“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.
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.
