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“You’re going to check my blood pressure?” Brea
“Of course.”
“Didn’t those machines tell you everything you need to know?”
He shrugged. Clearly he was determined to give her a hard time.
“And?” she said pointedly.
“There’s no doubt that you have a healthy heart, Captain,”
he said. “And that in general you’re fit.”
Brea
“That doesn’t mean I’m clearing you to fly,” he added.
“Your knee doesn’t hurt?”
She shook her head.
“Hold out your arm,” he ordered.
Brea
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s all right.”
“How all right?”
“Diastolic, seventy. Systolic 115.”
“That’s 115 over seventy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Which is normal.”
It was actually the highest Brea
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
range. The doctor had no alternative but to declare her fit for duty—active duty, active flying, back in the air.
Back! Back! Back!
But not quite.
“You need General Samson’s approval,” he said.
“What?”
“Procedure. The wing commander has to sign off. The wing commander hasn’t arrived, so you have to go to General Samson.”
“You don’t want me to fly, do you?” she said.
“I think you need more rest, yes,” he said. “And I’d urge you to take a couple of weeks off.”
“I don’t want to take time off.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“Where does that fit on your medical chart?”
The doctor shook his head. “The truth is, I can’t hold you back. I know, and you know, that if you’d taken this same test a couple of months back, you wouldn’t have been huffing at the end. I also know you did a lot better on it than probably half of our pilots. Physically, you’ve definitely recovered from your ordeal. I should write a paper on your recovery.” He smiled, trying to soften his sarcasm.
“But … ”
He took out his stethoscope and twirled it around his hand.
“But what?” asked Brea
“That coma bothers me.”
“You call it a coma. I was just tired and asleep. My body had to heal.”
“Listen, Brea
If you were Jeff—”
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“What would you tell Zen?”
“I’d tell him to slow down, too,” said the doctor. “Listen, if you do get approval from the general, would you please try to take it easy? Just a little?”
Brea
“I will,” she said. “Now do you have papers for him or what?”
Dreamland
1103
AS A RULE, GENERAL SAMSON DIDN’T LIKE MARINES. THEY
tended to be too full of themselves for his taste. But Marty
“Sleek Top” Siechert was a retired Marine, and while the Marines had a saying that there was no such thing as an ex-Marine, Samson considered that his separation from the service and the intervening years—Sleek Top was close to fifty—had sanded some of the edges off.
Colonel Denton’s decision not to take the spot as wing commander under him—a career killing move if ever there was one—forced Samson to make some compromises.
Naming a retired Marine pilot head of the B-1B/L program was one of them. But he wanted to move the colonel he’d tapped for the B-1L/B project over to wing commander, and, just as important, he needed the B-1s ready to hit the flight line yesterday.
“Heading the program is a big responsibility, General,”
said Sleek Top as they finished a walk around Boomer. “And I was under the impression that you wanted all active military heading programs.”
“You are military,” said Samson.
“I’m retired, sir.”
“A bit young to be hanging up the saddle.”
“I meant, I’m a civilian, General.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” said Samson. “I’ve considered it.
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But you’re my man. The B-1s—we need them operational.
The Pentagon is pushing for a demonstration very soon.
Congress is very keen on this, and the President himself likes the aircraft. It will be a good spotlight for your future career.”
“There’s nothing really holding them back,” said Sleek Top. “The basic air frame has been tested and retested.
They’re not that much different than the standard B-1Bs in terms of overall systems. The laser, of course, and the engines are more powerful, but the core of the computer system was adapted from the Megafortress, and we know that works. All that’s necessary is to complete the testing cycle.”
“Then get moving.”
“General, that’s not quite as easy as it sounds. For one thing—”
“How did Bastian get the EB-52s operational?” said Samson.
Sleek Top laughed.
“What’s so fu
Sleek Top shook his head. He looked as if he had a goldfish in his mouth and it was tickling his tongue.
“Out with it, Marine,” demanded Samson.
“Well, Colonel Bastian—” Sleek Top interrupted himself to chuckle. “Colonel Bastian made a habit of putting the weapons right into the mix, officially approved or not. His whole theory was that the real tests didn’t happen until they were on the battlefield anyway, so he’d send the geek squad out with the planes, get everything in motion. Sometimes it blew up in his face, of course, but mostly it worked. Then when the Pentagon came around asking questions, he’d roll out the results. Had them eating out of his—”
“How close is close?”
“Excuse me?”
“The B-1s. What would happen if they went into combat?”
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“Well, uh—”
“If Colonel Bastian were here and he suggested it, what would you say?”
“I’d say … ” Sleek Top thought about it for a moment. “I’d say that if you had enough pilots, there’d be no problem. But I’m the only pilot regularly assigned and—”
“Get the planes ready. I’ll find the pilots.”
“General, you just found one,” said Brea
Samson turned around and saw Brea
“Captain, good morning.”
“General, I need you to approve my flight fitness report, sir. I’m ready to get back in the air.”
“You think that’s a good idea so soon?” asked Sleek Top.
“You were in some pretty heavy action.”
“I’m ready. I just passed a stress test.”
Brea
The general opened it and took a quick glance. At the top of the page—excellent health.
There were typed comments at the bottom: “Although Brea
Doctors, thought Samson. Always finding excuses for people not to do things.
He looked up from the folder. Brea
Of course, she was also Colonel Bastian’s daughter. But you couldn’t hold the sins of the fathers against the offspring.
“You’re in good shape?” he asked.
“Sir, I’m ready to kick butt. Can I fly?”
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