Deep Black

54

Malachi Reese cursed and slammed on the brakes about halfway down the parking lot aisle in Lot 2D. Some stinking SOB had parked in his spot. He threw the Honda into reverse without bothering to figure out whose car it was; security would do that, and besides, he was running late as it was. The problem now was where the hell to park.

The handicapped section. There were sixteen spots in the lot, mandated by federal law — even though no one with a handicapped license had clearance to park here.

Sixteen other scumbags had gotten there first. This really was a serious alert.

Malachi wheeled back, the heat shield in the Honda clattering as the engine jerked on its mounts. He almost parked on the sidewalk but at the last moment saw a spot near the fence. He raced a Neon for it—as if—leaving a good patch of rubber on the hot asphalt as he screeched in. Out of the car, he ran to the facility entrance, trotting in place as the security guards — who had seen him leave only a few hours ago — wanded him and did the retina thing.

Inside, Malachi dialed his MP3 jukebox to the Clash’s “London Calling.” The hunt for a parking spot had made him feel particularly nostalgic.

There was an extra set of security guards downstairs in the hallway leading to Conference Room Three, where he’d been told to report. Malachi didn’t know them, which meant they dished major hassle over his MP3, making him put it under an X-ray and then passing it through the bomb sniffer gate twice. By the time Malachi finally entered the briefing room — a small auditorium with thirty seats, about twenty of them filled — they were well into the operational briefing, with an Air Force colonel Malachi didn’t recognize talking about “the asset limitation list.” Malachi saw Terry Gibbs, one of the other platform jocks, sitting in the second bank of seats. He slid behind him and poked him in the back.

“You’re big-time late,” whispered Gibbs.

“Some asshole parked in my spot,” said Malachi, pulling up the LCD video screen at the side of his chair. He flicked it on: channel A featured a map of the greater Moscow area, with red stars all around it. Malachi recognized the stars as defense installations without having to tap the screen for IDs.

“So like, I have to lose my day off because we’re going to bug the Russians again? Shit, Frenchie could have done it.” Frenchie was an Air Force captain named Steven Parlus.

“Take off the earphones and listen to what the colonel’s saying,” said Gibbs. “Look around. You’re not flying the platform. They want you on the Birds. Kelly’s unavailable and Duff asked for you. You missed Rubens.”

“The F-47s? Kick-ass.”

Malachi pulled out his ear buds and started paying serious attention. The F-47Cs, sometimes called Birds, were Mach 1.5–capable UFAVs, or unmanned fighting aerial vehicles, capable of carrying weapons as well as “mission pods”—signal and image — capturing gear. The remote planes were an outgrowth of Boeing’s successful F-45 program for the Air Force, which had provided considerable pointers for the satellite-controlled NSA force. They generally worked in packs or flights of four and required several remote pilots, along with a full relief team.

“This unit here is our prime concern,” said the colonel, tapping at a base northeast of Moscow. The legend identified the unit there as 593, a fighter aviation regiment of MiG-35 “Super Fulcrums.” The MiG-MAPO next-generation fighter was based on the MiG 1.42, itself a development of the MiG29.

“Yes,” said Malachi, as if he’d just hit a three-point shot at the buzzer. Those close enough to hear him snickered, and the colonel giving the presentation stopped speaking and looked toward him.

“Is there a question, Mr. Reese?” asked the colonel.

“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Just saying we’re going to kick their butts.”

“That’s not the idea, Reese,” said General Tonka, standing up from the front row. Tonka was another holdover from Space Command. “Russia is a member of NATO, an ally — no unauthorized dogfighting, no unauthorized anything.”

Tonka’s nickname was, naturally, Truck, though he was built like a slim walking stick. He’d flown combat in the Gulf. He gave the room one of his best stares, then turned back to Malachi and pointed at him. “I know you’re a cowboy, Reese. Don’t fuck up.”

“No, sir,” said Malachi. “Not on purpose.”

Two hours later, Malachi joined the flight crew in Control Bunker C, a separate underground facility with its own power supply, ventilation system, and communications network. It linked to the Art Room via three separate dedicated lines, each of which was always on. Malachi was second pilot, essentially the copilot in a four-man crew that also had a pilot, navigator/weapons officer, and radar/ECM man. They could control from two to eight planes with the help of a bank of computers and a dedicated satellite network. This could be augmented by J-STARS and AWACS aircraft; eventually, specially equipped Raptors and Strike Eagles would also be able to tie into the network.

“Look who the cat drug in,” said Train — officially known as Major Pierce Duff. Train had cut his teeth as a young lieutenant flying F-16s in the Gulf War and was regarded as one of the top remote pilots in the service. This was his team, and Malachi — or “Mal,” as they sometimes referred to him — swept his torso down as a gesture of respect.

Kind of.

“He was probably making it with some ho in the elevator,” said Riddler, who worked the radar and ECMs, or electronic countermeasures. Riddler’s real name was Captain George Thurston.

“Got me,” said Malachi. “Where’s Whacker?”

“Getting updated disks on the weapons sets,” said Train. “More programming code from your people.”

“Hey, I just work here. I’m not one of them,” said Malachi.

“Yeah, he’s a mutant alien form of fungus,” said Riddler.

“Actually, bacteria. I’ve evolved.” He slid into his station, which was dominated by a large flight stick. Most often the remote planes were directed through verbal or keyboarded commands. While the pilots could take direct control via the stick, the transmission delay could amount to more than two seconds, which made guiding the planes a difficult art. You had to think ahead, anticipating not just the plane but also the control lag. Combat situations were especially treacherous.

Naturally, Malachi prayed for one.

“The planes are due to be off-loaded at No¨bitz, Germany, in four hours,” Train told him. “We have to be ready to take them off the ground as soon as they’re fueled.”

Nöbitz was an airfield near Altenburg in the southern part of the country, once used by Soviet forces during the Cold War. It had obviously been chosen for security purposes, not proximity to the target area — it was a good hike from there just to the Russian border, let alone Moscow.

“We’re looking at a two-hour cruise to get on-station,” added Train. “We get there, we stagger back to tank. We’re looking at a twelve-hour window at the moment.”

Malachi whistled. That was a long time for the robots to stay aloft, even with refueling. It would also be a considerable strain for the crews.

“I want to run through a couple of mission bits on the simulator first,” explained Train, “practice ingress and egress and at least one refueling. Then we break, get a real brief, come back, and do it.”

“Sounds hot,” said Malachi. “What kinds of weapons are we carrying?”

“Still to be decided,” said Train. “Probably AIM-9s, AM-RAAMs, and Paveways, full mix.” So equipped, the planes could be used for either air-to-air or air-to-ground attacks.

“Hot dingers,” said Malachi.

“One more thing, dude,” said Major Duff, leaning over to Malachi’s station. “No music. For anybody.”

“Shit. Serious?”

“Serious. Whacker threatened to break out his Barry Manilow collection, and I just can’t live with that over the interphone circuit for twelve hours.”

“Agreed,” said Malachi, pulling out his ear bud.