he’d get when he called the local Bureau office, surely undermanned, for help.
Fisher studied the tip of his cigarette. Was the dry air affecting it, or were his Indian friends doing something to make them burn faster?
The large hangar in front of him had no doors, but its roof was intact. Fisher walked to it and went inside.
The floor was so clean, it could have been vacuumed.
Undoubtedly was.
“Pilot wants to know how we’re doing,” said Bowman, who was wearing a radio headset.
“Tell him we’re ready to go,” said Fisher. “And ask him if he saw a good place for a burger.”
“Are you part of the investigation or what?” demanded Gorman as Fisher got off the helicopter back at North Lake.
“Both,” he told her.
“You can’t just go around commandeering helicopters, Andy. You’re part of a team. There’s a procedure.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Jemma, I found out where our plane’s been, or was, for a couple of days. Bitch of it is, I was about three days too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maybe more—hard to tell. I’m thinking we can get those guys to do that thing with the contrails and radars again, only change the area. Then we backcheck that against the legitimate flights, because this was probably camouflaged as a legitimate flight.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Andy?”
“Buy me some coffee, Jemma. You owe me big-time.”
Chapter 3
Sitting in the second row in the control room, Howe watched the instrument readouts change on the big screen at the front as the technical people reviewed the data from his flight yet again. They’d been over it so much by now, Howe suspected they had every bit of computer code memorized, and still they hadn’t figured out what the problem was. According to the data, there was no problem.
The Velociraptor pilot who’d been bumped from the original test, Timmy “Blaze” Robinson, had come down to the control room to kibitz. He was perched on the back of the seat next to Howe, sipping a cola. In the row in front of them, Firenze—the head of the team that had developed the shared avionics system and its related interfaces, and one of the most important scientists on the F/A-22V project—stood over one of the displays, his finger jabbing at the data flow like an old-West gunman using his revolver.
“Copacetic,” said Firenze finally. “Perfectly copacetic.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Timmy.
Firenze looked up and blinked at him. “Means I can’t find a problem.”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” said Timmy.
“Mass hallucination,” said Firenze. The other scientists were knocking off to get some refreshments, soda mostly. “Kinda like the song on that new Weezer.”
“Haven’t heard it,” said Timmy.
There were talking about a CD by a rock group. The two men were roughly the same age, and while Howe didn’t see that they had much else in common, they apparently shared the same musical tastes.
“Mind if I borrow it? You’re going to be tied up, huh?”
“Go ahead,” said Firenze. “It’s up in the lab.”
“You’re a guy, Doc.” Timmy turned to Howe. “Hey, boss. Lunch?”
“Sounds good,” said Howe. “What do you think, Matt?”
“Very fuggled,” said Firenze. “We’re going to have to get into the bizarre theories next.”
“How bizarre?”
“UFOs,” said the scientist, who didn’t appear to be kidding.
“Hungry?” Howe asked.
“Nah. Thanks. Thinking to do.”
Howe caught up with Timmy in the hall. They went up a level to the NADT Lounge, a plush cafeteria that was one of the serious benies of working with a “private” contractor rather than the regular Air Force. Even the best military chow paled in comparison to the offerings at the Lounge.
Not that the pilots selected from the gourmet side of the menu. Timmy ordered a sausage-and-pepper grinder and insisted on extra garlic. Howe ordered a hamburger with melted blue cheese. It filled the plate,
Fisher studied the tip of his cigarette. Was the dry air affecting it, or were his Indian friends doing something to make them burn faster?
The large hangar in front of him had no doors, but its roof was intact. Fisher walked to it and went inside.
The floor was so clean, it could have been vacuumed.
Undoubtedly was.
“Pilot wants to know how we’re doing,” said Bowman, who was wearing a radio headset.
“Tell him we’re ready to go,” said Fisher. “And ask him if he saw a good place for a burger.”
“Are you part of the investigation or what?” demanded Gorman as Fisher got off the helicopter back at North Lake.
“Both,” he told her.
“You can’t just go around commandeering helicopters, Andy. You’re part of a team. There’s a procedure.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Jemma, I found out where our plane’s been, or was, for a couple of days. Bitch of it is, I was about three days too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maybe more—hard to tell. I’m thinking we can get those guys to do that thing with the contrails and radars again, only change the area. Then we backcheck that against the legitimate flights, because this was probably camouflaged as a legitimate flight.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Andy?”
“Buy me some coffee, Jemma. You owe me big-time.”
Chapter 3
Sitting in the second row in the control room, Howe watched the instrument readouts change on the big screen at the front as the technical people reviewed the data from his flight yet again. They’d been over it so much by now, Howe suspected they had every bit of computer code memorized, and still they hadn’t figured out what the problem was. According to the data, there was no problem.
The Velociraptor pilot who’d been bumped from the original test, Timmy “Blaze” Robinson, had come down to the control room to kibitz. He was perched on the back of the seat next to Howe, sipping a cola. In the row in front of them, Firenze—the head of the team that had developed the shared avionics system and its related interfaces, and one of the most important scientists on the F/A-22V project—stood over one of the displays, his finger jabbing at the data flow like an old-West gunman using his revolver.
“Copacetic,” said Firenze finally. “Perfectly copacetic.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Timmy.
Firenze looked up and blinked at him. “Means I can’t find a problem.”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” said Timmy.
“Mass hallucination,” said Firenze. The other scientists were knocking off to get some refreshments, soda mostly. “Kinda like the song on that new Weezer.”
“Haven’t heard it,” said Timmy.
There were talking about a CD by a rock group. The two men were roughly the same age, and while Howe didn’t see that they had much else in common, they apparently shared the same musical tastes.
“Mind if I borrow it? You’re going to be tied up, huh?”
“Go ahead,” said Firenze. “It’s up in the lab.”
“You’re a guy, Doc.” Timmy turned to Howe. “Hey, boss. Lunch?”
“Sounds good,” said Howe. “What do you think, Matt?”
“Very fuggled,” said Firenze. “We’re going to have to get into the bizarre theories next.”
“How bizarre?”
“UFOs,” said the scientist, who didn’t appear to be kidding.
“Hungry?” Howe asked.
“Nah. Thanks. Thinking to do.”
Howe caught up with Timmy in the hall. They went up a level to the NADT Lounge, a plush cafeteria that was one of the serious benies of working with a “private” contractor rather than the regular Air Force. Even the best military chow paled in comparison to the offerings at the Lounge.
Not that the pilots selected from the gourmet side of the menu. Timmy ordered a sausage-and-pepper grinder and insisted on extra garlic. Howe ordered a hamburger with melted blue cheese. It filled the plate,
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