Dreamland

“Colonel, simply using these planes as scouts will double strike effectiveness and survivability,” continued Zen. “They can provide close escort to AWACS and transport types, freeing F-15’s and eventually F-22’s for more important work. Fit them with iron bombs and they can do the job of A-10A Warthogs, close-in ground support on the front lines without anywhere near the human risk. The Flighthawks are the future. I wouldn’t have come back here if I didn’t believe it.”

“That’s not the issue,” said Bastian dryly.

“If you want to cut something, cut the damn JSF. It’s a flying camel. Hell, the Warthogs go faster. You could build two hundred of them for the price of one F-119.”

The comparison to the A-10 was an exaggeration—but only just. Bastian scowled, but said nothing.

“The Flighthawks need work. I’m proof of that,” said Zen. “But in five years, maybe three, they’ll own the skies. I guarantee.”

“Robots will never outfly men,” said Bastian.

They glared at each other.

“We’re reorganizing our command structure,” said the colonel finally, still holding Zen’s eyes with his stare. “Each project will be its own flight. Pilots are going to be much more active and important in the command structure. It’ll be a lot like a combat squadron.”

“You mean I’m going to be in charge of the Flighthawks?”

“It means the senior pilot or officer will be responsible, yes. Everyone is going to be involved. Everybody responsible. No glamour-boy hotshots. No complicated chain of command where everyone can point a finger at everyone else. Each person will have one flight—one project, one assignment.”

Zen nodded. “And if the Flighthawks get canceled?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. I know where you stand.” Bastian winced, but plunged on. “And you know where I stand. That’s the way I run things.”

“That’s a good way to run things,” said Zen.

“As for your relationship—marriage—to my daughter,” added the colonel, his voice regaining its formal tone, “that’s not my concern. And it should never be. You’re no different than any other officer on this base.”

“Fair enough.”

Zen began wheeling himself backward, swinging around to pull open the door.

The colonel beat him to it. Zen felt his face flush red as Bastian reached past him and opened it for him. He bit his teeth together and rolled on.

* * *

“FORT TWO, MOVE TO LINE ONE, AWAIT FURTHER instructions.”

Brea

Each of the three Megafortresses currently flying at Dreamland was configured differently, with different power plants, avionics, and weapons systems. Three more B-52’s, including one older G model, were being converted. All made use of the same basic skeleton: a carbon-titanium hull and remodeled bismaleimide (BMI) resin wings. All were considerably more capable than the admittedly versatile and robust design Boeing engineers had drawn up nearly fifty years before.

Brea

Besides the control systems, Fort Two was testing uprated P&W JT9D-7Rxx2 engines. The power plants allowed for greater speed and less fuel consumption; their increased thrust allowed the designers to replace the B-52’s stock eight power plants with four. That took a bit of getting used to; the new engine set was not only more powerful but considerably quieter. If the Xs—as the engines were called—were adopted as standard, the EB-52 would probably rate as the quietest warplane ever.

“Electric panel one, green,” said the copilot, Captain Chris Ferris. Ferris proceeded through the preflight checklist projected on one of his three multi-use displays. “Two, green. Three, green. Four, green. Crosswind crab.”

“Zeroed,” said Brea

“We have pitot heat. We have instruments in the green. We have computers making pilot and copilot completely redundant,” joked Chris.

“As it should be,” groused Dr. Ray Rubeo, one of their two flight deck “tourists.” In rebuilding Fort Two, the forward deck had been stretched and revamped, allowing two large stations to be added immediately aft of the pilot and copilot seats. The walls on either side of the cockpit near the stations featured double banks of video monitors tied to test and monitoring equipment. Rubeo was sitting at station one; Steven McCormick, a somewhat reserved computer scientist, sat at the other.

Chris laughed, continuing through the list of systems that were ready to go. Brea

“We’ll take off, do a low-slow circuit of the range, then we’ll have some fun,” she told them over the interphone system, which could be piped to everyone on the plane.

Once manpower-intensive functions, radar and navigation were now handled completely by Fort Two’s prototype flight computer; even the weapons operators, whose “office” was located behind the flight deck just forward of the wing area, were redundant. On Fort Two their panels had been replaced by banks of computers and test circuitry. Had the Megafortress been an active warplane, it would have required only pilot and copilot to complete its mission, though a defensive weapons specialist and a navigator would be preferred additions until all the flight computer systems were at production status. In some ways, Brea

“Takeoff power,” she told the flight computer. She glanced at the four-pronged throttle bar, which replaced the multi-fingered mechanical control. Responding to her voice command, the throttle slid into position, thrust precisely and automatically calculated to match not only the plane’s present weight, but the runway and weather conditions. The Xs rumbled on the wings, ready to boogie. “Noisy things,” groused Rubeo.