Impact (Fuzed Trilogy Book 1)

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Impact (Fuzed Trilogy Book 1) Page 1

by David E Stevens




  REVIEWS

  2016 Eric Hoffer Award winner. ForeWord Reviews Book of the Year and winner of the Epic eBook Award (under the original title Resurrect).

  “Highlights a real-life threat facing all of us, and packages it into a highly entertaining action-adventure.” — Dr. Ed Lu, former astronaut and CEO of the B612 Foundation

  “Thrilling, technically astute and knowledgeable of the inner workings of an elite club. Commander Stevens’ stories about naval aviation and ‘black’ programs can only come from someone who’s ‘been there, done that.’” — Vice Admiral Joe Dyer, former Chief Test Pilot of the Navy and COO of iRobot

  “Fascinating. Technically accurate and frighteningly plausible.” — Professor Joe Veverka, former Chairman of Cornell Astrophysics, Principle Investigator for NASA Stardust mission

  “Inspiring, thought-provoking and impossible to put down. A compelling book and should make a blockbuster film.” — Fred Miller, Executive Producer of Academy Award nominated For All Mankind

  “Mesmerizing! The story is so alarmingly plausible you’ll never look at the horizon the same way again!” — Nick Nickles, Senior Intelligence Specialist, U.S. Department of Justice

  “A fascinating and exciting novel ... how to prevent a real-life catastrophe of major proportions.” — Dr. Carolyn Shoemaker, discovered 332 asteroids and comets including Shoemaker-Levy

  “Action, philosophy ... a hero who thinks more of others than himself and F-18 fighters — what more could you ask for in an adventure novel?” — Hall of Fame Astronaut Ken Bowersox, International Space Station Commander

  “Stevens tells a story that is both deeply personal and global at the same time. The tension started on the cover and never let up. This is a book that opened doors long closed. Don’t expect to sleep until you finish.” — Stuart Frisch, Special Forces, counter-terrorism expert, co-founder Obsidian Strategies

  “Engaging from the very start, it was a thrilling, thought-provoking adventure into a new world!” — Cherry Meadows, international motivational speaker

  “In the vein of the Dan Brown novels, this is a page-turner that sucks you in, but differentiates itself by having much stronger intellectual ‘chops,’ and more complex, soulful characters.” — Christian Johnson, international photographer

  “I could not put it down. It’s thought provoking, emotional and even humorous. Why are our world leaders not talking about these issues?!” — Julie Atlas, President of The Wave Agency

  “I enjoy Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum and Dan Brown, but there is a definite difference when reading someone who has actually lived the life they are writing about.” — Tim Hendricks, CEO, author and international speaker

  IMPACT

  Book One of the Fuzed Trilogy

  David E. Stevens

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the men and women of the B612 Foundation and the cadre of scientists and professionals who have the vision to see the future and the courage to change it.

  I

  RE-ENTRY

  1

  THE END

  His thoughts became less distinct and his vision began to fade. As he looked up at the stars ... his heart beat its last beat.

  2

  BEGIN

  He awoke in pervasive nothingness. It was neither dark nor light, silent nor loud. It just ... was. He tried to move, but didn’t know how. “Where am I?”

  The nothingness swallowed his question, but he began to see images. Unfolding at incredible speed was a cascade of sights, sounds and smells. As time advanced, the pace slowed, and he became immersed.

  . . .

  He was a teenager competing in his first karate tournament. Glancing from his opponent to a cute girl in the audience ... he found himself flat on his back. His instructor leaned over him with a wry smile. “Andy, this ain’t a beauty pageant. You really gotta focus.”

  . . .

  Two of his friends stared down three large locals across a pool table. Before it came to blows, he slid in with drinks and defused the confrontation. One of his inebriated friends said, “Thanks, dude. That could’ve gotten us thrown out of flight school.”

  . . .

  In a flight debrief, the Squadron Commander pointed at him. “Our new guy got a perfect bull’s eye,” he shook his head, “on the wrong training target.” Looking right at him, he added, “Son, we don’t need to deploy with a pilot that’s dazed and confused.”

  “Confused!” A senior pilot sitting next to him slapped him on the back. “I think our FNG just scored himself a new call-sign.”

  The Squadron Commander laughed but shook his head. “Too long.” He thought for a moment and then smiled. “And he did get a bull’s eye.” On the whiteboard, he wrote, “Fuzed.”

  . . .

  Strapped into an F-18 on the aircraft carrier’s catapult, he watched a wave break across the bow. The typhoon had taken an unexpected turn and with aircraft struggling to land, the airborne jets were running dangerously low on fuel.

  He was the emergency tanker. His Super Hornet carried a refueling package and extra fuel tanks under each wing. Snapping his oxygen mask on, he saluted the Catapult Officer and was launched into the typhoon.

  He rendezvoused with and tanked three jets. Each of the jets had to make multiple approaches before they could get aboard. Finally, after the third one landed, he was the last aircraft airborne and now he was critically low on fuel. The typhoon had gone from bad to nightmare with the sea and sky merging into a violent visceral black.

  On his radio, the Landing Signal Officer said, “Fuzed, Paddles, storm’s tossing the carrier around like a bathtub toy. Visibility’s almost zero. What’s your state?”

  With 1400 pounds of fuel left, he replied, “One point four.”

  “Dang, Fuzed, you gave away all your gas.” There was a pause. “You only got enough for one approach. The helos are grounded. Fly your needles and do ... not ... go ... high! Do you understand?”

  “Roger.” With no rescue helicopter, ejecting into the typhoon was a death sentence. He flew the instrument approach as if his life depended on it. It did, but with the turbulence, it was like trying to fly a rollercoaster.

  Thirty seconds to touch down, approach control said, “Three-quarters of a mile, call the ball.”

  He saw nothing and said, “Clara, zero point eight.” Clara meant he couldn’t see the ship — or anything beyond the fighter’s nose — and 800 pounds of fuel meant he was minutes from engine flameout.

  With wind whistling in the background, he heard Paddles say, “Keep it coming. Fly the needles!” Which meant they couldn’t see him either.

  His radar altimeter warned he was less than 200 feet above the ocean. Seconds to impact, he was still blind and once again called, “Clara.”

  He had to abort the approach or crash into the ship or sea. As he started to add power, he heard Paddles yell, “We see ya! Come left! Come left! Easy with it!”

  The ship emerged like an apparition through thick, oily sheets of rain. He was too high and too far right! Yanking the throttles back, he slapped the stick hard left. His wing dipped, dumping lift and dropping the fighter like an express elevator. At the same time, an ocean swell heaved the ship up to meet him.

  Slamming onto the flight deck with a bone-jarring impact, the tires blew as his fighter bounced back into the air. He jammed the throttles into afterburner, knowing he’d have to climb and eject, but the tip of his tail hook caught the fourth and final steel cable — ripping him violently from the typhoon. Pilot to crash-test dummy in two seconds. He sat motionless on the flight deck still clenching the stick and throttle, pleasantly surprised to be alive. Before he could pull the throttles back, the en
gines flamed out.

  The flight crew chained his jet to the deck where it sat.

  As soon as it was secure, he climbed out of the cockpit and staggered across the storm-blasted deck to the nearest hatch. He was drenched with rain and sweat as he stepped inside. Closing the heavy metal hatch and breathing a sigh of relief, he turned around and was confronted by an intimidating looking, six-foot-three, muscular black man with a shaved head.

  Commander Joe Meadows said, “That was the worst damn landing I’ve ever seen!” Grinning from ear to ear, his Squadron Commander slapped him hard on the back, adding, “Awesome! Fuzed, you saved a lot of pilots’ butts out there. I’m proud of you and I’m going to get you that Test Pilot School slot you wanted.” He gave him a half-smile. “Just don’t forget, little details — like fuel — can be important.”

  . . .

  He saw three gold stripes on his own uniform sleeve, as he shook hands with an admiral. The admiral said, “Congratulations, Fuzed, the Robotic Fighter project you’re taking over is one of the most important black programs we have.” With a wry smile, he added, “Bad news is it’s going to put all us pilots out of a job.”

  . . .

  The minister said, “May I present Commander Andrew and Mrs. Kelly Logan.” They walked out of the front of the church and under a ceremonial arch created by two rows of Navy officers holding crossed swords over their heads. At the end of the arch, his best man gently swatted his new wife on the backside with a sword. “Welcome to the Navy, ma’am,” and to him, “About flippin’ time, Commander!”

  As they got into the limo, his beautiful redheaded wife, smiling through tears, said, “Thank you for letting us do a church wedding!”

  . . .

  Leaving the house for work, his wife kissed him goodbye and said, “Happy first anniversary!” With a challenging smile, she added, “Remember, you said after a year we’d talk about having kids?” Seeing his expression, her face fell, but she just said, “We’ll talk when you get back from California. Love you.”

  At sunset, 30-foot, blue-white blowtorches drove his 20-ton fighter down the runway like an angry rhino on crack. The Super Hornet was clumsy and ungainly on the ground, but as it leaped into the air, it transformed into a graceful bird of prey.

  It was a routine flight, but it was great to get away from his desk and other issues. He was delivering a freshly built F/A-18H Super Hornet to its new squadron home in California. The Boeing plant, where the fighter was assembled, joined St. Louis International. Sharing the airport with airliners, the overworked air traffic controllers wanted the small, fast moving jets out of their crowded airspace as soon as possible. Happy to oblige, he pulled the Hornet’s nose up into a 60-degree climb, his afterburner dominating the twilight sky like a comet.

  The red-tailed hawk tucked its wings and dove ... too late. Expiring in an explosion of feathers, it struck a fuel line in the landing gear bay at 200 miles per hour.

  3

  FLIGHT

  As he raised the landing gear, he caught something out of the corner of his eye — a tiny brown blur and what felt like a slight vibration. He checked his engine instruments carefully. Everything looked fine.

  Passing 10,000 feet, he pulled the engines out of burner and reduced his rate of climb. Slewing the cursor on his radar with his throttle-mounted mouse, he realized he was just working on his office computer like everyone else. His “office chair” was a thinly padded ejection seat sitting a few feet in front of hundreds of twirling, titanium turbine blades. His “suit” was made of green, fire-resistant Nomex, and over it, he wore a G-suit zipped tightly around his stomach and legs. Designed to force blood back to the brain during high-G maneuvers, they looked more like green cowboy chaps than high-tech clothing. Which was probably appropriate, since strapping into a fighter was like saddling up a high-strung bronco, both of which were capable of ejecting their riders.

  He checked in with Kansas City Center for his final cruise altitude.

  They responded, “Hornet Zero Seven, climb and maintain flight level four seven zero.”

  He repeated the climb instructions back. Technically, the correct response should have included “wilco,” meaning, “will comply,” but like most pilots, he had an inherent dislike of being compliant.

  Leveling off at 47,000 feet, he relaxed and enjoyed the view. His accommodations might have been spartan, but unlike many offices, his had a window, and what a window it was. The fighter’s bubble canopy gave him a panoramic view with only a centimeter of Plexiglas separating him from the cold, thin, 600-mph air.

  Cruising nine miles high on a twin-turbine Harley, he chased the setting sun across the continent. The sun would win, but flying close to the speed of sound, he gave it a run for its money, stretching a 15-minute sunset to an hour. With 80 percent of the atmosphere below him, the brilliantly compressed colors spanned the spectrum. Above him was the simple dead, dark black of space. Stars stared down unblinking, having lost their atmosphere-induced twinkle. The black dome ended in a narrow strip of deep iridescent purple. The purple feathered into infinite shades of blue, from the darkest navy across a band of powdery sky-blue, into a brief gasp of turquoise. Finally, an explosion of brilliant yellows, fluorescent oranges and deep, rich reds cut the horizon like a rip in the heavens. He savored the beauty and solitude, knowing there would be few of these moments in the years ahead.

  A familiar female voice broke his reverie. Bitching Betty — the pilot’s nickname for the warning system — spoke when the computer detected an emergency requiring immediate action. In her calm, sultry voice, she shared the worst words in her limited vocabulary — “Engine fire left. Engine fire left.”

  His first reaction was disbelief, followed by a curse as he slammed the left throttle off. Jabbing the Fire Warning light, he cut fuel flow to the engine and then punched the fire-extinguisher button, releasing a flood of Halon gas.

  He held his breath. It seemed like an eternity, but it was only seconds before the fire light extinguished. Breathing again, he saw his now single-engine jet was losing airspeed rapidly. He pushed the nose into a descent.

  Kansas City Center called, “Hornet Zero Seven, we show you descending out of your assigned altitude. Say intentions.”

  “Center, Zero Seven, had a fire. I’m now single-engine and declaring an emergency. Need to land as soon as possible.”

  “Zero Seven, say fuel remaining and souls on board.”

  “Souls on board” was standard aviation terminology, but it always gave him the creeps. “I have plenty of fuel, and it’s just me. Need a vector to the nearest field with 7,000 feet of runway.”

  The Center Controller came back quickly. “Closest field is Kansas City, 10 degrees right of your nose, 70 miles. You’re cleared direct.”

  He turned to the new heading and scanned his displays. The right engine and hydraulics looked good. He had plenty of fuel, but automatically checked. The display showed 6,000 pounds. That was impossible! He took off with 14,000! As he watched, the digital indicator dropped to 5,900. It suddenly made sense. Here was the fire’s source — a massive fuel leak.

  He timed the drop and did a quick calculation. He was pleased he could remember how to multiply. IQ usually dropped as adrenaline rose, particularly, when the calculation showed only minutes of fuel remaining.

  “Center, Hornet Zero Seven, looks like the fire was caused by a fuel leak. I have, maybe, 10 minutes left. Need something closer. I’ll take anything with even 3,000 feet of runway.”

  The Controller, now sounding a bit more stressed, said, “Standby, Zero Seven.”

  Edging the throttle up, he increased his airspeed and descent. He was in a race, stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. With his jet hemorrhaging fuel, the last thing he wanted to do was run the remaining engine hotter, but it was either burn it or lose it.

  “Hornet Zero Seven, there’s a small airport on the outskirts of the city, 52 miles from your position. It has a 6,000-foot runway.”


  “I’ll take it.”

  “Hornet Zero Seven, turn right to two-niner-five. Descend at pilot’s discretion. We’re clearing all traffic between you and the field. Destination weather is broken to overcast with a 1,500-foot ceiling.”

  He pushed the fighter into a steeper descent, accelerating to 450 knots. It was more like a dive-bombing run than a landing approach. As Kansas City Center switched him over to Approach Control, he scanned his fuel gauge for the umpteenth time. He might have just enough to make it.

  Descending into the clouds, he left the heavens for the darkness below. As he transitioned to flying by instruments, he was thankful for his helmet-mounted display. No matter where he looked, the green flight symbols appeared to float 10 feet in front of him, allowing him to keep his eyes out of the cockpit. Referred to by fighter pilots as PFM, the technology was pure magic.

  With no apparent concern, Betty said, “Fuel low. Fuel low.”

  He punched through the bottom of the overcast layer, leveling off 1,200 feet above the ground. Below the clouds, it was dark, but Approach Control had lined him up perfectly. He could see the runway lights seven miles off his nose. The controller gave him the tower frequency and added, “Good luck.”

  He thanked her, switched to the tower and pulled the throttle to idle. As he checked in, the tower immediately cleared him to land. He realized he didn’t even know the name of the airport, but it was in the middle of suburban sprawl. Below was an ever-expanding grid of street and house lights spread out as far as he could see. Six miles ahead were the flashing red lights of a crash truck flanking the runway.

 

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