Piranha

The snotty voice belonged to Ray Rubeo, Dreamland’s head scientist.

“Hey, Ray,” she retorted, “I didn’t realize you were sitting in.”

“I wasn’t,” said Rubeo.

“We can adjust that if it’s a

“Roger that,” said Brea

They worked through the rest of the morning’s agenda without incident. Ru

“If that’s okay with you, Ray,” she added.

“Dr. Rubeo has left,” said Fichera.

“Yeah, I thought you guys sounded more relaxed.”

“You shouldn’t have called him Ray,” said Fichera. “He looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

“Oh, if I really wanted to tick him off I’d’ve called him Doctor Ray,” said Brea

There was no arguing Rubeo was a genius, though his social skills needed considerable work. He was especially prickly concerning the B-5 project, not only because he had personally done so much of the work on the computers, but because it had been conceived as an entirely computer-flown aircraft. Rubeo’s contention that its tests be controlled by scientists using simple verbal commands had been overruled by Colonel Bastian.

“Standby, Dreamland B-5,” said the airfield flight controller as Bree lined up for her first approach. “We have a VIP arrival via Runway One.”

Ordinarily, non-Dreamland aircraft, even those belonging to VIPs, did not use Dreamland’s runways; they came into Edwards and their passengers were ferried via a special helicopter. Brea

“Whose jalopy?” asked McCourt from the chase plane.

“Got me,” said Bree, taking a circuit before starting her touch-and-go’s.

Wrestling her foot cramp into submission was more difficult than the practice landings. After three go-arounds, she was ready for the real thing.

“You’re going to have to hold off your landing,” said the controller again. “VIP jet taking off from Runway One in thirty seconds.”

“Must’ve tasted the food,” quipped McCourt.

Dreamland “Taj” building

1000

Colonel Bastian put his signature on the last paper in his chief master sergeant’s hand, rolling out the last letters of his name with a noticeable flourish as the elevator stopped at the ground level.

“Admiral will be wanting lunch,” said Terrence “Ax” Gibbs. “Should I call over the Starlight Room?”

“Rustle up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” said Dog as the doors opened.

“More flies are trapped with honey than vinegar. Goes triple with four-boat admirals.”

“Four-boat?”

“Stars, braids, whatever the sailors call those things on his shoulders that make him think he’s important.”

Ax followed Dog into the lobby of the Taj. A member if Da

“We’ll see about lunch,” Dog told Ax. “Anything else?”

“No, sir. I hear the salmon’s especially good down in the Red Room.”

“What salmon?”

“Flown in yesterday,” said Ax. “Allen’s favorite. I’ll make sure they put some aside.”

There was no way—absolutely no way—the fish had been special-ordered for Admiral Allen, since his arrival hadn’t been expected.

Then again …

“Hangar D,” Dog told Powder, walking over to the black SUV near the entrance.

“Yes, sir,” Powder slammed the Jimmy into gear and left considerable rubber on the pavement.

“I’d like to get there in one piece,” Dog said, grabbing at the door to keep his balance.

“Good one, sir.” Powder nearly tipped the truck over as he veered onto the access ramp that led to the hangar area. He zipped past a Hummer and a fuel truck, then beelined for the hangar area. The security detail posted in front of Hangar D snapped to attention as they approached—they took up safer positions behind a set of obstructions.

Powder whipped the Jimmy around in a tight three-pointer near the head of the detail, rolling his window down as he spun to a stop.

“Hey, Nursy, got the Big Guy aboard. Looking for the admiral.”

Sergeant Lee “Nurse” Liu, another Whiplash team member, blinked several times, then saluted Dog.

“Carry on,” managed Dog as he got out of the vehicle and went into the building. The upper floor housed two heavily modified C-17 transports designated as MC-17/Ws, intended as prototypes for a new hostile-area infiltrate/exfiltrate aircraft, roughly along the lines of the venerable and battle-proven MC-130H Combat Talon II. One of the MC-17’s had already seen action during Whiplash’s last deployment. The technies were now working on a number of improvements, including an as-yet-untested version of the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery (STAR) system. Dog headed to the ramp leading to the first level down. Wide enough for a tractor-trailer, the cement ramp led to a secure elevator, which opened only after sca