Tango Trajectory

By Dale Cox

Will Lt. Teresa O’Brien, first woman to fly “spook missions,” avoid the terrorist assassins sent to stop the spy planes by killing the pilots?
A young Latina Navy test pilot, pushed to the limit, becomes the first woman to fly “spook missions" from the secret Groom Lake Air Base in Nevada. Her success in locating a terrorist base enrages the Wahhabi al Furan, who plot to kill her, and her fellow test pilots.
Selected as the first woman to fly a Mach 7 spy plane, Lieutenant Teresa O’Brien faces intense hostility. The three resident male test pilots don’t intend to coddle a woman neophyte with only 1900 hours, forced into their ranks by a powerful Congresswoman. How to sink her career requires clever planning and, before she reports in, Major Rick McQuilkin is assigned the task. McQuilkin meets O’Brien and, instead of the expected female wrestler type, he finds an attractive young woman with a friendly smile. She proves more capable than expected, a quick learner with several years experience flying off Navy aircraft carriers. This upsets his designs for cutting her out of the program. Terri in turn discovers that Rick is more vulnerable than his macho exterior reveals. Although he tries to hide them, serious problems could ground him and he still carries deep scars from the bitter split with his long-time girlfriend.
A Wahhabi assassin, poised to kill Lt. O’Brien, is thwarted by a stranger’s intervention. The CIA/FBI team investigating the failed assassination receives hints of more lethal missions involving nuclear weapons. A young hooker, servicing a Saudi Prince, reports that seven jihad warriors are preparing to cross the radioactive nuclear test site, attack the secret base and kill the four test pilots.
Taurora is based on an actual Mach 7 plane first revealed to the American public by an article in the Wall Street Journal in 1992.
The author, a former Navy test pilot, holds two official transcontinental speed records, Los Angeles-New York and New York-Los Angeles, and was a contender in the Mercury astronaut program.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Cox
• Release date: May 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985589745

Dale Cox

Former Navy test pilot Dale Cox was born in Spokane, WA, graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in June, 1943, and immediately went to war in the Pacific. He holds two official transcontinental speed records, Los Angeles-New York and New York-Los Angeles, and was one of 32 contenders in the Mercury astronaut program. Upon retirement, while working for the CIA, he learned of two highly classified events from years past; his two novels are both based on that information. Dale lives with his wife Patricia in a community overlooking the Pacific Ocean south of Los Angeles.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Groom Lake, Nevada Monday, March 2, 1992

I can’t believe this, Major Rick McQuilkin swiveled his chair toward his boss. A dame has been ordered here! He read the brief orders aloud with his Southern drawl pronounced.

The other two officers rushed over to stare at the computer monitor in disbelief.

Christ! Colonel Chuck Newland erupted, There’s never been a woman here before! Since this place opened, every pilot and all the technicians have been male. This is a top secret base for experimental aircraft… not a training field for female neophytes.

Colonel Jim Irvine concurred, No woman can learn enough to fly Taurora. We three are experienced test pilots with thousands of hours, and we sure as hell have had our problems.

The room smelled faintly of cigarettes, coffee, and sweat. On the wall hung several large color photographs of Taurora, the world’s first Mach 7 plane. The three pilots were in the ready room on the second floor of a huge hangar sited near a dry lake bed—named Groom Lake by an early pioneer.

The major spoke again, Here’s a black and white head shot. Looks like a mug photo from a police lineup.

Colonel Newland said, Sending a woman here is pure crap. The senior pilot shook his head with mistrust, This twit must have influence in high places to get these orders.

Besides Taurora being a dangerous flying machine, griped Colonel Irvine, scratching at his balding head, we don’t need another pilot. The three of us don’t get enough flight time as is.

With all the emergencies we have been through, Rick said, we’ve proven that every flight in Taurora can be a gamble.

She looks Mexican, Chuck said angrily. Her parents are probably illegals. Someone had his head up his butt when he cut these orders.

O’Brien doesn’t sound Hispanic, the major said, and leaning closer to the monitor, he restudied the e-mail. But whoever this Lieutenant Teresa O’Brien is, she doesn’t belong at Groom Lake.

Straight on, Rick, Chuck said, glancing up at the 6 foot major.

Rick could see the chief test pilot was angry, perspiration beading the senior officer’s upper lip. Whoever ordered her here, Chuck growled, doesn’t have a clue about the extraordinary effort it takes for any pilot to learn to fly this damn plane. Even with the best intentions, it’s often weeks, sometimes months, between flights. Entirely dependent when the latest engine mods have been installed and a plane becomes available.

Think of all the other fuckin’ problems with a woman, Jim said, his face still flushed. We’ve never had a female in this hangar before. This means separate toilets, separate locker rooms, and all the other crap to accommodate one, and we’ll even have to watch our fuckin’ language. The fringe of hair around his bald crown was in disarray, and his left eyelid began to jump with a nervous tic.

At the computer, Rick punched more keys and brought up Lieutenant O’Brien’s resume. He read, Graduated from the Naval Academy. Was on the gym team so must be a jock. Graduated from Test Pilot School five years ago. Most recent assignment: a fighter squadron aboard the U.S.S. AMERICA. She’s 5’ 8 tall, 122 pounds. Hometown: Coronado, California."

With his face dour, Chuck looked over Rick’s shoulder studying the data on the screen. She must be a Latina, he observed sourly. Black hair, dark eyes, olive skin, 5’ 8’’. That makes her one inch taller than you, Jim, he said with a grin.

Look at her flight hours for God’s sake, Jim snapped, 1900. Hardly enough to find Taurora’s cockpit. Less than half the three of us had when we were picked for this job.

The major glared at the monitor, studying the data, willing it to change.

Ever since ‘Nam, Jim grumbled, I’ve never liked black haired women.

Me neither, Chuck agreed. But this is really odd. I’ve heard of women pilots—but I’ve never actually met one. I wonder do we have to accept her?

Rick scrolled down, and then said, Christ. She’s not only inexperienced, she’s too damned young, only 29. No way she can have learned enough in the flying department to be trusted with a billion dollar airplane.

Women have only been in flight training since the early 80’s, so there are not that many—qualified or not, Chuck said.

To be fair, Rick conceded, she does have an impressive number of carrier landings. And there’s a commendation as a test pilot at Patuxent—something about saving a plane in a hurricane.

That won’t begin to cut the grade with Taurora, Chuck said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Jim raised his voice, The test pilot’s club, ours and Burbank’s, will be infuriated. Not enough hours, wrong sex, too inexperienced, too young. Normal selection procedures… ignored.

You’re right, Jim, Chuck said. The rules were set in concrete before we ever got here. All selectees have always been chosen from experienced combat pilots with a ton of flight hours, and did you pick up on the Navy Accident Board’s comment? Apparently she screwed up in a missile attack over Iraq.

Jim went to the coffee bar and poured himself another cup of coffee. Nobody, he snarled, checked with us. In the past, the Director always asked our opinion before any pilot received an UP or DOWN for posting to Groom Lake. So, how did she get past all that?

Rick stood and stretched. Actually, why would any woman want to be a test pilot out here in the boondocks? She’ll never be able to do the things most women do, like… you know, gossip with each other about the weird things she’ll find here.

And having a good laugh dissecting us males, Chuck added.

At least she’s not married, Rick said. When she kills herself, we won’t have a pissed-off husband climbing our butts.

Jim sighed and said, We’re patriots, trying to protect America in a world full of dangerous rag-head zealots. Now some asshole in Washington wants to inject sexual politics into the struggle for our country’s safety, and if we even look at her funny, the fuckin’ ACLU will sue our asses over sexual harassment. To summarize, she’ll be a shitload of grief.

Any pilot, male or female, who just graduated from test pilot school five years ago is not ready for Taurora, Chuck pronounced. We’d be sending a young woman to her death just because some ding-a-ling in D.C. thinks it’s a good idea to integrate a female into our ranks. We’re the only ones who’ve flown this bird. We know firsthand, when flying Mach 7 at the edge of space, if a pilot makes a mistake, he can be killed in seconds.

A day later, Colonel Newland received more depressing news. His boss, head of the Skunk Works, Lockheed’s secret division in Palmdale, California and home of the world famous U-2 spy plane, entered the O’Brien fray.

On hearing the grumbling from Groom Lake, he sent a message: Cool it, you guys. Congresswoman Swanson is on the CIA’s Budget Committee. She arm-twisted Langley into accepting a woman test pilot, and the Agency told me to train her. So, shut up and do it.

He’s a lot of help, Chuck snorted as he hung up.

With that ultimatum, the two senior pilots met privately.

I know one thing, Jim said. When I had 1900 flight hours, I didn’t know how stupid I was. When you’re that inexperienced, you’re an accident waiting to happen.

Yeah, Chuck agreed. It takes time to get air smarts, but that will make it easier to kick her ass out of here.

After some more discussion, Chuck announced gravely, Rick has always been a determined bachelor, and he’s just four years older than O’Brien. With his negative attitude toward women, there won’t be any hanky-panky.

Good, Jim said. O’Brien won’t have a chance when Rick gets through with her. We’ll assign him as her instructor, and he can do the dirty work.

Yeah, Chuck concurred. Rick’s only female friend is his dog.

Rick was the first to arrive in the ready room the next morning. The youngest and lowest ranking member of the team, he was expected to do the drudgework. Dressed in faded Levis and a blue cotton shirt open at the neck, he considered his chores as part of the price he paid to fly the world’s most exciting plane. He had

worried about Lt. O’Brien most of the night, and after starting the coffee, he was at his computer when the two colonels came in.

He greeted them with a wide Texas grin, I had a dream last night. Lieutenant O’Brien arrived in an F-14 fighter aiming to make a big impression. She was a real amazon, muscular, a tad overweight, but physically fit… not at all like her mug shot.

Chuck, who had also spent a restless night, was not amused.

He crossed the room to face the Major. Okay, Rick. Here’s how we’ll do it, he said firmly. To hell with Palmdale and Langley, you’re designated as Lieutenant O’Brien’s instructor. Find an excuse, preferably on her first or second flight, and give her a final down-check. Be sure and document it. No one can argue with a flight instructor’s evaluation. We’ll send her back to the Navy’s floating hotels.

The major kept his face neutral, nodded his understanding, but his stomach lurched. He didn’t answer and was considering several excuses.

Chuck expected a prompt acceptance and stared at him.

Rick finally acquiesced. Okay, Chuck, he replied grim-faced, but I have to be subtle and clever, so O’Brien doesn’t catch on she’s being set up. We sure as hell don’t want the Company climbing all over our butts if I screw up.

The two senior pilots looked at each other while nodding in agreement.

Chuck said, Right, you’ll do fine.

Rick knew that neither of the colonels understood his personal dilemma. He sauntered over to the bar at the far end of the room wordlessly, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the Coffeemaster. Be honest. Ever since that missile attack over Kuwait, I’ve had a shitty attitude toward unnecessary risks… and still have those burn scars on my back to remind me.

He swallowed a gulp of the black coffee, and he shook his head in disgust. The truth is… checking out a complete novice in this bitch of a plane could be life threatening. Until I find a believable excuse to kick her back to the Navy, I’ll have to work hard keeping us both alive.

CHAPTER 2

Over IRAQ – Just after the First Gulf War March 3, 1992

Lieutenant Teresa O’Brien, U.S. Navy, flew rightwing in a formation of four fighters and eased her F-14 Tomcat closer to the leader. The flight was returning from an Air Cap over Baghdad, and the formation cruised at 30,000 feet. They were headed for the USS America, steaming in the Indian Ocean, east of the Gulf of Oman.

From the back seat, her Radar Officer (RO) commented over the intercom, Terri, did you notice? Baghdad looks peaceful for a change. Maybe they’re tired of blowing each other up.

Don’t bet on it.

As they passed 55 miles abeam of Kuwait, Terri listened absently to the conversation between the carrier’s Combat Information center and the flight leader. Her mind wandered to thoughts of Dave, her fiancé, who had recently transferred to Washington DC.

With no warning, a high intensity shriek filled her helmet with an awful scream: the heart-stopping signal that the flight was under missile attack.

BREAK! the flight leader shouted over the UHF radio. Terri instantly snapped the F-14 into a high g right turn away from the others, aiming 120 degrees from her former heading. The RO advised, Best continue to 200 degrees, Terri. Looks better.

Roger, she replied, holding her tight turn, ignoring the incessant warble in her earphones.

Missile, the RO shouted. I see it! Roll left! ROLL LEFT!

Even the scream over the intercom didn’t break her concentration, she held the four g turn for several fatal seconds, and then she reversed hard. Her delayed maneuver was not enough to avoid the projectile, but it only struck the right wingtip. The Tomcat bucked viciously from the explosion, and she felt the plane breaking up. Both ejection seats fired automatically, flinging the occupants clear of the disintegrating plane.

Hurled into space, she felt her harness bite into flesh. Seconds later, her entire body reacted painfully to the horrendous jerk of the opening chute. In a minute, she was floating downward, and the only sound was the whisper of nylon overhead. She searched the skies frantically for her RO, and she finally located his parachute below. Whew! she muttered.

She reviewed the accident as she swung below the nylon canopy. Where did that damned missile come from? So far south I thought we were all clear of them, but if I’d reversed instantly, could I have escaped the damn thing?

Under her parachute, Terri watched the ground as it approached and concentrated on the impact. She was concerned, Am I sinking too fast. She hit the desert floor hard and rolled, per Survival School training. She dumped the chute, quickly unsnapped her harness, and stood unsteadily. Taking inventory, she moved her arms and legs to check that everything was working. Okay, just shook up.

She removed her hot helmet, and glancing around, she was immediately relieved to see her twenty-four year old, sand-encrusted RO walking nonchalantly toward her.

What an experience! he shouted with surprising enthusiasm. Scratch one F-14. Welcome to the Caterpillar Club. You okay, Terri?

Yes, she placed a finger over the Saint Christopher medallion around her neck. Boy, oh boy am I happy to see you in one piece, but where the hell did that missile come from?

You’re looking good for someone who just made a nylon landing. Another exciting entry for my logbook. Tomorrow we’ll both be stiff and cranky, but I’ve got a strong urge to pee right now.

Well, pee. I’ve seen a male do-dad before.

He turned his back and let go.

Terri paid no attention and withdrew her small emergency locator beacon, extended the antenna, and pushed Transmit.

Seven minutes later, a Marine helicopter, which had been circling near Kuwait City, swooped down and picked them up. After a short flight, they were delivered aboard the USS America.

In the sick bay, the flight surgeon examined them both for physical and emotional damage and then gave each a sedative. I’ll give you three days of observation. If I find no problems, he said cheerfully, I’ll clear you for flight ops again.

Terri’s skipper greeted her when she entered the ready room. Welcome back, Terri. Doc said he was releasing you for observation. Come closer, let me check you out.

As she walked to the front of the room, he said, Looks like you buried your cheek in a pile of hard sand.

It hurts… and will probably turn purple.

I’m impressed. Few escape a Russian missile so successfully. You must have inherited a dash of Irish luck from your dad.

Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment, but he’d tell me to avoid A-A missiles, she said with a grin.

Five days later, Terri was back in her Tomcat and prepared to land aboard AMERICA. The massive carrier was making 27 knots in a choppy sea. She stared with total concentration at the angled deck and the landing mirror.

A voice sounded in her headset, Looking good, Ruby 49.

The transmission from the Landing Signal Officer (LSO), standing on the port stern, reassured her as she scanned the meatball, a bright orange circle of intense light; if centered, her landing glide path was proven correct. She glanced at her instrument panel and murmured, Be with me Saint Chris.

She flew the Tomcat fighter with practiced skill, automatically verifying the deck to be clear. Then her eyes snapped back to her airspeed: 132 knots. A-Okay.

In 15 seconds, the 25-ton Navy fighter slammed onto the flight deck with an ear-splitting screech. Her butt whacked into the bucket seat, and she immediately rammed the throttles full forward, which is standard procedure for carrier landings. The twin engines reached full power just as the plane’s tailhook grabbed the arresting cable, pulling the F-14 to a perfect landing.

A yellow-shirted, flight deck leader rushed to the front of the plane and gave her arm signals, the throttle back sign, then hookup, flaps up, and finally, fold wings. He pointed to the next yellow shirt who directed her to a parking spot on the busy flight deck. There, given a cut signal, she secured the two jet engines. When all switches were off and the plane quiet, she took a deep breath and began to relax. She removed her helmet, shook out damp hair, and exhaled her shipboard mantra. Another landing, another thrill.

A young man in a green shirt climbed up the ladder. Lieutenant, the Skipper wants to see you.

She cupped her hand over her eyes and smiled down at the sailor, What have I done now?

He shrugged his shoulders, Let me help you, ma’am.

On the flight deck, she said to the sailor, Thanks, I’ll see what the Skipper wants. To her RO she said, Come on, let’s see what’s up.

The green shirt checked out her retreating back and told a buddy, Nice butt and great figure, but damn—I still can’t get used to women flying these hot jets.

When she entered the rear door of the ready room, the Commanding Officer looked up and demanded crossly, Who did you bribe to get dispatch orders?

She hurried to the front, raised her eyebrows, and said, What are you talking about, Skipper?

Ordered to some outfit I never heard of… that’s what. You’re one of the pilots I seldom have to worry about… and you’re good around the boat. Now you’re being yanked.

You’re kidding. I’m not due for orders until we get back to San Diego. My detail officer promised. Tossing her helmet in the nearest chair, she ran fingers through her hair.

Well, here they are. With ill grace, he handed her a pink signal form.

She read the dispatch. "030192/1500. To: Lieutenant Teresa

B. O’Brien. You are hereby detached from Fighter Squadron Twenty-one. You are to depart immediately from present duty station and report forthwith to AirDevRonFiveDetAlfa."

She looked up, perplexed, and waved the dispatch. Somebody made a mistake.

What is that outfit? the CO asked. Is it something from your test pilot days?

Terri shook her head. Doesn’t register. I don’t know. She stuffed the message in the pocket of her flight suit. This really upsets me. My detail officer promised me and my fiancé that we’d both get orders to the Navy Department so we could get married. I’ll check with Dave; maybe he knows, but I’m positive there’s no AirDevRonFiveDetAlfa in Washington D.C. So for God’s sake… where and what is it?

CHAPTER 3

Groom Lake, Nevada Sunday, March 8, 1992

God, she looks young, Major McQuilkin thought as he watched the young woman descend from Lockheed’s Learjet. How could she possibly be an experienced test pilot?

But there she stood, alone, on the steaming Nevada tarmac, an overseas cap sitting jauntily over short black curls and her slim body dressed in khaki slacks and jacket. Lieutenant insignias and gold Navy wings completed her outfit. It was 10:00 AM and already hot.

The major continued staring at the young woman as she walked toward the terminal. Looks more like a recent college grad than a skilled Naval Aviator. Totally different from what I’d expected. As she came closer, he narrowed his eyes, reminding himself: The plan is set. We kick her butt outta here toute de suite.

He stepped forward as she approached the gate. His mind was set on carrying out this unpleasant assignment, but he had to be civil. You must be Lieutenant Teresa O’Brien.

She gave him a snappy salute, Major. Her voice was husky with a musical ring. That wasn’t too hard, she added, since I’m the only passenger, but please call me Terri.

He returned her salute. I’m Richard McQuilkin, Major, U.S. Air Force. For your information, military protocol isn’t used much around here. So Terri… I’m Rick.

I assume this is Groom Lake? she said with her dark eyebrows arched in puzzlement above a tanned face. No one told me. With such a long runway, I’m surprised it isn’t on any aviation chart.

Correct, and welcome to the desert, Rick replied, pleased to notice fine wrinkle lines under her eyes. You’ll find this place mysterious. The US Government says it doesn’t even exist, and the CIA likes to keep it that way.

She pressed, her gaze quizzical, I’m not surprised to find an Air Force Major here, but how did a Navy woman lieutenant get this assignment? A week ago, I was aboard AMERICA off Iraq expecting orders to Washington D.C. I certainly didn’t ask to be sent here.

He shrugged at her unexpected admission. Rumor has it that Congresswoman Swanson recruited you.

So, she frowned, I’m a pawn in a game of political chess.

You could say that. You are an anomaly. The rest of us are Air Force types.

How many other women are in the flying group?

None.

None? Wow… that can make it difficult.

Yes.

Well, how many pilots?

Three.

Only three? I’m the fourth?

Correct.

She looked around at the austere landscape and shook her head. Then, I’ll bet I’m the only naval officer assigned here.

Correct again, a deal between the CIA and the Navy to confuse the towelheads.

Whatever that means. No wonder my Navy pals never heard of this place. We were drinking coffee in the wardroom, talking, and decided the orders were either a mistake or a joke.

Well, they sure as hell aren’t a joke. Our business is deadly serious, but come on; security is tight, so let’s get that over with.

Rick led her into the small, air-conditioned terminal where he greeted the armed security guard. Hi Tom, this is Lieutenant O’Brien. She’s joining the Skunk Works pilots.

The guard, Tom Fredericks on his nameplate, was tall and dark with black, thinning hair, tight lips, and a beak of a nose. He rose from his seat behind the counter, his dark eyes unwavering. Welc’m, Lieutenant O’Brien. I was told to expect you. Please show your IDs.

She removed a thin wallet from a front pocket, opened it, and presented her Department of the Navy Photo Identification card plus a special clip-on ID made by the CIA and given to her just before her departure for Groom Lake.

Rick, arms relaxed on the counter, examined his student more closely. Her lips were pink, and her light brown eyes were set wide apart under long black eyelashes, giving her a hint of the exotic. Overall, he decided, she radiated confidence and self-determination.

Tom crosschecked her name on his clipboard, checked both plastic cards minutely, and in a hoarse voice said, Thank you, Lieutenant O’Brien. Be sure ‘n wear your Agency badge at all times. Please sign this acknowledgement form for me. He handed her a clipboard.

Rick evaluated the guard while Terri was being checked in. In a snap opinion, he decided: Tom is really a sinister looking bastard, but he’s been at Groom Lake a long time… and everyone here had to pass a tough security check.

Terri signed the form in a quick, precise script, and handed the clipboard back.

Tom returned her IDs and made an offhand comment, You’re officially logged onto Groom Lake Base at 10:07 AM Sunday, March 8, 1992. You’re the first lady I’ve ever checked in.

As they turned to leave, Rick picked up the two heavy suitcases left by the ground crew, and they stepped out into the sunlight.

Terri looked curiously at the major. The first lady he’s ever checked in. Is he new?

Rick replied quietly, Tom’s been on the base practically longer than anybody else.

That’s odd. He said I’m the first lady he’s ever checked in. Surely there are other women on this base.

Yes, service personnel, Hispanic mostly. They pass through separate security procedures.

By his looks, Tom must be a Native American, she noted. Maybe he doesn’t consider a Latina a lady? Some Anglos don’t.

Rick snorted, Not likely. I know one of his secrets. One he inadvertently let slip. He was born in Saudi Arabia.

So much for my woman’s intuition, she smiled, displaying even white teeth.

They walked the short distance to the designated taxi area. Rick took another quick glance at her before reminding himself: Keep strictly to business with this woman.

Isn’t it unusual, she said, for a new officer to report aboard on a Sunday? That never happened to me in the Navy.

It sure is. The Company, that’s the name we use for the CIA, apparently didn’t want a lot of people seeing you, the first woman officer on this base. If you’d arrived on a weekday you would have been observed by dozens of folks, and someone would dream up an exaggerated explanation.

Well, damn. Where have they been? Women pilots are not uncommon these days in the Navy and Air Force.

I’ve already told you, he snapped. "This place is different. We spooks operate under utterly discrete security conditions out here in the boonies."

Terri adjusted her dark glasses against the glare from the relentless sun and studied the strange base, her mind whirling: Why am I here? The only woman. Just three other pilots. The middle of nowhere. What’s going on?

Rick stood in front of her on the curb trying to get the attention of the one base taxi parked nearby. Cap in hand, he whirled it casually above his head and mumbled, Come on. Come on.

Terri noted his suntanned face and hazel eyes under unruly brows. His muscular build suggested athletic workouts.

The Jeep taxi finally started to move, raising small eddies of sand.

Rick turned, I’m sending you to your quarters to dump your gear. You’ve already been assigned an apartment and a housekeeper. I’ll pick you up in one hour, at 1100, and introduce you to our spy plane.

The Jeep taxi stopped, and the driver, dressed in khakis with an MP badge on his arm, gave her a sloppy salute, leaned over, and opened the passenger door.

Terri slipped into the seat.

Rick shoved her suitcases into the open back seat.

She leaned out and said, Thanks, I prefer getting rid of my stuff and catching my breath before the next challenge. A couple of the guys at Lockheed said they had helped design an amazing aircraft out here. I’m eager to check it out.

That’s the reason you’re here, to meet our cranky bitch… Taurora.

CHAPTER 4

Groom Lake, Nevada Sunday, March 8, 1992

Terri studied the base with interest as the Jeep travelled the short distance to the housing area. To the south, about 10 blocks away, a black vertical mass loomed, probably volcanic. For some reason, the dark shape rising several hundred feet, reminded her of the ancient Aztec burial mound she’d seen near Mexico City. She felt an apprehensive shiver.

Most of the buildings to the west were designed to blend into the landscape, which made them visually obscure. To the east lay the runway, partially blocked by a huge dull yellow hangar. The taxi drew up in front of apartment 17A, where a smiling, solidly built Hispanic woman stood waiting.

Terri was pretty sure the woman spoke Spanish and said, Buenos dias. Como esta? Que pasa?

The woman’s smile widened, Bien, gracias, y usted? She took both suitcases from the back of the Jeep, and leading the way, she walked to Terri’s assigned apartment.

¿Como te llamas? Terri asked.

Maria Ruiz. Por favor, habla ingles.

Well, Maria, I’ve only been here 15 minutes, and this place seems a little weird.

Tambien. I been here two years, and I know it’s weird. Then, with a question hanging, Maria said, You speak excellent Spanish.

I was raised in a bilingual home.

Maria opened the door, and placed the suitcases inside.

Do you know procedures?

Actually, no.

You already have account at the commissary. I shop for you and leave your groceries, even beer, in your kitchen. You too busy for trivial things. Just leave a note on the kitchen pad.

That’s helpful.

With a quizzical look, Maria said, You first woman officer I ever seen on this base.

Odd… you’re the second person today that’s told me that. So, Maria, do you like it here?

Out here, I like peace and quiet. I hated the daily grind in the hotels in Las Vegas, but I am old, nearly 45, so not dating doesn’t bother me. How about you, señoritá?

Terri laughed, I was hit by a bolt of lightning. When I came around, I found myself here. I’m still groggy. Ask me again in a month.

Maria handed Terri the key, and with a friendly, Have a nice day, she departed.

Terri stepped inside and dodged her suitcases. Well, Maria, I hope you’ll be a friend.

She looked around. Home. Her quarters were small but comfortable. The living room, light beige with brown trim, had a pass-through to the kitchen. There was a faint odor of cleaning solvent, overlaid with the smell of… bug spray?

She walked across the room and collapsed into an overstuffed leather chair next to a picture window, framing a magnificent view of the mountains to the east. Her mind raced, and her thoughts were in turmoil. Trying to relax, she scanned the desert scenery. Sometimes life deals you a hand so unexpected, so alien, you have no idea how to play it. This is so different from any Navy experience. Even the language is strange. An enormous secret base, not on any aviation chart, whose only ident is ‘Groom Lake,’ and the CIA guys are called ‘spooks’. Sweet Jesus. Who wrote this script, anyway?

She jumped to her feet and circled the room. In the Navy, I could look out at blue seas, and I was surrounded by congenial guys. I even had three gal pals to chat with. This place is so different. Even the desert seems unfriendly. I’d like to call Coronado and talk it over with mom and dad, except I was warned not to.

She looked over the pass-through into the kitchen: white with the same brown trim as the living room, fully equipped with stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, cutlery, and dishes. She picked up her bags and took them into the bedroom. The cool green walls enclosed a queen-sized bed, dresser, and a wide closet … with too few coat hangers. Help, Maria, she thought.

When Terri entered the bathroom, she was jolted to a standstill. A rough sign on the mirror, in orange grease pencil, boldly underlined, asked, HOW LONG WILL YOU LAST?

She looked at her startled reflection and noticed the flush on her face. Is this a stupid joke, or some kind of sexual harassment?

With soap and a wet Kleenex, she scrubbed out the words. Her spirits rose as she lettered with a dark eyebrow pencil, "As long as I damn well please," and underlined her resolve with a determined flourish of red lipstick.

Returning to the living room, she huffed. That message pisses me off. Will I be checking out an exciting new plane, or fighting a bunch of hard-nosed males?

After a few minutes, she returned to the bathroom, brushed her hair, inspected her face, and renewed her lipstick. To her image she said, I guess I’m ready for the next act.

Outside, she stood erect on the curb, her overseas cap at a rakish angle. Promptly at 11:00, Rick drove up the street in a dirty, grayish-green Jeep and stopped. He leaned over and opened the passenger door.

Terri climbed in, eying him suspiciously. Could he be the guy who wrote the message on the mirror?

Rick gunned the engine, shifted gears, and commented, We don’t use this vehicle often. It’s never washed, but I did clean your seat off, in case you’re concerned about laundry bills.

I’m not worried about a dusty butt… I’m concentrating on that new plane.

He nodded, silent as he drove the few blocks and parked at the entrance to the hangar.

Terri was unprepared for the impact of the massive structure up close. It was enormous, the length of a football field and five stories tall.

Rick commented, Unbelievable, isn’t it?

She stared up at the hangar to take it all in.

Some amazing Skunk Works planes have been hidden inside this hangar, Rick said. These days it only conceals our three Taurora spy planes, two Blackbirds, and three F-117 fighters.

It’s astonishing, she agreed. Great prop for a George Lucas movie.

Rick punched a keypad lock and opened a substantial steel door, and then he waved her through.

Terri stepped into the interior. Directly in the foreground was an enormous black aircraft. She had planned to act cool, but she gaped at the aircraft, dumbfounded. It crouched dark and malevolent, low to the hangar floor, its nose and cockpit to her left and twin swept-back vertical tails to her right.

Pointing at the plane, Rick announced in a theatrical voice, Meet Taurora—our billion dollar spyplane.

In shock, Terri studied Taurora, My God, it’s huge, squat, and sinister.

You left out ugly.

"It’s not ugly, but certainly mysterious, right out of Star Wars. Darth Vader’s private jet!"

Yes, your George Lucas comments are right on. Rick lectured on, There’s never been an aircraft like this. Taurora is titanium and carbon filament combined with stealth design features. A heavyweight at just under 200,000 pounds on takeoff; she’s the size and gross of a commercial jet, but most of the weight is fuel. Even for experienced test pilots, flying this cranky bitch is a challenge.

Terri took in the strange aircraft, its bulk, and its looming density. She felt a cold shiver and murmured, It’s extraordinary… truly extraordinary. It’s five times larger than my Tomcat.

Rick observed her reaction… paused, and, in his staged persona, announced, She hits Mach 7 in level cruise—forty-five hundred miles per hour—at one hundred thousand feet.

Well, damn, I’ve never even dreamed of a plane with that kind of performance. She glanced at Rick. He’s really enjoying himself, shaking me up, showing me this amazing plane.

The Skunk Works gang, Rick explained, really outdid themselves with this design.

Even Hollywood’s special effects would be hard pressed to top this.

He gave her a pained look, and then continued walking in silence alongside the plane’s fuselage.

Terri regretted her remark and said, That was a dumb thing to say. I’ve watched a bunch of movies these past seven months off Iraq. She stopped and looked more closely at the hangar. In the background, several other space-age planes were tied down in random order, shafts of sunlight providing uncertain lighting. Down half the length of the hangar, a small building had been erected with a tile roof, as if the structure were outside in the weather.

Rick said, I’m just going to hit the high spots about Taurora. You’ll be required to learn the whole ball of wax in the classroom, but one caution: the Company does not want the public and particularly not Arab terrorists to know of the plane’s outstanding performance, especially its ability to fly non-stop around the world without refueling.

"You’ve impressed me with her outstanding performance alright, but what is this far-out technology for? What’s the mission? What is the point of all that fantástico speed and around the world capability?"

Rick shook his head. Sorry, that subject is off-limits right now, but you’ll be thoroughly briefed in due time.

Terri’s mind felt numb trying to assimilate all the features of this formidable aircraft. She looked up and focused on the four air intakes leading into the heart of Taurora; pointing at the two top inlets, then at the dual ducts below, she said, That’s unusual. Four inlets. What’s the difference?

Good question, Rick replied, that’s a key feature. The lower two are for the turbojets, which, as you know, operate well from sea level to about 60,000 feet, where they poop out. The top inlets are for the ramjets, which cut in at 60 thousand. The ramjets are optimized to cruise at 100 thousand feet.

I certainly know about turbojets, but nothing about ramjets.

Flying Taurora is difficult. Sometimes she throws her pilot a bitchy trick. The secret is to treat her as a friend and humor her. With a sly glance, he added, Otherwise, like a lot of women, she’ll stab you in the back.

Rick, what kind of bullshit is that? Terri said, her voice rising. "If I knew you better, I’d send you back a zinger."

He held up a hand. Okay, okay. Forget that remark, and also forget most of the stuff you learned at Test Pilot School about lift, gravity, thrust, and drag.

"I heard your ‘bitchy tricks’ statement. If Taurora throws me an emergency, I hope I’ll be able to handle mine, but now, she pressed him pointedly, tell me what happened to you?"

She stood quite still, waited for his answer, determined to pin him down and get some hard facts. Thirty seconds zipped by. Well, shoot… he’s not going to answer.

Look, Rick pointed up at the warning placard: ‘DANGER Methane.’

Terri said, I noticed that, nodding her affirmative.

To make things really interesting, the dual mode engines burn a special fuel, methane, hydrogen, and nitrogen. The nitrogen is supposed to help keep the temperature down in the combustion chamber. No other plane uses this fuel; the fuel system itself is a potential bomb. He paused for a reaction.

Terri stared at him, waiting.

Okay, okay. I had a fire just after takeoff.

She nodded, still waiting.

"The tower operator went ape, screaming over UHF: YOUR PLANE IS ON FIRE! EJECT! EJECT! YOU’RE TRAILING FLAMES."

She gazed at him intently.

"I brought her around the pattern, a river of flame trailing behind. Luckily, the fuel leak was so massive that the flames never jumped forward to blow the tanks. With over 160,000 pounds of methane, the aircraft could have exploded any second and wiped out half of Groom Lake. I touched down on the runway at high speed, completely overweight, and instantly closed the master fuel shutoff valve. The fire flamed out… lack of fuel, but I used the entire runway to stop. That was my first bitchy trick."

Lord, lucky you’re still alive. She stepped closer and touched his forearm lightly with two fingers in a friendly gesture. That was miraculous. Just hearing about it makes my scalp prickle.

He recoiled as if her fingers were hot.

"A Navy old timer said: The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire."

He mumbled, Uh-huh, very astute.

Put off by his unfriendly rebuff, Terri walked on, silently scanning the black aircraft.

Remember, he said, walking beside her and resuming his teaching role, a fire has happened only once. Tough problems aren’t unusual for experimental planes. It took years to get the Blackbird straightened out, and it’s only Mach 3.

Her gaze slid past the nose of the plane to a dark figure, green baseball cap pulled low, standing in the shadows at the edge of the hangar. He was staring intently at her, following every move. For a brief moment, their eyes connected. Who is that guy? Why does he seem… so, so hostile?

She looked back at Rick. He seemed oblivious. Another question for Rick.

They walked on; the only sound was their footsteps.

Stopping near the nose wheel, Terri admitted, I feel like Alice in Wonderland," one inch tall, beside this giant. Where I came from, Mach 2 was really tops. Mach 7 is incredible, truly incredible. That’s more than double the speed of my F-14 Tomcat."

Rick answered with a Hollywood explanation, "An F-14 is a Top Gun thing. In the movie, it was considered almost a trainer. This is totally different."

Silently, she just nodded.

"Even the number of males who have seen this plane are limited. You’re the first woman that’s been inside this hangar… the first that’s been briefed on this plane. And IF you hack it, he emphasized the ‘if,’ you’ll be the first woman to fly it."

Terri produced a brilliant smile. "Well, glad we both know about Top Gun. Sharing a movie with you is a start. When it came out in 1986, Tom Cruise made the F-14 famous, but I’m eager to fly this extraordinary plane!"

He shrugged, "First… you go through a tough ground school, and you’re correct. Taurora is by far the world’s most