by Dean Ing
The charter pilot, a windburned woman in her fifties, tossed him an appraising glance. “You people sleep like dead men,” she said, then pointed with her chin. “Nobody’s asleep down there, though.”
Wes reached back and shook Dave Kaplan’s leg, pointing ahead as both sleepers sat erect. “Looks like the word is out,” Wes said. The town of Globe lay miles to the west, a dawn sun heliographing saffron winks from windows in the taller structures.
“I spotted an ABC logo on a Bell chopper,” said the pilot, getting her gear-down signals, lining up the Piper neatly.
“That’s all we needed,” Wes grumbled. He said no more for a moment, reflecting that the pilot had no more special loyalty to Peel Transit than would a taxi driver. For a moment before the Piper dropped further, they could see the scatter of small aircraft around Delta One, and Wes thought of jackals sitting around a dying elephant - or a dead one. Hopefully: “No obvious damage from here. Can you taxi us all the way?” “Why not? Everybody else in the world did,” cracked the pilot, attending to her flareout, letting the Piper settle gently. The others peered anxiously ahead and said nothing.
Before the craft braked to a stop, Wes could see the impact jacks of Delta One anchored rigidly in the hard, bumt-ochre earth to one side of the taxi strip. Another Schultheis idea: With a properly designed gimbal mount and a cartridge-powered stake driver, a dirigible could anchor its own moorage platform. No sign of the crew, but plenty of the wrong kind of sign: media, come to sniff for hints of carrion. One fat-tired little three-wheel vehicle, then another, puttered toward the Piper with cargo panniers full of video equipment. “If we don’t know anything, we can’t say anything,” Schultheis said quickly.
“One of us will have to make optimistic noises,” Wes replied. “Otherwise you know damn’ well what they’ll speculate in print. I probably shouldn’t do it myself. Dave, it’s yours. Make it brief, and offhand.”
“Gotcha. And I smile like hell,” Kaplan replied, unfolding his legs. Their pilot only stared in awe at Delta One.
They met a pair of hand-held microphones and a score of rapid-fire questions, and they smiled. They identified themselves and they smiled some more, striding the hundred yards to the long shadow of Delta One as more reporters met them. Wes claimed they would issue a statement when they knew more. He saw Boff Allington walking toward him, and Allington’s smile seemed almost genuine as they shook hands.
“If this gasbag traveled as fast as bad news,” Allington remarked, “she’d need a titanium hull.”
And now, because microphones were very near, Wes’s smile became the grin of a man biting off a hangnail. He had already seen the tight-stretched plastic sheeting, bigger than a bed-sheet, taped under the hull to hide the thrust chambers. “This is great news,” he insisted, propelling Allington toward the big delta. “Everything went according to the test schedule, didn’t it?” Nodding his head ever so faintly at Allington: “Didn't it?”
“Why bless me, of course. Just having my little sarcasm,” Allington said, hurrying to the tubular ladder near the lowered cargo pallet between sturdy jack pads. Responding automatically to a shift in the breeze, Delta One nosed a few degrees to the north, tip rudders moving like live things. The behemoth still seemed to be flying at her moorage.
Behind them, Kaplan paused to scan every square yard of Delta One’s surfaces, ignoring reporters from a half-dozen aircraft and three choppers, nodding to himself as Wes and the others ascended the ladder. Finally, with one foot on the ladder, Kaplan turned, standing tall as a giraffe among the jackals.
“If this isn’t an unscheduled emergency,” one voice demanded, “what do you call it?”
“We call it peripheral testing,” said Kaplan, the babble around him ceasing instantly. He knew damned well that plastic mask was the center of their curiosity, so he dismissed it immediately, pointing at it. “We don’t intend to show our competition all of Peel Transit’s high-performance secrets, so don’t ask.” Of course there was no real competition to Delta One yet. ‘ ‘Mr. Peel wanted to prove Delta One could navigate the Rockies, at night, in treacherous winds and at very high speeds. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly what she did, two nights running.”
Another voice: “How do you explain the mayday call last night?”
Kaplan repeated the question, buying time to assemble his reply. Then: “My fault, I’m afraid. The structure is my job, and I wasn’t sure Delta One could take an airspeed of over a hundred and fifty knots. If the instruments showed a gust beyond that speed, the flight crew was to declare an emergency and land as soon as possible.” He paused, looked at the enormous span of hull above him, and waved a hand. “Do you see any fins tom off? Wrinkles in the hull? Me, neither. I was overcautious; she did it. Now if you’ll excuse me, we have a long inspection to do, to prove I was wrong. ” A beatific smile. “Mr. Peel was right. Delta One is capable of world-record speeds for lighter-than-air craft. One thing we do know: She proved it last night.” And with that, he climbed the ladder while a dozen reporters sprinted for their microwave links.
It was Rogan who pointed out that network crews might use tiny lasers against the hull to eavesdrop on a conversation, and Jim Christopher who suggested idling a pair of Delta One’s big hummers so their vibration would make hash of a micro-laser audio pickup. “We got here from Aztec Peak. Why don’t we just fly the fuck outa here while we talk,” Rogan wanted to know.
“Not just yet,” said Dave, glancing toward Wes, getting a nod. He glanced at Christopher. “Did you lose any helium?”
“A little,” Christopher admitted. “Hunk of shrapnel the size of my thumb. There must be pieces of lab-grown sapphire scattered all over Aztec Peak. I bonded patches on both holes, so we have full buoyancy again.”
Wes: “Did anybody call that laser-boost expert at Rensselaer?”
Schultheis: “Lake? Not without your say-so, Wes. Besides,
Lake knows we’re up to something like this; he’ll want more answers than we have.” He turned to Allington. “Boff, did you get a printout on the strain gauges? We don’t know how far this sets us back, yet.”
Allington produced a hard copy, a finger-thick sheaf of numbers that kept a running tally of stresses and instrument readings throughout the test series. With Wes and Kaplan kibitzing, Allington punched up the animated video on his data-reduction display. Christopher and Rogan remained silent and alert while the others fed scenarios into the data processor. They found one scenario that matched the facts after ten minutes. They tried for another half hour without finding another. It was clear that the ferociously cold hydrogen feed line to chamber four was the culprit. A simple rerouting would have prevented the uneven heating near that sapphire port.
Allington yawned as he returned to the MLF mode - most likely failure, sometimes aptly called malf mode - and paused. “Sorry. We’ve been up all night, y’know.”
Wes nodded, studying Rogan who, except for the stubble on his face, seemed fresh as unlaid eggs. “Glenn, tell me your impressions.”
Rogan lit an unfiltered cigarette and drawled, “We finished the short snorts, up to fifteen sec - there’s enough beam scatter off those Fresnel lenses to ruin your night vision without a visor, by the way. Each time we’d take another vector. The laser alignment was perfect. So we line up on the one-oh-two-degree bearing at about two thousand meters, heading for Aztec Peak where we gonna be marmalade if we can’t jump ’er. I get a hundred-ten percent out of the props. Chris asks for the big zap; the full twenty sec. They send it. Gawwww, damn
“I feel the jolt come on like dialing turbo boost on a sprint car, I put the wheel in my gut, and for seventeen seconds it was fuckin’ Highjump time.” His left hand described an arc, and he did not seem to notice Schultheis flinch at the forbidden word.
“Seventeen-point-six-three,” Allington injected. “But who’s counting?”
“Well, at point-six-three the shit hits the air conditioner. We’re not quite over the peak but our inertia is takin
’ us there; I feel this wump and a hell of a shudder, fire-warning lights, loss of power, and Chris terminates the boost while he’s playin’ video games with extinguisher buttons. I’m committed to the maneuver, thinkin’ about those fuckin’ hydrogen tanks and chewin’ washers outa my shorts, because I can see the damnedest light you ever saw reflecting off Aztec Peak. And that light is coming from under Delta One’s hull!”
The pilot paused, flicking at his cigarette ash, and Wes glanced toward his design chief, who had the pallor and rigidity of marble. “For God’s sake drop the other shoe, Rogan,” he urged.
“Right. We clear the peak, but a piece of that polished carbon armor is tearin’ away and we can all hear it, and I reverse the props and hit the air brakes hopin’ that debris doesn’t feed itself to one of our props.”
“It tried,” Christopher said with his gentle smile. “There’s a scar at the portside aft shroud. You had the props reversed so the slipstream blew the debris aside.”
“Did somethin’ right,” Rogan said with a shrug. “But you know those magnesium compression tubes, Kaplan? When that thrust chamber blew, a piece of mag got in the way of the laser for just about a jiffy. And we had a flash bulb that wouldn’t quit, buddy.”
“You had a got-damned magnesium flare under the hull,” Wes exclaimed.
“And hydrogen inside with us,” said Rogan. He saw Kaplan stare at his cigarette and grinned. “Don’t worry, I purged that propellant tank soon as I could. Anyhow, some of the carbon armor was still hangin’ in there, insulating us from the burning mag. Chris grabs this fuckin’ fire hatchet, runs aft, shinnies down into the slipstream, and beats the shit outa that mag tube at its base.”
“Thank God, that alloy’s cheesy and brittle,” said Kaplan. Rogan, his face reddening in a second: “Then why the fuck was it out there?”
“Because it’s good for compression loads,” Kaplan said mildly. “But I should never, ever, allow mag alloys anywhere near a high-energy laser target. I just didn’t think, Rogan.” Wes put up a restraining hand. “Okay. We were lucky, and we have Boff’s printouts. Meanwhile, we don’t know whether Delta One is airworthy.”
Christopher: “Of course we know, Mr. Peel. We’ve got strain gauges bonded on every girder in the ship. Boff had the data reduced before we landed.”
Wes, venting his frustration: “Well, tell me!”
“A little yielding where that carbon insulation was tom away,” said Allington quietly, reproachfully. “No structural failure.”
“Then why is Delta One stuck here?”
“We landed her here to assess the damage,” said Rogan. “We stayed here because he told me to.” Rogan's nod was toward Tom Schultheis.
“Hell,” Schultheis breathed, running a hand through his hair. “That’s right. In the event of any failure of the boost system,” he explained to Wes, and dry-washed his face with both hands. “I was too tired to think straight when you called, Wes.”
Wes Peel sat back, staring at his design chief for a long moment, then began to shake almost imperceptibly. The others needed some time to realize he was laughing, the laugh of a man too drained by worry to put much energy into it. “Never forget what orders you give,” he said at last, and clapped a gentle hand on the smaller man’s arm. “So there’s no reason why we can’t up-ship for Hayward right now?”
“Just confinn a flight plan and retract the anchor jacks,” Christopher said.
“Then do it,” said Wes. “Those media people will get the message loud and clear. Just be sure when you wave, you don’t do it with one finger.”
“Seconded,” said Kaplan quickly, glancing at Schultheis. “Anyone disagree?”
No one did. “What are we waiting for,” Wes snapped, shrugging into a seat harness as he reached for a headset. “Patch me into a cellular link, Chris. Vangie Broussard will be watching the store alone.” No one noticed that the number Wes dialed was his own home, where he knew Vangie was waiting.
THIRTEEN
On both coasts the trials of Delta One were featured prominently by media but, in the Midwest, it was not on the front page above the fold. Winthorp often smirked to his classes that headlines are about things it’s either too late to do much about, or things no serious person cares to think much about. Tonight, Winthorp had very serious things to think about; that brief anonymous message left on his answering machine, for one. It had been only the audio portion of a television ad, chosen for its brash commercialism. Nurbashi’s idea of humor, and always the coded command for a return call. It was Winthorp’s pleasure to wait, to exercise what small controls he had.
Alone in the study of his tidy bungalow, submerged cozily amid the cushions of a very expensive and comfortable chair, Winthorp read three newspapers that evening, as was his custom: the U. S. edition of the Manchester Guardian, the Wall Street Journal, and the local daily. He had cut two unrelated items from the other papers before he saw, on page six of the local paper, the picture two columns wide.
In the AP color photo, Delta One seemed poised forever in a steep upward bank, her stubby wings spanning the sky, thick masses of cloud for a distant backdrop. The picture might have been taken anywhere. The caption read, “Peel Transit Dirigible streaks for coast after secret tests in Arizona. AP”
The head, just below, asked: “WORLD RECORD SPEED FOR PEEL DIRIGIBLE?”
Winthorp pursed his lips and read:
‘ ‘GLOBE (AP) - Executives of a high tech industrial firm announced today that their new dirigible broke existing speed records in high-speed runs over central Arizona last night.
“John Wesley Peel of Peel Transit Associates, a Hayward, California, firm, flew into central Arizona at dawn this morning with the airship’s designers to inspect the craft after secretive night tests. Unveiled recently over San Francisco Bay, the hybrid airship has provoked much speculation among aerospace pundits, and derision in some quarters.
“But Peel spokesman Dr. David Kaplan said the 400-foot, helium-filled monster, ‘Delta One,’ exceeded design speeds of 170 miles an hour, and would undergo thorough inspection near Globe before flying again. Later in the day, Delta One outran network helicopters after filing a flight plan for Hayward.
“Peel, the maverick industrialist whose California plant manufactures cargo trucks and is a subcontractor for Santa
Fe’s superspeed magnetic railway, had no comment. Informed sources say that Peel’s Delta One is the first of a class of hybrid cargo vehicles intended to compete with other modes of high-speed freight.”
Nodding in agreement with himself, humming an old nursery tune, Winthorp cut out the article for his files and knew that his decision was irrevocable. He scribbled a date on the newsprint, then pressed the stud which brought his chair erect, depositing him on his feet before the massive file cabinet that dominated the center of the room. He withdrew keys from his vest pocket, chose one, and unlocked the cabinet with the precision of a man who enjoys doing small things well. The contents of those drawers were exactly what anyone might expect of an Econ professor: teaching records; his stock portfolio; fat subdivisions labeled Communication, Education, Foods, and so on, the pillars supporting Great Satan.
The late Senator Adam Elliott was not the only subject in the government file, but he was there, all right. The late Harold Kroner was not the only figure with a subfile under Entertainment, either. Winthorp flicked his way through manila tabs in the Transport section, withdrew one, and carefully centered the picture of Delta One in the file, then paused, tapping the file with a forefinger. He returned to his chair and began to review the Transport file, shuffling quickly past the material on J. A. Weatherby and others. The Peel sheaf was not thick, but some of those snippets from Fortune and Business Week yielded hints about the habits of John Wesley Peel.
Winthorp read slowly, thoughtfully, with the same care that national security spooks used in assembling a scenario. Peel was not a family man, but his home and his parties there had impressed more than one scribbler. He was a man o
f decidedly irregular habits. He had spent a night in a Colorado jail once, after flattening the driver of a pickup in an argument over highway manners. During the past few years Peel had developed a smoother way of collecting media spotlights with attractive stunts, rather like that fellow Hughes of an earlier generation. It might bring Peel the same kind of following. Once famous, Hughes had become fanatically shy of the public; a difficult man to find, much less to kill. The party-tossing Peel just might recede the same way.
No point in waiting until Peel retired from die target area of public scrutiny. Hal Kroner had been dealt with - however sloppy the job - and Winthorp had no doubt why he was expected to make that telephone call. Nurbashi would be pressing for another name. But the film director had been taken out very quickly and when you used the same weapon too often in a brief period, you made an obvious pattern. Nurbashi seemed to care little about that, but Winthorp cared very much. The problem was in exercising some control over a mullah who made a fetish of control. The solution? Well, one solution was to beg more time in researching a name, which might buy an extra week if you could avoid the pious arrogance of Kosrow Nurbashi. Perhaps more than a week if one could play the mullah’s scratchy records back to him.
Winthorp closed the file folder, sat back with closed eyes, and in the utter seclusion of his womblike chair, sucked lightly on his left thumb while, with his right thumb and forefinger, he pulled gently at an earlobe. Somewhere in the wisdom of the Middle East was an epigram to cover it, and Nurbashi was an addict of epigrams.
What was that old wheeze his mother always quoted, to justify her languid pace? Supposedly from the Holy Koran, but not to be found there. Ah, yes: Haste is child of the devil, brother of delay, father of failure and a stranger to wisdom. One way or another, to save his own skin if nothing else, Winthorp would keep Nurbashi’s eager loonies from giving the game away with too-frequent repetitions of their trips to paradise.