With the systems checked and rechecked, everything from fuel flow to air temperature recorded, parsed, and fretted over, Breanna glanced at the static camera from the runway to make sure her path was clean. Cleared, she loosened the brakes and took a long, slow breath.

And then she was off. The B-5’s engines cycled up to takeoff power and she trundled down the runway, speed building slowly. Relatively heavy for its airfoil even with the wings horizontal, the plane needed more distance than a B-52 to get airborne. That would change with the new wings. Even then, the rocket engine would probably be selected for a brief burn to make the takeoff easier, and more comfortable for Breanna.

Though she’d flown it several times now, Breanna’s feel for the UMB remained distorted and distant. As he indicated speed climbed above one hundred knots, the plane began to lift on its own. She held the stick a second too long, but came off the ground smoothly. The slight hitch bothered her; she was still slightly disoriented as he altitude began to climb.

Maybe if they added some sound feedback, she thought, making a mental note to bring it up at the post-flight briefing.

Captain Breanna Stockard had headed the UMB project for three weeks now. It was supposed to be a permanent job; the previous UMB director had been posted to the Pentagon months before. But Breanna had stubbornly insisted the duty be officially “temporary,” so she could decide if she wanted the assignment.

Of course she did—it was potentially the most important job in the Air Force. Even if the UMB never won approval as the follow-on to the B-2, the technology it tested would undoubtedly serve the military for the next two or three decades. But it meant leaving the Megafortress, and flying, behind.

Breanna’s husband, Jeff “Zen” Stockard, had flown the aircraft on its first two flight. His overall take on flying the plane could be summed up in one word: “boring.” He complained it was even more reliant on its native or onboard computer than the Flighthawk, and probably didn’t need a real pilot at all. Unlike the U/MF’s, which needed to be fairly close to their command plane, the UMB was designed to be flown entirely from the ground at vast distances using hooks in the Dreamland secure satellite system.

Boring? Maybe if you were a pilot used to taking six or seven Gs with your morning donut.

“Dreamland B-5 UMB is airborne and passing marker three-seven,” reported Breanna as they reached the airspace for the morning tests. “We have green indicators all around. I did ask for salsa music in the background, however, and it’s not coming through.”

“Preempted by baseball,” shot back Lieutenant Art McCourtm who was flying chase in an old but reliable F-5. “I’ll give you play-by-play if you want, Major. My Dodgers are ahead.”

It was far too early in the day for a game, or McCourt might really be listening to baseball; the test pilot had a reputation for using his engineering prowess in unconventional ways. Supposedly, he had found a way to pressurize a Mr. Coffee and enjoyed hot, zero-gravity coffee breaks.

The UMB continued to climb at a leisurely pace, reaching ten thousand feet as the structural-integrity tests began. Breanna pushed her stick left and let the plane turn into a fairly steep bank. Small sensors similar to the devices used to measure earthquakes recorded the effect of the turn on the wings and superstructure; one of the ground people monitoring the numbers gave an approving whistle as she came through the turn.

“Looking for a date, Jacky?” Bree shot back.

“Sorry, ma’am. Structure is looking very solid.”

“That’s what I figured you meant,” she said, continuing through the set of turns. Test complete, and passed, she began spiraling upwards, looking at the ground through the belly cam as she climbed.

Dreamland sprawled over a defunct lake in the desert wilderness north of Las Vegas. Its existence was so secret it appeared on no list of facilities or bases. No one was ever assigned here; instead, they were given “cover’ jobs or assignments, usually though not always at Edwards Air Force Base.

Until recently the heart of the Air Force High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Dreamland had involved a great deal over the past two years, more rapidly in the past two months. The command had lost some of its best military people and projects to the newly designated Brad Elliott Air Force Base, named in honor of the former general who had lost his life in the China conflict only a few months before. Nearby at Groom Lake, Elliott AFB was a high-profile and prestigious command, which, though structured along traditional lines, was to be task primarily with introducing new weapons into the Air Force mainstream. Meanwhile, Dreamland and its high-tech facilities would remain a cutting edge facility with a much more experimental bent—as well as its own combat team named “Whiplash,” which operated directly at the President’s command. In charge of Dreamland was a scrappy, forty-something lieutenant colonel who everyone outside of Dreamland knew was in way over his head—and everyone inside of Dreamland knew was about as can-do as any ten other officers in the service combined.

Breanna was just slightly prejudiced in favor of Dreamland’s director. She happened to be his daughter.

Her left leg began to cramp, and then spasmed. Trying to loosen te cramp, she knocked her knee against the lower edge of the front panel.

“Perfect coffin,” she grumbled.

Unlike everything else connected with the plane, the computer could not adjust the seat; it had to be fiddled with manually, a procedure that had at least as high a change of making things worse as better.

Breanna tried flexing her leg as she rose toward twenty thousand feet, stifling a curse as the muscles in her other leg started feeling sympathy pains. She banked again, then asked the computer for the environmental panel, deciding she felt cold.

The computer claimed the temperature in her coffin was a balmy seventy-two.

“My ass,” she told it.

“Captain?” said Fichera.

“Relax, Sam. I’m getting all sorts of leg cramps, that’s all.”