computer running through the checklists. This meant sitting in the cockpit while the computer went through the processes at its own speed. While streamlined for battle, the procedure still took twenty minutes before the first aircraft was ready to fly.
While he was working on the tarmac, Breanna was talking to Reid, who’d just got off the phone with the President and the Ethiopian prime minister.
“Very interesting conversation,” said Reid. “The prime minister grants us his permission to cross the border without problems. And then he says he’s not sure the army will honor that permission.”
“What?”
“One of their periodic political breakdowns,” Reid told her. “I’ve got two generals trying to get ahold of their generals to get the order carried out. Meanwhile, their army’s mobilizing against Sudan. They’re sick of the rebels, and the government. Not that I can blame them.”
The pilot tapped Breanna on the shoulder and pointed out the windscreen. A trio of Ethiopian officials were just stepping out of a car.
“Looks like the air force wants an explanation of what’s going on,” Breanna told Reid. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Very good.”
Breanna met the head of the delegation — a lieutenant — on the runway.
“You have an emergency?” he asked.
“Oh yes.” She launched into a cock and bull story about an onboard fire in one of the Ospreys, which required them to be off-loaded and checked. Her story was so convincing that the lieutenant had the base fire truck come over on standby. While he went to alert his superiors, the loadmaster got two fuel trucks to fill up the Ospreys before starting to top off the C-17.
“Number one is ready to fly,” Greasy Hands told Breanna. “But it’ll take another half hour to get the missiles on the launching rails and all the weapons systems checked out.”
“We can’t wait that long. We’ll launch One now,” she told him. “I’ll fly it. Put the missiles on Two. You can follow.”
“Me?”
“The computer flies it. You just have to tell it what to do.”
“I don’t know, Bree. I don’t know.”
“Are you telling me you
Greasy Hands frowned. It was true that the automated systems flew the aircraft — the ones that patrolled Dreamland did so with no crew aboard, responding to verbal instructions from the Whiplash security team’s base station. Still, there was something about sitting in the pilot’s seat that made the old crew chief hesitate.
“Frederick has to stay here with the C-17,” said Breanna. “So it’s either you or the loadmaster. You have a hell of a lot more experience with the aircraft and its systems. What do you say?”
“I can do it,” he grumbled.
“Good.” She started off the flight deck, then turned at the door. “And don’t break my aircraft.”
It was a line Greasy Hands had used countless times when turning an aircraft over to Breanna, and hundreds of other pilots. Now he didn’t think it was funny at all.
When he was commander of Dreamland, Breanna’s father had insisted that every pilot on the base familiarize him-or herself with all of their aircraft types. Breanna had flown an Osprey a few times, but only as the second officer or copilot. She would not have been able to handle the tricky tasks of taking off vertically and converting to level flight without the help of the computer.
Breanna manually entered her service ID into the control panel, then identified herself to the computer over the interphone system. It was like old times — even her verbal password was unchanged.
“Acknowledged,” said the flight computer. “Welcome, Breanna Stockard.”
“Assume autonomous pilot mode,” she told it. “Begin preflight checklist.”
The aircraft went through its checklist faster than a human pilot could have, giving itself a pat on the back as each system was reviewed and found in the green. The autopilot section in the center portion of the control panel flashed, declaring itself ready to go.
“Take off,” she told it.
A message flashed in the screen:
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Why not?” she asked.
The computer didn’t reply. Breanna rephrased the question, but again got no response. The computer’s verbal command section was more limited than in the late model Megafortresses, and would not attempt to interpret commands it couldn’t understand. This was by design — the environment Ospreys operated in made it possible that an unauthorized person might attempt to take command, so the system had been purposely limited to help ensure that only trained and therefore authorized personnel could control it.
Breanna stared at the control screen, knowing something was wrong but unsure what it could be.
“Prepare for takeoff,” she told the computer.
The message changed.
PREPARED FOR TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
She saw a vehicle approaching from the terminal area. Was the computer worried about running into it?
“Prepare for vertical takeoff.”
PREPARED FOR VERTICAL TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Damn it.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“I’ll bet,” she said. She slammed her hand on the side of the console.
Relax, she told herself. Think back to Dreamland. What did we do?
It was too many years.
She remembered one flight vaguely. She’d been working with one of the civilian test pilots. Johnny Rocket was his nickname; his real name was buried somewhere in her unconscious.
Johnny Rocket — frizzy red hair, goofy smile. He was a stickler for very precise preflights. “Plan the flight, fly the plan,” he used to say.
Over and over again. It was annoying.
The flight plan! The computer needed to know where it was going before it would take off.
Breanna opened up the window for the course plan and fed in the proper coordinates, directing the aircraft to fly at top speed in a straight line.
This time it accepted the command to take off. In seconds they were airborne and hustling toward the border with Sudan.
