Dale Brown - Dreamland

“You didn’t even ask for their creds,” said Jed.

“This is a Navy operation,” said the major. “I’m only providing tactical assistance. Besides, they beat the pants off me in a poke game last night.”

“Actually, this isn’t a Navy operation at all,” Jed told him, momentarily wondering if he might get further by suggesting he player Poker as well. “We’re still working with Madcap Magician.”

Jed was fudging – overall command of the operation was due to shift to the Navy as soon as the command staff could arrive, which wouldn’t be for a few hours.

“And you think that’s going to make a difference?” said the Army officer.

“To be honest, it makes no difference,” said Jed. “Listen, Major, no offense, but I spent several hours this morning talking to the ambassadors of Egypt and Saudi Arabia about their refusal to allow U.S. planes to use their bases. Then I had to listen to an Iranian cleric, obviously a madman, denounce me for a half hour. Even more frustrating was talking to the State Department’s Middle Eastern desk, trying to explain to them why quick military action and not diplomacy was required. To be honest with you, I’m really in a pissy mood.”

The major frowned at him, but finally moved back from the door. There was no retina scan – in fact, there was no security device at all.

“You don’t want my NSC card at least?” Jed asked him.

“I’ll throw you in the ocean if you don’t check out,” said the major, pushing him into the operations area. “Don’t touch anything. These monitors here –”

“Are slaved to different part of the SAR, which gives you approximately a sixty-degree view of a selected battlefield area. Smearing of the image is countered through interferometry calibration, as well as the Litton LR-85A Inertial Measurement System. There are a total of eighteen consoles aboard this craft, which is an upgrade from the original twelve and the seventeen powered stations in the first production models, though of course one could argue that there are never enough. Frankly, the main concern with JSTARS is not the physical operation of the battlefield view and coordination system, which demonstrated its potential in the Gulf War, but rather the temptation to use the craft to micromanage the battlefield, robbing individual officers, ground- and air-based, of their decision-making role. The same concern was raised – and to some degree remains valid – with AWACS operations. And I’d be up for any poker games you do manage to organize. I assume we’re not taking off for hours, right?”

The major frowned, but said. “You’ll do,” before turning and walking away.

Northern Ethiopia

22 October 1996, 2000 local

“We’re not stopping.”

“I know that,” Bree snapped, working to hold the Megafortress on the rain-slicked tarmac. Flaps, brakes, reverse thrust, and a hurried Hail Mary seemed to have little effect as the big plane hurtled rapidly toward the end of the runway. Shapes loomed left and right, light streaming with the rain. Breanna’a arm locked as the Megafortress’s nose bounced harshly across the poorly maintained concrete. A jumble of low buildings lay ahead; the Megafortress threatened to slide into them sideways, her left side trying to jerk forward.

Finally, the plane’s forward momentum eased, the breaks or maybe the prayer catching. Breanna eased the big plane back to the center of the runway, managing a full stop three yards from a large puddle that marked the end of the concrete.

“That wasn’t four thousand feet,” said Chris. “Let alone six. And I thought it never rained in Ethiopia before January.”

Breanna edged her throttle carefully, turning the EB-52 toward the side access ramp on her right. As she did, a Hummer with its lights on approached from the right, driving along the apron. She guessed that it had been sent to show them where to go. Rolling slowly, her heart returning to normal, she turned the Megafortress onto the path. The truck pulled a 180 and began speeding away toward a hangar area.

The runway had minimal lighting, and this access ramp had none; Fort Two’s light provided a narrow cocoon for her to steer through. Breanna saw another plane standing at the far end of the ramp – a parked MC-130 Hercules.

“Must be the place,” said Chris, spotting the military transport. “We’re going to have a hell of a time taking off in this rain,” he added.

“We’ll round up some volunteers to push,” she told him, watching their guide truck disappear to the right. Breanna leaned back in her seat, the exhaustion of the long flight finally taking its toll. They had pushed Fort Two about as fast as it had ever gone for much longer than it had ever flown. While she and Chris had switched on and off – and the computer autopilot had helped considerably – Bree’s brain was crispy and her legs and arms felt as if they had been run over by a steamroller. She hadn’t slept now in more than twenty-four hours, and had needed three caffeine pills – she didn’t like anything stronger – en route.

Four large Pave Lows and a civilian DC-8 airliner were parked at the far end of a group of buildings that looked more like warehouses than hangars. The Hummer spun off and blinked its lights; Bree began to swing the plane around into the designated parking area. Two Marines with M-16-and-grenade-launcher combos appeared from one of the buildings, sauntering up as if they landed Megafortresses here all the time.”

“Gee, where’s the brass band?” asked Chris.

Captain Freah waited impatiently as the bomber trundled toward its parking area. He’d been able to sleep only a few hours, but felt a burst of energy and excitement as the big plane stopped. Undoing his restraints, he bolted up from the uncomfortable jump seat and grabbed his gear. Squeezing into the hatch area, he pulled down the handle to open and lower the access ladder. It sounded like a bus tire puncturing as it burst open; Danny took it two steps at a time, ducking his head and scooting out from beneath the plane. A pair of rain-soaked Marines waved him toward a nearby pickup. After the cramped quarters of the Megafortress navigational bay, even the warm but heavy rain felt good. Danny stood out on the tarmac getting soaked while the rest of his team disembarked. Leaving Hernandez behind to wrestle with their gear in the storage bay, they hopped into the rear of the pickup. The rain surged as the truck started, but it seemed to be a final burst, for by the time they reached the low-slung building at the far end of the base it had slowed to a drizzle.

Freah jumped over the side of the truck, walking double-time inside. Hal Briggs greeted him in the hallway.

“Look what the car dragged in,” said Briggs, slamming Danny with a shoulder chuck. “Damn, I thought the ETA you gave was a typo.”

“You didn’t think I’d let you have fun without me, did you?” asked Freah. His men filed in behind him; Danny introduced them.

“Grub’s that way,” said Briggs, pointing down the hall. “You’ll find a cafeteria, whole nine yards. You have a half hour,” added Briggs, glancing at his watch.

“Just a half hour?”

“Ospreys should be here by then.”

“Ospreys?”

“Since you busted your hump to get here, we’ll give you something real to do,” said Briggs. “Come on. Let me fill you in over at the terminal building. It’s our command bunker.”

“What is this place?” Danny asked.

“Russkies built it as a commercial strip place back in the seventies, then abandoned it when they realized the area was too rugged to support any sort of industry. Thank God for Commies with money, or at least bulldozers and cement, huh?”

Freah followed the major back outside. They walked around the side of the building to a Humvee. Briggs got in and Danny followed; they drive back toward the area where the Megafortress had parked.