Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (4 page)

4

Dreamland

E
VEN THOUGH THE E
NGINEERS HAD REACHED
A TENTATIVE
conclusion about what happened within minutes of the B-1Q and UAVs touching down, the mission debriefing lasted well into the night. Two of the UAVs had been destroyed and a third damaged when they were unable to anticipate the Phantom’s last second landing abort. The others returned to the airstrip where their mother ship had landed, landing in perfect formation and taxiing behind it. Analysis of the computing logic was still ongoing, but it appeared to have followed the proper protocols and decision trees—except for the switch to the intercept. That signal had apparently been inadvertently ordered by the B-1Q’s control unit when the pulse hit: a flaw in the B-1Q controls or perhaps the human overseeing them, not the UAVs.

Breanna ducked out after an hour to see to Admiral Blackheart. She was shocked to find him not only in good spirits but almost giddy about the prospect of the Navy using the nano-UAVs.

“You have a hell of a lot of work to do,” said the admiral. “But those things have promise. The Navy
wants
to be involved. The technical people are right—this is the future.”

If the admiral was enthusiastic about the UAVs, he was even more impressed by Turk.

“Your pilot did a hell of a job saving the plane. Write up a commendation; I’ll sign it.”

Breanna summarized what they had found so far and offered to let the admiral sit in on some of the debriefing session; he wisely demurred.

She saw the admiral to his Pentagon-bound aircraft, then took a quick detour to pick up a salad. She stopped at her office to double-check e-mail, then headed back to the briefing room. Her secure satellite phone rang as she was about to open the door. The number display told her it was Jonathon Reid, codirector of the Whiplash project.

“Jonathon?”

“Breanna. I heard you had an incident.”

“There was a magnetic pulse problem on the range. A new weapon. We think the Hydras themselves were fine. But the pulse affected the antenna of the B-1Q. That project may be set back.”

“I see.”

She heard ice cubes clinking in the background. It was well past five back in D.C., but still, she was surprised that Reid was actually at home—he would never drink at either the Agency or in the Whiplash center.

Old school to a fault, Reid retained a certain professional distance with Breanna, even though they had come to know each other over the course of the past year and a half working together. When they started, Reid was a special “consultant” to the CIA; he had soon been named a special assistant to the deputy director of operations. Now, with the Agency in turmoil and under political pressure, he was rumored to be in line for the director’s job. But he refused to discuss it.

“The President spoke with Admiral Blackheart,” he told her. “She wants Roman Time to proceed.”

“OK. But—”

“From what I understand, Blackheart described the incident very briefly to her. We’re satisfied that the Iranians don’t have anything like the weapon that caused it.”

“Of course not.”

“So it’s not a factor.”

“No. But I think—I think it mandates having a trained pilot in the loop, as we’ve said all along,” she told him. “And a review of the programming systems. But because the routes on Roman Time would be already set out, I don’t think it would be a problem. Of course—”

“There is a complication,” interrupted Reid. “The timetable has to be accelerated.”

“By how much?”

“Greatly. We have, at best, a matter of a few weeks.”

“That’s too short to train any of the Delta people.”

Breanna knew what Reid was going to suggest before he said anything else. “Captain Mako is the obvious choice.”

“He’s too valuable,” Breanna said.

“Given the target, I’d say that’s not true. Not at all.”

“He’s a pilot, not a snake eater.”

“Who else, then?” asked Reid.

There was no one else. Aside from Turk, the only people who had flown the nano-UAVs were civilian engineers. Even if they were to volunteer, all but one was well into his forties and not exactly in the best physical shape.

The lone exception was eight months pregnant.

“Turk has to volunteer,” said Breanna.

“And then what do we do if he doesn’t decide to go?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t order someone to take a mission with such long odds on survival. This isn’t the sort of thing he signed up for. It’s ordering him to his death.”

“If he doesn’t volunteer, you may have to.”

5

Dreamland

T
O
DAY WAS GOING TO BE A GREAT DAY,
T
URK
M
AKO
decided as he rolled out of bed. Or at least as great a day as you could have without flying.

Heck, he
might
get some flying in. His only officially scheduled duty was to sit through a boring engineering session on the nano-UAVs. Then he was officially off-duty, free, liberated, unchained, for seventy-two hours, which would be spent in the delicious company of Li Pike, his girlfriend.

She was flying in this evening. Li, an Air Force A-10 pilot attached to a unit Turk had hooked up with in Africa, had managed to wangle leave from her own unit so they could be together.

Which reminded him—he had to check on the hotel reservation. And the car.

He couldn’t cruise Vegas with the Office of Special Technology Malibu he’d been assigned as personal transportation. A vintage Mustang convertible would be
much
more like it.

Dinner reservations. He needed to make dinner reservations. A quiet place, not too far from the hotel, but not
in
the hotel. He didn’t want to seem too anxious.

Turk turned the coffeemaker on and headed for the shower. The “single occupancy/officer/temp duty” apartments at Dreamland dating from the late 1990s were drab and boring. Worse, they had paper thin walls. Not appropriate for how he hoped the night would go.

Turk’s good mood was threatened a bit when he emerged from the shower to find that the coffee machine had malfunctioned, sending a spray of liquid and grinds around the counter area. He managed to salvage a single cup, which he downed while cleaning up. No big loss, he decided: there was always better coffee in the engineering bunkers. The geeks might not be much to look at, but they brewed mean java.

Turk’s spirits remained high as he approached the guards to the Whiplash building. He waved his credentials at them, then submitted to the mandatory fingerprint and retina scan set up just inside the door. Cleared, he sauntered down the long ramp to the main floor, pausing at the small coffee station near the elevator. He’d just finished helping himself to an extra-large cup when Breanna Stockard called to him from down the hall.

“Turk? Can we talk for a minute? In my office?”

“Sure boss, but, uh, I got a meeting downstairs.”

“This won’t take long.” Breanna ducked back inside the doorway to her office.

Turk topped off his coffee and went on down the hall. While Breanna was generally at Dreamland at least once a month, her office there had a temporary feel to it, and was radically different from the high-tech command center she used on the CIA campus. Even her Pentagon office, which was modest by command standards, seemed spacious if not quite opulent compared to the Dreamland space.

“You’re not going to make me pay for Old Girl, are you?” said Turk, plopping down into one of the two stiff-backed wooden chairs in front of her desk.

“Pay?” Breanna asked as she closed the door.

“Just a little joke.”

“You did a great job. The admiral wants to give you a medal.”

“Really? The tight-ass admiral?”

“Turk.”

“I didn’t call him that to his face.” Turk retreated quickly. Blackheart actually had one of his aides buy him a drink, so he wasn’t all bad. For an admiral.

“I need you to be serious, Captain.” Breanna was sitting ramrod straight.

“Yes, ma’am.” Turk took a sip of coffee and copied her posture.

B
REANNA HA
D AN ENTIRE MENTAL S
CRIPT MEMORIZED
and rehearsed, but for some reason couldn’t seem to get it started. She looked into his face, found his eyes, and forced herself to talk.

“We . . . have a special assignment. It’s very dangerous,” she started. “It involves . . . flying the nano-UAVs.”

“Flying them?”

“Directing them. As a backup, actually. But as you saw yesterday, we still need someone in the loop in an absolute emergency.”

“Yup.”

“I need a volunteer. I— You’re probably the only one qualified.”

Probably the only one?
Breanna silently scolded herself: she hadn’t planned on saying that at all.

“Where is this assignment?” he asked.

“I have to tell you—it’s very dangerous.”

“Great. I’m in.”

“Uh—”

“It’s combat, right? I want in. Definitely.”

“It’s . . . it is a combat operation,” said Breanna, surprised by his enthusiasm, though she realized now she should have expected it. “I can’t give you many details until—unless—you decide to do it.”

“I already decided. Where am I going?”

“It’s in Iran,” she said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Iran? Hell, yes. Hell, yes.”

“You’d have to start training right away. It’ll be intense.”

“Right away when?”

“We have a site in Arizona. We’d need you there as soon as possible. Tonight, preferably.”

“Tonight?”

Finally, she thought, he was listening with his brain rather than his heart.

“You can still back out,” she told him.

“No, no. It’s just, I kinda had plans for this weekend.”

“It’s not a question of being brave,” said Breanna, not quite parsing what he said. “This is voluntary. I mean that. Walk out of my office and I’ll have forgotten the whole thing.”

“No, I’m doing it. It’s tonight, though. That’s all I need. The night. I’ll report first thing in the morning.”

Breanna recognized the furrowed eyebrows and locked mouth—Turk had dug in, afraid that in some bizarre way his manhood was being questioned. She’d seen that look on the face of practically every male pilot she’d ever dealt with, including her husband’s. Once set, there was no way for them to back down.

But he did genuinely want to do it. She could read that as well.

“You can report tomorrow?” she asked gently.

“Deal.” He jumped to his feet and held out his hand to shake. “Thanks, boss.”

Breanna rose. His handshake was firm and enthusiastic.

“I’ll have Lisa make the arrangements,” she told him. “You’ll have a civilian flight to Arizona—the tickets will be in your e-mail queue by this evening.”

“Thanks.”

Oh God, she thought as she watched him leave. Did I do the right thing?

T
URK KICKED HIMSELF A
LL THE WAY DOWN THE
HALL.
He could have gotten the entire seventy-two hours off if he’d been smart about it.

But he wanted to get back into the swing of things. Feel the adrenaline he’d felt over Libya. He wanted to get back into combat.

Li wasn’t going to be happy about the timing, though. They’d planned this for weeks—months, since they’d met.

But he’d be back in the thick of things, flying. Controlling the nano-UAVs meant he’d be in the air close to them.

And Iran—this was going be something
real
.

T
URK MET
L
I
AT THE BAGGAGE CLAIM.
H
ER LIPS WERE
softer than he remembered, her hug more delicious. Oblivious to the crowd passing on both sides, they wrapped themselves together, merging their bodies in long delayed desire.

By the time their lips parted, Turk felt more than a little giddy. He was tempted to blow off the dinner reservations and go directly to the hotel, but Li’s appetite prevailed. Halfway through dinner at the fancy rooftop restaurant the glow on her face convinced him he’d made the right choice.

But it also made it hard to tell her that he had to leave in the morning.

It got harder with every minute that passed. Turk ordered himself another beer, then a glass of rye whiskey when she ordered dessert.

“It’s a beautiful view,” said Li, glancing toward the window. With the sun down, the rooftop patio was no longer oppressively hot, and when she suggested they have a nightcap at the bar there, Turk readily agreed. Words were growing sparser and sparser, and yet he knew he had to talk—had to tell her what was up. But he felt paralyzed.

Every day at work, testing planes or in combat, he made dozens of decisions, immediately and without hesitation. His life, and often those of others, depended on it. He’d learned long ago that worrying too much about whether a decision was right or wrong was worse than making no decision at all. You were always going to do something somewhere sometime that
might
be wrong; you did your best to keep those numbers down, but you didn’t obsess. Otherwise you did nothing.

And yet he couldn’t move now.

Just blurt it out, he thought. And yet that seemed impossible.

The alcohol was just enough to make him a little sloppy; he held Li’s hand awkwardly as they sat at a small wooden table near the edge of the roof, staring at the city spread out before them.

“Great night,” said Li.

“Definitely.”

“It’s still early.”

“The hotel is pretty close.”

“Is it?”

Her smile made it impossible to say anything else. Turk paid the bill and led her to the car, and a half hour later they were in bed. Time had completely disappeared, and conscious thought as well—for Turk there was only her skin and her scent, her hair and the inviting softness of her breasts.

He drifted off, only to wake with a start an hour later. He still hadn’t told her. Li was sleeping peacefully. Turk got up, pacing the hotel room—he had to tell her, but to wake her up?

He didn’t even know what time he had to leave. He turned on his laptop, angry with himself—what a fool, what an absolute idiotic, ridiculous fool. A damn teenager. An imbecilic middle school kid.

As he tapped his password into the screen, he suddenly found himself hoping the mission had been called off. When he didn’t see the e-mail among the first few entries, he nearly yelped with joy: maybe he had a few days reprieve. Even twenty-four hours, even twelve, would suffice.

But there it was, down at the very bottom, between a nudist site link a friend had sent and an advertisement for car insurance.

PLANE LEAVES AT
0705. BOARDING PASS
ATTACHED. CIVILIAN
DRESS.

Turk took a beer from the minifridge and paced back and forth through the room. He had to tell her, and he had to wake her up. And God, how was he going to tell her?

He could lie and say it had just come up. He just got the e-mail—not in itself a lie, actually.

Technically.

“What are you doing?” Li asked from under the blankets.

He looked at her. Her eyes were still closed.

“I, uh—damn.” Turk sat in the chair opposite the bed.

Li opened her eyes. “What?”

“I . . .” He knew he was only making it worse by delaying. He ordered his mouth and tongue to speak—better to blurt it out. “I have to leave in the morning on an assignment. It, um, just came up.”

“Huh?” She pushed herself up, propping her head with her right hand. “What’s up, Turk?”

He hated himself. If he was a braver man, he’d leap out the window and disappear.

“I have—something came up today, something important.”

For a moment he thought he would lie—just show her the e-mail and say nothing else. But he couldn’t lie to her. Something in her eyes, in the look she was giving him: it wasn’t disappointment entirely; there was more—loss and vulnerability. He was hurting her, and lying would only make that worse, much worse. Because he didn’t want to hurt her. He loved her, though he’d never used that word.

“I’ve been putting off telling you. They need me to do something really important. I have to leave for Arizona in the morning. I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin the night.”

Li slipped out of the bed, naked. She walked across the room and put her fingers to his lips.

“It’s OK, Turk. I understand. I know it must be important.”

She kissed him, and they folded their bodies together, hers warm, his cold. They went back to bed and made love, though their thoughts were already both moving far apart.