Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (27 page)

“No,” Daren said calmly. “Hands off.”

“Two, you guys are a little close,” the lead mission commander radioed.

“We're fine,” Daren responded. Grey quickly realized that Mace hadn't overcorrected or made a mistake—he was purposely tucked in close, the leader's left wing casting a shadow on the second Vampire. But Mace was in there so close and so tight that it felt as if they were one aircraft.

“I see what you mean about the wingtip vortices. The trick would be to keep the vortices away from the flight-control surfaces. Look—I'll move out a few feet. Put your hand on the stick.” When Grey put his hand lightly on the control stick, Daren moved the bomber an imperceptible amount away from the leader. “See that?”

“No.”

“Turn off the mission-adaptive computer for a sec.”

“What?”

“I said, turn off the MA computer, Zane.”

“You want to move away first?”

“No.” To Grey's horror, Daren keyed his voice-control button: “MAT to standby.” There was a slight burble that caused a thrill of panic to shoot up and down Grey's spine, but their position did not change one bit. “See it now? The mission-adaptive system masks it out quite a bit. Look—it'll go away.” He slid in four feet closer, so close that Grey could see the whites in the lead AC's eyes. “See? It's gone. You really got to get it in there tight, but the vortices just spill out over the top of our fuselage and overboard along our slipstream.” Daren keyed the interplane channel mike button: “Lead, give me a standard rate turn,” he radioed. “Either direction.”

There was a
long
pause, but finally: “Roger. Coming left.”

The lead Vampire made an ultracautious, much less than standard-rate turn, and the second Vampire turned with him. “See this, Zane?” Daren said. “Once you're in tight enough to let the vortices spill over the fuselage instead of the wings, the vortices actually help keep you in place.” He moved his hand until he had just one finger and one thumb on the controls. “She's practically flying herself. I wouldn't unzip and take a pee, but this gives you enough of a breather to refocus your eyes, check a caution message, or get a kink out.” They turned right to get back on course, and Mace's Vampire stuck with the leader as if it were welded to him. “Let's see what it's like on the other side.” On interplane he radioed, “Lead, Two's crossing under to the other wing.”

“Is that you flying, Zane?”

“Negative. It's the new guy.”

“Say again?”

“It's the new MC flying,” Zane said proudly. “He's got liquid nitrogen for blood.”

Still in the turn, Daren crossed under the lead EB-1, close enough so that they could see seams in the composite fibersteel skin. “Wow. Feel this, Zane—I'm dead in between both wingtip vortices, and it's as smooth as a baby's bottom here.” All Zane could think about was smacking into the underside of the lead plane—they were closer than precontact position from an aerial-refueling tanker. But he took the controls and found it incredibly steady. No sign of turbulence or cross-controlling at all. Daren tried it with the mission-adaptive system on, and it was even smoother.

He backed away to a more reasonable position. “Nice job in the groove, Nitro,” the pilot of the lead bomber remarked.

“I think you've just been named, sir,” Grey said.

“ ‘Nitro,' huh? It's a helluva lot better than ‘Pappy,' “ Daren said. He moved away to route-formation position and gave control back to the flight-control computer.

“Shit-hot job, sir,” Grey said. “I got the impression you didn't like flying.”

“Nah,” Daren said. “Just because I don't think mission commanders need to be experts in flying the jet, or because I think I shouldn't be wasting time learning flight characteristics, doesn't mean I
can't
fly. But I prefer dropping bombs, my friend. I'll get our range clearance, and then we'll go in and have some
real
fun!”

Later that afternoon

Daren had to struggle to keep up with the squadron as they headed down the aircraft-parking ramp for the finish line. His newest squadron joint activity: letting everyone off at 4:00 p.m. on Friday afternoon and doing a five-kilometer run around the runway, followed by a tailgate beer and soda party hosted by one of the squadron's duty flights, rotated each week. He was heartened to see everyone who was not on critical duty, and even a few others who had a quick-response responsibility, out for the run. He was also pleasantly surprised when Patrick McLanahan, David Luger, and a bunch of other Air Battle Force types joined in the run with Rebecca Furness, John Long, and a few other wing personnel he hadn't even met yet.

The afternoon air was cold and dry, much different from the humid air in the District of Columbia and Alabama, but his body was finally getting accustomed to the dryness and altitude, and Daren felt he acquitted himself well despite obviously being the old man in the group. He felt that more than just a few folks had to slow up so they wouldn't completely wax their squadron commander, and there was a big clump of squadron personnel who finished beside Daren and Rebecca. John Long, a three-per-day cigar smoker, dropped out after three kilometers, the minimum distance for the twice-annual Air Force aerobics test; almost no one else dropped out, although a few had to stop and take some deep breaths and rest aching legs.

Daren first chose a large bottle of icy-cold water after the run, but then he took one look at the disappointed faces of his squadron, put it back, and pulled out a bottle of beer instead, then handed one to Rebecca. This gave the go-ahead for everyone else, and the partying started in earnest. “Good move, Colonel,” Rebecca said as they walked along the dirt beside the Security Forces building. “You saw that everyone wanted a beer, but no one was going to partake unless you did first. Very heads-up of you to switch.”

“Thanks.”

“I've seen a lot of that lately. You seem very in tune with your troops. I see you playing basketball and having chow with the enlisted people, playing cards with the NCOs, turning wrenches with the maintenance guys, and shooting rifles and pistols on the range with the Security Forces. I know it means a lot to them to see you around.” She paused, then said, “But
I
don't see much of you these days. The general's big project?”

“He's got me plugged in night and day.” There were lots of generals on base, Daren thought, but everyone knew that “the” general was Patrick McLanahan. “Lots of meetings and trips to TTR.” The Tonopah Test Range was the flight test and research base in southwestern Nevada that served as the medium-security conduit between the unclassified flight testing done at Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California and the supersecret research work done at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, near Las Vegas.

“Everything going all right?”

“I think we'll have it dialed in soon,” Daren said. “The general is a hard-charger.”

“Good candidate for a nervous breakdown.”

“His head is screwed on right, I think,” Daren said. “He's spending more time with his kid. He even showed up for the squadron run.”

“I couldn't believe it myself.”

“I wasn't surprised. He works hard, but he's starting to gain a bit more perspective, I think.”

“That'll be a switch.”

They fell silent again, nursing their beers. Finally Daren said, “How about dinner tonight? I think the Owl Club is doing cowboy poetry in the dining room. Should be a rip-roarin' time in the old town!” That was pure sarcasm. There was not much to do in Battle Mountain after hours; cowboy poetry was a special treat.

“I . . . I don't think so, Daren,” Rebecca said uneasily.

“You're allowed to spend time with your squadron commanders while off duty.”

“I know that. It's just—”

“This is the first time I've even spoken to you outside meetings and briefings, Becky, and we've still got several hundred airmen around us,” Daren said. “Something a little more relaxed and private would be nice.”

“I'm not ready to start seeing you, Daren.”

“Not even for dinner and some wine?”

“When did we
ever
get together for ‘just' dinner?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Well, I certainly didn't mind when things turned in that direction.”

“And that's why I'm saying no, Daren. I'm afraid our whole relationship outside of work revolves around sex. I'm not ready for that yet.”

“It doesn't have to end up with us in the sack, Becky.”

“I just don't want to take the chance,” she said. She motioned to the rest of the large crowd of runners a few dozen yards away. “I think I'm comfortable enough around you right now.”

“You're not giving me very much credit here.”

“I'll apologize—if you tell me you didn't think about it when you asked me out.” Daren smiled again. “I thought so.”

“Hey, it doesn't mean I was planning to carry you up to a hotel room and throw you on the bed after dinner,” Daren said. “If it happened, then . . . I'd be very happy. If it didn't—”

“You'd try again,” Rebecca finished for him. “Problem is, I'm not sure if I'm ready for the pursuit right now . . . and I'm not sure what I'd be feeling if I said yes.” He looked away. “And if you cared about me at all, you'd respect that.”

“I do,” Daren said earnestly. “But it won't stop me from thinking about it—or trying again.” She had no response to that. Daren couldn't tell if it meant “Don't bother” or “I'd like that.” He looked over the aircraft-parking ramp, wishing he could throw the beer bottle across with all his strength. “Are you ever going to tell me about you and Rinc Seaver?” he asked sharply.

“No. And I advise you not to bring up
that
topic again,” she said, and she walked quickly away.

As he watched her move off, his mind flashed briefly on Amber back at Donatella's—and then he shook his head, finished his beer, and went to get another.

While over at the tailgate, Patrick McLanahan met up with him. “Good idea doing a run,” he said. Daren noticed with amusement that McLanahan's sweatshirt was heavily sweat-stained. “The tailgate party makes it even better.”

“Thanks for turning out, sir,” Daren said. “Been a while since you've done any running?”

“I've been allowed to skate.”

“I see.”

“I saw the rundown on your familiarization ride today with Lieutenant Grey. Very good shooting,” Patrick said.

“Thank you, sir. With precision-guided weapons and the systems you have on board your B-1s here, a person's got to have a pretty good excuse to miss.”

“Youth. New systems. Not intuitive enough. I've heard lots of excuses,” Patrick said. “It takes a skilled operator to simply walk into a Vampire, manage the aircraft, manage the systems, and release good weapons. You're a good stick, too. You watered your wingman's eyes with your formation flying.”

“Thanks.”

McLanahan pulled Mace away from the others circling the beer. “You're doing an outstanding job getting the virtual-cockpit stuff ready on the Vampires, too,” Patrick went on when they were by themselves. “It's coming together great.”

“I think we'll be done well before your deadline, sir.”

“Unfortunately, we're going to be taking a break for a few days. We have a special mission—and I want you to fly it.”

“You got it, sir. Where are we going?”

McLanahan looked around to see if anyone was in earshot, then: “Turkmenistan.”

Daren didn't look surprised. “I had a feeling things were heating up out there,” he said. “When do we brief?”

“We'll brief the mission itself in the plane after we're airborne,” Patrick said. “Crew rest for you starts as soon as you finish that beer. Show time in the Lair is oh-two-hundred, wheels-up at oh-three-hundred.”

Daren drained his beer. “Cool,” he said simply. “I'll be there. Who's my aircraft commander?”

“You worked well with Lieutenant Grey this morning,” Patrick said, “but we need someone with a little more experience.”

“Don't tell me—I know.”

Patrick glanced at Rebecca heading for her Yukon in the parking lot, then back at Daren. “You two going to be okay?”

“Yes, sir. If not, we'll have lots of time en route to discuss things.”

“That's for sure. See you in the Lair.”

“May I make a suggestion, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Let's turn this mission into an operational test flight,” Daren said. “Let's use everything we've put together. It can work, I know it.”

Patrick thought about it for a moment—but only for a moment. “Good idea,” he said. “We'll still have a live crew on board, but we'll run it as if they're not on board. We'll have to let everyone in the One-eleventh in on it. . . .”

“It'll work, sir,” Daren said. “It'll be great.”

Patrick fell silent again, then said, “Fine. But I'll fly as mission commander.”

“Sir . . .”

“No argument. This mission and this system are completely off the books. No one flies experimental aircraft until I fly it first. I might even bar Rebecca from flying it, but she'd argue so loud and long that I know there'd be no point.”

“Sir, the original idea behind this whole plan was to make it so you wouldn't
have
to fly missions like this.”

“That's not why I set up this program!”

“I didn't mean it like a selfish act, sir—I know you wouldn't start something like this just for yourself,” Daren said. “But the original motivating factor behind all of this was creating a weapon system that didn't rely on human factors to complete the mission. You have too much invested in this program—emotionally as well as careerwise—to be completely effective.”