It certainly didn’t look dowdy. But was it the future?

“Put on your smiley face,” said Parsons as the Osprey settled into its landing pattern.

“Am I frowning?”

“Like you just drowned a kitten,” he told her.

Turk saw Breanna Stockard coming out of the Osprey as he emerged from the hangar. He waved in her direction but she didn’t see him; she was immediately engulfed by a small gaggle of officers to witness the test flight.

Turk liked Breanna. It would have been hard not to. She was older than him, but still very easy on the eyes. And as a boss, she was remarkably easygoing. Admittedly, he didn’t have many direct dealings with her, but she was one of those people who not only listened to what you said, but cared about understanding it.

Then there was the fact that she was a pilot and a war hero. Her exploits—and those of her husband and father—were among those that had inspired him to join the Air Force in the first place. He’d never spoken to her about them, nor had he met her husband, but he hoped to do both soon.

“Cap, you ready?”

“Hey, just daydreaming on you,” he told Tommy Stern. The former tech sergeant was a contractor responsible for the environmental systems on the aircraft—“da HVAC guy,” as he often joked. He and Turk had become friends, and Stern really functioned as Turk’s unofficial babysitter, bodyguard, and drinking buddy.

Two crewmen and the crew chief were waiting at the plane with a dozen Air Force and Office of Technology tech people. With a cocked smile, Turk glanced over at the VIPs swarming nearby, then put his helmet on and got ready to fly.

They’d barely buttoned up the plane and gotten the last green light on the system check when the radio crackled.

“Tigershark, status,” said Colonel Johnson.

No automated controller today, thought Turk, unsure whether he preferred the computer or Johnson.

The engineers had isolated the problem with the UM/Fs and corrected it, but just in case, he had added another fifty meters of distance to the routines. No sense in giving the brass too much of a thrill.

“Tigershark, status,” snapped Johnson.

“Prepared for takeoff,” said Turk.

As Breanna took her place in the reviewing area, her thoughts were far from the aircraft, or even Dreamland. She was thinking about Zen.

Worrying about him, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

She owed him an apology. He had nothing to do with the air show—the idea had come from the British, who were suddenly worried about their aging air force. The new prime minister also seemed to be hoping that a production line for the new aircraft might be opened in south England. He’d talked to Magnus, and suggested taking the plane to the air show. Apparently it had participated in routines there two years before, part of the private company’s last ditch efforts to speed up the procurement process and stave off bankruptcy.

It was completely Magnus’s idea. He even suggested that she go with him, though he didn’t seem too disappointed when she begged off because of work.

Why had she snapped at Zen? Because she was worried about him.

Irrationally. He’d faced much worse dangers, right on this very field.

The show went well enough, with Turk pushing the Tigershark through its maneuvers as the Sabres tagged along. He even threw in an unscripted barrel roll after the UavS completed their bombing run.

Twenty minutes of that, all done precisely according to script, and it was time to call it a day. The big shots had to have their lunch.

Turk clicked the mike button to talk.

“Tigershark to ground. Control, we’re clear of scheduled activities. Looking to land.”

“Negative, Tigershark,” replied Johnson. “Stand by.”

Negative?

Turk was in an orbit at the northern end of the test range, about two miles from the Sabres and out of everyone’s way. Still, being put on hold like this irked him. He ground his teeth together, then told himself to relax. He was only pissed off because it was Johnson. Anyone else giving him direction, he’d be fine with it.

And really, it wasn’t even Johnson’s fault. The brass was probably hassling him for some sort of photo shoot.

Bingo. Johnson came back, directing him to perform a series of maneuvers with the Sabres. None of it was too taxing. Turk concentrated on the flight, hitting his marks with precision.

A fresh set of requests followed. Once again Turk and the Sabres flew through them. Medusa made the process seamless. The little planes flew all around him as he flew tight to the ground, then pulled up sharply to accelerate toward the sky. They followed upward as fast as they could, flying impressively for robots.

Then came a request to replay the bombing sequence.

“Ground, be advised I’m into fuel reserves,” said Turk.

“Roger that, Tigershark. We’re aware of your fuel state. Complete the requested exercise.”

“Sabre control, line up for Series Exercise Three,” he told Medusa. “Pattern Alpha Two.”

An image of the preprogrammed set of maneuvers came up on his far-right screen. Turk reached over and tapped it to confirm.

“Sabre control, commence bombing run on target. Pattern Alpha Two.”

“Pattern Alpha Two. Sabre copies.”

Turk slipped down his throttle, easing the Tigershark’s speed. The Sabres danced in and did their thing, and Turk banked toward the landing pattern.

Just as the flight computer warned that he was low on fuel.

“Right on cue,” he said.

He checked in with ground—no protests this time—then lined up for his landing. The Sabres were right behind him.

Which wasn’t right. They were supposed to be off to the east, following the new safety protocols.

Suddenly he got a warning from the flight computer—the Sabres were too close.

They sure were—the planes were following the same pattern as they had the day before.

Shit.

“Knock it off! Knock it off!” he called.

As he did, one of the Sabres made a sharp cut toward his tail.

The moment Breanna saw the small aircraft cutting to the north, a pit opened in her stomach.

The Sabre was far too close to the Tigershark. The fierce vortices of wind off the complex airfoil made the U/MF hard to control. It began fluttering, then flew directly at the Tigershark’s right stabilizer.

It was almost precisely the same type of accident that had claimed Zen’s legs.

Breanna leapt up from her seat.

“Jeff!” she yelled involuntarily.

By the time the proximity alarm blared, Turk had managed to pull the Tigershark’s nose up and swing his tail down and away in a low-altitude, high-g cobra that dropped the plane to within a dozen feet of the smooth desert surface. The Sabre buzzed overhead, oblivious to his presence.

In any other aircraft, he would have been dead, killed either by the collision or his maneuver to get away. But between the Tigershark’s aerodynamics, razor-sharp controls, and his piloting skills—thank you very much—he was just pissed off.

Turk landed without comment and taxied to the recovery area. He remained silent as the crew helped him out of the aircraft.

“It’s something in the low-altitude routines,” said the head project engineer, running over from his SUV. “It has to do with the landing routines. They’re cutting into an emergency break-off because—”

“You know what?” said Turk. “I really don’t care. Just fix the damn thing before I get killed.”

“I’m sorry for my outburst,” Breanna told their guests as they gathered for the debrief back at Dreamland. “Obviously, we had a bit of a problem there at the end. The Sabres were not in their proper position. We need more work on the low-altitude flight control sections.”

“And you want us to back the project?” said Admiral Brooks.

“The problem is with the Sabres,” said Breanna. “They were not programmed to land in a pattern with another aircraft. It wasn’t Medusa’s fault, or the Tigershark’s. The Tigershark itself is fine. Believe me, any other aircraft would not have been able to escape. You saw how it dropped down.”