
could fly along with the strike bombers, clear a path for them and then return
to be used in reserve or for other long-range strike missions. It’s a new
concept—armed flying battleship escorts for strategic bombers.” Hal Briggs
listened but his attention was continually drawn to the guard posts down the
flight line. Everything appeared normal, but something
somewhere
was out of place . . .

 
          
At
first Briggs dismissed the feelings. All six high-security hangars had the
proper guards stationed around them—six V-ioo Commando assault cars positioned
properly. Straining, he could make out all six guards at their posts, a few
standing to watch the crowd around the B-52, a few sitting in their V-ioos. A
roving patrol in an M113 Armadillo assault vehicle was moving up and down the
center of the ramp, cruising slowly, a couple of SPs hanging out of the gun
turret on the roof to watch the Megafortress roll out. They had taken the
twenty- millimeter machine gun off its mount so two guys could squeeze up
through the roof to get a better look—he’d have to get on their case for that.
But overall, it appeared normal. So what was it ... ?

 
          
“Hal?”
McLanahan had stepped beside the security police commander and was scanning the
flight line with him. “Problem?”

 
          
Hal
noticed that Ormack, Elliott, Khan and Wendelstat had moved off toward the
tail; he and McLanahan were alone beside the Old Dog’s bomb bay. “No . . .
nothing. I’m gonna chew some butt—those guys rubber-neckin’ in the Armadillo
over there.” He looked at the colonel. “Where you going?”

 
          
“Take
a ride out to the range, I think. Get a good seat near the ground target before
the fireworks start. I was going to ask if . . .”

 
          
But
Briggs wasn’t listening; he was staring down the flight line toward Hangar
Five, Sergeant Rey Jacinto’s post. He was still sitting in his V-100, doors closed.
He wasn’t asleep—Jacinto was too good for that, and besides, Briggs could see
him moving around inside . . .

 
          
“Hal?
What about it? Can I get a ride out to the range?”

 
          
.
. . but Jacinto was a high-tech aircraft freak. He knew all there was to know,
all he was allowed to know, about the B-52 Megafortress Plus and the XF-34 A
DreamStar. He would, though, gladly give his right nut to get a look at either
bird up close. Jacinto had guarded Hangar Three before, but he had never been
inside . . .

 
          
“He’s
never seen the Old Dog before,” Briggs mumbled.

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“One
of my troops. Jacinto . . .”

 
          
“Rey?
Yeah, nice guy. You keep on bouncing back his requests to take a peek at
DreamStar. You ought to let him before they mothball her. Is he on duty this
morning?”

 
          
“Hangar
Five.”

 
          
MacLanahan
squinted through the semi-darkness toward DreamStar’s hangar. “I don’t see
him.”

 
          
“He’s
in the Commando.”

 
          
McLanahan
grunted his surprise. “Looking out those tiny gunport windows? Get those guys
in the Rover to relieve him on his post and have him come take a look at the
Megafortress. I know he’s been itching to get a look at her too.”

 
          
“Yeah,
right.” Briggs walked off toward his sedan. Patrick was about to repeat his
request for a ride out to the bombing range but changed his mind—Briggs, he
decided, must have a million things on his mind.

 
          
As
he walked to his car Hal Briggs decided McLanahan was right. Jacinto had wanted
to get a look at the Megafortress Plus and DreamStar for years. Now, with the
huge bomber not three hundred yards away, Jacinto was sitting locked up in his
V-ioo, watching through tiny gunports when he could be outside watching it.
Why? Besides, Jacinto was a well-known roamer. He couldn’t stand being cooped
up in a Commando for more than a few minutes.

 
          
It
was then that Briggs noticed the blue Stepvan half-hidden from view beside
Hangar Five. He also noticed that the doors to Hangar Five were open and that a
missile-carrying trailer was parked inside. And he saw the orange safety cones
arranged outside the hangar—MMS, or Munitions Maintenance Squadron, was already
downloading weapons from DreamStar. They were four hours early . . .