Dale Brown's Dreamland

by Dale Brown

  “Copy that.”

  Tanker pukes would be laughing their butts off if this had been the real thing. Stockard pulled the computer-engage switch at the base of the stick, then gave the system verbal instructions to pull Green Phantom around. The C3 flight computer helping fly the plane was like a two-level brain. The basic level handled inputs from the stick and worked to keep the aircraft stable. For example, it knew that pulling back on the stick meant that the pilot wanted the plane to climb, and adjusted the control surfaces accordingly. This level was always on, and was very similar to what happened in a stock fly-by-wire system, such as the one in the JSF.

  The upper level of the brain, which could be invoked verbally or by pulling the engage-disengage toggle that rose like a weed in front of the stick, was more an advanced copilot or even wingman. It translated verbal instructions, monitored sensors, and could plot and follow courses. It had a limited ability to plot and suggest strategy.

  C3 could probably attempt the tanking demo on its own, with only some verbal prodding from Zen. But Jeff was determined to nail it himself.

  If he could. Flying a remote-controlled plane under a tanker was a difficult task. Even without the odd wind eddies and vortices coming off the target plane, you were too far away. You were projecting feel and perspective literally across miles, imagining how it would be in the cockpit rather than really being there. You couldn’t feel the plane buck or sense it starting to wallow, or know just how the detent on the throttle was going to nudge under your wrist. You couldn’t slide your foot on the rudder pedal just so, moving your butt on the seat that infinitesimal inch to nail the hookup just so.

  Jeff couldn’t slide his foot anywhere.

  Jeff took back control as the Phantom came out of its orbit behind the Megafortress. “Pilot,” he said.

  “Pilot,” confirmed the computer.

  He nudged the throttle down. He was three miles behind the Megafortress, closing at a rate of roughly two miles a minute, easing in.

  “You’re a little high,” said Cheshire.

  “Roger that,” said Zen, stubbornly holding his position for a few seconds. The Megafortress had nudged down to eighteen thousand feet, speed nailed precisely at 350 knots.

  A half mile off the tail of the big bomber, Zen took a deep breath, ready to go for it. He felt like he was crawling in, a thief sneaking in the back door.

  “Looking good,” said Cheshire.

  Zen pasted his eyes on the V of the bomber’s tail. Nice to have some director lights there.

  Computer could give him some cues. Shit—why hadn’t he thought of that?

  Rust, rust, rust. Stubborn rust.

  “Inside the cone in ten seconds,” said Cheshire. “Nine, eight—”

  The tail suddenly flashed large and then began moving to the right. The computer buzzed, but something inside Zen had taken over; he didn’t hear the warnings or Cheshire’s transmission. He nudged the stick to the right, thumb on the trim button as he corrected to compensate for the vortex. Then he gave the stick a quick shock forward, finessing the eddy of wind pushing Green Phantom backward. He nudged throttle, closed again, but the wind whipping off the bigger plane was beating hell out of his wings. He tried again, pushing in; again the computer screamed and Cheshire yelped, and he felt sweat soaking his zipper suit. Green Phantom’s nose poked upward and it was over; he rolled downward, breaking off the attempt.

  “Shit,” said Cheshire.

  “Copy that,” he told her. “Let’s go again.”

  “Zen, we’re at the end of the range,” said Breanna. “We have to take our turn.”

  Her voice sounded far away, the way it had the first night in the hospital, when he came to.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She didn’t respond. The Megafortress had already begun a shallow bank, turning through the air.

  “We briefed twenty thousand feet,” he said testily, as if the two thousand feet might actually have made a difference.

  Again she didn’t respond.

  Why was he so mad? Why did he feel humiliated? Smith had blown exactly this test, and he’d had the real stinking airplane. He’d been in the goddamn cockpit.

  And he had two legs.

  COLONEL BASTIAN LOOKED AT COLGAN.

  “They were pretty close,” said Colgan. “A hundred yes “

  “That’s an awfully long hose,” said Bastian dryly.

  “Between the wings and the engines, the Megafortress beats the hell out of the air,” said Colgan. “The engineers used the vortexes to increase lift and flying characteristics. They were trying to maximize them, not smooth them out. I’m not an expert, but I don’t think there’s any question they can be eased off with some work.”

  No question, but many dollar signs. And in good conscience, he couldn’t recommend proceeding with a project that showed no evidence it would succeed.

  Why the hell not? What was the F-119?

  A political plane. A horn of plenty.

  A cow and a bathtub.

  Did that justify lying about the Megafortress?

  “Time’s getting tight,” said Colgan. “Want me to tell them to knock it off?”

  Bastian looked up at the large round clock above the controller’s console. The hands counted off time until the Russian satellite would be overhead.

  Thirty minutes. They had to be back in the hangar by then, since the satellite would be overhead for several hours.

  “If they want to try again, that’s fine. Just don’t get caught on the ground by that satellite.”

  “CONTROL ADVISES WE HAVE TIME FOR ONE MORE RUN around the track due to satellite coverage,” Cheshire told Zen.

  He had heard the tower transmission. It took every ounce of self-control not to snap back that he might not be able to walk but he could still hear as well as anyone.

  Banking Green Phantom to start the approach, he realized he’d done his best flying in those few seconds after the alarms sounded. He’d slipped into a different mode, flying instead of tiptoeing.

  He was too damn worried about everything—about not having legs, about who was watching, about how jittery Green Phantom and its JSF suit got under Fort Two. He’d been thinking instead of flying. He had to get beyond all that.

  Just stinking fly.

  Easy to say, harder to do.

  “Fort Two,” he said, “proceed around the track and take your speed up to five-fifty. Hold it there.”

  “Jeff?” said Breanna. “Five-fifty?”

  “Do you copy, Fort Two?” he snapped.

  There was a pause.

  “Roger that,” she said finally.

  “Major, what exactly do you have in mind?” Cheshire asked.

  It was a legitimate question. So why was he pissed at Bree?

  He still loved her, even though he couldn’t have her.

  Don’t let that screw you up. Of all things.

  “The low-speed vortices the Megafortress throws off are pretty wicked,” Jeff said, his lips and tongue pausing over each word. “We had trouble doing formations with the Flighthawks at low speed, but once we brought it up we were fine. You remember those tests, Major?”

  “Affirmative,” snapped Cheshire. “You may be right, Zen. I think you are.”

  “It’s worth a try,” added Breanna.

  “Last one we have today,” said Cheshire.

  “Copy that,” said Zen. “But there’s always tomorrow,” he added, the words suddenly bubbling into his mouth.

  BREANNA STUDIED THE HUD CUE, HER SPEED precisely at 550 knots. Green Phantom came on steadily. She guessed that Zen had decided to let the computer handle the throttle speed this time, concentrating on his joystick controls. Going from the Flighthawks to the kludgy Phantom must be like going from a hand-built racing bike to a tricycle. She suspected the QF-4’s engines were at the firewall.

  He was coming in smoothly, though. Cheshire called out the distances—a half mile, five hundred yards, a hundred yards, fifty yards.

  G
od, please let him do it, thought Breanna. Please. Whatever it takes from me, just give him this today.

  “You’re in! You’re in!” Cheshire couldn’t contain her excitement.

  “Copy that,” said Zen blandly.

  Thank you, God, thought Breanna. Thank you.

  * * *

  ZEN STARTED TO FEEL A LITTLE COCKY AS HE SLIPPED Green Phantom over to what would be a drogue position on the left wing. An immense eddy of air flowing beneath the number-one engine brought him back to reality, pushing the drone’s nose downward. He fought it through, hanging tough as he pushed toward the imaginary cone that would signal success.

  “Approaching my turn in zero-one,” warned Breanna.

  Zen grunted. He moved his hand to the throttle, intending to take over from the computer. As he did, the robot began falling off to the right. He fought it back, but by the time he had the plane level Megafortress was starting her turn. That made it more difficult; he poked in and held it for a few seconds, then found the speed backing down despite his nudging on the control. He slipped back—had he been doing a real tank, fuel would have splashed in his face.

  “Pumpkin time,” declared the controller.

  “I can do it,” he said, poking up his speed.

  Colonel Bastian broke in. “Major Stockard, you’ve already accomplished your mission,” he told him. “Let’s just get the cows back in the barn. I appreciate your efforts. A damn good show. You too, Fort Two. You all may have just saved the Megafortress project from extinction.”

  ZEN LET HIS ARMS DROOP OVER THE SIDES OF THE wheelchair as Green Phantom rolled to a stop at the end of its landing range. The control link snapped off; the plane was now under the command of the ground crew, which was busily arranging its front end under the special hoist unit at the back of its trailer. The airmen would have it tarped within seconds, just in case the Kronos satellite managed somehow to slip its orbit and arrive ahead of schedule.

  “Want to get something to eat before we debrief?” asked Remington. He’d left his control booth and was standing next to Zen. “You look like you could use a beer.”

  “Why?” Zen snapped.

  “You need an excuse to have a beer?” asked the dumbfounded engineer.

  “I’m on duty,” said Jeff. He tried to make his voice sound less harsh, but it was clear from Remington’s face that he had failed.

  “Hey, suit yourself,” said the engineer. “I’ll feed back the video.”

  “Fred. Wait.” Zen pulled off his headset, tossing it onto the console panel. He wheeled around, slowed by the industrial carpet. He remembered the day they had put that down, how good it had felt beneath his feet after standing for hours, watching one of the other pilots work with the drones.

  Remington stood near the monitoring area, arms stiff, frowning at him.

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Zen. “I mean, shit, yeah, I’d love a beer. But, uh, I haven’t had any since, I don’t know when.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for an excuse,” said the civilian, “I’d say that was a damn good one. We can snag a beer in Lounge B. I’ve already prepared the report on the refuel,” he added quickly. “The colonel will have everything he needs.”

  Preparing the report was Zen’s job. His anger twinged.

  Had Remington done the work out of pity? Or was that just Remington, super-efficient nerd boy, always on top of things?

  Not to mention thirsty.

  Would he have done it before the accident? Zen couldn’t be sure.

  “I should look at it,” he told the engineer.

  Remington smiled. “My laptop’s in the briefcase, with the report and video,” he said, pointing. “We’ll check it out while we’re waiting for the bartender to pour some frosty ones.”

  Zen laughed. If he remembered correctly, Lounge B was self-serve. Come to think of it, last time he’d been here, it hadn’t offered beer.

  JEFF WASN’T IN THE FLIGHTHAWK CONTROL ROOM BY the time Breanna finished with the Megafortress. He didn’t seem to be anywhere in Bunker B, the underground suite of offices used as the Flighthawk development center. Breanna began walking toward their dormitory suite, which was located in Yellow Two at the far end of the base.

  The suite had belonged to her before they’d gotten married. Approximately 250 square feet were divided between two bedrooms, a central living room-kitchenette-utility space, and a bathroom. The decor was early pressboard, augmented by some posters of Impressionist prints inherited from the previous occupant, a chemist working in one of the weapons sections. Breanna greatly preferred the condo near Las Vegas she and Jeff had bought, but they had held onto the suite because it was convenient to have a place to crash on the base. Unlike many military facilities, Dreamland had a surplus of housing; while you couldn’t count on the shower pressure in the morning, at least the price was right.

  Breanna could tell Jeff wasn’t in the suite as soon as she pushed open the door. She went to the bedroom and cranked open the windows, trying to remove the musty smell that had accumulated since she’d last been here a few days before. She sat down on the bed, found herself leaning back and sinking into the pillow. Despite the success of the test—despite Jeff’s success—she felt depressed and drained. Things between them weren’t going well at all. She had known there would be trouble adjusting; she had known it would be a long process, the most difficult thing they’d ever done together by far. But that didn’t make her feel any better.

  Bree got up and went to fill the tub. Baths always made her feel better.

  Steam rose quickly from the tub, the water so hot she nearly scalded her fingers just pushing the stopper closed. Definitely a good-luck omen—truly hot water was as rare as good water pressure.

  Straightening, Breanna began to undress. The steamy air softened her skin and sweat beaded from her face, running down the sides of her cheeks. She felt the poisons and worries that had accumulated in her body beginning to escape. She flattened her hands over her face, pushing her fingers back over her hair and then down over her chest to her hips and thighs, stretching slowly, relaxing after the stressful day.

  Breanna slipped into the tub even though the water was still running. The knots in her muscles gave way; her legs slid limp against the sides of the narrow tub, the close confines somehow reassuring.

  They had showered here together, many times. To be able to do that again, just once—

  But those were distracting thoughts. She had to live in the present, not the past. She still loved Jeff. She might love him more, in fact—he was brave and determined and he could be stubborn, but that was attractive too. He’d nailed the test when the best pilot on the base—the next-best pilot on the base—had failed.

  Jeff would never walk again. His back was broken. She could deal with that; she could survive that. And as soon as he was sure of that, as soon as he saw that she wasn’t just pitying him, it would get better. She knew it would. It would.

  Breanna lowered her head to the surface of the water, feeling the tingle. She wanted to reduce her consciousness to just that feel, to just the hot tickle on her skin. Her face and breasts and legs fuzzed with the warmth.

  Many times before they were married she sat in this very tub like this, thinking of Jeff. She believed she could will him there with ESP, close her eyes and he would magically appear at the door.

  A knock in the hallway startled her.

  Imagination?

  No, there it was again.

  “Jeff?” she called.

  “Hey, anyone in there?”

  Breanna jumped out of the tub. She grabbed the small towel from the bar, anxious to let him in.

  It wasn’t until she started to turn the knob that she realized it hadn’t been his voice.

  “No, it’s Mack,” said Major Smith.

  Bree pushed the door shut quickly. “I’ll—I was in the bath,” she said. “Wait just a second.”

  Smith laughed when she reopened the door a minute later.

  “You didn�
��t have to get dressed for me, Rap,” he told her.

  “Major.”

  “My, we’re formal today,” said Smith. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” said Breanna, who’d jumped into her flight suit. As she closed the door behind him she glanced toward the bathroom, noticing her underwear on the floor where she’d left it. She went and closed the bathroom door.

  “Expecting Jeff?”

  “Well, he is my husband,” she told Smith. “Can I get you something? A Coors?”

  “Sure.”

  Breanna squatted down in front of the fridge, retrieving two beers from the bottom compartment.

  “I figured I’d stop by and say good-bye.” Smith told her, taking the beer.

  “Good-bye?”

  “Assignment came through.”

  “Oh?”

  Smith shook his head. “Can’t tell you about it.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “If you want, I’ll try and get you transferred too.”

  “Thanks, Mack,” she said.

  “I’m serious. They’ll be closing this place soon. A few months. Nothing against your dad,” he added, sipping the beer.

  Smith was attractive; good-looking and damn smart, he was also obviously bound for bigger and better things. He could play the political game and clearly wanted to be a general. She liked him, even though his ego was bigger than the room they were sitting in.

  “How’s the JSF?” she asked.

  “An access panel flew off and jammed one of the rods in the leading-edge assembly,” said the pilot. “The panel wasn’t secured properly. Mechanics ought to be shot.”

  “That sounds a little harsh.”

  “You can’t do your job, there’s no excuse. I could have augured in,” said Smith, who didn’t seem very concerned. “Anyway, I’m glad to be rid of the F-119. I just wish—”