“But there are no old, bold pilots,” Sattler said, unable to conceal his pained expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard it before. Like about a thousand times since my team and I set up shop here. So?”
“Well, the old fart who’s going to take the Ranger up this evening is a guy named Tom Rogers,” Boomer said. “And he’s sitting right over there.”
Surprised, the FBI agent swung around. Rogers was seated at a console equipped with a joystick, throttles, and several large MFDs, multifunction displays. The gray-haired Sky Masters pilot wore a headset and was dressed in worn blue jeans, sandals, and a Tommy Bahama tropical shirt with World War II airplanes on it. Hearing his name, he looked up from his controls and sketched a mock left-handed salute.
“The XCV-62 can be configured for remote piloting,” Boomer explained. “That’s a Sky Masters specialty and it’s one of our advantages when it comes to competing against some of the bigger defense contractors.” His cell phone vibrated gently. He checked the message it displayed: DCMP. The text was from the crew of the C-130 that had taken off only minutes before, reporting that they’d completed their drop. He punched in a quick acknowledgment.
“Anything important?” Sattler asked.
Boomer donned an abashed grin. “Depends on how you look at it. I had to cancel a hot date tonight when this test flight came up. It seems the woman I’d asked out is kind of upset about that. As in ‘see you later, jackass’ upset. Probably because this is the third or fourth time lately I’ve had to stand her up for something work-related.”
The FBI agent winced in commiseration. “It goes with the job, I guess.”
“Seems to,” Boomer agreed. Shrugging, he swung round toward Rogers. “How’s she looking, Tom?”
The remote pilot glanced up from his displays. “Pretty good, Boomer,” he said. “No problems so far.”
“Then feel free to take her up anytime you’re ready.”
“Just running through my final checklist now,” Rogers said. “Number two was a little slow coming up on taxi power, but it looks okay now.” He was busy tapping his multifunction displays to set various controls and check different aircraft systems. When he was finished, he radioed, “McLanahan Tower, Masters Six-Two, number one, runway two-five, ready for takeoff.”
“Six-Two, McLanahan Tower, winds two-two-zero at twelve gusting to eighteen, cleared for takeoff runway two-five. Have a good one.”
“Six-Two cleared for takeoff two-five.” The XCV-62 began taxiing onto the runway.
With the FBI agent at his side, Boomer moved closer to the wall-size displays. “Below” them, the stealth aircraft finished lining up for takeoff. The aircraft stopped on the runway centerline. Slowly, with a steadily rising roar, the Ranger’s four jet engines ran up to full military power.
“Compressors look good, temps look good, takeoff mode selected,” Rogers muttered. “Heading, instruments, temps, safety check…” Below them, the XCV-62 roared down the runway, picking up speed fast. “Engines in the green, airspeed alive,” Rogers intoned in a half voice, not on the radio. “Engines to idle, antiskid warning light out, engines to idle, stop straight ahead…”
“Who’s he talking to?” Settler asked. “He doesn’t have a copilot.”
“He’s talking to himself,” Boomer replied. “He’s running through a series of what-if scenarios in his head, already planning on what he will do in case this or that happens, and those readouts cue him in for the next what-if.”
Just a thousand feet or so down the runway, Rogers muttered, “Vr… now. Rotating.” The batwinged aircraft nosed up slightly and a few short seconds later it leaped off the tarmac and into the night desert sky. “Gear down, go down. Land straight ahead.”
Boomer heard the FBI man mutter “whoa” and grinned to himself. He glanced at the other man. “That’s why we call the Ranger a short-takeoff-and-landing plane,” he said, pointing at the black aircraft as it soared skyward after using barely one-seventh of the available runway. “She’s designed to get in and out of small, improvised fields pretty much anywhere in the world.”
Outside, the XCV-62 banked right, turning west toward the nearby range of hills and mountains. “Gear up. Engines look good. Flight controls responding well,” Rogers intoned behind them. His hands danced across the controls, making small adjustments with his joystick and throttles. “All other systems nominal.”
“So what’s your plan for this flight, Dr. Noble?” Sattler asked.
“Nothing complicated. Or long,” Boomer assured him. His gaze was still fixed on the departing aircraft. By now, the Ranger was a small black dot, barely visible against the rapidly darkening sky and steep, brush-strewn ridgelines, highlighted by its computer-generated data block. “If all stays well, we’re going to take her up to fifteen thousand feet or so, put her through a few basic maneuvers, and then come back around for some landings.”
“But why fly this test when it’s getting dark so fast?” the FBI agent asked, more out of curiosity than suspicion. “Won’t that make your landing more difficult — even with instruments and sensors?”
“It’s our standard procedure when flying new-type stealth aircraft,” Boomer told him distractedly, still watching the XCV-62 as it cleared the first ridge by a few hundred feet. “Makes it a bit harder for outsiders, whether they’re amateur aviation enthusiasts, corporate competitors, or Russian or Chinese spies, to get a really good look at stuff we’d rather not show off just yet.”
Thoughtfully, the FBI man nodded to himself.
“Trouble on the number one engine, Boomer,” Rogers said abruptly. Both men swung toward him. “I’ve got a shutdown indicator,” the gray-haired remote pilot reported. His voice was remarkably relaxed. His fingers flew across his displays and controls. “Boosting power on number two and cutting back on three and four. I’m going for an emergency engine restart.”
“Christ,” Boomer muttered. He turned around again, staring out the control-tower window. There, far off in the distance, the XCV-62, now wobbling visibly, disappeared behind another jagged ridge. The numbers on the electronic data block were unwinding at a rapid pace. He glanced back at Rogers. “You’d better abort, Tom,” he said worriedly. “Get some altitude and then bring her straight back to the barn.”
“Roger, Boomer,” Rogers told him. His eyes were narrowed, quickly flicking back and forth between his displays, but his voice was calm and measured. “Number two’s gone now,” he said a few moments later, as matter-of-fact as if he was telling his wife that her toast had just popped out of the toaster. “Fuel pressure dropping. I’ve got failure readings on both the primary and secondary port-wing fuel pumps. My airspeed and altitude are both dropping fast.” There was a moment of strained silence. Boomer and Sattler watched in horror as more and more red indicators started to blink, and then they heard computerized terrain warnings… but only for a few seconds, and then Rogers breathed, “Oh, shit.”
A bright flash erupted from behind a ridge off to the west, lighting up the rapidly dimming sky for a brief moment. Low-light TV sensors automatically zoomed in to the area.
The remote pilot looked up from his console with a sour expression. “LOS, Boomer. Sorry.”
“LOS?” Sattler asked. “What’s that?”
“Loss of signal,” Boomer said tiredly. “Tom, dump the telemetry to the secure server, then get up, take a break, and start making notes about your session. Not your fault, dude.”
“What ‘secure server,’ Doc?” Sattler interjected. “You can’t withhold anything from us, Boomer.”
“Relax, Sattler,” Boomer spat, obviously upset. “I’m not withholding shit from you. The standard procedure is to collect all of our telemetry data and store it. The storage is secure, but it doesn’t mean it’s restricted. I can grant access to anyone.”