No question, but many dollar signs. And in good conscience, he couldn’t recommend proceeding with a project that showed no evidence it would succeed.
Why the hell not? What was the F-119?
A political plane. A horn of plenty.
A cow and a bathtub.
Did that justify lying about the Megafortress?
“Time’s getting tight,” said Colgan. “Want me to tell them to knock it off?”
Bastian looked up at the large round clock above the controller’s console. The hands counted off time until the Russian satellite would be overhead.
Thirty minutes. They had to be back in the hangar by then, since the satellite would be overhead for several hours.
“If they want to try again, that’s fine. Just don’t get caught on the ground by that satellite.”
“CONTROL ADVISES WE HAVE TIME FOR ONE MORE RUN around the track due to satellite coverage,” Cheshire told Zen.
He had heard the tower transmission. It took every ounce of self-control not to snap back that he might not be able to walk but he could still hear as well as anyone.
Banking Green Phantom to start the approach, he realized he’d done his best flying in those few seconds after the alarms sounded. He’d slipped into a different mode, flying instead of tiptoeing.
He was too damn worried about everything—about not having legs, about who was watching, about how jittery Green Phantom and its JSF suit got under Fort Two. He’d been thinking instead of flying. He had to get beyond all that.
Just stinking fly.
Easy to say, harder to do.
“Fort Two,” he said, “proceed around the track and take your speed up to five-fifty. Hold it there.”
“Jeff?” said Breanna. “Five-fifty?”
“Do you copy, Fort Two?” he snapped.
There was a pause.
“Roger that,” she said finally.
“Major, what exactly do you have in mind?” Cheshire asked.
It was a legitimate question. So why was he pissed at Bree?
He still loved her, even though he couldn’t have her.
Don’t let that screw you up. Of all things.
“The low-speed vortices the Megafortress throws off are pretty wicked,” Jeff said, his lips and tongue pausing over each word. “We had trouble doing formations with the Flighthawks at low speed, but once we brought it up we were fine. You remember those tests, Major?”
“Affirmative,” snapped Cheshire. “You may be right, Zen. I think you are.”
“It’s worth a try,” added Breanna.
“Last one we have today,” said Cheshire.
“Copy that,” said Zen. “But there’s always tomorrow,” he added, the words suddenly bubbling into his mouth.
BREANNA STUDIED THE HUD CUE, HER SPEED precisely at 550 knots. Green Phantom came on steadily. She guessed that Zen had decided to let the computer handle the throttle speed this time, concentrating on his joystick controls. Going from the Flighthawks to the kludgy Phantom must be like going from a hand-built racing bike to a tricycle. She suspected the QF-4’s engines were at the firewall.
He was coming in smoothly, though. Cheshire called out the distances—a half mile, five hundred yards, a hundred yards, fifty yards.
God, please let him do it, thought Breanna. Please. Whatever it takes from me, just give him this today.
“You’re in! You’re in!” Cheshire couldn’t contain her excitement.
“Copy that,” said Zen blandly.
Thank you, God, thought Breanna. Thank you.
* * *
ZEN STARTED TO FEEL A LITTLE COCKY AS HE SLIPPED Green Phantom over to what would be a drogue position on the left wing. An immense eddy of air flowing beneath the number-one engine brought him back to reality, pushing the drone’s nose downward. He fought it through, hanging tough as he pushed toward the imaginary cone that would signal success.
“Approaching my turn in zero-one,” warned Breanna.
Zen grunted. He moved his hand to the throttle, intending to take over from the computer. As he did, the robot began falling off to the right. He fought it back, but by the time he had the plane level Megafortress was starting her turn. That made it more difficult; he poked in and held it for a few seconds, then found the speed backing down despite his nudging on the control. He slipped back—had he been doing a real tank, fuel would have splashed in his face.
“Pumpkin time,” declared the controller.
“I can do it,” he said, poking up his speed.
Colonel Bastian broke in. “Major Stockard, you’ve already accomplished your mission,” he told him. “Let’s just get the cows back in the barn. I appreciate your efforts. A damn good show. You too, Fort Two. You all may have just saved the Megafortress project from extinction.”
ZEN LET HIS ARMS DROOP OVER THE SIDES OF THE wheelchair as Green Phantom rolled to a stop at the end of its landing range. The control link snapped off; the plane was now under the command of the ground crew, which was busily arranging its front end under the special hoist unit at the back of its trailer. The airmen would have it tarped within seconds, just in case the Kronos satellite managed somehow to slip its orbit and arrive ahead of schedule.
“Want to get something to eat before we debrief?” asked Remington. He’d left his control booth and was standing next to Zen. “You look like you could use a beer.”
“Why?” Zen snapped.
“You need an excuse to have a beer?” asked the dumbfounded engineer.
“I’m on duty,” said Jeff. He tried to make his voice sound less harsh, but it was clear from Remington’s face that he had failed.
“Hey, suit yourself,” said the engineer. “I’ll feed back the video.”
“Fred. Wait.” Zen pulled off his headset, tossing it onto the console panel. He wheeled around, slowed by the industrial carpet. He remembered the day they had put that down, how good it had felt beneath his feet after standing for hours, watching one of the other pilots work with the drones.
Remington stood near the monitoring area, arms stiff, frowning at him.
“I didn’t mean that,” said Zen. “I mean, shit, yeah, I’d love a beer. But, uh, I haven’t had any since, I don’t know when.”
“Well, if you’re looking for an excuse,” said the civilian, “I’d say that was a damn good one. We can snag a beer in Lounge B. I’ve already prepared the report on the refuel,” he added quickly. “The colonel will have everything he needs.”
Preparing the report was Zen’s job. His anger twinged.
Had Remington done the work out of pity? Or was that just Remington, super-efficient nerd boy, always on top of things?
Not to mention thirsty.
Would he have done it before the accident? Zen couldn’t be sure.
“I should look at it,” he told the engineer.
Remington smiled. “My laptop’s in the briefcase, with the report and video,” he said, pointing. “We’ll check it out while we’re waiting for the bartender to pour some frosty ones.”
Zen laughed. If he remembered correctly, Lounge B was self-serve. Come to think of it, last time he’d been here, it hadn’t offered beer.
JEFF WASN’T IN THE FLIGHTHAWK CONTROL ROOM BY the time Breanna finished with the Megafortress. He didn’t seem to be anywhere in Bunker B, the underground suite of offices used as the Flighthawk development center. Breanna began walking toward their dormitory suite, which was located in Yellow Two at the far end of the base.
The suite had belonged to her before they’d gotten married. Approximately 250 square feet were divided between two bedrooms, a central living room-kitchenette-utility space, and a bathroom. The decor was early pressboard, augmented by some posters of Impressionist prints inherited from the previous occupant, a chemist working in one of the weapons sections. Breanna greatly preferred the condo near Las Vegas she and Jeff had bought, but they had held onto the suite because it was convenient to have a place to crash on the base. Unlike many military facilities, Dreamland had a surplus of housing; while you couldn’t count on the shower pressure in the morning, at least the price was right.