Dreamed I was a pilot of experimental fighter jets. I had two, at my house; one-fifth sized F-16's which could take off and land on their own. Often, I would call them, like Alexa, into my wrist-communicator: "Jets, meet me outside." Often they would try to take the quickest path - out the front door, but the frame was too narrow to accommodate their wings, so they'd have to back their nose out, open the automatic roof to the house, vertical STOL up and over, and land adjacent one another on the front lawn so I could get into the cockpit. They were awfully fun to fly, but there always seemed to be some national emergency I had to take care of.
At one point I was in the house with my father, who was perplexingly Scott Bakula, and in an identical olive drab flight uniform when there were a pair of sonic booms over the house which startled us both. That's when Dad's wrist-communicator went off - it was headquarters wanting him to report to base immediately so he could ascertain the threat level in his alert fighter. I knew he didn't have that kind of time, so I offered one of my two fighters: "Jets, meet me outside." They tried to get through the front door again *facepalm*
Once on the lawn, the cockpits slid open like a colonial Viper Mark II, but with the jagged edges of an F-117 Nighthawk, so that was pretty cool. I leaned into the cockpit of the second plane and announced, "Follow the voice commands of...Doctor...Brahmen...en...son?" I couldn't remember Scott Bakula's character name or why I didn't just say Dad's name, but he seemed unconcerned and I was wondering if I had placed him in a Clint Eastwood's FIREFOX type situation (...think in Russian). I dunno, I'm pretty sure I woke up just as we were streaking through the sky at classified supersonic speeds toward the bogeys.