Dale Brown - Dreamland

“We’re short on air support,” said Hal apologetically. “The Eisenhower is heading up from the Indian Ocean, but they won’t be close enough to help us for at least two days. We’d like to have Smith and the others out by then. If we don’t, this thing is likely to escalate even further.”

“We have the Megafortress,” suggested Danny, who’d been waiting for an opportunity to offer the plane. “They’re packing cruise missiles and four JSOWs fresh out of development lab. They can cover us going in.”

“Are you talking about my airplane?” said Captain Stockard, walking toward them from the door. She was still in her flight gear, wearing a deep scowl.

“Captain Stockard,” said Briggs. “How are you, Bree?”

Breanna ignored him, speaking to Danny instead. “That’s my aircraft. With all due respect, Captain, I’ll discuss its capabilities.”

“I was just pointing out that it carried weapons,” said Freah.

“Did you mention the runway’s about five hundred feet too short to take off from?” said Breanna. She turned back to Briggs. “And I don’t want to talk about landing. Why the hell didn’t you give is a heads-up on that, Hal?”

“I wasn’t aware you were flying a Megafortress in to begin with,” said Briggs. “How are you, Rap?”

“I’ve been better. My butt’s sore and I came this close to blowing out my tires.”

“We’re installing mesh,” said Briggs. “We can push that up. I can’t do anything about your butt while you’re in uniform,” he added.

“Very funny. When’s the mesh going on?”

“ASAP. A thousand feet okay?”

“I’ll have to do the math,” Breanna said. “Major Cheshire has to be told. Raven’s heavier than Fort Two because of the older engines. If it’t wet and she’s carrying fuel, she’s going to have a hard time stopping.”

“Raven? Another Megafortress?”

“We made the flight without a crew,” said Breanna. “Cheshire’s following with a weapons officer and navigator. She should be here within twelve hours, maybe less.”

“Shit. We can use her.”

“Damn straight,” said Danny. “The plane has jamming gear.”

“It’s the next generation ECMs,” said Rap, throwing a glare at Freah. “I doubt they’ll have time to remove it all. Just as there wasn’t time to remove the air-to-ground missiles we were carrying. Officially, we’re only here as transports.”

Briggs shook his head slowly, but he had the start of a grin on his face.

“Of course, local conditions prevail. Assuming we do get airborne,” Breanna added, “I’m going to need as much target data as possible. The computer’s persnickety and my copilot’s a real whiner. Personally, I’d trade them both for a good weapons officer, or even a halfway decent radar navigator.”

Dreamland

22 October, 1200 local

“Colonel, I thought we had a date!”

Dog jerked his head up from his desk. Jennifer Gleason was standing in the doorway/

“I had to run by myself,” said the scientist, striding into his office. She plopped herself down in a chair.

“I’m sorry, Doc,” said Dog. “I got tied up.”

“So I heard.” Jennifer glanced back at the officer door. Dog looked in time to see Sergeant Gibbs closing it.

He’ll get his, Dog thought.

“Want to do lunch?” asked the scientist.

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” said Bastian. “I’ve been handling the fallout, from, uh, some recommendations I had to make.”

“You mean killing JSF, right?” She flicked her hair back impishly.

“That’s supposed to be classified.”

“Come on, Colonel. You can’t fart on his base without everyone catching a whiff. Not that colonels fart.”

For some reason, the word ‘fart’ and her beautiful mouth didn’t seem to go together.

“I actually didn’t come here to ask you to lunch,” said the scientist quickly. She leaned forward, somehow metamorphosing from a beautiful if slightly insolent young woman to a senior scientist. “I came to make a recommendation regarding the Flighthawk program. I feel the mission to Somalia should go forward.”

“It’s not a mission,” said Dog, angered that the flight was being openly discussed.

“I understand, Colonel. I also feel that I should be along in case something goes wrong.”

“Doc –”

“First of all, call me Jennifer. Or Jen.” She favored him with the briefest of brief smiles. “Second of all, there is on one in the world who knows that computer system better than I do. That’s not a brag, that’s a fact. If you’re sending those planes halfway around the world, I should be there with them.”

“I don’t know that there’s enough room for you,” said Dog.

“I checked with Major Cheshire. She says there is.”

“Major Cheshire only reluctantly approved carrying the Flighthawks,” said Bastian, who’d spoken with Cheshire only a short while before.

“She was worried about not having enough support. I’m the support.”

Dog shook his head. It was one thing to send the Megafortresses; while they were definitely still in the experimental stage, an early version had already seen some action. Justifying the Flighthawks was much more difficult, especially since they’d lack the veneer of a ‘transport’ mission. And sending a civilian into a war zone was potentially a hanging offense. Her loss would be a serious embarrassment, and not just to him.

“I’m afraid it’s not possible,” he told her.

“If you lose the U/MFs,” she told him, “they’ll hang you out to dry.”

“If I lose you, they’ll grind me up into little pieces.”

“You’re not going to lose me. Between me and Parsons –”

“Parsons? Sergeant Parsons?”

“He’s waiting in the outer office to talk to you. We drew straws to see who would go first,” she added.

“No way.”

“Colonel, if I were a man, you’d let me go. You need support personnel for the U/MFs. Shit, the only other person who’s qualified to fix that fucking computer and the com system is Rubeo. You want to send him?”

“You talk like a sailor, you know that?” Dog said.

Jennifer shrugged. “My bag is packed.”

If she were a man – hell, that was impossible to even imagine.

They did need a support staff. But a girl?

She wasn’t a girl, damn it.

“I want to talk to Cheshire before I make a decision,” said Bastian finally.

“Good,” said Jennifer, jumping up. “Should I send her in right now, along with Major Stockard, or do you want us to keep going the way we planned?”

Shaking his head, Bastian went to the office door and looked out into the reception area. Cheshire and Parson were there, along with three other Flighthawk specialists.

“Where’s Stockard?”

“Making sure the Flighthawks are prepped,” said Cheshire.

“Everyone in here,” he told the conspirators.

In the end, Dog had no choice but to agree that if it made send to send the Flighthawks, it was logical to send a support team as well. Parsons could probably build the damn things from balsa wood and speaker wire. Gleason made the most sense as a technical expert, since she knew both the software and the hardware used by the Flighthawks’ control system. No way he was sending Rubeo – it would undoubtedly be too tempting for him to be left behind.

Sending a high-tech team halfway around the world with untested weapons was exactly what he had called for in the white paper he’d written so many years ago. So why did his stomach feel so queasy?

“You’re good with this, Major?” he asked Cheshire.

“If the Flighthawks are going, and I think they should, we have to support them.”

He nodded. “This is my responsibility,” he told her. “I’m ordering you to do this.”