Piranha d-4

by Dale Brown

  With the systems checked and rechecked, everything from fuel flow to air temperature recorded, parsed, and fretted over, Breanna glanced at the static camera from the runway to make sure her path was clean. Cleared, she loosened the brakes and took a long, slow breath.

  And then she was off. The B-5’s engines cycled up to takeoff power and she trundled down the runway, speed building slowly. Relatively heavy for its airfoil even with the wings horizontal, the plane needed more distance than a B-52 to get airborne. That would change with the new wings. Even then, the rocket engine would probably be selected for a brief burn to make the takeoff easier, and more comfortable for Breanna.

  Though she’d flown it several times now, Breanna’s feel for the UMB remained distorted and distant. As he indicated speed climbed above one hundred knots, the plane began to lift on its own. She held the stick a second too long, but came off the ground smoothly. The slight hitch bothered her; she was still slightly disoriented as he altitude began to climb.

  Maybe if they added some sound feedback, she thought, making a mental note to bring it up at the post-flight briefing.

  Captain Breanna Stockard had headed the UMB project for three weeks now. It was supposed to be a permanent job; the previous UMB director had been posted to the Pentagon months before. But Breanna had stubbornly insisted the duty be officially “temporary,” so she could decide if she wanted the assignment.

  Of course she did — it was potentially the most important job in the Air Force. Even if the UMB never won approval as the follow-on to the B-2, the technology it tested would undoubtedly serve the military for the next two or three decades. But it meant leaving the Megafortress, and flying, behind.

  Breanna’s husband, Jeff “Zen” Stockard, had flown the aircraft on its first two flight. His overall take on flying the plane could be summed up in one word: “boring.” He complained it was even more reliant on its native or onboard computer than the Flighthawk, and probably didn’t need a real pilot at all. Unlike the U/MF’s, which needed to be fairly close to their command plane, the UMB was designed to be flown entirely from the ground at vast distances using hooks in the Dreamland secure satellite system.

  Boring? Maybe if you were a pilot used to taking six or seven Gs with your morning donut.

  “Dreamland B-5 UMB is airborne and passing marker three-seven,” reported Breanna as they reached the airspace for the morning tests. “We have green indicators all around. I did ask for salsa music in the background, however, and it’s not coming through.”

  “Preempted by baseball,” shot back Lieutenant Art McCourtm who was flying chase in an old but reliable F-5. “I’ll give you play-by-play if you want, Major. My Dodgers are ahead.”

  It was far too early in the day for a game, or McCourt might really be listening to baseball; the test pilot had a reputation for using his engineering prowess in unconventional ways. Supposedly, he had found a way to pressurize a Mr. Coffee and enjoyed hot, zero-gravity coffee breaks.

  The UMB continued to climb at a leisurely pace, reaching ten thousand feet as the structural-integrity tests began. Breanna pushed her stick left and let the plane turn into a fairly steep bank. Small sensors similar to the devices used to measure earthquakes recorded the effect of the turn on the wings and superstructure; one of the ground people monitoring the numbers gave an approving whistle as she came through the turn.

  “Looking for a date, Jacky?” Bree shot back.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Structure is looking very solid.”

  “That’s what I figured you meant,” she said, continuing through the set of turns. Test complete, and passed, she began spiraling upwards, looking at the ground through the belly cam as she climbed.

  Dreamland sprawled over a defunct lake in the desert wilderness north of Las Vegas. Its existence was so secret it appeared on no list of facilities or bases. No one was ever assigned here; instead, they were given “cover’ jobs or assignments, usually though not always at Edwards Air Force Base.

  Until recently the heart of the Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Dreamland had involved a great deal over the past two years, more rapidly in the past two months. The command had lost some of its best military people and projects to the newly designated Brad Elliott Air Force Base, named in honor of the former general who had lost his life in the China conflict only a few months before. Nearby at Groom Lake, Elliott AFB was a high-profile and prestigious command, which, though structured along traditional lines, was to be task primarily with introducing new weapons into the Air Force mainstream. Meanwhile, Dreamland and its high-tech facilities would remain a cutting edge facility with a much more experimental bent — as well as its own combat team named “Whiplash,” which operated directly at the President’s command. In charge of Dreamland was a scrappy, forty-something lieutenant colonel who everyone outside of Dreamland knew was in way over his head — and everyone inside of Dreamland knew was about as can-do as any ten other officers in the service combined.

  Breanna was just slightly prejudiced in favor of Dreamland’s director. She happened to be his daughter.

  Her left leg began to cramp, and then spasmed. Trying to loosen te cramp, she knocked her knee against the lower edge of the front panel.

  “Perfect coffin,” she grumbled.

  Unlike everything else connected with the plane, the computer could not adjust the seat; it had to be fiddled with manually, a procedure that had at least as high a change of making things worse as better.

  Breanna tried flexing her leg as she rose toward twenty thousand feet, stifling a curse as the muscles in her other leg started feeling sympathy pains. She banked again, then asked the computer for the environmental panel, deciding she felt cold.

  The computer claimed the temperature in her coffin was a balmy seventy-two.

  “My ass,” she told it.

  “Captain?” said Fichera.

  “Relax, Sam. I’m getting all sorts of leg cramps, that’s all.”

  “Too hot in there?” asked Fichera.

  “Negative. I doubt it’s really seventy-two, by the way. All right, I should be at angels twenty in one more turn.”

  “We copy that,” answered the engineer.

  Both the climb and the cramps continued in silence. Though much larger at about 170 feet in length, the aircraft handled a lot like an F-111 to about Mach 1.5 if the F-111 was being flown remote control.

  “You’re looking really great,” said Fichera as the UMB hit into the orbit over Glass Mountain just a nudge under 25,000 feet.

  “Looks good from here,” said McCourt from the chase plane. He was flying off her right wing, separated by about a half mile in the open sky.

  “All right. Telemetry test ready?” Bree asked.

  “Roger that,” said Fichera.

  “Computer, begin scheduled test B-5-6A: photographic data flow. Smile for the cameras, Dreamland.”

  “Begin scheduled test B-5-6A,” acknowledged the computer.

  A panel in the fuselage slid open, permitting a camera array from a mini-KH satellite to see the earth. The camera sent a rapid succession of detailed photos back to Dreamland.

  “Hey, Major, this stuff going to show up in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?” asked McCourt.

  “Hell, Art, we’re going straight to Playgirl. The photos I took of your in the shower last week with the spy cam cinched it.”

  “I thought I felt a draft.”

  “Data flow under way,” said Breanna, her tone once again serious. The test was a fairly simple affair, sending back high-resolution optical photos to the ground. As the system was essentially the same used in Dreamland’s mini-KH-12 tactical satellites, it should pass without much difficulty.

  Which it did. Breanna continued a long, lazy orbit around the Dreamland test ranges, slowly building her altitude until she was at 35,000 feet. The next series of tests were the meat of the day’s mission.

  “Ready to test engine five,” Breanna told her team. Engine five was
the restartable rocket motor.

  “Roger that,” said Fichera. “We’re hot to start.”

  “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.

  Dreamland “Taj” building

  1000

  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 fro
nt of Hangar D snapped to attention as they approached — they took up safer positions behind a set of obstructions.

  Powder whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail, rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.

  “Hey, Nursy, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the admiral.”

  Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then saluted Dog.

  “Carry on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws, intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/exfiltrate aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s last deployment. The technies were now working on a number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a secure elevator, which opened only after scanning his retinas. Once you were inside, the elevator could be operated only by voice, and then only if the computer decided the vocal pattern matched its records.

  “Fourth,” said Dog as the doors snapped closed. He folded his arms and waited.

  And waited.

  “Fourth,” he repeated clearly.

  Still nothing.

  “God damn it—”

  Either finally recognizing the voice or the threat, the elevator snapped into action. Dog stepped off impatiently at his destination, and was immediately greeted by a familiar if not exactly affectionate hiss.

  “Colonel, why is the admiral here and why weren’t we notified he was coming?” The thin lips of the senior scientist at Dreamland, Ray Rubeo, pursed into a funnel. “These scientists aren’t military people. They get nervous. It’s like dealing with a hotel full of prima donnas. There’ll be a run on Prozac tomorrow. We’ll be three weeks getting back on schedule. And Piranha is hardly the most important project here. Frankly, if it were up to me, it would be turned back to Naval Weapons, which is not only competent but is used to dealing with oversized Pentagon egos.”