She was obviously in trouble. The large black plane stuttered in the sky, its wings jittery as it took a wide bank above the base. The wings began to shake and it pulled off to the left, hanging in the air.

He could taste metal in his mouth. Zen pushed his wheelchair backward, tilting his head to watch as the big plane flew toward the mountains in the distance. A Phantom crossed from the south. For a second it looked as if it was going to plow right into the Megafortress. Then Zen realized it was flying about five hundred feet above the big bomber.

His accident a year ago had changed everything between them. He knew she tried. But he also knew it would only be a matter of time before she realized she couldn’t be with him, couldn’t really love half a man.

Still, he didn’t want to see her hurt.

The Megafortress continued toward the far end of the range. Zen realized there were a dozen people around him now, all staring up at the plane. Somebody said that it had lost its radio. Somebody else mentioned the Army tests and rumors about problems with Fort Two’s flight-control computer and the new power plants, and then everybody was talking. And then everyone stopped talking.

Zen cringed as an F-15 appeared from the east, angling toward the Megafortress. Perspiration ran down his back as the plane veered off just short of a collision.

How damn helpless I am, he thought to himself.

GREASY HANDS FOUND RUBEO SPRAWLED ON THE floor, his head half inside one of the computer units. Obviously the scientist had had the same idea he had.

“Excuse me, Doc,” said the senior NCO, squatting down. “What’s up?”

Rubeo backed out from under the access panel. “I’m trying to bypass the circuit breakers and feed the flight computer off the battery,” said the scientist.

Parsons nodded. It seemed to him the scientist sounded a tad less arrogant than normal, a pleasant development.

“If you let me take a look, I believe I can bypass enough circuit breakers to get the landing gear down and some of the instruments back,” Greasy Hands told him.

“Be my guest.”

The sergeant slipped in under the panel. The solid-state regulator arrays snapped into the bus. Spares were lined up in a separate section at the right. Bing-bang-boing.

“The flight-computer panel is on the far left,” said Rubeo behind him.

“Aw, we don’t want the computer, Doc,” said Greasy Hands, pulling out one of the long, thin plastic-encased assemblies. “That’s given us enough problems as it is.”

KNIFE HAD JUST TAKEN OFF ON HIS SECOND orientation flight when he saw the Megafortress jerking into a wild, uncontrolled dive. He immediately called a range emergency, trying to clear traffic as he climbed up and out of the way. Banking back as he reached five thousand feet, Knife saw the black bomber level off, in obvious distress. Neither he nor the tower controller could raise it on the base or emergency frequencies.

Following toward the end of the range from the south as another plane cleared out of the way, Knife realized Fort Two was flying on two engines, just barely hanging in the sky. Its gear was still stowed, but it gave every impression of preparing for a crash landing on the dry lake bed.

That would be a mistake. It was rapidly running out of clear ground. Even with gear, brakes, and massive amounts of reverse thrust, it would run into the massive boulders that marked the craggy start of the mountain range.

He was too far off to do anything but watch.

* * *

THE CONTROLS NEARLY PULLED OUT OF BREANNA’S hands as the plane’s forward airspeed plummeted. The landing-gear door had snapped open and the gear assemblies were trundling downward.

“Jesus,” she said. The control panels flickered back to life with instrument readings.

“Doc gave us back some electric power,” said Chris, quickly going over the flight data. “Gear have extended. Primary controls took over for the backups on the circuit.”

“I’m still on manual,” she told him. “And I’m staying there.”

“Roger that,” snapped Chris. “Our speed—”

“Sergeant Parsons says he’s going to try to get you electric,” yelped the staff sergeant, rolling onto the command deck as the Megafortress lurched almost straight down.

“I’d say he succeeded,” grunted Chris.

“All right, I’ve got it.” Breanna fought the big plane level. They were nearing the end of their restricted airspace. More importantly, she had run out of safe lake bed to land on, the ground below turning back into desert. The mountains loomed ahead.

“We’re going to have to turn ourselves around,” she told Chris.

“We’re on one engine,” he said.

She was so busy trying to hold the plane in the sky, she didn’t have time to snap back with something sarcastic.

KNIFE ROCKED THE EAGLE GENTLY ON HER RIGHT WING as Fort Two banked away from the mountain range, one of her wing tips so close it was a miracle it didn’t scrape. Her wheels were down and he doubted she was flying more than a half knot over the stall speed. But she was still in the air.

He pushed his plane through a sharp turn to get behind the lumbering bomber, now slowing and then starting to descend. He put his own gear out to help himself slow down as he pulled parallel to Fort Two. He had a clear view into the Megafortress’s cockpit. Rap’s hands were working overtime; her head bobbed up and down in the cockpit, as if she were talking to the crew.

There were, at most, twenty meters—sixty feet—between the two planes. He kept one eye on her and the other on her plane, his hands ready to jerk the Eagle out of the way.

“She’s giving us a thumbs-up,” said his passenger, Dr. Jennifer Gleason, one of the computer scientists.

“Okay, give it to her back,” said Smith, nudging forward to give her a better view.

“She’s pointing down.”

“Okay. Ask if she has full control,” he said. “Make like you’re driving a truck—”

“I’m way ahead of you,” Gleason said sharply.

Dr. Gleason was in her mid-twenties and extremely good looking, with long strawberry-colored hair and a body that would melt a polar bear. But Smith found her, like most of the scientific and engineering personnel, stuck-up.

“On a scale of one to five, she has about a three,” Gleason told him. “She only has one motor.”

“Engine.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Can she land?”

“Yes,” answered the scientist after a pause. “She, uh, she wants to loop back, I think.”

“She wants to land into the wind,” said Smith. “Oh, wait—she’s not trying to land on the main runway, is she?”

“How would I ask that?” said Gleason.

“She is. Okay. Hold on.” Smith radioed the control tower, mapping out the situation for them. All traffic had been cleared and emergency vehicles were standing by.

“She’s worried about the Soviet Kronos satellite,” he explained to his backseater. “It’s due overhead in twenty-five minutes. If she lands anywhere but close to the hangars, the satellite will catch her on the ground. She’s being a jackass,” he added.

“Why?”

“Ridiculous risk. She was ready to pancake in without gear a second ago. Now she’s flying like she’s out for a Sunday stroll in the park.”

“What would you have done?” Gleason snapped. Knife didn’t answer. He’d have done the same thing. “She’s pointing to the ground,” said Gleason. “She’s rolling her hands.”

“She wants us to make sure the gear is locked,” he said. “All right, look, do a little loop with your finger, like we’re swooping beneath her, then hang on.”

“Okay.”

As soon as Knife heard that Breanna gave the thumbs-up, he tipped the Eagle down, sailing under the large war-bird.

“Gear extended and locked,” he said.

“I gave them an okay.”

Knife pulled off, trying to give Fort Two more room for its turn as it came around to line up for final approach. The plane was waddling now, its lone engine straining. It burped downward, caught itself, steadied into a bank.