Air Battle Force (24 page)

Grey, a tall, lanky guy with a high forehead, very close-cropped spiky blond hair, and—of all things—a pinhole in his left earlobe for an earring, stepped over and enthusiastically shook Daren's hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Grey said.

“Dean Grey? ‘Zane' Grey—the guy that led the Air Force Academy to an NCAA championship in men's volleyball? Cover of
Sports Illustrated?
Rumors of you and Anna Kournikova, Gabrielle Reece . . . ?”

“The same, sir,” Grey said. When he smiled, it made him look five years younger.

“No offense, Zane, but . . . exactly
when
did you get your wings?” Daren asked. “Didn't all the
Sports Illustrated
and
Playboy
interviews happen just last year?”

“Yes, sir,” Grey said with his boyish grin. “Got my wings last month.”

“Last
month?
”

“General McLanahan likes 'em young, as you'll readily find out,” Long moaned, shaking his head wearily. “Average age of the entire squadron is just a wet dream or two past puberty. Same with all the squadrons we're standing up around here. Now, if we could postpone the trip down memory lane for another time?”

“Sure, John.”

“Get to it, Grey,” Long ordered.

“Yes, sir.” To Daren he began, “Welcome to Battle Mountain and the Fifty-first, sir. I'm your acting executive officer. Anything you need or want, just let me know, and I'll take care of it.” He gave Daren a card with binder holes punched in it. “I took the liberty of writing out a list of all the squadron personnel with their ratings, schools, experience—”

“Already did it,” Daren said, flipping to the pages in his personal “plastic brains” booklet. “I got the dope from General Furness. I went through the entire roster—we've got some stellar personnel here on the patch, all right. I also got a status report on all our present and future airframes and their mod status.”

“Excellent, sir,” Grey said. “Our mission today is a standard-flight-characteristics orientation flight for mission commanders. As you know, sir, the Vampire uses pilot-trained navigators in the right seat, so MCs need to be well familiar with all phases of flight. The standard profile for this mission is to observe, but we like to accelerate the program, so we'll give you as much as you can handle. We'll show you once, then have you try it.”

“We're not going low today?” Daren asked.

“Where have you been the past five years, Colonel?” Long asked with a smile.

“We . . . we don't go low anymore, sir,” Grey said.

“You don't go low-level in the B-1?” Daren asked incredulously. “Why in the world not?”

“Well, a few reasons,” Grey replied. “The main reason is, the standoff weapons we use have a longer range when launched from high altitude—Longhorn's range is thirty percent greater, and Lancelot's range is almost fifty percent greater. Second, we're stealthier and faster now—we don't need to go low, even against pretty substantial fighter coverage or advanced SAM systems. Third, we make great use of smaller attack-and-reconnaissance drones that map out the enemy defenses pretty well, long before we go in. What threats we can't destroy, we circumnavigate. And, of course, flying away from the cumulogranite is safer—”

“Whoa. Pardon me, boys. I was with you on the first reason, but not the last three reasons,” Daren said. “You're already relying on a lot of technology to do the job for you. There's no reason to hang it out even further by staying up high in a heavily defended area. We should practice going low at every opportunity. We can build a certification program. Certain equipment status and training proficiency earns a crew the distinction of going low, into the heavier-defended areas; other not-so-qualified guys can stay up high and lob in cruise missiles. And ‘safety' seems a funny thing to be considering when we're talking about going to war or employing weapons like this. We should—”

“Let's concentrate on the basic flight-training program you're going to undergo, Colonel,” Long said. “Flight characteristics for the first couple flights, then emergency procedures, then air refueling.”

“We're not doing air refueling today
either?
”

“Is English not your primary language, Colonel?” Long asked perturbedly. “You've got to master the basics before you do the more advanced procedures. I built this training program to get new crew members with no recent B-1 experience up to maximum proficiency in minimum time. After air refueling, we'll move on to instrument-pattern work, visual-pattern work, and then we go into the strike stuff.” He got to his feet. “You haven't been operational in many years, Colonel, and even when you were, you were . . . less than reliable.” He hesitated, looked at Grey, then made a wordless show about not revealing what he was thinking. “Do it my way, Colonel. Is that clear?”

“Sure, John,” Daren replied. Long looked as if he really,
really
wanted to chew on Mace for calling him by his first name in front of the younger officer, but decided to save it for later.

After the protracted, uncomfortable pause ended, Grey glanced over at the crumpled-up paper by the wastebasket. “I see you passed your bold-print test,” he said. “Outstanding.” It made Daren wonder what Long did with the tests that weren't perfect—probably kept a file to use against the crewdogs. “We have about an hour until we step, so let's talk about local procedures before we get into discussing stalls, falls, crashes, and dashes for a few moments.” Grey handed out flight plans, kneeboard cards, target-prediction cards, and weather sheets, all organized and stapled together. “I went ahead and filed our flight plan, got the weather—”

“Hold it a second. We do all that as a
crew,
Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, but I thought since the weather's clear in a million, we're not going terrain-following, and we've got the MOA and ranges to ourselves, we'd spend a bit more time talking about the plane, you know, getting acquainted. . . .”

“You don't freelance training missions, Lieutenant,” Long interjected hotly. “You're going to fly a two-hundred-million-dollar supersonic bomber, not go on a fucking date with a Russian tennis babe.” He flipped through the briefing cards—they were complete, perfectly legible, and perfectly organized. Grey was right: The weather for everything west of the Rockies, and every alternate military field within a thousand miles, was clear as a bell with no restrictions. “But now that you've completely screwed up the sequence, you might as well proceed. Let's go. You don't have all day.”

“Yes, sir.” Grey handed Daren more checklist pages. “Here is a list of local frequencies, step procedures, taxi and departure procedures, phone numbers in case the duty officer is on the fritz—”

“Got 'em,” Daren said. “I got all that stuff from General Furness, too. I studied them last night, but be sure to watch my back in case I screw something up.”

Grey nodded, impressed. Daren noticed that even Long was nodding approvingly. That made Daren feel good—until Long added, “I hear you and Rebecca used to be a hot and heavy item, Colonel.”

The motherfucker, Daren thought, bringing something like that up in front of a junior officer. “Let me tell you about Rebecca, John,” he said with a conspiratorial smile. He motioned Long to lean toward him. When he did, Daren stuck his face in Long's and said loud enough for Grey to hear, “None of your
fucking
business, Colonel.”

Long's head snapped back as if Mace had head-butted him. He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth as if he were going to yell at Mace, then shut it, embarrassed, opened it again as if he'd reconsidered, then blinked in confusion. Daren didn't wait for him to sort it out any further. “Let's get on with the briefing, Zane,” he prompted, still glaring at Long.

“Yes,
sir,
” Grey said, hiding a very amused and pleased smile. About time someone told off the DO, he thought. “Open your ‘plastic brains' to the air-work checklist, and let's get started.”

As Grey began his briefing, Long made a big show of checking his watch, then slipped out of his seat and exited the lounge.

“Sorry about that, Zane,” Daren said after Long had left. “He had it coming.”

“I didn't see a thing, sir,” Grey said with a smile.

“Who peed in his cornflakes this morning?”

“I hate to say it, sir,” Grey said, “but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly.”

“So tell me, what was it like to play in the NCAA championships, Zane?” Daren asked excitedly. “Man, it was very cool to watch. You running halfway up the bleachers to save that last volley and then spiking the ball
from the bleachers
was awesome. First volleyball game I ever saw on TV.”

“It was like living a dream, sir,” Grey said. “I look at the trophies and pictures on the wall, and I still can't believe we did it.”

“So the question the whole male world wants to know: Anna or Gabrielle? Or both together?”

“That has the
highest
classification level, sir,” Grey said. But his mischievous smile told Daren everything he wanted to know.

“And tell me, what's it like working here?”

Grey's smile grew even wider. “It's another dream come true,” he said sincerely. “In a lot of ways it's pretty austere—nothing as cushy as how we had it in pilot training. But the stuff we're doing is two or three generations beyond anything else I've ever seen. You really feel like you're riding the wave into the future.”

“Sounds good to me. And how about the brass?”

“They're okay. Even Colonel Long is a good guy—and I'm not just saying that to cover my butt either,” Grey said with a sly smile. “You can't help but work in the Lair or in the command center and not be aware of the awesome things we're doing. I think that feeling extends to everyone, from General McLanahan on down. This place is special, and everyone knows it, but it's so . . . you know,
out there, unworldly
—that no one cops an attitude around here. I think we all realize that this is so high-tech and futuristic that we can all be shelved in a heartbeat, so we're all trying hard not to screw up.”

“I think I understand,” Daren said. “Makes me wonder why I'm here—but I guess I'm thankful to be anywhere.”

They bullshitted for a few more minutes. Grey asked the questions this time; Daren knew he was collecting “intel” to share with his squadron mates on the new boss.

Finally Grey said, “It's just about step time, sir. We'd better get going.”

“Hold on, Zane,” Daren said. “You mean to tell me I'm really going to go through this flight-orientation program?”

“That's my understanding, sir.”

“Call me ‘Daren' when the bosses aren't around, or ‘skipper,' or ‘lead'—anything but ‘sir,' okay, Zane?” Daren asked. “You're making me feel pretty damned old.”

“Colonel Long mapped out your orientation program, skipper. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I'll tell you,” Daren said. “My dad was a cutter skipper in the Coast Guard, one of the big Bear-class boats, and what he said was the most important thing for the boss to do: use all your toys.”

“Sir?”

“If you got guns, shoot 'em; if you have a helicopter, fly in it; if the captain has a barge, take it out and cruise around in it. I've got a bunch of B-1 bombers here—I want to fly 'em. I've got weapons, I assume—I want to pop a few off. I don't just want to bore holes in the sky—I want to drop some iron and make things blow up in a loud, messy fashion. Let's go
flying.
”

“What about the colonel's orientation program, sir?”

“Screw it. General McLanahan told me that my job is to stand up this unit, and that's what I'll do—but in my own way. You game?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Outstanding.” He touched the earpiece in his right ear and said, “Duty Officer, schedule a low-level route, an air-refueling anchor, and live air- and ground-attack-weapon range time. Stand by for training ordnance load.”

“Yes, Colonel Mace,” the computer responded. “Standing by.”

“Uh . . . sir, don't you remember? We don't go low-level anymore?”

“Well, shit, I think I'm dating myself every time I open my damn mouth around here,” Daren said. “But we'll see how it goes. Who knows, maybe I have a couple tricks you youngsters might need to learn.”

“Roger that, sir,” Grey said eagerly.

“Colonel Mace, this is the duty officer,” Mace heard in his earpiece.

“Duty Officer, go ahead,” Mace responded. He was really getting the hang of this computerized duty-officer system—the creepiness of talking to a machine as if it were a human being was quickly wearing off the more he discovered how well the thing worked and how useful it could be.

“Colonel Mace, I have been advised that live-weapon air-to-ground range times are available this afternoon in the Tonopah complex. A Bobcat tanker crew is available this afternoon as well. Please advise.”

“Duty Officer, put the Bobcat tanker on my schedule,” Daren said. To Grey he said, “We got the Tonopah range for this afternoon.”

“Ask the duty officer if they can get us a surface-to-surface rocket launch, too,” Grey chimed in.

“Duty Officer, ask the Tonopah range director if they can get us a surface-to-surface target rocket launch for our range time,” Daren asked.

“Please stand by, Colonel Mace. . . . Colonel Mace, I have been advised that no surface-to-surface launch targets are available at the Tonopah complex. They can give you ground targets only.”

“No rockets—ground targets only,” Daren said to Grey.

“No problem. We can bring our own air targets—if Colonel Long doesn't have a fit that we changed his training schedule,” Grey said excitedly. He was starting to adopt a Southern California “surfer dude” accent. He would lose his shirt, Daren knew, in any poker game. “We can upload a couple Wolverine missiles to use as fast-moving long-range targets, and maybe a FlightHawk to use as a slow-moving air-to-air target.”