Dale Brown - Dreamland

“Copy that.”

Tanker pukes would be laughing their butts off if this had been the real thing. Stockard pulled the computer-engaged switch at the base of the stick, then gave the system verbal instructions to pull Green Phantom around. The C³ flight computer helping fly the plane was like a two-level brain. The basic level handled inputs from the stick and worked to keep the aircraft stable. For example, it knew that pulling back on the stick meant that the pilot wanted the plane to climb, and adjusted the control surfaces accordingly. This level was always on, and was very similar to what happened in a stock fly-by-wire system, such as the one in the JSF.

The upper level of the brain, which could be invoked verbally or by pulling the engage-disengage toggle that rose like a weed in front of the stick, was more an advanced copilot or even wingman. It translated verbal instructions, monitored sensors, and could plot and follow courses. It had a limited ability to plot and suggest strategy.

C³ could probably attempt the tanking demo on its own, with only some verbal prodding from Zen. But Jeff was determined to nail it himself.

If he could. Flying a remote-controlled plane under a tanker was a difficult task. Even without the odd wind eddies and vortices coming off the target plane, you were too far away. You were projecting feel and perspective literally across miles, imagining how it would be in the cockpit rather than really being there. You couldn’t feel the plane buck or sense it starting to wallow, or know just how the detent on the throttle was going to nudge under your wrist. You couldn’t slide your foot on the rudder pedal just so, moving your butt on the seat that infinitesimal inch to nail the hookup just so.

Jeff couldn’t slide his foot anywhere.

Get over it, he told himself. Just fucking get over it.

Jeff took back control as the Phantom came out of its orbit behind the Megafortress. “Pilot,” he said.

“Pilot,” confirmed the computer.

He nudged the throttle down. He was three miles behind the Megafortress, closing at a rate of roughly two miles a minute, easing in.

“You’re a little too high,” said Cheshire.

“Roger that, said Zen, stubbornly holding his position for a few seconds. The Megafortress had nudged down to eighteen thousand feet, speed nailed precisely at 350 knots.

A half mile off the tail of the big bomber, Zen took a deep breath, ready to go for it. He felt like he was crawling in, a thief sneaking in the back door.

“Looking good,” said Cheshire.

Zen pasted his eyes on the V of the bomber’s tail. Nice to have some director lights there.

Computer could give him some cues. Shit – why hadn’t he thought of that?

Rust, rust, rust. Stubborn rust.

“Inside the cone in ten seconds,” said Cheshire. “Nine, eight –”

The tail suddenly flashed large and then began moving to the right. The computer buzzed, but something inside Zen had taken over; he didn’t hear the warnings or Cheshire’s transmission. He nudged the stick to the right, thumb on the trim button as he corrected to compensate for the vortex. Then he gave the stick a quick shock forward, finessing the eddy of wind pushing Green Phantom backward. He nudged throttle, closed again, but the wind whipping off the bigger plane was beating the hell out of his wings. He tried again, pushing in; again the computer screamed and Cheshire yelped, and he felt sweat soaking his zipper suit. Green Phantom’s nose poked upward and it was over; he rolled downward, breaking off the attempt.

“Shit,” said Cheshire.

“Copy that,” he told her. “Let’s go again.”

“Zen, we’re at the end of the range,” said Breanna. “We have to take our turn.”

Her voice sounded far away, the way it had the first night in the hospital, when he came to.

“Yeah,” he said.

She didn’t respond. The Megafortress had already begun a shallow bank, turning through the air.

“We briefed twenty thousand feet,” he said testily, as if the two thousand feet might actually have made a difference.

Again she didn’t respond.

Why was he so mad? Why did he feel humiliated? Smith had blown exactly this test, and he’d had the real stinking airplane. He’d been in the goddamn cockpit.

And he had two legs.

Colonel Bastian looked at Colgan.

“They were pretty close,” said Colgan. “A hundred yards.”

“That’s an awfully long hose,” said Bastian dryly.

“Between the wings and the engines, the Megafortress beats the hell out of the air,” said Colgan. “The engineers used the vortexes to increase the lift and flying characteristics they were trying to maximize them, not smooth them out. I’m not an expert, but I don’t think there’s any question they can be eased off with some work.”

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 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 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 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 formation with the Flighthawks at low speed, but once we brought it up we were fine. You remember those test, 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.