Piranha

“Too hot in there?” asked Fichera.

“Negative. I doubt it’s really seventy-two, by the way. All right, I should be at angels twenty in one more turn.”

“We copy that,” answered the engineer.

Both the climb and the cramps continued in silence. Though much larger at about 170 feet in length, the aircraft handled a lot like an F-111 to about Mach 1.5 if the F-111 was being flown remote control.

“You’re looking really great,” said Fichera as the UMB hit into the orbit over Glass Mountain just a nudge under 25,000 feet.

“Looks good from here,” said McCourt from the chase plane. He was flying off her right wing, separated by about a half mile in the open sky.

“All right. Telemetry test ready?” Bree asked.

“Roger that,” said Fichera.

“Computer, begin scheduled test B-5-6A: photographic data flow. Smile for the cameras, Dreamland.”

“Begin scheduled test B-5-6A,” acknowledged the computer.

A panel in the fuselage slid open, permitting a camera array from a mini-KH satellite to see the earth. The camera sent a rapid succession of detailed photos back to Dreamland.

“Hey, Major, this stuff going to show up in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?” asked McCourt.

“Hell, Art, we’re going straight to Playgirl. The photos I took of your in the shower last week with the spy cam cinched it.”

“I thought I felt a draft.”

“Data flow under way,” said Brea

Which it did. Brea

“Ready to test engine five,” Brea

“Roger that,” said Fichera. “We’re hot to start.”

“Three-second burn programmed,” she said, reading off the program screen. “Counting down.”

There was a slight hitch as the rocket ignited; the plane’s nose stuttered downward for a microsecond before the massive increase in thrust translated into upward momentum. This was a by-product of a glitch in the trimming program, which the team was still trying to fine-tune. Otherwise, the burn and plane worked perfectly; Brea

“Ready to test engines three and four,” she said, refering to the scramjets. “Counting down.”

The hydrogen-fueled scramjets lit as the plane touched Mach 2.3. By the end of the test sequence, Brea

“Ready for engine five,” she told her team, leveling off for the next test sequence.

“Good. Temp in four slightly high.”

“Acknowledged.” She took q quick glance at the screen, making sure the temp was still in the green—it was by

about five degrees—then told the computer to light the rocket motor.

“Looking good,” she said as the speed built quickly.

“Aye, Captain,” Richera said, giving his best impression of Scotty, the engineering officer on the Starship Enterprise, “the dilithium crystals are shining bright.”

“Har-har,” said Brea

They touched Mach 5, but then began to slow inexplicably.

“Problem?” asked Fichera.

“Not sure,” said Brea

Now if she’d been in the plane, she would have known exactly what the problem was. She’d felt it.

Really? Could you feel the difference at eighty-some-thousand feet and four or five times the speed of sound, with things rushing by? Or would you have to rely on the instruments anyway? How far would you be removed from the actual sensation of flight, lying in a specially canted seat wrapped in a special high-G suit?

Brea

“Computer, cut engine five,” she said, referring to the hydro.

“Cut engine five.”

“I feel like I should be pushing buttons at least,” added Bree.

“Repeat command,” said the computer.

“I thought it wasn’t suppose to try to interpret anything without the word ‘computer’ in front of it,” Bree backed at Fichera.

“The computer expects you to either follow the original flight plan called for, or prepare a new course. Since you’re doing neither, it is confused.”