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.

God, 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.