The Minotaur (38 page)

The master warning light illuminated—bright yellow—and be-
side the HUD the right engine fire warning light—brilliant blood
red.

She smoothly pulled both throttles to idle, then secured the right
one. Nose held off until the main mounts were firmly planted,
decelerating nicely, speed brakes and flaperon pop-up deployed,
five thousand feet of concrete remaining, slowing . . .

“Ginger aborting,” she broadcast on the radio. “Fire light, right
engine, roll the truck.”

Nose wheel firmly on the concrete, Rita applied the brakes with
a firm, steady pressure. She rolled to a stop and killed the remain-
ing engine as she opened the canopy. The fire truck charged to-
ward them.

Rita pulled her helmet off. “Any fire?” she shouted at the man
on the truck as the engine noise died. Without conscious effort, her
fingers danced across the panels turning off everything.

“Not that we can see.”

“Let’s get out anyway,” Rita told Toad, who had already tog-
gled his quick-release fittings and was craning out of the rear cock-
pit, looking for smoke.

Standing beside the runway, perspiring profusely as the summer
desert sun cooked them, Rita and Toad heard the news five min-
utes later from Harry Pranks. A swarm of technicians already had
the engine bay doors open. “Electrical problem, I’m sure. We’ll tow
it into the hangar and check it out. Nice abort,” he added with a
nod at Rita. “You two want to ride back in the van? It’s air-
conditioned.”

“Yep,” said Tarkington. “Nothing like air force hospitality.”

They flew the plane for the first time the following day. Rita came
back from the flight with a large smile on her face. “Captain,” she
told Jake Grafton as she brushed sweat-soaked hair from her fore-
head and eyes, “that’s one sweet machine. Power, handling, plenty
of G available, sweet and honest. A very nice airplane.”

Before Harry Franks’ grin could get too wide. she started detail-
ing problems: “Controls are oversensitive. Twitchy. Flying the ball
is a real challenge. The left generator dropped off the line twice,
which was maybe a good thing, because we found the power relay
works as advertised; the inertial stayed up and humming. Toad got
the computer running again without any problem each time. And
the rudder trim . . .”

When Rita paused for air. Toad chimed in. “I’d like to go over
how those fiber optic data buses work with someone, one more
time. I’m still trying to figure out how . . .”

The routine was exactly like it had been a month before. Teleme-
try, videotapes and the Flight Data Recorder info were carefully
reviewed and the data compiled for a later in-depth analysis. Those
problems that could be fixed were, and major problems were care-
fully delineated for factory study.

Jake Grafton demanded all his people quit work at 9 P.M. He
wanted them rested and back at the hangar at six each morning.
Harry Franks worked his technicians around the clock in shifts,
although he himself put in eighteen-hour days and was on call at
night.

Toad tried to get out of the hangar as often as possible. The air
force was using this field for stealth fighters—F-117s—and several
other low-observable prototypes, including the B-2. Every so often
if he was outside he would hear a rumble and there, before his very
eyes, would be some exotic shape that seemed to defy the laws of
gravity and common sense as it cleaved the hot blue desert air. He
felt vaguely guilty, and slightly naughty. To satisfy his idle curios-
ity he was seeing something that the Powers That Be—Those Who
Knew—the Appointed, Anointed Keepers of the Secret—didn’t
think his little mind should be burdened with. So he stood and
gawked, curious and mystified, a little boy at the knothole, watch-
ing the love rites of the groping teenagers. He would go back to
work shaking his head and trot outside again, hopefully, several
hours later.

He bumped into Jake Grafton on one of these excursions. The
captain stood with his hands in his pockets watching a pair of
F-117s come into the break.

“Amazing, huh?” Jake said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been flying for twenty-five years,” Grafton said, “and read-
ing everything I could about planes for ten more. And all this time
I never even dreamed . . .”

“I know what you mean. It’s like science and technology have
gone crazy in some kind of souped-up hothouse. The technology is
breeding, and we don’t recognize the offspring.”

“And it’s not just one technical field. It’s airframes and engines,
composites and glues, fabricating techniques, Computer-Assisted
Design, avionics and computers and lasers and radars. It’s every-
thing! In five years everything I learned in a lifetime will be obso-
lete.”

Or less than five years, Jake told himself glumly as the bat-
winged B-2 drifted quietly overhead. Maybe everything I know is
obsolete now.

When Toad Tarkington thought about it afterwards, he remem-
bered the sun. It was one of those little details you notice at the
time and don’t think about, yet remember later.

He had seen the sun many times before in the cockpit, bright
and warm and bathing everything in a brilliant, clean light, its
beams darting and dancing across the cockpit as the plane turned
and climbed and dived. A clean light, bright, oh so bright, warm-
ing bodies encased in Nomex and sweating inside helmets and
gloves and flying boots. This was part of flying, and after a while
you didn’t notice it anymore. Yet for a few seconds that morning
he did notice it The memory of it stayed with him, and somehow,
looking back, it seemed important

He was deep into the mysteries of the radar and computer and
how they talked to each other, acutely aware of how little time
aloft he had. The radar’s picture was automatically recorded on
videotape, but he muttered into the ICS—the audio track of the
tape—like a voodoo priest so he would know later just what the
gain and brightness had been for each particular presentation. He
worked fast. These flights were grotesquely short.

Rita concentrated on flying the plane, on keeping it precisely on
speed and on altitude, exactly where the test profile required. She
was extraordinarily good at this type of flying. Toad had discov-
ered. She had the knack. It required skill, patience and self-disci-
pline as one concentrated on the task at hand to the exclusion of
everything else, all qualities Rita Moravia possessed in abundance.
The airspeed needle stayed glued on the proper number and all the
other needles did precisely what they were supposed to, almost as
if they were slaves to Rita’s iron will.

Toad also kept track of their position over the earth, and every
now and then wasted three seconds on a glance over at the chase
plane. Still there, precisely where it should be. Smoke Judy was a
no-nonsense, Sierra Hotel pilot who had almost nothing to say on
the radio; he knew how busy Rita and Toad were.

Periodically Toad reminded Rita of which task was next on the
list. He could just see the top of her helmet, partially masked by
the top of her ejection seat, if he looked straight ahead. He could
also see the upside-down reflection of her lap and arms in the
canopy, weirdly distorted by the curvature. Her hand on the stick
—he could see that because in this plane the control stick was
where it should be, between the pilot’s legs.

And the sun. He saw the brilliance of the sun’s gaze as the
sublime light played across the kneeboard on his right thigh and
back and forth across the instruments on the panel before hiro.

“How’s control response?” he asked.

“Better.” In a moment she added, “Still not right, though.”

He would never have known it from the sensations reaching him
through the plane. The ride was smooth as glass. “I told Orville
and Wilbur they were wasting their time. They wouldn’t listen.”

“What’s next?”

She already knew, of course. She had prepared the flight profile.
To humor her. Toad consulted his copy. “High-G changes.”

“Okay.”

He felt the surge as the power increased. Rita wasted no time.
He saw her glance at Smoke Judy, assuring herself the F-14 was
clear, then the left wing sagged gently as the nose began to rise and
the G increased. The G came on in a steadily rising grunt as the
horizon tilted crazily. Rita was flying the G line on the holographic
HUD. Toad temporarily abandoned his radar research and
strained every muscle in the classic M-l maneuver, trying to retain
blood in his head and upper body as he forced air in and out past
his lips. The inflatable pads in his G suit had become giant sau-
sages, squeezing his legs to keep the blood from pooling there.

This maneuver was designed to allow Rita to explore the limits
of G and maneuverability at ever-changing airspeeds. Toad felt the
nibble of the stall buffet, and for the first time felt the wings rock
sloppily, almost as if Rita were fighting to control their position.

“I’m having some troub—” she said, but before she could com-
plete the thought the plane departed.

The down wing quit flying and the upper wing flopped them
over inverted. The plane began to gyrate wildly. Positive Gs
mashed them for half a second, then negative Gs threw them up
against their harness straps, but since the airplane was inverted, it
was upward toward the earth. The airplane spun like a lopsided
Frisbee, bucking up and down madly as the Gs slammed them,
positive, negative, positive, negative. The ride was so violent Toad
couldn’t read the MFDs on the panel before him.

“Inverted spin,” he gasped over the ICS,

“The controls—it won’t—” Rita sounded exasperated.

“You’re in an inverted spin,” Toad heard a hard, calm male
voice say. Smoke Judy on the radio.

“I’m—the controls—“

‘Twenty-nine thousand . . . twenty-eight …” By a supreme
effort of will Toad made himself concentrate on the altimeter and
read the spinning needles.

“Spin assist,” he reminded her. This switch would allow the
horizontal stabilator its full travel, not restricted by its high-speed
limited throw. The danger was if the pilot pulled too hard at high
speed without the mechanical limit, the tail might be ripped away.
Right now Rita needed all the help she could get to pull the nose
down.

“It’s on.”

“Twenty-five thousand.” He was having trouble staying con-
scious. The ride was vicious, violent beyond description. His vision
closed in until he was looking through a pipe. He knew the signs.
He was passing out “Twenty-two,” he croaked.

Miraculously the violent pitching action of the nose decreased
and he felt as if he were being thrown sideways. As the G de-
creased, his vision came back. Rita had them out of the spin and
diving. She had the power back, about 90 percent or so. She rolled
the plane upright and the G came on steadily as she pulled to get
them out of their rocketing dive. “Okay,” she whispered, “okay,
baby, come to Mama.”

The wings started rocking again as the G increased, and Toad
opened his mouth to shout a warning. Too late. The right wing
slammed down and the plane rolled inverted again. “Spin,” was all
he could get out.

He fought the slamming up and down. “Seventeen thou-
sand . . .”

“Rita, you’d better eject.” The hard, fast voice of Smoke Judy-

“I’ve got it,” Rita shouted on the radio. ”Stay with me.” That
was for Toad. She had the nose coming steadily down now, that
yawning sensation again as she fed in full rudder.

“Fifteen grand,” Toad advised.

They were running out of sky.

“It’s the controls! I’ve—“

“Thirteen!”

She was out of the spin now, upright, but the nose was still way
low, seventy degrees below the horizon. Power at idle, she de-
ployed the speed brakes and began to cautiously lift the nose.

“Eleven thousand.”

“Come on, baby.”

“Ten.”

The ground was horribly close. Their speed was rapidly build-
ing, even with the boards out and engines at idle. The ground
elevation here was at least four thousand feet above sea level, so
they were within six thousand feet of the ground, now five, still
forty degrees nose down. They would make it Rita added another
pound of back pressure to the stick.

The left wing snapped down.

Toad pulled the ejection handle.

The windblast hit him like the fist of God. He was tumbling, then
he wasn’t, now hurling toward the earth—an earth so close he
could plainly see every rock and bush—and cursing himself for the
fool that he was for waiting so long. Lazily, slowly, as if time didn’t
matter, the seat kicked him loose with a thump.
The ground was right there, racing up at him. He closed his eyes.
He was going to die now. So this is how it feels . . .
A tremendous shock snapped through him, almost ripping his
boots off. The opening shock of the parachute canopy.
The ground was right there! He swung for another few seconds,
then smashed into a thicket of brush. Too late he remembered he
should have protected his head. He came to rest in the middle of an
opaque dust cloud.

He was conscious through ft all. He wiggled his limbs experi-
mentally. Still in one piece, thank the Lord!

Rita! Where was Rita?

He was standing before the dust had cleared, ripping his helmet
off and trying to see. He tore at his Koch fittings. There! Rid of the
chute.

Striding out of the brush, almost falling, looking.

Another dust cloud. Several hundred yards away and down the
hill slightly. Something had impacted there. Rita? But there was no
chute visible.

Mother of God!

He began to run.

23

You still here?” the doctor asked
when he saw Toad leaning against the counter at the nurses’ sta-
tion. The doctor was about forty and clad in a loose green hospital
garment with tennis shoes on his feet

“How is she?”

“Unconscious.” The doctor swabbed the perspiration from his
forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t know when she’ll come around. I
don’t know if she ever will.”