Edward Lee - Operator B

“Experimental aircraft is what we’re talking about here, right?”

“That’s right. Things even you have never flown, sir. Mostly the newer variant EM-Crafts.”

“EM-Crafts?” Wentz grew mildly jealous. He thought he’d flown it all. “What the hell is an EM—”

“Northrop makes them in Pennsylvania. You’ve heard of rail guns?”

“Sure, but its only theory.”

Ashton smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read in Popular Science, General. We have operational SDI rail guns in orbit right now.”

“Isn’t that, like, an horrendous violation of the latest ABM treaty?”

“Yep. Anyway, the EM-Craft is a rail gun in reverse. A graduated chain of electromagnetic-pulse energy provides thrust for the plane. Top speed is 7000 knots.”

“Get out of here,” Wentz said. “Even the Aurora doesn’t go that fast.”

Ashton smiled at his objection. “General, compared to the aircraft in this facility, the Aurora is a Sopwith Camel. We’ve got three different nuclear ramjets, none of which you’ve flown, we’ve got F-18s refit with liquid-oxygen-stream propulsion systems, and we’ve got a new wingless stealth fighter—”

“Not wingless,” Wentz interrupted, “you mean a flying wing, like the B-2.”

“I mean wingless, General. It’s eleven meters long and looks like a black pencil. No wings, no tail, no flaps. It’s a flying tube.”

Wentz was getting ticked. “But that defies all the standard laws of aeronautics!”

“No, it doesn’t,” Ashton sniped back.

“Then how can it possibly maneuver in the air?”

“Vector vents in the rear, gyroscopes in the nose.”

Wentz didn’t believe it, but then what else could he believe when he looked around at this immense place? Suddenly, excitement pumped through him. EM-Crafts, new-series ramjets, wingless fighter prototypes?

“So that’s what they want me for,” Wentz presumed, following Ashton to what appeared to be the end of the terminal. “To fly this new stuff.”

“Nope,” Ashton said.

“What do you mean nope? ” Wentz complained. Her response sounded like an insult. “That weirdo captain and crackpot old four-star back in Maryland just verified that I’m the best pilot in the damn world. Why can’t I fly this stuff?”

“You’re far too valuable,” she oddly answered. “There are dozens of excellent pilots here. The Air Force would be crazy to let a man of your skill fly the planes we’ve got here.”

“Why?” Wentz nearly whined.

“Too dangerous. The planes here are highly experimental. This facility averages ten pilot-deaths per year due to crashes. You only get to fly the planes that have been perfected and deemed safe. The Air Force has too much money and training time invested to let you die in a crash.”

The comment disheartened him. “So the initial pilots are fodder…until the engineers can work out all the bugs.”

“It sounds cold, but, yes. You don’t want to know how many pilots died in Aurora prototypes before it could be improved enough to let you fly the first official test runs.”

Wentz swallowed dryly. I’m walking on men’s graves. Every time I got behind a new stick…I was sitting in a ghost’s seat…

“I wouldn’t dwell on it, sir,” Ashton offered. “Like General Rainier said. It’s all about service, it’s all about duty. You were too valuable to the country to risk in a plane that hadn’t been sufficiently tested. That’s the bottom line.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like the bottom line. The bottom line eats sh—”

Two guards in unmarked black fatigues stood before a shiny personnel elevator, each brandishing M249 rifles with 200-round box drums. They eyed Wentz coldly, then parted when they noticed Ashton. A disturbing sign was mounted above the doors:

THIS ELEVATOR DE-POWERS

AT DEFCON ONE.

DO NOT USE IN THE EVENT OF FIRE

OR IMMINENT NUCLEAR STRIKE.

The elevator opened only after both sentries simultaneously inserted code cards into slots and pressed their right index fingers on an optical pad.

“This joint is serious business,” Wentz remarked once inside the elevator.

“Yes, it is.”

“But how come the guards didn’t ID me?”

“Because you’re with me.”

Wentz took the speculation further. “Well suppose I was holding you hostage, suppose I had dynamite under my flight suit and I’d ordered you to act normal or I’d set it off?”

“One of the screws in that warning sign was actually a digital lens connected to a cadmium thermograph. If it detected any heat fluctuations on my face—distress—an alarm would’ve sounded.”

“What then?”

“The guards would’ve machine-gunned you without hesitation.”

“Like I said,” Wentz repeated with raised brows. “This joint is serious business.” Then he noted no floor-indicator on the elevator, no floor buttons. “How do we know where we’re going?”

“It’s already been preprogrammed, but for your information, we’re going to the facility’s deepest level. I think you’ll like it: Level Thirteen.”

Wentz praised The Nix. “All right, Colonel, so what’s the rest of the scoop? Papoose is a total fake? They always said it was a toxic waste dump or something.”

“Yes, that’s the cover story we planted years ago.”

“I learn something new every day.” He stole a glance at her; she looked puny in the flight suit, preposterously young. “Now tell me something else. How’s a twenty-year-old manage to make full colonel?”

“Very funny, General. I’m twenty-nine, not that it’s any of your business. I’m just an admin officer.”

Wentz couldn’t help the chuckle. “Right, just an admin officer…with instant access to a black test site and a security clearance higher than the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.”

The elevator doors hissed open, leading them out into a white, antiseptic corridor. “Ready to find out why you’re taking the mission?” Ashton asked. She stopped next to a pair of white doors which read DRESSING UNITS - MALE - FEMALE.

“I’m not taking the mission,” Wentz assured her. “But I sure as shit want to find out what it is.”

“Then get into your fatigues and I’ll show you.” Ashton paused. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

“What’s that?” Wentz asked.

“Welcome to Area S-4, sir.”

—

CHAPTER 7

Dressed in white fatigues, Wentz and Ashton stood in an empty darkened warehouse hundreds of feet long.

“Area S-4, huh?” Wentz commented. “What’s it stand for.”

“Just a designation. It’s actually a federal land grid. And there’s no tagline for this facility—no Groom, no Dreamland, no Skunkworks. ”

Wentz looked down at his attire, frowning. “Well, so far I’m impressed, but I’m not exactly digging the white fatigues. Makes me feel like a house painter. And what are we just standing around for?”

“We’re waiting for someone…”

Hard footsteps clapped in the distance, growing closer. Who’s this dweeb? Wentz wondered. He looks like Wally Cleaver.

A young collegiate-looking officer eventually appeared, wearing an Air Force Class-A uniform and major’s blossoms. No name plate.

“Great,” Wentz said. “Another Tekna/Byman Op. Let me guess—Major Jones , right?”

The two men shook hands. “Jones is as good a name as any, General Wentz,” the Major replied. “I’m honored to meet you, and I welcome you to Area S-4. If you’ll follow me please, sir.”

They began to cross the empty warehouse, their footsteps all clattering. But as Wentz squinted, he noted that the underground warehouse wasn’t as empty as he’d thought. Along the far walls, hidden in shadow, stood armed black-garbed sentries every ten feet. Moments later, then, he noticed machine-gun emplacements built into the walls high above them. The barely visible gun barrels followed them as they proceeded.