“Retaliatory strikes are under way,” continued Magnus. “We’re stepping up reconnaissance. We have satellite coverage, but we’ve pulled our U-2s until we’re sure they’ll still be okay. We need one if not two Elint aircraft there, and we believe the RC-135s might be vulnerable, at least if they stray close enough to hear what’s going on in Baghdad. It’s a precaution, of course, but until we know precisely what happened, we’d prefer to—”

“I can have a pair of Megafortresses in the air this afternoon,” said Dog.

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“Two?”

“I believe we can have two,” said Dog, thinking of Raven and Quicksilver.

“Two would be optimum. We’ll want a black base, not Incirlik.”

“Okay,” said Dog, realizing that was going to be considerably more difficult than merely sending the Megafortresses.

“You’re not being chopped to CentCom on this, Tecumseh,” said Magnus. “You’re supplying them with information and support, but you remain an independent entity. This is a Whiplash operation. You understand?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.”

“If you can find the radar and the missile sites, take them out,” added Magnus, making the implications of the order explicit. “Don’t bother going through Florida and pussyfooting with the political bullshit. Full orders will follow. Jed Barclay is going to bird-dog you on this, for the President. I’m only tangentially involved.” Magnus turned away from the screen briefly, nodded to someone behind him, then turned back. “Your orders should arrive no later than 1400.”

“The planes will be en route by then, General.”

“Very good.”

The screen went blank.

Dreamland

0603

“WHERE YOU GOIN’, MY BLUE-PAINTED PAIN IN THE YOU-know-what?” twanged Staff Sergeant Louis Garcia, half singing, half cursing at the errant wires in the hard-point assembly he was trying to adjust. Breanna rolled her eyes and took a sip of her Diet Coke, painfully aware that any-

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69

thing she said would not only further delay their takeoff but elicit a riff of bad Dylan puns from the man on the portable scaffold.

“How’s it looking?” asked Merce Alou, keeping his voice down.

Breanna shrugged. “Something about the wire har-nesses fouling up the hydraulic fit,” she told Major Alou, Quicksilver’s pilot.

“New antennas in the nose okay?” asked Alou, nodding toward the gray and silvery front section of the plane. Thanks to updates in their electronic intelligence, or Elint, gear, both Raven and Quicksilver had new blunt, almost triangular, noses. The faceted proboscis not only accommodated the latest array of sensors, but would also facilitate a false-echo electronic countermeasure system still being developed and scheduled for installation next fall. The new nose was not yet coated with its radar-deflecting Teflon paint, which took several applications and could ground it for some time.

“Checked and rechecked,” said Breanna. “Least of our problems.”

Alou grunted noncommittally. He’d done much of the work shaking down the new gear in Raven, his usual mount, and he seemed to be remembering those teething problems.

“We only have a clear satellite window for another hour and a half,” he said finally. “We’ll have to scrub if we’re not ready to fire the Hydros in forty-five minutes.

I’m not sure we can even preflight by then.”

Breanna took another sip of her soda. Russian satellites crisscrossed overhead on a predictable schedule. The Megafortress was no longer considered top secret—both Jane’s and Airpower Journal had written articles on the aircraft in the past few months. Many of the details were wrong, but that was undoubtedly the idea of whomever 70

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had leaked them. Newsweek had published a grainy photo following the so-called Nerve Center affair, and Time had run not one, but two artists’ sketches.

The Hydros they were to launch from the bulky hard-point, however, were very secret. From the distance, they looked like sleek red tubes with a slightly swelled rear. In fact, they could easily be confused for water or gas pipes, were it not for their aerodynamic noses and tiny fins at the back. But the thin, titanium-ceramic bodies held a pair of gossamer copper-carbon wings and a large tube of hydrogen. After the Hydros were dropped, the wings were inflated either by remote control, timer, or preset altimeter. The foot-long stubs allowed the tubes to glide back down to earth. While still in its early stages, the Hydros were expected to form the basis of next-generation disposable sensor devices or even bomb kits. And the implications of the technology—airfoils on demand, as one of the scientists put it—were far-reaching.

“Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door,” said Garcia. He stood back triumphantly.

“That mean we’re ready?” Alou asked.

“One more cup of coffee ’fore we go,” sang Garcia, apparently meaning yes.

“Can we mount the Hydros?” asked one of the scientists who stood in front of the knot of ordies and the Hydro.

“Just don’t go mistakin’ heaven for that home across the road.”

“One more song lyric and you’re going to heaven,”

said Breanna, “and it won’t be in an airplane either.”

Thirty minutes and at least a half-dozen song allusions later, Breanna and Alou had the Megafortress on the taxi-way. A black SUV Jimmy sat ahead at the turn into runway one. They trundled toward it then braked; they had to wait for Galatica to land.

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71

“Holding at Heaven’s Gate,” said Alou.

The controller acknowledged. Galatica was on final approach.

Breanna curled her arms in front of her chest, undecided about whether to watch “her” plane land or not. She looked up at the last moment, just in time to see the plane drop into view. Her undercarriage and tail had been severely damaged in the crash landing, but there was no way to tell now; she descended toward the dry lake bed like a dark angel with her wings spread, her Teflon-coated surface smooth and sleek black.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can,” Bree muttered to the aircraft.

“Don’t worry, I’m still saying my prayer too,” said Alou.

Breanna felt her face flush, embarrassed that she had spoken out loud.

“Okay,” said Alou. He held up his thumb, then gave a wave in front of the window to the crewman at the security truck. They removed their brakes and stepped to the line, toeing along the back apron of the runway for a moment before giving Quicksilver the gas. Breanna scanned the glass wall of instruments in front of her; all systems were green as they skipped lightly into the air.

Breanna’s disappointment at not being the first to take Galatica disappeared as soon as her stomach felt the impact of the two g’s or so that Quicksilver pulled getting off the runway. She’d missed that rush of adrenaline these past few weeks. The maneuvers in the simulator had touched eight negative g’s, a fairly hard shove—yet they hadn’t felt as sharp, as nice, as warm as this.

“Preparing to clean gear,” she told Alou.

“Proceed.”

“Computer—raise landing gear,” she said.

“Raise landing gear,” repeated the automated flight as-

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sistant. They worked through their flight plan, bringing the Megafortress to ten thousand feet over the northernmost test area. They reached it about ten minutes ahead of schedule and had to wait for the recovery team to get ready on the ground.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” said Alou as they began a wide orbit around the range. “I saw you pray before takeoff. That happen after the crash?”

Bree grunted, not caring to get into a discussion. She hadn’t actually been praying.