“Incirlik,” said Elliott. “There’ll be a jet at the airport.”

Aboard Raven , over Dreamland Range 2

1600

MAJOR JEFF “ZEN” STOCKARD SWEPT HIS EYES AROUND

the readings projected on the instrument screen, confirming the computer’s declaration that all systems were in the green. The Flighthawks’ Comprehensive Command and Control computer, known as C3, had never been wrong yet, but that didn’t mean Zen was going to give it a bye.

“Major?”

“Keep your shirt on, Curly.”

Captain Kevin Fentress fidgeted at the nickname but said nothing. A reference to the short, well-furled locks on Fentress’s head, it was Zen’s latest attempt at giving the newbie Flighthawk pilot a decent handle.

“Handoff in thirty seconds,” said Zen. “Begin the procedure.”

“Right.” Fentress blew a hard breath, trying to relax. He was sitting only a few feet from Zen at the left-hand console in the Flighthawk control bay of Bear One, an EB-52

Megafortress outfitted to support test flights of the small, 22

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

unmanned fighters, officially designated U/MF-3s. Taking over the robot wasn’t as simple as reaching over and grabbing the stick. Fentress’s fingers stumbled through the long panel sequence twice before he could give the voice command to transfer control to his console. The procedure included two different code words—a third, if Zen didn’t consent within five seconds—as well as retina scan by the gear in Fentress’s control helmet. By the time it was completed, the Flighthawk had traveled several miles beyond their planned turnaround and was nearing the end of the test range.

“Let’s go, Fentress. You’re behind the plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tighter,” Zen told his pupil as he began the turn.

“You’re not flying a Predator. Use the plane.”

Fentress gave more throttle, still obviously out of sorts; he had to back off to get the robot’s nose onto the right heading. Zen knew how hard it could be to get a precise feel for the robot. It was as much a struggle of the imagination as anything physical. But Fentress had been practicing this for several days—he ought to know it cold.

Zen took another quick glance at the U/MF-3’s instrument readings, then looked at the sitrep map in the lower left video screen. The map presented a synthesized

“bird’s-eye view” of the area around Bear One, showing not only the unmanned robot, but its planned flight path and the location of the target drone, which in this case was an ancient Phantom F-4 flown completely by computer. Today’s exercise was simple: As the Phantom flew a racetrack oval around Dreamland’s Test Range 2, Fentress would approach it from the rear and launch a simulated cannon attack. It ought to be easy.

Except that Fentress overhandled the robot, his inputs shifting it left and right and up and down so much that the computer twice gave him warnings that the plane was RAZOR’S EDGE

23

dangerously close to pitching toward the dirt. Zen shook his head but let the computer do the scolding—the safety parameters were set so that C3 would take over if Curly did anything truly horrible.

Which he nearly did as he angled to catch the Phantom drone, swinging wide then overaccelerating and sailing over the plane without managing to get a firing cue from the computer.

“Try again,” said Zen as patiently as he could manage.

“Sorry.”

“Try again.”

Fentress did even worse the second time, violating the test parameters by flying into the next range, which fortunately was unoccupied. Zen grabbed control of the plane ten seconds after he crossed the line, overriding the usual command sequence with a push-button safety switch on his control board.

“Jesus, what’s going on?” said Fentress, at first un-aware that he didn’t have control.

“You went into Range 3B,” said Zen. “I have it.”

Zen slid his speed back and ducked the Flighthawk’s wing, gliding toward the designated airspace like an eagle checking the crags for a new aerie. He’d grown so used to flying the Flighthawk with his control helmet that handling it with the screens felt a little like backseat driving.

He pushed the Flighthawk into a rough trail on the drone, setting his speed precisely to the drone’s at 280 knots. All Fentress had to do now was nudge the slider on his throttle bar, located on the underside of the all-control stick, and wait for the “hit me” sign from the computer.

“All yours, Curly,” he said, punching his hot switch again to give control back.

His student hunkered down in his seat, pushing forward against the restraints as he concentrated. Zen watched the targeting screen count down as Fentress 24

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

closed on the drone in a rear-quarter attack. The pilot pressed the trigger the second C3 cued him to fire.

And he’d been doing so well.

“I told you, the computer is almost always optimistic from the rear,” Zen told Fentress as the bullets trailed downward toward the empty desert. Oblivious, the Phantom began its turn, taking it outside the target cone.

“Count three before you fire.”

Firing the cannon—an M61 from an F-16 modified to fit the robot plane—killed some of the U/MF’s momentum, and Fentress struggled to get back into position. Finally he dropped his speed to the point where Zen worried the Phantom would lap him. Gradually, Fentress pulled himself toward the F-4’s tail. After nearly a half hour of nudging, he finally got the fire cue, waited this time, and then fired—only to see his target tuck its wing and disappear.

Not completely. It zipped up behind him as the Flighthawk’s RWR blared and nailed him from the back.

“Bang, bang, you’re dead,” said Zen, who had overrid-den the controls.

“That’s not fair,” said Fentress.

“Damn straight. Let’s try the whole deal again. Try and close a little faster, okay? We have to land while it’s still daylight.”

Megafortress Project Office

Megafortress Bunker, Dreamland

1745

CAPTAIN BREANNA “RAP” STOCKARD FOLDED HER FINGERS

into tight fists behind her back, controlling her anger as she waited for Major Nancy Cheshire to answer her question.

RAZOR’S EDGE

25

“I’m not saying you’re not fit for duty,” said Cheshire.

“What I’m saying is, you have to follow regulations like everyone else.”

“I’ve had my physical exam already,” said Breanna.

“I’m completely healed. What? You think I can’t fly? I’m rusty?”

“You have to follow procedures like everyone else on this base,” insisted Cheshire. “That means ten hours as copilot, and then a reevaluation.”

“And I can’t take Galatica.”

“Galatica is not cleared beyond the stage three static tests,” said Cheshire.

“Sure it is.”

“No, Breanna, the repairs covered more than forty percent of the airframe, and that’s not even counting what they’ve added. Rules are rules—that plane has a long way to go. They haven’t even painted the nose, and the radar hasn’t been replaced. Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of it.”

“The rules are bullshit,” said Breanna, pushing her fingers together. “That’s my plane.”

“The planes don’t belong to anyone, Breanna.”

“You’re only being a bitch to me because I’m a woman.

If it were Chris or Jerry, you’d cut them some slack.”

Breanna caught her breath, realizing what she’d said.

Major Cheshire didn’t react at all, which made Breanna feel even worse.

“You have a flight at 0500,” said Cheshire. “I would expect you might want to get some sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheshire started to turn away. Breanna caught her sleeve. “I’m sorry, Nancy. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t.”

Cheshire nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned and walked from the simulator walkway.