Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (134 page)

OVER THE HIGH TECHNOLOGY AEROSPACE
WEAPONS CENTER, ELLIOTT AIR FORCE
BASE, GROOM LAKE, NEVADA

WEEKS LATER

Boomer always thought that it felt like hitting the water on the Splash Mountain ride at Disneyland, bumpy and noisy amidst the sudden shock of deceleration—except the feeling lasted eight minutes, not two seconds.

With a one-hundred-eighty-degree x-axis turn and a ninety-second burn from the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane slowed down to about five thousand miles per hour and immediately began its descent through the atmosphere. Once slowed down, Hunter Noble used the spaceplane's maneuvering rockets to turn forward again, then lift the nose slightly to the proper altitude to expose the heat-proof carbon-carbon underside of the Black Stallion to the worst of the friction. He followed an electronic cueing system displayed on his primary multi-function display, similar to a terrestrial Instrument Landing System—as long as he kept the crosshairs perfectly cen
tered in the middle of the display, he was on course and on glidepath for atmospheric reinsertion.

“Boomer, check your flight control computers, they're not engaged,” the crew mission commander, First Lieutenant Dorothea Benneton, call-sign “Nano,” said from the forward compartment. Benneton was a high-energy, type-A personality, barely contained by an engineering degree and an Air Force commission—she liked to party and she liked being in control of every situation. She had to take a deep breath and force her words from her mouth through the high G loading during re-entry. “Did they pop off-line?”

“No, I just didn't engage—I thought I'd hand-fly this re-entry,” Boomer replied, his voice shaky and hoarse as well.

“Don't you screw with my test parameters, Boomer, or I'll kick your butt,” Benneton warned only half-jokingly. “Stay on glidepath.”

During re-entry the air around the spacecraft got so hot that it ionized and disrupted normal radio communications, so the team normally used a laser radio system that bounced laser beams between satellites to communicate with the spaceplane. But the message they received was actually over the normal encrypted UHF radio channel: “Stud Two, this is Control, how do you hear?” radioed Air Force Colonel Martin Tehama, the commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, from his headquarters at Elliott Air Force Base.

“Three by, Control,” Boomer replied. He turned to Nano and gave her a wink. “Looks like your gadget is working, Dottie.” Enough heat was being sucked away from the skin to keep the air from ionizing, permitting regular radio communications.

“Why aren't you on auto control, Two?” Tehama asked. “I show the flight control system in ‘STANDBY.' Is there a problem?”

“Now I'm getting the nagging in stereo,” Boomer said. Reluctantly he switched on the autopilot, keeping his hands on the controls until he was sure the system was responding properly. “Everyone happy now?”

“Why do we bother writing up a test flight plan if you're not going to follow it, Boomer?” the commander asked. To Benneton he said, “Nice job on the protection system upgrades, Lieutenant. Looks like it's working pretty well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nano responded, grunting through the G-forces. “I've still got some higher than expected temperatures in the cargo bay, but it looks like the temperature's holding—Boomer hasn't fried anything yet.”

As they continued their descent the aerodynamic flight controls took greater and greater effect, and soon they were executing some lazy-eights and steep-banked S-turns across the sky, which helped to slow and cool the spacecraft even more. With the outside thermal protection layer temperatures now below 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit—the safe structural temperature limit for the spacecraft's titanium-vanadium skeleton—Boomer was clear to maneuver as he pleased, and he headed straight for Elliott Air Force Base's 23,000-foot long runway on Groom Lake in south-central Nevada.

It was not Hunter's best landing. He turned toward the runway late and landed about three hundred feet short, on the overrun—fortunately the overrun, while not stressed as highly as the main runway, supported the Black Stallion's weight adequately. He noticed fire and rescue trucks racing toward him as he zoomed down the runway, then slamming on the brakes and reversing direction as he zipped past the preplanned stopping point. He used almost every foot of the three-mile-long runway to stop, but he safely turned off before reaching the end and headed for the hangars.

“The cargo compartment monitors shut down—probably due to high heat,” Nano said as she monitored the computerized shutdown process. “If my experiment is trashed, Boomer, I'm going to give you a smack in the head.” Noble didn't respond. As soon as the onboard data was collected, the spacecraft completely shut down, and the inspection stand rolled into place, she hopped out and climbed up onto the platform to look at the cargo bay passenger module.

Hunter had a bad feeling about the outcome when he saw daggers flying out of Nano's eyes, aimed directly at him. “What?” he asked.

“Black streaks coming out of the seam in the bay doors,” Benneton said frostily.

“The whole spacecraft is black, Nano. How can you…?”

“It's built-up heat and oxidation, Boomer,” she said. “I'm going to slit your throat, I swear.” A few minutes later, with firefighters and paramedics standing by, they opened up the cargo doors—and an undulating, shimmering gray cloud of smoke and heat rolled out. Nano was shaking her fist in the spaceplane pilot's direction as she stared into the cargo hold. “Boomer, wait till I get my hands on you…!”

It took several long, agonizing moments to move a crane into position to lift the passenger module out of the cargo bay and onto a cradle in the hangar. Luckily the cradle was covered with heat-resistant materials, because the module was definitely hot, like a fat steak fresh off the barbecue. As expected, the electrical door opening mechanisms didn't work, so the ground crews started to work on the mechanical locks. By the time the locks had been twisted free, a small crowd had gathered at the hatch, morbidly curious as to what the insides looked like. Nano herself grabbed a pair of insulated gloves and grasped the latch…but before Benneton could open the hatch, the levers moved and the door swung open from the inside.

“About time, Doc,” the electronically synthesized voice of Air Force Brigadier General Hal Briggs said. A wave of heat rolled out through the open hatch. “We thought you guys forgot about us.”

“For God's sake, General…are you all right?” Benneton asked breathlessly.

“I'm okay—a little bored, that's all,” Briggs said. He was inside a “Tin Man”–powered exoskeleton, a protective suit of electronic armor made up of composite materials thousands of times stronger than steel but just a fraction of the weight. The suit was composed of a material called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically
Responsive Process, that kept the material flexible but instantly hardened into an almost impenetrable shell if struck. The BERP material was surrounded by thin microhydraulic actuators in a lightweight composite framework that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed. The suit had a variety of sensors, communications equipment, and weapon control functions built into it, as well as its own environmental controls to keep the user comfortable in extreme conditions.

Benneton started to reach in and undo the straps securing Briggs in the aft-facing seat. “Let's get you out of there, sir…”

Briggs held up a large armored hand. “Better not, Doc. My readouts say it's over one-seventy Fahrenheit in here.” He looked over at his comrade while he undid his harness. “You okay over there, Sergeant Major?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the second passenger, U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl replied, also wearing Tin Man armor, his usual emotionless monotone clearly identifiable through the electronic voice synthesizing system. The big Marine was seated in a forward-facing seat. He turned to Benneton while he unbuckled his harness. “I assume it's not supposed to get this hot in here, Doc?” he deadpanned.

“The sergeant major has just expended his allotment of quips for the year,” Briggs interjected.

“Take it up with the aircraft commander,” she responded perturbedly. “If he had let the computers fly the re-entry and it stayed precisely on the programmed glide path everything would have been fine.” The bug-eyed helmeted figure looked at Benneton, then Noble, but said nothing in reply.

After downloading and checking all of the recorded data from the Tin Man suits, Briggs and Wohl disconnected and stepped out of the exoskeleton, removed their helmets, and shuffled off to the back of a Security Forces flatbed truck, helping themselves to cigars and bottles of water as they rested. “It was a good ride until the re-entry, Doc,” Briggs said. “I think normal folks would have trouble with that re-entry, though—other than the
heat, the g-forces are pretty severe. Can't you make it so you pull fewer g's?”

“We did a two-point-five-g re-entry, which is about half of normal,” Hunter Noble said. “The Tin Man suits may have made it feel heavier than normal. How do you feel, Sergeant Major?”

“I feel fine, sir,” Wohl said. “Perhaps all of the seats should be forward-facing—the aft-facing seats get a pounding during both takeoff and re-entry.”

“Roger that,” Briggs agreed. “I know what ‘Spam in a can' feels like now.”

“I'd also suggest maybe a few windows in there too,” Wohl added. “The commando delivery vehicle the Air Battle Force uses has windows.”

“I'll bet it doesn't go suborbital, Sergeant Major,” Hunter said. “Were you getting a little airsick up there? We noticed your vitals getting up there.” A warning glare from the big Marine told Boomer to terminate that line of questioning immediately. “Maybe we can put a computer monitor up front that can transmit mission data as well as outside horizon views. Good suggestion, Sergeant Major.” Wohl nodded, which instantly made Boomer feel that his life had just been spared.

“I'm sorry you had a rough ride, General,” Nano said, concern still evident in her voice.

“Hey, I had a great time, Lieutenant,” the Air Force Security Forces one-star general said. Hal Briggs was always an animated, energetic guy, but his face was fairly beaming as he remembered the flight he just took. “Man, I was in space. Me! I joined the Army to see the world, but I never thought I'd see it from space!” Hal Briggs had originally joined the U.S. Army but transferred to the Air Force when being a Ranger got too unexciting for him. “I'll fly with you anytime, boys and girls, with or without the suit. Just call.”

After a brief physical exam, the first stop was maintenance debrief, which usually lasted a couple of hours. Mission data automatically datalinked to Earth stations during the flight was
compared to digital mission logs collected on the ground, and then the smallest departure from flight-planned or nominal readings was examined and discussed. The flight crew sat together at a desk surrounded by six computer monitors, each linked to a different main office of the maintenance complex—propulsion, environmental/life support, electrical/hydraulic/pneumatic, payload, communications/computers, and airframe—and answered questions transmitted to them by technicians in the control center, aircraft hangar, and records room.

It was past noon and well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside in the Nevada sunshine when Noble, Benneton, Briggs, and Wohl finally stepped out of the maintenance debrief building, where they found Colonel Martin Tehama waiting for them. He saluted Briggs. “I hope you are okay, General, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I'm glad to hear the medics gave you a clean bill of health.”

“Actually, I feel pretty good, Colonel—like I had a really vigorous workout,” Briggs said. “I guess whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, eh?”

“Yes, sir. And you, Sergeant Major?”

“Fine, sir,” Wohl said in his typical low, almost growling voice.

Briggs lit up a cigar, watching with interest as Tehama's eyes widened in concern. “Uh…sir?” the HAWC commander said apologetically. “We don't allow smoking here at the complex.”

Briggs nodded and looked directly at the Air Force full colonel. “Is that so, Colonel?” he asked simply, taking another deep drag of his cigar. “I've been assigned here for…what, Chris? Damn near twenty years?”

“A very long time, sir,” Wohl rumbled.

Briggs continued to stare at Tehama. “I don't believe I've ever heard of a ban on smoking outdoors except on the flight line, weapon storage area, and hangars,” he went on.

“Well, there is, sir.”

Briggs nodded, took another deep drag of his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew a cloud of smoke into Tehama's face. “Duly noted. Is there anything else for me, Colonel?” he asked.

“Sir, I think it's a bad example for the men to have a general officer flouting my regulations,” Tehama tried one more time.

“Do you think your men will be flouting your regulations because of me, Colonel?”

“I don't believe they will, sir, no.”

“Then I don't believe we have a problem here, Colonel.”

“But if the men see you violating one of my regulations…”

“Will that prompt them to go ahead and disobey your regulations?”

“I don't think so, sir. But it…it shows a lack of regard for my regulations.”

“A lack of regard for some of your regulations, Colonel…like having a cigar after my first space flight, away from the flight line, outdoors, in a parking lot.” Tehama said nothing. “You are free to report my flagrant violation of your regulations to General Edgewater at Air Force Materiel Command, or to Major-General Furness at Air Battle Force. Want their numbers?”

Tehama briefly appeared as if he was going to argue with him, but he decided against it, scowling. “No, sir,” he said, saluting. Briggs raised his cigar to return his salute, and Tehama turned to depart.