“Should I?”
“You betchya. Picked you up out of that jam in Vietnam.” He said the words as if they were lyrics to a song. “Now it’s a ferry. I remember the oil pressure in that starboard engine used to like to jump up and down. Used to drive Spokes nuts. Which wasn’t necessarily a hard thing to do.”
With a wary glance toward the large props on the tilt wing, Breanna walked to the aircraft as the steps folded down. She clambered into the utilitarian interior, taking a seat on the thinly cushioned bench in the middle of the cabin. Greasy Hands sat alongside her.
“Please fasten seat belts,” said a voice.
Parsons started laughing.
“Please fasten seat belts.”
“What’s so funny?” asked Breanna, pulling the belt tight.
“I remember when Carla Agrei recorded that. It took her more than an hour. Four little words — she couldn’t get them out of her mouth.”
“You were there for the session?”
“You don’t remember Carla Agrei? I think half the base was there watching her. The male half.”
The door to the Osprey closed.
“Prepare to take off, please,” said Carla’s disembodied voice. “Please remain seated while flying.”
It wasn’t just the cabin crew that was automated; the entire aircraft flew on its own. The base flight controller could step in at any time if necessary, but that hadn’t happened in anyone’s recent memory.
“Flight transit time is computed at fifteen point three minutes. Please enjoy the ride.”
Brown Lake Test Area had not existed when Breanna was here. There was only one building, and most of that was underground. It served as a hangar and a small laboratory area. There were no offices, and workers had to be ferried in and out via Osprey. One entered through a set of cement steps that looked as if they’d been dropped into the middle of the desert. The surrounding area was, as the name implied, brown and smooth as glass, and considerably sturdier — heavily laden Megafortresses had landed and taken off from it back when it was a test range.
The Tigershark and a half-dozen Sabres stood in a neat line at the south end of the airstrip area. A pair of large tent canopies had been erected to the east for the VIPs, but no one was under them — as Greasy Hands had said, they were swarming around the Sabres.
The Tigershark, by contrast, stood all alone.
It certainly didn’t look dowdy. But was it the future?
“Put on your smiley face,” said Parsons as the Osprey settled into its landing pattern.
“Am I frowning?”
“Like you just drowned a kitten,” he told her.
Turk saw Breanna Stockard coming out of the Osprey as he emerged from the hangar. He waved in her direction but she didn’t see him; she was immediately engulfed by a small gaggle of officers to witness the test flight.
Turk liked Breanna. It would have been hard not to. She was older than him, but still very easy on the eyes. And as a boss, she was remarkably easygoing. Admittedly, he didn’t have many direct dealings with her, but she was one of those people who not only listened to what you said, but cared about understanding it.
Then there was the fact that she was a pilot and a war hero. Her exploits — and those of her husband and father — were among those that had inspired him to join the Air Force in the first place. He’d never spoken to her about them, nor had he met her husband, but he hoped to do both soon.
“Cap, you ready?”
“Hey, just daydreaming on you,” he told Tommy Stern. The former tech sergeant was a contractor responsible for the environmental systems on the aircraft—“da HVAC guy,” as he often joked. He and Turk had become friends, and Stern really functioned as Turk’s unofficial babysitter, bodyguard, and drinking buddy.
Two crewmen and the crew chief were waiting at the plane with a dozen Air Force and Office of Technology tech people. With a cocked smile, Turk glanced over at the VIPs swarming nearby, then put his helmet on and got ready to fly.
They’d barely buttoned up the plane and gotten the last green light on the system check when the radio crackled.
“Tigershark, status,” said Colonel Johnson.
No automated controller today, thought Turk, unsure whether he preferred the computer or Johnson.
The engineers had isolated the problem with the UM/Fs and corrected it, but just in case, he had added another fifty meters of distance to the routines. No sense in giving the brass too much of a thrill.
“Tigershark, status,” snapped Johnson.
“Prepared for takeoff,” said Turk.
As Breanna took her place in the reviewing area, her thoughts were far from the aircraft, or even Dreamland. She was thinking about Zen.
Worrying about him, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.
She owed him an apology. He had nothing to do with the air show — the idea had come from the British, who were suddenly worried about their aging air force. The new prime minister also seemed to be hoping that a production line for the new aircraft might be opened in south England. He’d talked to Magnus, and suggested taking the plane to the air show. Apparently it had participated in routines there two years before, part of the private company’s last ditch efforts to speed up the procurement process and stave off bankruptcy.
It was completely Magnus’s idea. He even suggested that she go with him, though he didn’t seem too disappointed when she begged off because of work.
Why had she snapped at Zen? Because she was worried about him.
Irrationally. He’d faced much worse dangers, right on this very field.
The show went well enough, with Turk pushing the Tigershark through its maneuvers as the Sabres tagged along. He even threw in an unscripted barrel roll after the UavS completed their bombing run.
Twenty minutes of that, all done precisely according to script, and it was time to call it a day. The big shots had to have their lunch.
Turk clicked the mike button to talk.
“Tigershark to ground. Control, we’re clear of scheduled activities. Looking to land.”
“Negative, Tigershark,” replied Johnson. “Stand by.”
Negative?
Turk was in an orbit at the northern end of the test range, about two miles from the Sabres and out of everyone’s way. Still, being put on hold like this irked him. He ground his teeth together, then told himself to relax. He was only pissed off because it was Johnson. Anyone else giving him direction, he’d be fine with it.
And really, it wasn’t even Johnson’s fault. The brass was probably hassling him for some sort of photo shoot.
Bingo. Johnson came back, directing him to perform a series of maneuvers with the Sabres. None of it was too taxing. Turk concentrated on the flight, hitting his marks with precision.
A fresh set of requests followed. Once again Turk and the Sabres flew through them. Medusa made the process seamless. The little planes flew all around him as he flew tight to the ground, then pulled up sharply to accelerate toward the sky. They followed upward as fast as they could, flying impressively for robots.
Then came a request to replay the bombing sequence.
“Ground, be advised I’m into fuel reserves,” said Turk.
“Roger that, Tigershark. We’re aware of your fuel state. Complete the requested exercise.”
“Sabre control, line up for Series Exercise Three,” he told Medusa. “Pattern Alpha Two.”
An image of the preprogrammed set of maneuvers came up on his far-right screen. Turk reached over and tapped it to confirm.
“Sabre control, commence bombing run on target. Pattern Alpha Two.”
“Pattern Alpha Two. Sabre copies.”
