DREAMLAND (Dreamland #1)
by Dale Brown, Jim DeFelice
first published June 1st 2001
THE MASTERS OF DREAMLAND
LT. Colonel Tecumseh ‘Dog’ Bastian
Once one of the country’s elite fighter jocks, now Dog is whipping Dreamland into shape the only way he knows how – with blood, sweat, and tears – and proving that his bite is just as bad as his bark …
Captain Breanna Bastian Stockard
Like father, like daughter. Breanna is brash, quick-witted, and one of the best test pilots at Dreamland. But she was prepared for the biggest test of her life: a crash that grounded her husband in more ways than one …
Major Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard
A top fighter pilot until an accident at Dreamland left him paraplegic. Now, Zen is at the helm of the ambitious Flighhawk program, piloting the hypersonic remote-controlled aircraft from the seat of his wheelchair – and watching what’s left of his marriage crash and burn . .
Major Mack ‘Knife’ Smith
A top gun with an attitude to match. Knife had two MiG kills in the Gulf War – and won’t let anyone forget it. Though resentful that his campaign to head Dreamland stalled, Knife’s the guy you want on your wing when the bogies start biting …
Major Nancy Cheshire
A woman in a man’s world, Cheshire has more than proven herself as the Megafortress’s senior project officer. But when Dog comes to town, Cheshire must stake out her territory once again – or watch the Megafortress project go down in flames …
Captain Danny Freah:
Freah made a name for himself by heading a daring rescue of a U-2 pilot in Iraq. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Freah’s constantly under fire, as commander of the top-secret ‘Whiplash’ rescue and support team – and Dog’s right-hand man …
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Chapter One 1
Air Force High Technology Aerospace
Weapons Center (Dreamland), Nevada
10 October 1995, 0530 PDT
Gravity smashed against his heat so hard he nearly eased off on the stick. That would have been fatal – the butt of Major Jeff ‘Zen’ Stockard Strike Eagle was dancing across the boresight of a pursuing fighter at optimum cannon range. Stockard’s only hope was to yank and bank away, zigging and zagging in a wild twist across the desert sky, pulling between six and seven g’s as he tried to escape. He tightened his fingers around the control stick and hung on.
Zen had done this a million times – in fact, he’d fought this very same dogfight on a simulator the day before. But that was then, this was now. The simulator could only approximate what the slashing maneuvers did to his body. His neck and shoulders especially – the helmet he had to wear to control his remote escorts weighed more than forty pounds. The helmet used holographic imaging to provide enhanced optical and sensor views from both his plane and the escorts; its oval master view could be divided in half of quarters by voice command or the push of a button on his specially designed control stick. The skull bucket, with its onboard microprocessors, thick layers of LEDs, and retinascan circuits, was critical to his mission, but that was no comfort when the sudden slash of his maneuvers increased its weight exponentially. The F-15E’s ACES II ejector seat had been modified to help support it, but Zen still worried that his head was going to snap right off his body as he pushed through the seven-g turn.
Even with normal gear, seven g’s would have hurt. The cells in his pressurized suit worked against his body like a masseuse’s hands, fighting to keep his blood in place. But he was out at the edge of his endurance. Zen’s heart pounded violently in his chest as he rammed his F-15E Eagle back to the right, picking his nose up and then flailing back over in a barely controlled reverse dive.
Bitchin’ Betty – the plane’s English-language audio warning system – whined that he was about to become toast. Too many g’s, too fat a target, too little airspeed.
It might also have complained about his housekeeping, for all the attention he paid to it.
Stockard pushed the nose around, gaining just enough momentum to miss his pursuer’s snap shot as he recovered. He had to hold on for at least another ten seconds before his escorts caught up. If he lasted that long, the fighter hunting him would have become the hunted.
If he didn’t: toast.
Major Mack ‘Knife’ Smith cursed as Stoackard’s Strike Eagle once more slid out of his targeting pipper without cuing the signal that meant he’d splashed the SOB. If there had been real slugs in his F-15C’s M61A1 cannon, he was sure he’d have nailed Stockard by now. Btu even though the laser designator had danced back and forth across the Strike Eagle’s left wing and fuselage, the computer-controlled SiCS, or Simulated Cannonfire Scorping system, refused to record a fatal hit.
Only reason for that, he decided, was that he was supposed to be profiling a Su-27, with its notorious inaccurate fire-control system. Had to be. That of someone had rigged the gear against him.
Knife tucked his Eagle down to follow Stockard into a rolling dive. Stockard was clever – he was trying to get Knife to either speed up and fly right by him, or slow down enough to let the two Flighthawks catch up. The Flighthawk U/MF-3’s were the purpose of this exercise. Flying as escorts controlled by Zen, the two robot aircraft were supposed to keep Knife from shooting down the Strike Eagle. The exercise was designed to push the miniplanes and their human commander to the limit.
Which was fine with Knife. As long as he nailed the SOB.
Stockard’s left wing slid downward, and the plane seemed to literally drop from the sky. Knife pushed his nose down before realizing what was going on. Zen was twirling through an invert as he dove, aiming to swoop off at close to ninety degrees. Knife had no choice now but to follow – anything else would let the escorts catch up.
He matched the spin, catching a glimpse of one of the Flighthawks trailing him. He ignored it – if he could see it, it wasn’t in position to nail him, he decided – and concentrated on Stockard, whose rear tail fins were disappearing below his HUD. Stockard was below ten thousand feet.
So much for the rules of engagement. Not that Knife would have let them stop him from winning either. But if was a relief that the other guy had ignored them first.
Stockard’s fantail sailed into Mack’s targeting pipper, and he pressed the trigger.
No good. Stockard pulled left just in time to duck the shot, recovering at eight thousand feet.
The g forces kicked up by the maneuvers tore Knife in all different directions; he felt like he was being pinched and pulled at the same time. A dark cloud began edging toward the corners of his eyes as he saw Zen flickering to the right. He pulled at the Eagle’s stick to follow, worrying in the back of his mind that the extreme maneuvers would flame the Eagle’s nearly unflammable engines.
And then he realized he’d blown it.
Zen pushed his stick to level his wings, feeling for the plane with his arms and legs. He’d faked Smith out, but the rush of gravity was nearly too much; he felt his head starting to implode. If he were flying only the Strike Eagle he’d be fine, but he had to guide the Flighthawks as well. Even with the computer guidance system carrying most of the load, it was too much work; his brain started caving under the physical and mental stress.
That was the point of all this, right? To find the limits?
Okay, he told himself, I’m here, I’m doing this. The bar the top of his visor screen flashed green. It meant one of his escorts was now within firing range.
Okay, he repeated to himself. I’m home. All I have to do if flick my thumb down and enable the Flighthawk forward cams.
If Zen could do that, the heavy visor in his helmet would project two three-dimensional holograms in front of his eyes, each view projected from the nose of one of the U/MF-3’s. He’d say “Hawk One” or “Hawk Two,” look directly at his target, select cannon, fire. End of exercise.