Flashback!—to discussion centered around lift vs. drag: Lift is drag, but with powers “used for good rather than...”
Okay. Quickly retracted flaps, Fowler slats stowing automatically, thereby eliminating unnecessary drag prior to actual moment of liftoff. Applied slight down elevator to raise tail further, flattening wing's angle-of-attack, reducing lift/drag even further—but staying alert to make sure mushy turf's resistance, dragging at tires, wouldn't snag gear, trigger sudden nose-over!
Speed mounted slowly; however, performance improved steadily as weight transferred from tires pressing ruts into turf to wings slicing through air.
Perhaps 200 feet from hedgerow, at 40 knots indicated (only three above official minimum fully controllable maneuvering speed at full gross,) popped flaps, which brought out Fowlers again. Hauled back yoke at very last moment; felt main gear's big, fat tires suck free of turf, swish through brush tops as we ballooned laboriously upward, barely clearing obstacle.
But still not actually flying flying at this point, Posterity; clearly just mushing along some ten feet up, wings mostly supported by ground-effect compression layer rather than true aerodynamic lift.
However, once past hedgerow, with unobstructed terrain ahead, had room to lower nose a tick, allow ship to settle deeper into ground-effect, perhaps four, six feet above ground; milk cushion to keep laboring ship airborne, continuing to build speed until going fast enough to ease off flaps, Fowlers; then retrim; complete transition from stone skipping over pond's surface to actual, aerodynamically clean, stable flight.
Had barely topped 150 mph mark when Danni called, “Candy, the belly doors...”
This—simultaneously with sudden, surprisingly quiet appearance of small round hole low in windshield's center, accompanied by refreshingly cool breeze directed at sweating face, plus much louder bang from somewhere aft, abruptly reminded Plucky Girl Flying Ace, successful takeoff not sole challenge remaining.
Unlocked belly doors with almost convulsive yank, rolled into climbing turn, presenting Danya with view of whatever surviving Khraniteli still attempting to kill us from down at scene of bloodbath.
Special-ops coach began firing immediately. Initially sprayed whole magazine as full-auto burst to get their attention, keep heads down. Two-second interlude followed as flipped siamesed magazines. Then, firing perhaps one per second, got off 25 aimed rounds before next pause; then 25 more.
No further hostile fire struck ship throughout Danya's response; and, by the time last wildly optimistic round started earthward, Stallion probably three miles from takeoff point, climbing east by northeast, still maintaining almost 150 mph, passing 2,000 feet, way out of range.
Of bullets.
Thermonuclear warheads, on other hand, constituted separate issue entirely...
Danni hauled up belly doors, locked, safetied; came forward to kneel just behind front seats. “How much time left?”
Showed her watch: Countdown timer displayed 14-plus minutes.
Mentor looked thoughtful for moment, glanced at airspeed indicator, then: “How fast can this thing go?”
Responded with minilecture regarding 188-knot cruise, but equivocated because still climbing, and nowhere near 13,000-foot maximum-efficiency altitude.
Danni shook head. “Even full speed won't get us clear in time if those master/slave detonators your dad armed work. Turn left; head southwest. Level off; pick up speed.”
Blinked in bemusement not unmixed with concern. First impression suggested turning back toward ground zero unlikely to improve prospects.
Likewise, would take us back past Serdtsevina Rasovyi; not directly over, but close. Wondered how long would take surviving command structure to get act sufficiently together to mobilize surface-to-air defenses. Pretty sure Stallion's bush-flying designers hadn't contemplated dealing with missiles.
Still, figured Danni had to know more about Surviving Thermonuclear Detonations for Fun & Profit than your Humble Historiographer, so lowered nose, cranked into steep turn; rolled out on 270 degrees heading. Watched airspeed mount, stabilize at whisker over 180 knots. Not bad, given overload, low altitude.
Then, in hopes of coaxing forth additional clarification regarding mentor's plans, offered, “As I figure it, 14 minutes at cruise would have taken us 45 miles—”
“Which wouldn't have been enough. Not even on the ground. Out in the open, we'd need to be in excess of 50 miles from a simultaneous multiple-warhead burst of that magnitude—airborne, we'll need a whole lot more: In the air, the shock wave, which is an almost simultaneous push-pull impact, propagating outward from the detonation at nearly the speed of sound, will shred us like a butterfly hovering too close to a detonating hand grenade. Since we lack anywhere near enough time to get far enough away in straight-line distance, we need to put some solid rock between us and the explosion.”
Light dawned: “And everywhere except to the northwest, the terrain is more or less flat.”
“Right. I've done a fair amount of recon around here. About 30 miles northwest of Serdtsevina Rasovyi, there's a steep, mountainous valley bordered on the east by almost sheer cliff. I've climbed it; it's at least 2,000 feet high.
“Land close, taxi up next to the rock face, and we'll have about five miles of as-the-mole-bores bedrock between us and the detonation to soak up that initial flood of hard radiation—gamma, x-rays, and a huge burst of neutrons—as well as to block the actual blast forces. If we take off again as soon as the shock wave has passed, we'll have no trouble getting clear of the fallout.”
“Not being shredded like a butterfly appeals to me. What's our course?”
Danni reached out, fiddled briefly with GPS. Destination appeared on moving map at terminus of follow-me course line.
Along with distance/speed/ETA figures, updated second-by-second in real time.
Going to be close.
Had forgotten how much I used to hate Mondays....
* * * *
Volume XV
Push, Pull, Toast
Passed by Serdtsevina Rasovyi at 5,000 feet, perhaps eight miles north of actual base.
Not far enough.
Viewed objectively (ignoring obvious), handful of fleecy-white, slightly wiggly, surface-to-air missile contrails rather pretty as they hone in on one's aircraft. But since your Humble Historiographer's perspective necessarily based upon observation from controls of aforementioned target, found that difficult: “Danni—they're shooting at us ... !”
“I expected they would,” came tranquil reply.
Couldn't decide whether serene demeanor helped, hindered—or just annoyed. “What should I do?”
“Nothing that would slow us down. Hold your course; fly straight and level. I'll take care of them.”
“You brought surface-to-air missile countermeasures ... ?”
“Of a sort.”
Really impressed by mentor's foresight, Posterity—until watched her pull half dozen ordinary railroad fusees from backpack, force door open fractionally against 180-plus-knot slipstream, then activate each, one at a time, in measured cadence, let drop out. As each fired up, cabin filled briefly with nasty, sulphurous fumes that made Maggie, several kids sneeze (and me want to), but upon exit, slipstream sucked out just as quickly.
Between fusees, Danni produced tufts of what appeared to be short-cut lengths of shiny thread, released in loose handfuls.
Obviously to allay children's fears (under circumstances, didn't mind being included in “target” audience), Momma Spook called over shoulder, “The flares are much hotter than our exhaust, which will attract any heatseekers. The chaff creates large, diffuse microwave targets that confuse conventional radar-targeting systems.”
Happily, initial doubts, along with blood pressure, began to ebb as, within moments, approaching contrails could be seen curving aft and downward, chasing small but intense heat signatures and/or clouds of reflectorized thread.
Shortly found ourselves out of range, with destination in view, but onl
y seven minutes remaining. Eyeballed distance/altitude differential—then trimmed into descent differing from outright dive only in subtlest particulars.
Lennel has “breathed upon” AAs’ Stallions, incorporating mods rendering structures more durable than factory-fresh specimens. Ours placarded at never-exceed velocity, or Vne, of 305 knots, substantially higher than stock. Obviously, exceeding that figure raised specter of catastrophic structural failure due to spontaneous, self-destructive control surface flutter and/or aerodynamic overloads.
Still, weighing time remaining, applicable engineering factors, little question but that alternatives had narrowed to three....
1. Being crispy-fried by high-four-digit temperatures contained in heat/radiation wavefront; or,
2. Given proximity to burst (and assuming anything tangibly Stallion-related remains aloft following heat wave's passage), being shattered into component molecules by ferocious, atmospheric whack-yank shock wave following closely behind.
Neither seemed to constitute significant improvement over (3) mere midair breakup. Accordingly, trimmed for descent angle calculated just barely to reach destination valley—and left power at full.
Watched, holding breath, as speed mounted slowly, stabilizing finally at just under 335. Waited, with tush hypersensitized for aerodynamic disturbances; but detected no flutter in controls, sensed no aerodynamic instability.
Even better, wings remained attached.
However, only a tick over two minutes remained prior to fireballfest as cliff's edge passed barely 50 feet beneath wheels. At which point, chopped throttle, pulled prop pitch back to full flat to act as aerodynamic brake, pushed yoke forward, cranked in left rudder, right aileron, plunged over edge in only arguably under-control sideslip. Then, even though still well above maximum rated deployment speed, popped full flaps. That did cause bumpy moments, particularly as Fowler slats emerged; but despite steep nose-down attitude, plane slowed as if towing drag chute.
Thereafter, with ship aerodynamically “dirty” as possible (between flaps, slats, full-flat-pitch idling prop, plus radical sideslip), once airspeed dipped below 100 mph, found ourselves almost “parachuting” downward at about 40-degree angle, suspended by big, slow-flight-configured wing. At this point descent spiral netted better than 5,000 feet per minute.
Now all Intrepid Girl Flying Ace had to do was find modestly level patch of ground large enough to accommodate touchdown, get us stopped in one piece.
All in under 90 seconds. Thank goodness no pressure....
Scrutinized terrain as rose swiftly to meet us. Immediately noted valley floor well populated with rock outcroppings, trees, bushes, as well as having serious undulation issues. Danni had been through on foot; had had no reason to evaluate site with pilot's eye.
Still, one stretch stood out which, though significantly bent in middle, appeared sufficiently free of at least larger boulders to serve. Landing roll-out would be bumpy, plus require turn-bordering-upon-swerve toward conclusion, but overall, plenty of room to put down, get stopped.
Reviewed short-field landing procedure in head: Yanking flaps up just as wheels touched would kill most remaining lift, provide immediate traction for braking. That combined with burst of full power, with prop in reverse pitch, ought to stop plane as if had snagged aircraft carrier arresting-gear cable.
Once shock wave passed, would dump excess fuel, bring weight down to within design specs. Thereafter, Stallion wouldn't need much more than football field to take off again.
Good; so much easier when problems solve themselv—
“Candy, I just remembered something,” Danni murmured, sotto vocely. “Some models of those older detonator timers have a built-in error: They gain about seven seconds an hour.” Mentor's lips almost touching ear; voice inaudible to others. “Which means we can't count on detonation taking place when it was set for.”
“And ... ?”
“If the first detonator to go off is one of those with the error, we'll be just about touching down when the warhead goes off. So I think it probably would be a good idea to set up for a dead-stick landing. As soon as you're sure you can reach the downwind end of whatever landing site you select, kill the engine and shut off all the avionics. Otherwise, if we do have a premature, and depending upon how many warheads go off, there's a fair chance the EMP could fry our electronics, and we'd be stranded here, unable to restart the engine, just waiting for the fallout.”
Ooo, EMP: electromagnetic pulse—had forgotten about that. Phenomenon had wrought widespread electronic havoc back home during Bratstvo's original attack. This close to ground zero, any components belonging to nonhardened, active electronic circuitry would indeed burn out: igniter, alternator, engine-monitor sensors, processors, instruments—never mind instrument panel's computerized, “glass cockpit” primary flight-information displays. And had no idea which, or how many, gadgets Lennel had hardened on this ship. If any...
Okay. Well, not as if haven't had dead-stick experience. Forced down once in ultralight when engine died.
Well, sort of. Almost. Point of fact, on that occasion landing not actually, strictly dead-stick. Some power had remained available; just not enough to stay aloft. Truth be known, Intrepid Girl Flying Ace had even benefited from momentary burst of almost full throttle just prior to tricky touchdown on fallen sequoia trunk.
On other hand, subsequently have performed numerous dead-stick drills, both in space-shuttle simulator, plus own nonvirtual ultralight, not to mention other actual planes. Saw no point bothering Danni with minor details, about which could do nothing anyway at this stage.
(And which, in this case, included fact that ultralight in question had been at that time flying well below rated capacity; when engine failed, toy plane floated down like snowflake. As opposed to current situation, with in excess of three and a half tons of Stallion—laboring through sky least ten percent overloaded. And lacking benefit of added lift provided by propwash flowing over wings’ inboard sections, could expect significantly higher-than-spec stalling speed, appreciably longer rollout.)
So ... “No problem,” assured her confidently. “I'm an old hand at dead-sti—”
Whoa ... Belatedly, noticed arrival of other shoe. In fact, electronics-free, dead-stick approach, touchdown, even getting stopped without reverse thrust, all surely minorest elements of problem: “Danya, are you working up to telling me that I'm going to need to land us with my eyes closed?”
“Only if you don't want to be blinded,” came composed reply. Turned to find mentor's eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned close again, whispered portentously in ear, “Uuuuuuse the forrrrrce, spoooook....”
“How can I possibly—”
“Actually, depending on how many warheads go off simultaneously, at this distance indirect exposure such as we'll receive down in the bottom of the valley probably won't blind you. Permanently. With any luck. But the glare is going to last over 30 seconds, at the conclusion of which, at best you'll probably find yourself trying to see through some really opaque afterimages for quite a while. And if, at the time, you happen to be flying, say, a heavily overloaded, barely controllable airplane, its engine shut down, just approaching touchdown...”
Glanced over shoulder with probably overdone round-eyed sincerity. “Could I short-circuit any of this by just agreeing?”
Danni's eyes twinkled back; clearly enjoying self more than situation warranted. “So we'll treat it as a variation on our blindfolded, hand-to-hand-combat exercises. Collate our speed, closing distances, and spatial relationship with the ground into a three-dimensional picture in your head. We'll open the cockpit side windows, so you'll have the benefit of the sound of our passage through the air echoing off the terrain as we approach the ground to furnish subliminal rangefinding input.”
Turned again to regard her with unambiguously jaundiced eye. “So in addition to imagining where and how high we are, and how fast we're going, you want me to land via bat sonar....”
Danni grinn
ed. “How else? Of course I'll be right here, looking over your shoulder, talking you through the approa—”
Really, Posterity, must learn to stop interrupting elders. (Particularly elders who can kill someone 27 different ways in half second with either pinkie.) Burst out, “Danni—you'll have your eyes open? You can't do that ... !”
Momma Spook smiled comfortingly. Reached into backpack, produced what appeared to be oversized, opaque black jeweler's monocle. “This is half of a pair of welder's goggles. I picked it up the moment the possibility of thermonuclear explosions became a factor in this mission. I'll be holding it over my dominant eye—my shooting eye—and using the unprotected one to second-guess your approach if necessary.
“If the bomb goes off early, I'll use the protected eye to monitor you until the flash dims sufficiently; then I'll uncover, as well as tell you when to open your own eyes. The worst that can happen is I'll lose sight from the unprotected eye. Probably, YHWH willing, not for long.
"You have got to have your eyes closed in advance,” she continued, much too cheerfully. “A nuclear fireball, never mind one from the combined megatonnage we're dealing with here, hits peak intensity so quickly, your blink reflexes just aren't fast enough to save you.”
Cast crooked-brow glance over shoulder at violence guru. “I suppose you'd consider it disrespectful if I told you you're crazy.”
Gently cuffing impudent grasshopper up back of head, Danni grinned, “Good! I knew I could count on you.”
She turned then to address children: “People...” In mirror, saw heads come up, attention converge. “The bombs will go off any minute now. There will be a terribly bright light, much brighter than the sun. Even down here in the valley, blocked by the mountain, it's going to be so very bright that, if your eyes are not tightly closed, you might suffer vision damage. Until the flash dies away completely, if you open your eyes, even for an instant, you may never, ever see well again. Does everyone understand how important this is?”
Children responded with mixed chorus of das, yeses, synchronized with many bobbing heads. Could even see two littlest kids already displaying just how tightly shut their eyes would be.
Analog SFF, October 2008 Page 22