Nerve Center Read Free Page B

fighter pilot. He talked like a fighter pilot. He walked—some might say swaggered—like a fighter pilot. One who had seen combat. One who had big hours in F-16’s as well as F-15’s. A fighter pilot who had flown F-4’s, F-111’s, and even an A-10A once or twice. A fighter pilot who had taken the stick of an F-117 and a turn in an F-22 demonstrator. In short, a zippersuit who could fly and had flown anything the Air Force had to offer, and had done it very well.
    Except for today, when he was sitting at the helm of an antiquated, out-of-date, obsolete, lumbering, slow-as-a-cow-going-backward BUFF. A plane as old as he was, and twenty times as creaky.
    Actually, if it had been simply a B-52, Dog might not have felt as bad. The Stratofortress’s vintage controls took a hell of a lot of getting used to. Levers and knobs stuck out at all angles, the dash looked like the display case in a clock shop, and there was no way to get comfortable in the seat until a dozen hard landings form-fitted your butt. But the B-52 he was flying had been rebuilt from the fuel tanks outward as an EB-52. Rebuilt and reskinned, reengined and recontrolled, the Megafortress retained the soul of the old machine—the most capable and durable bomber of the Cold War era. But she flexed twenty-first-century muscles. It was like having the wisdom and experience of a sixty-five-year-old—and the muscles and reflexes of a twenty-one-year-old young buck.
    As Breanna somewhat gushingly put it after they landed.
    “I can do without the metaphors, thank you, Captain Stockard,” snapped Dog, unhooking himself from the seat restraints.
    Or rather, trying to unhook himself. Damn, he couldn’t even undo a stinking belt buckle today.
    “All I’m saying, Daddy, is that Raven takes a little getting used to. It’s not your average F-16. I know that with a few more flights, you’ll be right on top of it.”
    The restraint finally snapped clean. Dog unfolded himself from the seat, struggling to maintain what little was left of his dignity as he left the plane. The other crew members—he had foolishly agreed to fly with a navigator and a weapons officer—wisely made their way out the ventral hatch well ahead of him.
    “Daddy—”
    “And another thing, Captain.” Bastian twisted at the back of the flight deck before starting downward. “Do not, under any circumstances, while we are on duty—at work—ever refer to me as Daddy, Dad, Pop, Poppy, Father, Papa, or anything in that vein. Got it?”
    “Sir, yes, sir.”
    The Megafortress’s stealthy carbon-resin skin was specially treated to withstand high temperatures. The runway apron, however, seemed to melt as Dog stalked from the plane, which was being refueled for a flight by another crew. He headed toward the ramp to the Megafortress’s subterranean hangar, where a state-of-the-art simulator waited to replay his flying mistakes in bold colors.
    A black Jimmy SUV with a row of flashing blue lights whipped off the access ramp to his right, speeding toward him. Dog stopped, thankful for the interruption, even if the flashing lights boded a problem. The Jimmy belonged to his head of base security, Captain Danny Freah. Danny was loath to use the blue lights—he claimed they made the truck look like it was leading a fire department parade—so something serious must be up.
    But instead of Freah, Chief Master Sergeant Terence “Ax” Gibbs pulled down the driver’s-side window as the truck rolled up.
    “Colonel, you have visitors,” said the sergeant.
    “Visitors who?” snapped Dog.
    “Secretary-to-be Keesh for one,” said Ax. “A whole pack of muckety-mucks nipping at his heels.”
    An ex-Congressman, John Keesh was the new Administration’s nominee for Defense Secretary. Bastian knew him vaguely from Washington, but hadn’t seen or spoken to him for months. He was expected to be confirmed next week.
    Last November’s elections had completely rearranged the defense landscape, removing