Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (77 page)

 
          
“I
don’t want to talk about him.”

 
          
But
that wasn’t altogether true—in reality, McLanahan was, in a way, fascinated by
him. Not just because of the amazingly successful espionage operation that he
had managed all these years, but because of what sort
person
was out here. He was a Russian, a Soviet agent—he
must
have been worried about being
captured every day, yet he not only successfully penetrated the most top-secret
flight research lab in the
U.S.
but became the only pilot of the most
advanced flying machine in the whole world. How anyone could keep calm and
collected through all that without going crazy was unbelievable. Add on that he
had to fly DreamStar itself—and in Maraklov’s case take it into battle, with no
“knock it off” calls or prearranged attack scenarios, no “wait ten seconds then
come and get us” stuff. And Maraklov had proved himself in battle, handily
defeating two F-16 ADF interceptors . . . “How the hell does he do it?”

 
          
“He’s
tuned into the ANTARES computer as if it was made especially for him,” J.C.
replied immediately, as if he was thinking the very same thing as McLanahan.
“It’s logical, though—if he’s a Russian mole like they say he is, he had to
forget completely about being a Russian and transform himself into an American.
It’s like he can ram-flush his own mind and fill it with whatever he wants. The
same with ANTARES—he can empty his mind of everything and allow that machine to
take over. I don’t know how he snaps out of it—he must keep back a bit of his
brain, enough to remind himself that he’s a human being—sort of like leaving
bread crumbs behind in a maze to help find your way out . . .”

 
          
“But
how can a guy
fight
like that? I’ve
flown lots of different high-performance fighters, including Cheetah’s
simulator, and it takes every ounce of concentration I have just to keep the
thing flying straight. How can a schizy guy like that fly one?”

 
          
“Practice
helps,” J.C. said. “Sure, you’ve flown a lot of fighters—always with an
instructor pilot and always in ideal day VFR conditions—but you don’t have many
hours. Maraklov has got hundreds of hours in DreamStar. And let’s face it—the
man
is
good. With or without
DreamStar, he’s a top fighter pilot. I’m no psychologist, so I don’t know too
much about his mental state, but just because you’re schizy doesn’t mean you
can’t function normally or even
above
norm. Hell, they say most of us fighter pilots are schizoids anyway . . . But
ANTARES is the key, Patrick. If you had a full-time, high-speed computer
telling you what to do each and every second you were at the controls, you
could fly
any
jet in the inventory.
The problem you and I have is that we can’t interface with ANTARES. Maraklov is
the opposite: he’s probably at a point where he can’t exist
without
ANTARES. He’s not whole unless
he’s hooked up to that machine. When he’s not hooked up he’s less than himself.
He’s probably more dangerous when he’s
not
hooked up. When he’s hooked into ANTARES he’s sort of at the mercy of it.”

 
          
“What
do you mean?”

 
          
“Well,
no matter how far we’ve come with high-speed integrated circuits, micro-miniature
computers and neural interfaces, there’s no unlimited amount of info you can
take on board an aircraft. We call ANTARES artificial intelligence, and in a
way it is, but the critical difference between my brain and ANTARES’ computer
is that ANTARES can’t
learn.
And
learning creates an unlimited pool of info that you rely on in combat. There’s
a lot of it available on DreamStar, but it has a limit, and we know what the
limit is. James—Maraklov—can call on his own experience and training to improve
his own pool of information, but we’ve seen before that he doesn’t do that. He
relies more and more on ANTARES to make crucial decisions for him. So his
advantage can become a disadvantage for him, and that’s a one-up for me. On
Cheetah I’ve got a lot of options available. Including ones I dream up or
choose. He doesn’t—” “But ANTARES has hundreds of options available,” McLanahan
said, “and it can execute them much faster than you can—”

 
          
“ANTARES
executes a maneuver based on what it figures out I’m doing, true,” J.C. said,
“but he also makes moves based on the probability of what I’ll do in the
future, based on what I do now. ANTARES is thinking ahead and maneuvering to
counter or press the attack based on what it
thinks
I’ll do. But what if he’s thinking the
wrong thing?”

 
          
“The
chances of it computing the wrong thing are slim,” McLanahan said. “It computes
dozens, sometimes hundreds of combinations to any situation—”

 
          
“But
it can only execute
one
of them,”
J.C. said. “The one it executes is based on current activity and
probability—highly accurate mathematical statistics and historical averages but
still chance, educated guesses.”

 
          
“So
if you do something different, it recomputes on that move, executes the
maneuver, and computes another dozen situations . .

 
          
“You
got it. And when it stops and thinks—and I don’t care how fast it does it—I
have some advantage. If it’s thinking instead of fighting that’s good for me.”

 
          
McLanahan’s
head was pounding. “You’ve got a machine that can think and react faster than a
human being. A
lot
faster. How can
you
get the advantage over that?”

 
          
“Because
of the way it’s programmed,” J.C. said. “DreamStar is a fighter,” McLanahan
said. “It’s been programmed to fight. Attack. It can compute a dozen different
ways to attack every second. Where’s the advantage?”

           
“What would you do?” J.C. asked,
“if you were chasing down a bogey at your
twelve o’clock
and you had the overtake on him but you
both had a lot of smash built up? What would you do? Would you go max AB,
firewall the throttle, close on the guy and attack?”

           
“I could, but it wouldn’t be smart.”

 
          
“Why?”

 
          
“Because
if I had a lot of overtake, the bogey could reverse on me easier. Then I’d be
on the defensive—”

 
          
“Exactly.
DreamStar does
not
think like that.
DreamStar has not been programmed to hang back, match speed and power, maintain
spacing, look for an opening. DreamStar goes for the kill when the target is
presented to it. It will
always
engage. If you’re ever in doubt about what it will do, it will attack. You can
count on it. Remember our last flight test with DreamStar?”

 
          
“Sure.
James almost pancaked into those buttes.”

 
          
“He
did that because even in what we would call an unsafe situation, DreamStar’s
computers will press the attack no matter what. If there’s the slightest
opening, the tiniest chance for success, DreamStar will use it in its attack
equation.”

 
          
“I
wasn’t involved with the programming part of DreamStar’s computers,” McLanahan
said, “but to me it doesn’t make sense. Isn’t defense as much a part of
dogfighting as offense? Why wouldn’t DreamStar’s computer programmers teach it
about defense?”

 
          
“Who
knows? DreamStar was probably programmed by some computer weenie who never was
in a cockpit. But then again, I suppose if you have the ultimate fighter, the
most agile and fastest there is, it would be easy to ignore defense and
concentrate on offense. But it can afford to ignore cut-and-run options because
it has the speed and the agility to turn tiny mistakes into victories. Guys
lose because they’re amazed by how fast it is. It’s not fast—you’re dead
because you did exactly what DreamStar figured you would do, and it was right
there waiting for you. Boom. Dead meat.”

 
          
“So
if you make DreamStar play defense . . .”

 
          
“DreamStar
does not play defense,
Patrick,” J.C.
said, pounding on the canopy sill to drive home his point. “The only defense
maneuver programmed into that system is high-speed escape, and that’s only if
the ANTARES interface is broken or damaged. As long as it’s fully functional,
it never thinks defense. DreamStar is always thinking attack.
Always.
If you force it into a defensive
role you know that DreamStar is thinking about how to attack in response. And
when it’s thinking, you have the advantage. True, it may only be for a second
or two, but during that time you have an advantage, and that’s when you have to
take him out.”

 
          
“Sounds
like you got this all figured out, J.C.”

 
          
“Hey,
DreamStar’s a fantastic machine, you can’t beat it in technology or
maneuverability—you have to
think
at
a level where even ANTARES has a weakness. You fly unpredictable, fly in three
dimensions, fly by instincts instead of by the book or by some computer.
ANTARES has problems handling that ...”

 
          
As
the KC-10 began a shallow turn right toward
Tegucigalpa
in southern
Honduras
, J.C. gently yawed Cheetah around to
follow. They had just crossed the north coast of
Honduras
directly over the Honduran Air Force base
of La Cieba. Even though the Hondurans had only twenty-five aircraft, La Cieba
was a large, modern, high-tech base—mostly because of the
U.S.
military, which used the base for “joint
training missions,” and subsequently “assisted” with base improvements that
virtually built an American air base at La Cieba. There were often more
American planes at La Cieba than other aircraft in all of
Honduras
.

 
          
“Storm
Two, Sun Devil Three-Two is ready for your final refueling any time,” the copilot
aboard the KC-io tanker reported. “Airspeed coming back. Cleared to pre-contact
position.”

 
          
“Roger,
Sun Devil,” J.C. replied. “Moving to pre-contact.” J.C. pulled the throttles
back to eighty percent power and watched as the KC-io moved slowly ahead.
Cheetah would get one more refueling as they transited
Honduras
; then Sun Devil Three-Two would land as
scheduled at
Tegucigalpa
and refuel, and Cheetah would continue on its strike-escort route.

 
          
The
refueling went without a hitch. They stayed in contact position right up until
the KC-io’s initial approach fix to Ton- contin
International
Airport
at
Tegucigalpa
, so Cheetah could fill up to full tanks
right until the last possible minute—Cheetah had to complete its mission,
escort the strike aircraft out of the danger area, then return to La Cieba and
land. Every drop of gas was critical.

 
          
“Well,
boys, you got another ten thousand pounds courtesy of the people of the great
state of
Arizona
,” the pilot of the KC-io radioed after he
had started his approach to
Tegucigalpa
. “Take care, I don’t want to read about you in the papers.”

 
          
“Likewise,”
J.C. replied. “We’ll see you in about three hours if we need you. Over.”

 
          
“We’ll
be waiting and ready. Sun Devil out.”

 
          
The
channel went dead. J.C. ordered the voice-command computer to reset the radios
to the strike mission channelization, with the command radio on the
strike-aircraft frequency and a scan on all UHF and VHF frequencies for
ground-controlled intercept activity in
Nicaragua
. At the same time, Powell started a turn
toward the east and a rapid descent to five-thousand feet, which would put him
about a thousand feet over most of the lush tree-covered mountains of
northwestern
Nicaragua
. They were skirting the northern
Nicaragua
border, staying deep within the Cordillera
Entre Rios valley to avoid
Nicaragua
’s main surveillance radar site situated on
top of a fifty-seven-hundred-foot mountain near Cuyali in the center of the
country.