“Hey, Ray,” she retorted, “I didn’t realize you were sitting in.”
“I wasn’t,” said Rubeo.
“We can adjust that if it’s annoying,” said Fichera. “Can we proceed with the rest of the tests?”
“Roger that,” said Breanna, belatedly nosing the plane onto the planned course for a second battery of telemetry downloads.
They worked through the rest of the morning’s agenda without incident. Running ahead of schedule, Breanna suggested a few touch-and-go’s to practice landing technique.
“If that’s okay with you, Ray,” she added.
“Dr. Rubeo has left,” said Fichera.
“Yeah, I thought you guys sounded more relaxed.”
“You shouldn’t have called him Ray,” said Fichera. “He looked like he swallowed a lemon.”
“Oh, if I really wanted to tick him off I’d’ve called him Doctor Ray,” said Breanna.
There was no arguing Rubeo was a genius, though his social skills needed considerable work. He was especially prickly concerning the B-5 project, not only because he had personally done so much of the work on the computers, but because it had been conceived as an entirely computer-flown aircraft. Rubeo’s contention that its tests be controlled by scientists using simple verbal commands had been overruled by Colonel Bastian.
“Standby, Dreamland B-5,” said the airfield flight controller as Bree lined up for her first approach. “We have a VIP arrival via Runway One.”
Ordinarily, non-Dreamland aircraft, even those belonging to VIPs, did not use Dreamland’s runways; they came into Edwards and their passengers were ferried via a special helicopter. Breanna selected her video feed to watch as the aircraft, an unmarked 757, came in through restricted airspace. It banked over Taj — the low-slung administrative building, most of which was buried several stories below ground — and the rest of the main area of the base, as if to give its passengers a good view of Dreamland. Even though it had permission to land, two Razor antiaircraft lasers turned their directors on the Boeing, while an older Hawk missile battery leveled its missiles for delivery. If the plane deviated even a few yards from its permitted flight plan, it would be incinerated and then blown up for good measures.
“Whose jalopy?” asked McCourt from the chase plane.
“Got me,” said Bree, taking a circuit before starting her touch-and-go’s.
Wrestling her foot cramp into submission was more difficult than the practice landings. After three go- arounds, she was ready for the real thing.
“You’re going to have to hold off your landing,” said the controller again. “VIP jet taking off from Runway One in thirty seconds.”
“Must’ve tasted the food,” quipped McCourt.
Colonel Bastian put his signature on the last paper in his chief master sergeant’s hand, rolling out the last letters of his name with a noticeable flourish as the elevator stopped at the ground level.
“Admiral will be wanting lunch,” said Terrence “Ax” Gibbs. “Should I call over the Starlight Room?”
“Rustle up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” said Dog as the doors opened.
“More flies are trapped with honey than vinegar. Goes triple with four-boat admirals.”
“Four-boat?”
“Stars, braids, whatever the sailors call those things on his shoulders that make him think he’s important.”
Ax followed Dog into the lobby of the Taj. A member if Danny Freah’s security team stood by the door — Technical Sergeant Perse Talcom, better known as Powder, waiting to drive the colonel over to Hangar D, where the Piranha system was headquartered.
“We’ll see about lunch,” Dog told Ax. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. I hear the salmon’s especially good down in the Red Room.”
“What salmon?”
“Flown in yesterday,” said Ax. “Allen’s favorite. I’ll make sure they put some aside.”
There was no way — absolutely no way — the fish had been special-ordered for Admiral Allen, since his arrival hadn’t been expected.
Then again …
“Hangar D,” Dog told Powder, walking over to the black SUV near the entrance.
“Yes, sir,” Powder slammed the Jimmy into gear and left considerable rubber on the pavement.
“I’d like to get there in one piece,” Dog said, grabbing at the door to keep his balance.
“Good one, sir.” Powder nearly tipped the truck over as he veered onto the access ramp that led to the hangar area. He zipped past a Hummer and a fuel truck, then beelined for the hangar area. The security detail posted in front of Hangar D snapped to attention as they approached — they took up safer positions behind a set of obstructions.
Powder whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail, rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.
“Hey, Nursy, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the admiral.”
Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then saluted Dog.
“Carry on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws, intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/exfiltrate aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s last deployment. The technies were now working on a number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a secure elevator, which opened only after scanning his retinas. Once you were inside, the elevator could be operated only by voice, and then only if the computer decided the vocal pattern matched its records.
“Fourth,” said Dog as the doors snapped closed. He folded his arms and waited.
And waited.
“Fourth,” he repeated clearly.
Still nothing.
“God damn it—”
Either finally recognizing the voice or the threat, the elevator snapped into action. Dog stepped off impatiently at his destination, and was immediately greeted by a familiar if not exactly affectionate hiss.
“Colonel, why is the admiral here and why weren’t we notified he was coming?” The thin lips of the senior scientist at Dreamland, Ray Rubeo, pursed into a funnel. “These scientists aren’t military people. They get nervous. It’s like dealing with a hotel full of prima donnas. There’ll be a run on Prozac tomorrow. We’ll be three weeks getting back on schedule. And Piranha is hardly the most important project here. Frankly, if it were up to me, it would be turned back to Naval Weapons, which is not only competent but is used to dealing with oversized Pentagon egos.”
“I wasn’t told either,” said Dog, continuing toward the project area. “And I believe Admiral Allen’s headquarters are in Hawaii.”
Dog passed into the main project development room, an open lab area dominated by low-slung workbenches and enough computer and electronic gear to outfit fifty Radio Shacks. Lieutenant Commander Delaford, the project specialist, was holding forth for the admiral and a small group of aides near the center of the room. His laser pointer danced over a Piranha chassis, highlighting the propulsion sections. This wasn’t a mockup — it was a live, though unfueled, unit. Delaford was talking about one of his favorite topics — the applicability of the unit’s hydrogen propulsion system to civilian applications such as cars. It was a noncontroversial selling point sure to win a few votes in Congress, though the admiral’s overly furled brow showed he wasn’t particularly impressed.
“Turning now to the program,” said Delaford, nodding at Dog, “our next phase of study adds autonomous modes and more stealthy communications techniques, useful for submarine applications. And, of course, the warhead launching modes. We’re confident we could put a fully suitable version, based on the test article, into production immediately. Using this propulsion system and the communications-link technologies Dreamland has developed, the production model would be controllable from fifty to seventy-five miles, either by airplane as we’ve
