Piranha by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown Read Free Book Online

McCourt 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.”
                 “Too
hot in there?” asked Fichera .