Stormhaven Rising (Atlas and the Winds Book 1) (15 page)

“I understand your poker analogy,” Mica said. “I also have a substantial set of Mr. Taylor’s notes on Critical Action Time within social structures. He has tried to develop a mathematical formula based on his inertial principles, to predict social actions within large groups—“

“Asimov called it Psychohistory,” Tom said.

“Indeed,” Mica agreed after a short pause. “I have included Dr. Asimov’s writings in my personal information storage. From my analysis, I can ascertain that Mr. Taylor’s work is literal and not fiction. In Mr. Taylor’s postulate, there is a function that implies all social systems have a Critical Action Time in which a force of change applied cannot be balanced by a restorative reaction from within the system.

“There is an extensive set of mathematical formulae attached to the file. Would you like me to display it?"

“No, please,” Tom groaned. “In a strange way it’s comforting to know that he’s working on that. At least it makes him sound like he’s not pulling ideas out of his ass.”

“Mr. Taylor does occasionally dictate into his files from the restroom, though I have no reference to any process of storing information in such a manner,” Mica said.

Tom snorted cold coffee through his nose, and nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Do you need assistance?” Mica asked. “I can summon Dr. Winston if you are having trouble breathing.”

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “I just really didn’t need to have that image in my mind."

“Can you explain why my previous statement elicited such a reaction from you?” Mica asked, managing to sound confused.

“Some other time,” Tom said. “I need to get this press release finished and sent before I die of exhaustion. Can you display what we have so far?”

“Of course,” Mica said, “I will file the previous conversation for future reference.” The desktop display in front of him came on and Tom scanned the statement.

“I think that does it,” he said, reading it over twice. “Send copies to every news bureau you can find."

“Do you want it to go to foreign language services as well?” Mica offered. “If so, I can translate the document as needed.”

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” Tom agreed, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “Now, I’m going to get a nap.” Shutting off his antique desk lamp, he headed out to find a horizontal surface on which to crash.

He’d almost cleared the door when Mica stopped him. “We are beginning to receive calls for more information on the press release. How do you want to handle them?”

Tom shook his head. “Even after all these years of obscurity, mention Colton Taylor’s name, and you’re sure to get a rise out of somebody.” He paused leaning against the doorjamb trying to formulate an answer. He closed his eyes for an instant and felt himself slipping off to sleep while he stood there.

“Handle the ones you can,” he said, opening his eyes just before he started sliding down the jamb. “If all they need is logistic things, that’s your area. If they want more than that, start scheduling me for call-backs tomorrow morning.”

“Understood,” Mica said. “Incidentally, Mr. Taylor is asking for you to join him in the Communications Center.”

“After I sleep,” Tom said, yawning again.

“He said it is urgent,” Mica said. “It has to do with the Homeland Security agents that are parked outside the perimeter."

“Oh shit,” Tom groaned, straightening physically and trying to find one more ounce of reserve energy to drive himself forward another step. “How many of them are there?"

“I have seen five. However I can deduce that there are at least two more working in an enclosed vehicle. They have established a substantial technological presence,” Mica said.

There was no turning back now. Colton’s plan had been set into motion and although Tom knew better than to argue, he wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to bring things under control again.

Pandora had nothing on the box they’d just opened.

***

Thunder on the Wind

White Sands, New Mexico:

Thunder echoed across the dry desert, splitting the crystal blue sky with a defiant and angry scream. This was not the familiar roar of a rocket leaping up from the ragged and pockmarked sands of New Mexico, it was a war cry born in the forge of mankind’s spirit. The moment when human achievement rose to challenge the inevitability of nature, and civilization’s mortality hung in the balance.

From 45,000 feet General Marquez couldn’t hear the booster, as it was nothing more than an insignificant speck of flame rising on an ashen white finger of smoke, but regardless, he’d wanted to be present at the first launch. He watched from the rear seat of an F-22R as the missile rose toward its rendezvous with the ISS. The veteran pilot who’d flown him to this remote location, circled above what had once been Spaceport America at the edge of the restricted airspace, without knowing why, or what, was happening. He sat patiently at the controls until the missile vanished and the trail began to scatter on the winds.

“Sir, are we done here? If so, we do need to scoot if we’re going to put down at Schriever on schedule,” his voice drawled over the headset.

“Of course, Major. Thank you for indulging me,” the General replied. The jet slammed hard-over and shot off across the sky with a crushing kick of acceleration.

“A question, if you don’t mind, sir?” the pilot asked. “What’s so special about that particular bird?”

“Nothing that I can talk about, but in a couple years, when you’re talking to your grandkids about the things you’ve seen, you’ll be able to tell them you watched the first moment in the most important military operation in human history.”

Watching the mountains streak by below them, he wondered if there’d be any grandchildren left for the Major to tell it to.

***

Stormhaven:

Dave Randall had been invited out to the desolate airstrip on the Arizona border, but surveying the landscape below, he began to wonder if it’d been such a good idea. Especially at the request of one of his ex-wife’s friends that he’d never actually met.

Coming in low over the rolling prairie had been a bit of a challenge with gusting winds whipping across the hilltops, but it made him feel alive to cut the edge close. Making an inspection pass over the runway, he thought about turning around. The access road, with its rutted surface, looked like it hadn’t been used in months.

Dave circled the field several times and was about to give up when he saw a white SUV sloshing up the road. Pulling around he flew straight at the truck, watching the headlights flash on and off several times. “I guess that’s the welcoming committee,” he said, cutting back to line up on the runway.

Rolling out and taxiing toward an abandoned-looking steel building that appeared to be the only facilities here, he watched two men jump out of the SUV and open the hangar door. The older of the men stood to the side and motioned him to pull inside.

The lights came up as he cut the engine and braked to a stop. To his left sat a beautiful new Cessna Citation X3000, looking stunningly wrong in the run down hangar, but the man who greeted him was at least as out of place as the jet. “You must be Dave. I’m Cole. Colton Taylor actually,” he said, as he popped the door.

Everybody knew the stories about the reclusive inventor, but the person who stood before him wasn’t remotely what he would’ve expected. He had the intensity that went with his reputation, but his smile was genuine and contagious.

“I see you’ve heard of me,” Cole said. “None of it’s true ... well maybe some of it isn’t.” Without asking, he reached past Dave to snag his gig bag off the back seat. Handing it off to the other man, he said, “We’ll take the mini, you bring the truck back.”

He started pulling a canvas cover off of something that appeared to be not quite a helicopter or a hovercraft. It looked vaguely like a flatbed delivery truck, without wheels. Kicking the pile of fabric out of the way, Cole climbed up on the back platform. “Come on, let’s go for a ride,” Cole said, gesturing for Dave to join him.

Staring at the odd machine for several seconds, Dave jumped up just as Colton opened a hatch and stepped into the vehicle’s passenger cabin.

“Wait a minute, what’s this all about?” Dave asked.

“First, I make you a believer, then we talk.” Cole smiled sideways, in a way that made a person want to laugh. Dave struggled to resist the urge.

“Make me a believer? In what?” Dave crossed his arms in front of his chest and refused to budge until he had an answer. Watching the exchange from across the room, the other man snickered.

“I need you to take me seriously,” Cole said. “Indulge me for five minutes and you’ll understand.”

Sighing, he stepped inside. There was a single seat and a railing along the back wall of the tiny cabin. He slipped into the space behind Colton, watching an array of digital controls light up on an otherwise featureless panel that covered the front of the cockpit.

“What is this?” Dave asked, looking around.

“We call it a mini. It was originally a test chassis and pilot trainer, but the design turned out to be so useful we built a dozen of them.” Without warning, the hatch closed and the floor shifted under him, like an elevator starting to move,
sideways.

Twisting around he realized they were rolling forward, and climbing at the same time. He looked again at the instrument panel, watching Cole’s fingers slide across its surface. “Ducted fan?”

“Nope,” Cole said, grinning over his shoulder as they cleared the door and floated stationary for several seconds.

Dave looked out the back window at the small structures on the corners of the framework bed. Nothing was blowing on the ground.

“You’re good to go,” the man standing outside said, his voice muffled, but easily audible through the wall of the cabin. There were no engine noises to compete with his voice.

“Thanks, we’re going to take the scenic route,” Cole said, barely raising his voice. The man nodded and they began to gain altitude.

“Obviously I’ve landed in the Twilight Zone,” Dave said, leaning back against the wall. “Maybe you’re George Jetson, but that would make me Astro. Nah, I hate being the dog.”

Cole laughed. “Hang on, Astro. I’m going to take it up a peg or two.” He slid his fingers across the panel and they shot skyward with enough force to almost buckle Dave’s knees.

“Damn. Give me some warning next time. I’d like to not get caught like that.” He groaned, feeling the force shift from vertical to horizontal in a gradual arc. Glancing at the ground, they were easily at 3,000 feet.

“So I should have said,
Mister
Jetson.” He shook his head. The acceleration eased to almost nothing and he turned loose of the railing to let the blood flow back into his fingers.

They coasted along, letting drag slow them down. Cole turned in the seat. “Now that I’ve got your attention, do you want to drive?”

“One of these?” Dave stared at the panel, wondering if it was really as alien as it looked.

“No, not one of these,” he said, turning back to the controls. They banked toward the ground and shot downward with a kick of acceleration that held him pinned to the back wall.

Flattening out, they skimmed along the runway and over the perimeter fence, shooting above the SUV that was slogging along the access road.

“Mica,” Cole said, “please open the barn doors. I’m about twenty seconds out.”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor. I am tracking your position now.” The voice of the flight controller sounded calm, like this type of blistering approach was commonplace.

They lost speed by shooting up in a gradual climb toward a ridgeline a hundred feet above them. Pulling the nose hard over, he burnt off momentum. Plunging into a narrow dry-wash that opened onto the end of a gargantuan concrete Quonset, Dave could see its immense doors were still rolling out of the way.

Gasping at the brutal maneuver, he almost slammed into the back of Cole’s seat, but their speed had dropped to zero just as they entered the relative darkness of the huge building.

“Why would I want you to fly one of these? I expect you to fly that,” he said, pointing out the window. They were hanging eyeball-to-eyeball with the bridge of the
Dancing Star
.

“After that ride, sure,” Dave grunted. “But what is it?”

“A space ship,” Cole said, drifting along the hull of the giant transport vehicle.

“Right. I get it. You’re not George Jetson after all, you’re Rod Serling.” He leaned against the console staring out at the flat expanse of pale gray. It was at least three stories high and stretched horizontally like the side of a building.

“Obviously you know how to fly, why do you need me?” Dave asked.

“Because nobody in Stormhaven has any experience in space,” Cole said. “We need an astronaut. Somebody’s got to show us how it’s done.”

“Ex-astronaut,” Dave corrected. “I can’t do the acceleration of a shuttle launch anymore.”

“I heard about your crash,” Cole said, “but you’re ok at two or three G aren’t you?”