Revolution Page 5

  Not that Dog could see it. Both men were dressed in full flight gear, with g suits and brain buckets, even though the cabin was fully pressurized.

  “Let’s get this pony into the air,” said Dog, putting his hand on the throttle.

  Dreamland B-1B/L Testbed 2—more commonly and affectionately known as Boomer—rocked as her engines revved to life. The four General Electric F101-GE-102 engines she was born with had been replaced by new GE models that were about seventy percent more powerful and conserved much more fuel. Unlike the Megafortress, the B-1B was a supersonic aircraft to begin with, and thanks to its uprated engines, had pushed out over Mach 2.4 in level flight—probably a record for a B-1B, though no one actually kept track. More impressive—at least if you were paying the gas bill—Boomer could fly to New York and back at just over the speed of sound with a full payload without needing to be refueled.

  “I have 520 degrees centigrade on engines three and four,” said Sleek Top.

  “Roger that,” replied Dog. The temperature readings were an indication of how well the engines were working. “Five twenty. I have 520 one and two.”

  They ran through the rest of the plane’s vitals, making sure the plane was ready to takeoff. With all systems in the green, Dog got a clearance from the tower and moved down the ramp to the runway.

  “Burners,” he told Sleek Top as he put the hammer down.

  The afterburners flashed to life. The plane took a small step forward, then a second; the third was a massive leap. The speed bar at the right of Dog’s screen vaulted to 100 knots; a half breath later it hit 150.

  “We’re go,” said Dog as the airplane passed 160 knots, committing them to takeoff.

  The plane’s nose came up. Boomer had used less than 3,000 feet of runway to become airborne.

  Like the stock models, the B-1B/L’s takeoff attitude was limited to prevent her long tail from scraping, and the eight-degree angle made for a gentle start to the flight. Gentle but not slow—she left the ground at roughly 175 knots, and within a heartbeat or two was pumping over 300.

  Dog checked the wing’s extension, noting that the computer had set them at 25 degrees, the standard angle used for routine climb-outs. Like all B-1s, Boomer’s wings were adjustable, swinging out to increase lift or maneuverability and tucking back near the body for speed and cruising efficiency. But unlike the original model, where the pilots pulled long levers to manually set the angle, Boomer’s wings were set automatically by the flight computer even when under manual control. The pilot could override using voice commands, but the computer had first crack at the settings.

  The wings’ geometry capitalized on improvements made possible by the use of the carbon composite material instead of metal. The goal of these improvements had been to reduce weight and improve performance, but as a side benefit the new wings also made the plane less visible on radar.

  They were also, of course, considerably more expensive to manufacture than the originals, a problem the engineers were finding difficult to solve.

  It was also a problem that Dog no longer had to worry about or even consider. All he had to do was finish his climb-out to 35,000 feet and get into a nice, easy orbit around Range 14a.

  “Way marker,” said his copilot. “We’re looking good, Colonel. Ready for diagnostics.”

  “Let ’em rip,” said Dog.

  The B-1Bs flown by the Strategic Air Command were crewed by four men: pilot, copilot, and two weapons systems operators. Boomer had places for only the pilot and copilot, with the weapons handled by the copilot, with help from the threat and targeting computer. The arrangement was under review. Experience with the Megafortress had shown that under combat conditions, dedicated weapons handlers could be beneficial. There was plenty of room for them on the flight deck, but the additional cost in terms of money and manpower might not be justifiable.

  Indeed, Dog wasn’t entirely sure the presence of the pilot and copilot could be justified. The Unmanned Bomber project, though still far from an operational stage, demonstrated that a potent attack aircraft could be flown effectively anywhere in the world from a bunker back in the States. The next generation of Flighthawks—the robot fighters that worked with the Megafortress as scouts, escorts, and attack craft—would contain equipment allowing them to do just that, though they still needed to be air-launched.

  The next generation of Flighthawks was very much on Dog’s mind as the diagnostics were completed, because the afternoon’s test session was a mock dogfight between a pair of Flighthawks and the B-1. The aim of the test was to put Boomer’s airborne laser through its paces, but of course from the pilots’ point of view, the real goal was to wax the other guy’s fanny.

  Dog wondered if the computers thought like that.

  “Boomer, this is Flighthawk control. Hawk One and Two are zero-five minutes from the range. What’s your status?”

  “Rarin’ for a fight, Starship,” responded Dog. “Are you ready, Lieutenant?”

  “Ready to kick your butt,” said Starship.

  Dog laughed. Starship—Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews—seemed to have broken out of his shell a bit thanks to his temporary assignment with the Navy. In fact, he’d done so well there that the commander he’d been assigned to, Captain Harold “Storm” Gale, had tried to keep him. Considering Storm’s general attitude that Air Force personnel rated lower than crustaceans on the evolutionary scale, his attachment to Starship was high praise.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect, sir,” added Starship hastily.

  “No offense taken,” said Dog. “Let’s see how you do, Lieutenant.”

  Dog and Sleek Top turned over control to the computer and settled back to watch how Boomer did. The tests began quietly, with the two Flighthawks making a head-on approach at Boomer’s altitude. The B-1’s radar tracked them easily, identified them as threats, presented itself with several options for striking them, then worked out the solution most likely to succeed.

  The computer system used to guide the Flighthawks—known as C3—already did this, but the task was considerably more difficult for a laser-armed ship. While in sci fi flicks lasers regularly blasted across vast tracts of space to incinerate vessels moving just under the speed of light, back on earth lasers had not yet developed such abilities—and might not ever. The laser weapon aboard the B-1 fired a focused beam of high-energy light that could burn a hole through most materials known to man, assuming it stayed focused on its target long enough.

  And that was the rub. Both Boomer and its airborne targets were moving at high rates of speed, and while there might be some circumstances under which the B-1B/L could count on getting off a sustained blast of ten or more seconds, dogfight conditions meant that blast length would often be measured in microseconds.

  For the laser to be a practical air-to-air weapon, its enemy’s specific vulnerabilities had to be targeted and then hit repeatedly. That was where the computer did most of its number crunching. It was able to assess the typical vulnerabilities of its opponent, prepare what was called a “shooting plan” to exploit those vulnerabilities, and then direct the laser fire as both aircraft moved at the speed of sound. And it could change that plan as the battle progressed.

  For example, if the B-1 was tangling with a MiG-27, the computer would realize that the motors the MiG used to adjust its wings in flight were extremely heat sensitive. Depending on the orientation of the two planes, the computer would target those motors, crippling his enemy. As the MiG slowed down to cope with the malfunction, the computer would then fire a series of blasts on the port wing fuel tank, aiming not to punch holes in the wing, but to create a series of hot spots in the tank, which would disrupt the fuel flow, slowing the plane down. For the coup de grace, the computer would ignite the antiair missile on the plane’s right wing spar, in effect having the MiG destroy itself.

  This would all happen in a span of seconds. While the human controlling the weapon could approve each individual targeting stage, ideally he would simply
tell the computer to take down the bandit, and he could then worry about something else.

  A MiG-27, though relatively fast, was an easy target, since it was big, conventionally flown, and most important of all, well-known. The Flighthawks, by contrast, were much more difficult opponents. Not only had they been designed to minimize some of the traditional vulnerabilities, but their lack of a pilot removed one of the laser weapon’s neatest tricks—blasting the cockpit with heat and making the enemy pilot extremely uncomfortable.

  “We’re ready,” declared Sleek Top as they finished the first battery of tests. “Clear computer to engage in encounter.”

  “You feeling lucky yet?” Dog asked Starship.

  “Don’t need luck, Colonel.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  The Flighthawks swung east, preparing to make their attack. The Flighthawks—officially, U/MF-2/c, which stood for “unmanned fighter 2, block c”—were about the size of a Honda Civic and were equipped with cannons. They were slower than the B-1B/L but more maneuverable.

  On the first test, everyone followed a prepared script. The two Flighthawks passed a quarter mile to the east. The computer picked them up without trouble, adjusted Boomer’s speed to get longer shots on their engines, and then recorded a simulated hit.

  “Two birds down,” reported the copilot.

  “Hear that, Starship?” said Dog. “You’re walking home.”

  “I always walk home, Colonel. Ready for test two?”

  “Have at it.”

  The Flighthawks banked behind Boomer and began to close, aiming to shoot their cannons at the fat radar dome at the plane’s tail. This was a more realistic attack scenario, and was further complicated by Starship’s handling of the planes—he kept them jinking and jiving as they approached, making it difficult for Boomer to lock its laser. The fact that there were two targets made things even more complicated, as the computer had trouble deciding which of the two aircraft provided a better target and kept reordering its plan of attack.

  “I’m tempted to do an override,” said Sleek Top, who could have solved the computer’s problem by designating one of the planes as primary target.

  “Let’s see how it does.”

  The words were barely out of Dog’s mouth when the laser fired, recording a simulated hit on Hawk One. It took nearly thirty seconds, but it recorded a fatal strike on Hawk Two as well.

  Then the fun began.

  “On to test three, Colonel,” said Starship.

  “Anytime you’re ready, son.”

  The Flighthawks dove toward the earth. Test three was entirely free-form—Starship could do anything he wanted, short of actually hitting Boomer, of course.

  “Tracking,” reported Sleek Top.

  Dog could see the two aircraft in the radar display; they were about a mile off his wing. They changed course and headed toward Glass Mountain, at the very edge of the test range.

  “Why’s he running away?” Sleek Top asked.

  “He’s not. He’s going to get lost in the ground clutter. He wants us to follow, hoping we’ll be impatient.”

  “Are we going to?”

  Had Dog been flying the plane, he would have: It was more macho to beat the other guy in the battle he chose. But the B-1’s computer made the right decision, at least by the playbook it had been taught—don’t get suckered into the battlefield the other guy wants you to fight. It maintained its position.

  “He’s off the scope.”

  “Mmmmm,” said Dog.

  Boomer increased the distance between itself and its adversary. Starship would be able to track his position and would soon realize that he wasn’t biting.

  What would he do then?

  “Here we come,” said Sleek Top. He read out the course and heading of the first contact, Hawk One, which was streaking toward them from the west.

  “So where’s the other?” asked Dog.

  “Still in the bushes somewhere.”

  The computer abruptly threw the plane on its left wing, plunging toward the earth—just as the second Flighthawk appeared on his screen to the east, almost directly below him.

  “How the hell did he do that?”

  Dog resisted the temptation to grab the stick as the big airplane pulled to its left. Too late, Boomer’s computer realized it had been suckered—Hawk One, flying directly behind Hawk Two so its radar profile couldn’t been seen, had snuck onto the laser ship’s tail.

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead,” said Starship as the computer recorded a fatal blast from the Flighthawk.

  “Damn,” said Sleek Top.

  Actually, the computer had done very well. Only Starship’s skill—and the young man’s battle-tested cleverness—had defeated it.

  “What do you say, best two out of three?” said Sleek Top.

  “I have a better idea,” said Starship. “Go to manual controls.”

  That was a gauntlet Dog couldn’t resist—though he checked to make sure they still had plenty of time on the range.

  “You’re on,” said the colonel, circling around as the Flighthawks disappeared again.

  “I’d like to see him try that again.”

  “He won’t,” said Dog.

  Actually, Starship tried something similar. Having learned that he could fool most radars by flying the Flighthawks extremely close together, he lined Hawk One and Two back up and then came at Boomer from above. Dog, thinking Starship was trying to sneak one of the UM/Fs in at him off the deck—another favorite trick to avoid radar—realized what was going on a fraction of a second too late. As Hawk Two came onto his tail, he pushed his nose down, outaccelerating it before Starship could fire.

  Then he banked hard, flattened the plane out, and turned the tables on the Flighthawk as it started to recover.

  “Fire,” he told Sleek Top calmly.

  “Can’t get a lock—he’s jinking and jiving too much.”

  “Stay on him,” said Dog. His own hard g maneuvers were part of the problem, as his free-form flight path made it hard for the laser to get a bead on its enemy. Dog put his nose straight down, trying to turn into Hawk Two and give Sleek Top a better shot. But before he could get his nose where he wanted it, the other Flighthawk started its own attack run, and Dog found himself between both of them. He pushed hard left, felt the aircraft starting to invert—then got an idea and pushed her hard in the other direction. Boomer wobbled slightly, fierce vortexes of wind buffeting her wings, but it held together and followed his commands. Dog jammed his hand on the throttle, accelerating and turning his belly toward Hawk One.

  “Locked!” said Sleek Top.

  “Fire!” answered Dog. “Don’t wait for me.”

  The computer gurgled something in his ear—a warning saying that flight parameters were being exceeded. Dog ignored the warning, rolling Boomer’s wings perpendicular to the earth. For two or three seconds his belly was exposed to Hawk Two.

  Two or three seconds was all the computer needed.

  “Splash Hawk Two,” shouted Sleek Top, his normally placid voice alive with the excitement of the contest.

  “Where’s Hawk One?”

  “Still tracking. Our left. Parallel.”

  The laser had not been able to stay with Starship’s evasive maneuvers, and now Dog found himself in trouble. The B-1 had used up much of its flight energy, and to prevent itself from becoming merely a falling brick, had to spread its wings. That was a dead giveaway to Starship that his adversary was weak, and the fighter jock did what all fighter jocks are bred from birth to do—he went for the jugular. He pulled Hawk One onto Dog’s tail, aiming the cannon in his nose at the big tail filling his gun screen. Dog ducked and rolled, trying to trade altitude for enough speed to get away.

  While he managed to keep Hawk One from getting a clean shot, he couldn’t set one up for himself either. The Flighthawk kept closing, angling to stay above the laser’s angle of fire. Finally, there was only one way to extricate himself: Dog reached for the throttle and lit his afterburners
, outaccelerating the smaller craft.

  Or running away, depending on your point of view.

  “I’d say that’s a draw,” said Starship over the radio.

  “Draw my foot,” answered Sleek Top. “We got one of yours.”

  “I kept you from accomplishing your mission,” said Starship smugly.

  “Our mission was to shoot you down.”

  Dog laughed. He was going to miss these guys when he left Dreamland.

  Northwestern Moldova,

  near the Romanian border

  2345

  STONER PUT HIS HEAD DOWN AND HELD HIS BREATH AS THE truck passed a few yards away. There was a hole in its muffler, and the engine coughed every fifth or sixth revolution, chuttering and sending smoke out from the side. The noise drowned out the sound from the second truck, and was so loud Stoner wasn’t sure there were any others behind them. He waited a few seconds, then raised his head cautiously. There were no other vehicles.

  “Smugglers,” said Deniz, the Romanian army corporal.

  “What are they taking across?”

  “This way, nothing. They can come back from our country with anything. Food. Medicine.” He paused and smiled. “Women.”

  Stoner couldn’t tell whether that was meant to be a joke.

  “How do they pass the checkpoints?”

  “Twenty euros. I tell you, we could have driven.”

  Stoner got up from behind the stone wall. Deniz whistled to Kyiv, the other Romanian soldier, who came out from behind the tree where he’d been hiding. The three men resumed their walk along the dirt road. It had taken nearly three hours for them to cover five kilometers, largely because Stoner was being overly cautious, stopping even when he heard aircraft passing overhead. Being late, he knew, was not as big a problem as not arriving at all.

  The long trek had given him more time to judge his guides. As soldiers, they were more competent than he’d thought at first, good at spotting possible ambush points and wary enough to plot escape routes before moving through fields they weren’t already thoroughly familiar with. He trusted them, to a point, but knew that if they were captured by guerrillas, it wouldn’t take much for them to give him away.