The Block 1 F-16A Viper or Fighting Falcon Bastian flew was an old soldier. Dating from the very first production run of the versatile “light” fighter series, the plane had been scheduled to be “surplused” under the latest round of Pentagon budget slashings. Dog had managed to wangle it as a pilot-proficiency craft for his new command. It was his first victory over the bean counters; he hoped to hell it wouldn’t be his last.
The fighter chirped its wheels appreciatively as Dog touched down. A row of lights sprang to life from the tarmac in front of him as the plane trundled toward the access ramp; the lights blinked yellow, helping to guide him toward Hangar Four, which housed transport and auxiliary craft assigned to the base. As he approached, the hangar door began to open. All of these functions were being performed by a brand-new Automated Airport Assistance computer being tested by the HAWC wizards. When perfected, the system would be able to do much more than turn on a few lights and open some doors. With minimal human assistance, AAA and its Series S IBM mainframes would be able to run routine maintenance inspections after every flight, scanning physical flight surfaces as well as avionics equipment. The system would automate maintenance procedures and, probably in the not-too-distant future, accomplish some of the work itself. The engineers envisioned a day when combat-ready versions of AAA would do the work of a hundred or more maintenance pukes, keeping a squadron in the air around the clock.
Dog wasn’t necessarily sure he’d want to see that day. Not that he didn’t want the Air Force to get maximum use of its planes and people—”bang for the buck” was the order of the day. But in his opinion, machines could only do so much. Taking away human error and inefficiency also meant taking away human judgment and creativity. To his way of thinking judgment and creativity were what made the Air Force—any organization really—work.
As he approached the hangar, a regular welcome-wagon parade came out to join the half-dozen ground crewmen waiting for him: A trio of black security Hummers zipped out from behind Hangar One. Combat-dressed Air Force Special Operations troops poured out of the modern-day jeeps, M-16A3 laser-dot-targeted rifles in their paws.
A good sign, Dog thought to himself—it meant Captain Danny Freah had gotten to the base ahead of schedule.
Freah’s sourpuss face was the first to greet him when he climbed down the ladder.
“Colonel, welcome to Dreamland.” The captain snapped off an impressive salute. Dog had known him for a little more than a year;, in all that time, he’d never seen the twenty-three-year-old African American smile.
He liked that.
“Captain.” Dog gave the detail a quick once-over, nodding appreciatively. “We’ll be having a meeting for all officers and senior NCOs as soon as I’m squared away here. Set that up for me, will you, Danny? Let’s say thirty minutes. My office.”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” said a civilian, walking slowly from the hangar. His blue shirt was open at the collar, and while his blond hair was cropped military-style, he wore a tiny gold-post earring in his left ear. “You’ll never fit that many people in your office.”
“And you’re who?”
“I am Dr. Rubeo, senior scientist.” Rubeo heaved his shoulders back like a skinny cock preening before a fight. His oversized nose dominated his bony face; though at least six-two, he looked to weigh maybe 150 pounds.
“And what do you suggest, Doctor?”
“Frankly, I would suggest you postpone your meeting until tomorrow,” said Rubeo. “Assuming it’s necessary.”
Dog pitched his arms onto his hips. “Unacceptable.”
“Colonel, let me suggest Conference Room Two,” said Freah.
Dog locked eyes with Rubeo, then slowly turned to Freah and nodded.
“You’ll be looking for Major Thomas, sir,” Danny added. “I can take you over to him myself.”
“Very good,” said Dog.
“Life support this way, sir,” said a young staff sergeant, indicating where he could leave his flight gear. The sergeant pointed toward the F-16’s large travel pod, lashed to the side of the fuselage. “We’ll get your bags.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Bastian, starting toward the hangar.
“Excuse me, Colonel.” Rubeo said the word “colonel” as if it belonged to a foreign language.
“Yes?”
“You want staff at the meeting as well?”
“I want all senior scientists there, yes,” said Dog, snapping each word from his mouth. “I believe that would include staff.”
“I don’t know about that. Most aren’t even on the base at this hour. They could be—”
“Thirty minutes,” said Dog, setting off to get out of his speed suit.
DANNY FREAH HAD FIRST MET LIEUTENANT COLONEL Bastian during the planning session for a classified mission in Bosnia. Freah, then a lieutenant, had been tapped to help rescue a high-ranking Serbian defector, one of the Yugoslavian generals responsible for military planning during the Bosnian ethnic war. As originally drawn up, Freah’s job was minor; he was heading a security team on the second helo in the backup flight. But the primary helicopters had to be scrapped, and by the time the backups arrived at the pickup zone the insertion team was taking heavy fire. Freah and his men saved the day. Danny hoisted the wounded general on his shoulders, and ran through a minefield with him to the MH-60K Pave Hawk just as the craft lifted off. The exploit had earned Danny a promotion and the right to wear a fancy medal on his dress uniform. It also got him assigned to the Pentagon, where he’d stayed just long enough to know he never wanted to go back there again.
Bastian helped get him transferred into Special Operations—and then pulled some strings to get him out here just a few days ago.
A lot of guys pointed out that “Bastian” sounded like “bastard.” A lot of other guys pointed out that the colonel’s nickname—”Dog”—was “God” spelled backward. But in Freah’s opinion, the colonel was just a no-nonsense ballbuster who wanted things done right and fast. More importantly, the colonel had treated him fairly and respectfully from day one.
Though he’d only been at Dreamland for a few days, Freah already knew the base as well as anyone. Showing the colonel into Main Building One—they mockingly called the bland rectangle “The Taj”—he stepped quickly to the retina-scan device that stood in front of the elevator. Two of his men watched silently from a few feet away as the computer beeped clearances.
“Elevator won’t descend unless each passenger has gone through the device,” Freah told Bastian. “It’s brand-new. Installed after, uh, their problems.”
Bastian nodded. Like many pilots, Dog was barely average height, though his broad shoulders and squat legs betrayed the fact that he could probably out-bench Freah, who was no slouch himself. The forty-something colonel also ran five miles every morning, usually in just under thirty minutes.
The elevator arrived with a slow, pained hiss. It had never been exactly fast, but the addition of the security equipment made it excruciatingly slow. Having used the retina scan to identify them, the security system now reconfirmed its initial decision with an elaborate sensor array that measured fifteen physical attributes, from height to heartbeat. Any parameter that was out of line with recorded norms would cause an alert; the equipment was so sensitive that personnel were regularly briefed not to drink more than their usual allotment of coffee in the morning, for fear of pushing their heartbeat too high. In theory, the gear was supposed to make it impossible for an impostor to infiltrate the base. Freah was skeptical, to say the least.
“This thing taking us down, or what?” asked Bastian as they waited for the doors to close.
“Sorry, Colonel. The procedure takes a while.”
Bastian frowned as Freah explained how the device worked.