while they’ve done a lot with the airfoil to reduce drag, it does add to drag. The C-17 is always a C-17. It’s never going to break the sound barrier. But imagine a cargo aircraft with a wingspan the size of an F-104—you remember those, the Starfighter? Tiny wings. Fast as hell. So imagine a plane with a fuselage the size of a 767 but wings like that. Takes off—all right, we’re still coming up with an acceptable propulsion system, but that can be solved, believe me; that’s my area of expertise. You have these narrow, small wings and can go incredibly fast, then, when you want to land, you slow down, pop!”
Firenzi yelled and threw his arms out at his sides. All of his audience, even Dog, jumped up in their seats as the scientist mimicked a plane coming in for a landing.
“Zip,” said Firenzi triumphantly. “Enough wing surface inside twenty-five seconds to land on a road. A road!
Really. It’s the future. Imagine the civilian commercial applications—airports could handle two, three times the traffic. We’d reconfigure runways, change approaches—there would be parking and no traffic jams!”
“You know, I think we’re probably all in the mood for dinner about now,” said Dog, sensing that any further performance from Firenzi would convince the congressman he was crazy. “Unless there are other questions.”
There were a few, but Firenzi handled them as they walked to the elevators. There wasn’t enough room for the entire party to fit comfortably; Dog stayed behind with Knapp to wait for the second gondola.
“Anything new from Iraq?” Knapp asked as they waited.
“No details of the raids,” Dog told him. He couldn’t assume that Knapp’s clearance entitled him to know that Dreamland had sent the Whiplash team and two Megafortresses to Turkey.
“Should’ve dealt with the SOB when we had the chance,” said Knapp.
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“Can’t argue with you, sir,” said Dog.
“Like to get a look at what’s shooting down our planes.”
“So would I.” Dog folded his arms.
“The President’s counting on you,” said Knapp.
“We do our best.”
“Joint Chiefs wanted to put you under CentCom for this, but he wouldn’t let them.”
Dog, unsure exactly how to respond, simply shrugged.
The elevator arrived. Knapp grabbed his arm as the door opened.
“Colonel, you understand of course that that was said in confidence.”
Dog smiled. “Absolutely.”
“I happen to agree that Dreamland and Whiplash should be independent. But best be careful. Dreamland’s future may well ride on your standing with the Secretary as well as the President.”
“I don’t get involved with politics if I can help it. Not my job.”
“Maybe you should help it,” said Knapp.
Dog had to put his hand out to stop the door from closing, since they hadn’t entered the car yet.
“General Magnus may not be your boss forever,”
added Knapp as they stepped inside.
Dog could only shrug again as the elevator started upward.
Aboard Quicksilver , on High Top runway 29 May 1997
0650
“POWER TO TEN PERCENT. ENGINE ONE, TEMP, PRESSURES
green. Two, green. Three, green. Four, green. Recheck brakes. Holding. I’d recommend new drums at twenty 162
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thousand miles,” quipped Chris Ferris, deviating from the checklist. “You might get by with turning them down, but then you risk shimmy stopping at highway speeds.”
“Thank you, Mr. Midas,” answered Bree.
“We’re your under-car-care specialists,” said the copilot without losing a beat. “Power to fifty. System checks.
We’re in the green. Augmented list for assisted takeoff.
Green, green, green. My, we are good. Flighthawks are plugged in and ready to cook.”
“Jeff, how we looking down there?”
“Flighthawks are yours,” replied Zen.
“You sound a little tired this morning, Flighthawk leader.”
“Not at all, Quicksilver. I got two hours of sleep.”
Breanna knew Zen was in a bad mood and wouldn’t be kidded out of it. He’d told Fentress he wasn’t needed today, which had obviously disappointed the apprentice pilot. Fentress looked like he wanted to say something, but Zen had simply rolled himself away.
Not that Fentress shouldn’t have spoken up. He needed a little more of Mack Smith in him—not too much. Still, Mack had spent the morning pestering everyone with possible missions he could undertake, and while he was more than a bit of a pain, you had to admire his gung-ho attitude.
From afar.
“Takeoff assist module on line,” said Chris. “On your verbal command.”
“Computer, takeoff assist countdown,” said Bree.
The slightly mechanical feminine voice of the computer began talking. “Takeoff in five, four …”
“Okay, crew. Let’s go kick butt for little Muhammad Liu, Dreamland’s newest addition,” she told them.
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Someone on the circuit laughed, but the roar of the power plants drowned it out as the Megafortress accelerated. Controlled by the flight computer, the Flighthawk engines acted like rocket packs, augmenting the massive thrust of the EB-52’s own P&Ws as the plane shot forward on the mesh. Breanna held the stick loosely, little more than a passenger as the plane rolled past the halfway point of the runway. A slight sensation of weightlessness followed as the plane’s wheels skipped off the pavement.
“Gear,” she prompted, at the same time nudging the stick. The computer stepped away, content to remain only a backseat driver until called on again. Chris, meanwhile, made sure the landing gear was stowed, did another quick check of the instruments, and then worked with Zen to refuel the Flighthawks through the Megafortress’s wing plumbing. The mission specialists began the lengthy process of firing up and calibrating their gear.
The Cold War had given rise to a variety of reconnaissance aircraft, most famously the U-2 and SR-71, which were essentially high-altitude observation platforms able to focus cameras over—or in some cases alongside of—enemy territory. Less well-known were a series of collectors that gathered electronic data ranging from radar capabilities to live radio transmissions. B-29s and B-50s, essentially Superfortresses on steroids, were first pressed into this role; RB-47s replaced them. But it wasn’t until vast improvements in electronics in the late sixties and early seventies that the type really came into its own.
While a number of airframes were used, the workhorse was based on one of the most successful commercial aircraft of all time—the Boeing 707. Known as the C-135
(and later, E-3) and prepared in dozens if not hundreds of variations, the plane provided an unassuming platform 164
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for some of the most sensitive missions of the Cold War.
Bristling with antennas and radars, a Rivet Joint or Cobra Ball aircraft might spend hours flying a track in international waters near the Soviet Union, monitoring transmissions during a missile test or a military exercise. It might note how the local air defense commanders reacted when American fighter aircraft approached. It might check the radars used, their capabilities and characteristics. It showed the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, helping to compile a considerable library of information.
As valuable as they were, the planes remained 707s—highly vulnerable to attack. Even JSTARS, a real-time flying command post that revolutionized combat intelligence during the Gulf War, had to stand off at some distance from hostile territory.
That was where the EB-52 came in. Bigger than the 707
or even the 757 airframes proposed to replace it, the Megafortress was designed to operate in the heart of the volcano. One aircraft such as Quicksilver could perform the functions of several, detecting and jamming radars, snooping and disrupting radio transmissions, all in places and at times previously unthinkable. Along with an AWACS version and their Flighthawks, the Megafortresses promised to revolutionize warfare once again.