The robot Phantom was going approximately a hundred miles an hour faster than it should have been. Breanna flipped her HUD plot that showed the plane approaching behind them. its speed abruptly slowed, but Green Phantom was still flying too fast to get into the refueling cone. She resisted the temptation to hit the gas, knowing that would only make things more confusing for Zen.
“Three miles,” Cheshire said. “He’s not going to make it.”
Breanna could feel Chris staring at her. She continued to hold her position.
Green Phantom just wouldn’t slow down. Zen nudged the throttle push-bar on the underside of the one- handed stick control. The thrust-indicator graph at the right side of the screen obstinately refused to budge.
He could tell the computer to lower power. He could tell it precisely how many pounds of thrust to produce – or, for that matter, what indicated airspeed he wanted. But using verbal commands, relying on the computer – it seemed like giving up. And he wasn’t giving up. He was doing this, and he was doing it himself.
Partly because Smith had failed. And partly just because.
He tapped the glider with his finger. Finally the robot’s speed began to drop, but it was too late.
“Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway,” Zen said calmly o the interplane frequency. The ‘breakaway,” Zen said mandated full military throttle and an immediate one-thousand-foot climb by the tanker aircraft, and idle power and a one-thousand-foot descent by the receiver. Zen purposely used a calm tone of voice instead of an excited one to communicate to Bree and Cheshire that there was no imminent danger. When he was level, he said. “Let me try another shot.”
“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 C? 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.
C? 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.
