Threat Level Black by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online

other NADT aircraft were housed here. Howe happened to be familiar with both. One was an F-15E that had been used to test some of the systems later installed in the F/A-22V Velociraptor. The other was a knockoff of the Russian Sukhoi S-37/B Berkut—a two-seat, next-generation version of the super plane built by NADT from specifications obtained by the CIA.
    The S-37/B had been Howe’s introduction to NADT; he’d come to the D.C. area on a special temporary duty assignment specifically to fly the aircraft. The project had been so secret that only two men had been trained to fly the aircraft, Howe and Tim Robinson.
    Timmy had lost his life in the Cyclops project.
    The Sukhoi sat under a tarp in the far corner of the hangar, mostly forgotten now that its mission had been completed and it had yielded its data to the CIA and Air Force. Howe powered up and rolled away from the hangar.
    “I’m not taking this job,” he reminded himself as he waited for the tower to give him clearance. “It’s not what I want to do. And besides, it’s a desk job.”
    Although there were fringe benefits: He felt one of them as he accelerated into the sky.
    “Hawk One, this is Two,” said Storey as they tracked out into the small rectangle they’d been given to fly in. “I’d say you’ve flown before.”
    The two aircraft moved over the Atlantic, passing through a thick bank of clouds.
    “Clear skies,” remarked Storey as they burst above and ahead of the weather. It was as if the sun had disintegrated the curtain of clouds; the sky seemed so clear you could look up through the canopy and spot the angels polishing the stars.
    Howe pushed his wing down and began a gentle bank, riding the Hawk southward in a lazy orbit. The stick responded easily, the aircraft eminently predictable despite all its mods and miles. One thing he had to give NADT: They knew what they were doing.
    If he took the NADT post, he could do this whenever he wanted.
    If he really wanted to fly, why had he left the Air Force in the first place?
    Hell, he could find a job as a contract pilot somewhere. Anywhere, just about. Work as a test pilot.
    Maybe that was the slot he should take at NADT, not boss man.
    Turn down the chance to be rich?
    Maybe the money had corrupted Bonham. Wasn’t money the root of all evil? Or was it your own soul where the problem was?
    Half a million bucks a year—more, potentially lots more, when you threw in bonuses and stock options and all the perks. Maybe it was a drug you couldn’t resist.
    As they neared the end of the cleared range, Storey started talking up the plane, mentioning some of the improvements in engine technology. As a general theme, the engineers had substituted new materials for the traditional metals, seeking to make the power plants lighter and yet tougher at the same time. Howe knew the real question wasn’t whether the materials were usable but rather whether it would be practical—as in affordable—to use them in full-scale production. Even the military had financial constraints, and just because you could make something smaller, faster, and lighter didn’t mean it was cost-effective to do so.
    Howe started a series of maneuvers, doing inverts and sharp cuts, rolling out and climbing, diving toward the ocean and whipping back upward, doing his best impression of a 1920s barnstormer. While admittedly the Hawk couldn’t match those old biplanes for sheer warp-ability, it could slash around the sky fairly well. He managed some tight angles and high g’s, felt the restraints press against his body and the blood rush from his head despite the best efforts of his flight suit.
    The maneuvering forward airfoils and the variable-attack edges on the main wings gave the smallish Hawk some serious advantages in a close encounter with an enemy fighter. Howe found himself almost wistful for the days of cannon-punctuated furballs, close-in dogfights as much decided by the skill of the engineers who constructed the aircraft