“Three-second burn programmed,” she said, reading off the program screen. “Counting down.”
There was a slight hitch as the rocket ignited; the plane’s nose stuttered downward for a microsecond before the massive increase in thrust translated into upward momentum. This was a by-product of a glitch in the trimming program, which the team was still trying to fine-tune. Otherwise, the burn and plane worked perfectly; Breanna rode the B-5 up through fifty thousand feet. A soft tone in her helmet accompanied the visual cue that they had reached their intended altitude; she leveled off, then started a gentle bank. At the end of a complete circuit she nosed down, gathering momentum. As the plane hit Mach 2, she prepared for the next test sequence.
“Ready to test engines three and four,” she said, refering to the scramjets. “Counting down.”
The hydrogen-fueled scramjets lit as the plane touched Mach 2.3. By the end of the test sequence, Breanna was at Mach 3.4 and had climbed through 85,000 feet. She continued to climb, powered now only by the scramjets.
“Ready for engine five,” she told her team, leveling off for the next test sequence.
“Good. Temp in four slightly high.”
“Acknowledged.” She took q quick glance at the screen, making sure the temp was still in the green — it was by
about five degrees — then told the computer to light the rocket motor.
“Looking good,” she said as the speed built quickly.
“Aye, Captain,” Richera said, giving his best impression of Scotty, the engineering officer on the Starship Enterprise, “the dilithium crystals are shining bright.”
“Har-har,” said Breanna, whose leg began acting up again.
They touched Mach 5, but then began to slow inexplicably.
“Problem?” asked Fichera.
“Not sure,” said Breanna. The thrust on all three engines was steady, yet according to the instruments she was slowing.
Now if she’d been in the plane, she would have known exactly what the problem was. She’d felt it.
Really? Could you feel the difference at eighty-some-thousand feet and four or five times the speed of sound, with things rushing by? Or would you have to rely on the instruments anyway? How far would you be removed from the actual sensation of flight, lying in a specially canted seat wrapped in a special high-G suit?
Breanna pushed forward. Unencumbered by restraints or even a simple seat belt, she put her face nearly on the large glass panel as she had the computer run her through the vital signs on all the power plants. The speed had leveled off at Mach 4.3. They had reached the end of test sequence.
“Computer, cut engine five,” she said, referring to the hydro.
“Cut engine five.”
“I feel like I should be pushing buttons at least,” added Bree.
“Repeat command,” said the computer.
“I thought it wasn’t suppose to try to interpret anything without the word ‘computer’ in front of it,” Bree backed at Fichera.
“The computer expects you to either follow the original flight plan called for, or prepare a new course. Since you’re doing neither, it is confused.”
The snotty voice belonged to Ray Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist.
“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.