“We’re visual animals, used to seeing things in three dimensions and in color. The purpose of all this is to present information in a way that is natural to a human being. The transparent mode gives you the frame of reference that is relative to you.”
“But how do you do it?” Jerry asked in wonderment while he watched the scene roll by. “It looks so real.”
“It is real,” Fred replied. “There are thirty or so infrared, ultraviolet, and visible-wavelength sensitive sensors installed on the fuselage and wings ofMary Lou ’s airframe. They’re like TV cameras, except their signals are converted to digital signals and fed to special-purpose computers. Those, in turn, combine all of the information into the series of displays, which are then projected onto the walls of what you might call the cockpit. Should there be a threat, such as a bad guy, it is superimposed on the display to give you an indication of where and what it is. Let’s have a helicopter flying the other way, please.”
As before, Fred Kelder’s slightest wish was instantly obeyed. A helicopter full of tourists appeared about two miles ahead and passed about a thousand feet off to Jerry’s left side.
“If they had been a threat, they would have been red in color. If they were seeking with radar or firing a missile, they would be shown blinking. Once selected for engagement, a heads-up display would appear next to them.”
“How do you select them?”
“You’d look at them, but to do that, you need a special helmet. Want to try it out?”
Impressed by what he saw so far, Jerry nodded eagerly. “Yeah,” he said, looking up at Kelder.
“Just a second,” Fred replied as he disappeared. Jerry then heard him shout, “Hey, Joe, send up the CLEO flight helmet, the one you set up for Colonel Rodell this morning.”
“Why do I feel I’m being suckered in?” Jerry muttered to himself.
“What’s that?”
Jerry looked up through the hatch and found Fred peering in again. “Why is it that I feel I’m being suckered in?” he repeated in a louder voice.
Fred laughed. “Want to fly it?”
“But there are no controls,” Jerry protested. “I thought this was just an engineering mockup?”
“Hell, no,” Fred exclaimed emphatically. “Like I said earlier. This is an actual cockpit section of the ATASF. It’s just like the one inMary Lou outside. It’s a complete and extremely realistic simulator.”
“But there’re no switches, gauges, displays. Hell, all I see are what looks like a throttle in my left hand, a side-mounted control stick in my right hand, and foot pedals.”
“That’s all you need.”
“Come on,” Jerry protested, “I’ve flown airplanes for almost twenty years. There’s got to be an altimeter, engine gauges, radio switches.”
“Why?”
“To control the goddamn airplane.”
“Remember the chat we had in my office?” Fred prompted. “Remember the two points I made about the so called ‘Biological Barrier’?”
“Yeah, pilot information overload and high g’s.”
“Well,” Fred continued slowly, “we’ve fixed them both. We took all of the administrative functions and gave them to somebody else to worry about while you fly the airplane. It’s like a passenger liner. Do you think the captain gives a diddly damn about the oil temperature of the engines? Hell, no,” Fred exclaimed. “He has a chief engineer to worry about it for him. The only time the captain knows anything about it is when there is a problem. That’s when the chief engineer calls and tells him. It’s the captain’s job to worry about what to do only when there’s a problem, not to sit and stare at an oil temperature gauge all day.
“That’s what we did here,” Fred continued. “We took all of that administrative crap and gave it to a computer system to worry about it for you.”
“Okay, how about fuel management? Navigation?” Jerry insisted, still uncomfortable with the idea. “How do I know where I am?”
“Ask your copilot,” Fred suggested casually. “All of those administrative functions are her problems.”
“HER? What copilot?” Jerry asked anxiously while glancing around the cockpit.
“The one you’re sitting on,” Fred answered matter-of-factly.
“What?” Jerry exclaimed as he looked down.
Fred laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “They say fighter jocks sit on their brains, and in this case, you really are. Say hello to Colonel Rodell, Cleo.”
“Good morning, Colonel Rodell. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Jerry responded automatically, sitting frozen in the cockpit. The voice was female, more that of a teenager than that of a woman. It certainly had an air of innocence about it.
“Remember the three solutions to the Biological Barrier I mentioned earlier? Also, remember that I said we knew that the first two solutions, remote control and very smart computer systems wouldn’t work? Know why I know that?”
Jerry Rodell shook his head.
“Well,” Fred Kelder continued, “it’s because we tried them. Cleo is far more than a fancy display system. We use the acronym ‘CLEO’ or Computer Linked Electro-Optics, as a cover for security reasons. She’s actually a very highly developed computer system, and don’t ask me how she works. It has something to do with artificial intelligence and neural networks. You might think of Cleo as being more an artificial brain than a computer. She’s in a case that’s built into your ejection seat because, if you ever have to punch out, we want her to get out with you. And close your mouth, Colonel Rodell, you look like the village idiot.”
“You’re joshing me,” Jerry challenged. “You’re faking it. That was just somebody speaking over the intercom.”
“Arthur C. Clarke,” Fred replied somberly while he shook his head, “the man who wrote2001: A Space Odyssey and a bunch of other really great science fiction books, once said ‘Sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’”
Fred Kelder paused before adding, “Welcome to 2001, except we’re a few years late and our HAL is a lot friendlier.”
“NO!” Jerry protested. “That was science fiction, make-believe. It’s not possible to make an artificial brain.” Images of a monstrous brain immersed in an oversized fish tank flashed through Jerry’s mind.
“You’re absolutely right,” Fred agreed. “Cleo is no more a brain than a toadstool is. However, she is something more than a computer. For one thing, she learns from experience. When it comes to deductive reasoning, look out.”
“Now I understand the big sales pitch,” Jerry muttered angrily to himself. “You went off and decided that I should be your guinea pig, and now you’ve got to convince me.”
“You might look at it in that light,” Fred replied in a conciliatory tone. “However, nobody is forcing you to stay. All we ask is that you give it a try.”
“But why me? Why not one of those test pilots who are the first to fly everything.”
“Remember what I said about fighter jocks?” Fred inquired. “The good ones are right-brain people: intuitive, creative people.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you want a first-rate bureaucrat, you’re sitting on it. Cleo is the most analytical, procedure-bound mind you’ll ever find. She’d make a fantastic executive secretary and the lousiest wife you’d ever want. She can be an unrelenting nag, too. However, she does all of those left-brain functions you’d have to perform for yourself if you were flying an F-22, but she doesn’t get bored. If something goes out of spec, she’ll tell you about it far faster than you’d find out for yourself if you had a bunch of gauges to scan. On the other hand, she’s a terrible fighter pilot. She got waxed just about every time. No imagination.”
Jerry leaned back in the pilot’s couch, puckered his lips, and glanced around, contemplating Fred Kelder’s arguments. Then he noticed that the display was static, as though they were looking at a slide projected on the screen.
“Why has the display stopped?” he asked.
“What the f-,” Jerry complained. He glanced up at Fred Kelder.
Fred chuckled. “She’s right—she knew it was all pretend to impress you.”
“But she—itmade a decision on its own! That could get me killed!”
“There were no life-threatening aspects in the demonstration,” Cleo retorted. “It was merely an illusion.”
“Does that thingthink ?” Jerry demanded.
“Sort of,” Fred answered softly. “However, only deductively. Cleo merely turned off the display when we were finished with it.”
“How did she—itknow that?”
Fred laughed. “Remember when I asked if you would like to fly it?”
Jerry nodded.
“Well, she heard me and knew that I was finished with the Grand Canyon scenery. Actually, she much prefers to fly for real, and I think she was merely showing her eagerness. Is that right, Cleo?”
“Yes,” the machine responded. For the first time, there was the slightest tinge of emotion in its voice.
“Cleo, would you like to take Colonel Rodell out for a ride?”
“Yes! I’d love to fly with him.” There was no mistaking Cleo’s enthusiasm this time.
“Fly? But this is a simulator,” Jerry exclaimed.
“She doesn’t think so,” Fred replied in a hushed voice.
“What do you mean? I saw all of the computers out there. This is a simulator, isn’t it?”
Fred smiled. “The difference is rather small nowadays. You’re sitting in an actual ATASF cockpit fuselage section. The displays you’ll see all around you are generated by the same equipment as inMary Lou . What those computers in the other room do is to simulate the data generated by ten thousand-or-so sensors, strain gauges, position indicators, as well as hundreds of temperature and pressure probes in the real airplane. As far as Cleo is concerned, there are no real differences between the two. Data are data. Isn’t that so, Cleo?”
“What is so?” Cleo queried.
“I said that there aren’t any differences betweenMary Lou andMary Sue . Isn’t that true?” Fred probed.
“Negative veracity. The statement is not factual,” Cleo announced in a completely impassive, almost bored tone as Fred Kelder’s smile faded. “There are 1,534 differences I have noted so far. For example, the number-one engine has an exhaust gas temperature five to seven degrees hotter.…”
“Spare me the details,” Fred ordered as he glared menacingly down at the base of the pilot’s couch where Cleo was hidden. “I meant that you flyMary Lou andMary Sue about the same way, don’t you?”
“That is not what you asked,” Cleo muttered frostily. Jerry Rodell forced down a smirk as Fred Kelder’s composure melted.
“Answer my second question, then,” Fred snapped.
“I prefer to flyMary Sue ,” Cleo replied. “It can pretend.”
“Pretend?” Fred Kelder, obviously surprised by the answer, stared hopelessly at Jerry. “What do you mean by ‘It can pretend’?”
“Mary Suecan go wherever I want without going. Like going to the Grand Canyon a few minutes ago. I can just tellMary Sue and we’re there. You call it ‘simulation.’Mary Lou makes me actually fly there.”
Jerry gave Fred Kelder a knowing look. “I think you ought to pull its power plug,” he suggested in a stage whisper. “Or else the next thing it’s going to do is tell Scotty to beam it up because there is no intelligent life down here.”
“That’s not funny,” Fred grumbled, turning his head. “Yes,” he added to somebody outside the simulator.
As Jerry watched, Fred Kelder’s head disappeared from view. A few seconds later, Fred reappeared, this time holding a helmet in his hands.
“Here, Jerry,” he said while handing it down, “this should fit okay. Put it on, and we’ll get you and Cleo on your joy ride in a couple of minutes.”
“Well,” Jerry asked as he slipped the helmet over his head. “Any final words to the wise before I take this thing on the road test?”
“Not much beyond thatMary Su e flies a lot like an F-22, but quicker, particularly in the roll,” Fred told him. “Generally, I’d let Cleo do all the real work this time. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Okay,” Jerry responded. He began strapping himself in and connecting the wires from his helmet to the appropriate receptacles. “Let’s go.”
Less than a minute later, he was ready. He looked up and found that the hatch was still open. He glanced around, looking for the control lever. Annoyed at not finding it where he thought it should be, he muttered “Where’s the damn canopy lever?”
“There isn’t any,” Cleo responded.
“How do I close the hatch?”
“You want it closed, Colonel?”
“Certainly,” Jerry grumbled. “What do you expect, for me to fly around with it open?”
A gentle whirring sound interrupted him as the hatch closed. He looked around and saw that they were in the hangar, and the doors were still closed.
“Now what?” he asked.
“What?” Cleo replied with a puzzled tone.
“How do we get out of the hangar, dummy? We’re in the hangar and the doors are closed. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Not to worry,” Cleo told him.
Then she called, “Hangar 18 security, Flight Pixel Two-seven ready to roll. Please open the doors.”
“Roger, Pixel Two-seven,” the radio crackled. A few seconds later, the large hangar doors cracked open and momentarily blinded Jerry as the brilliant desert sun flooded into the dimly lit hangar. A large yellow tow vehicle rumbled through the opening and toward them. A few seconds later, it was lost from view as it pulled to a stop under the nose of the fighter.
“Translucent,” Jerry ordered when he remembered the demonstration Fred had given him a few minutes earlier. He smiled as the fuselage suddenly became translucent, and he could see the airman struggling to attach the tow-bar to the airplane’s nose wheel. The airman quickly completed the task, then reached up and plugged his headset into a receptacle next to the nose wheel.
“All set,” Jerry heard. “We’re ready to take you out, sir, anytime you want.”
“Let’s go,” he responded automatically and was dumbfounded when the simulated airman turned and waved to the man driving the tow vehicle. Jerry could hear the roar of the vehicle’s engines as the airplane began to move with a jolt. Slowly, they moved toward the still-opening hangar doors.
“Okay, Cleo,” he said, glancing around the cockpit and searching in vain for the engine-start switches. “I give up. Where are the engine-start switches?”
“There aren’t any in the cockpit.”
“Let me guess—you start them for me?”
“That is correct, Colonel,” Cleo responded. “Except regulation 144.014-003 requires that I wait until we’re well clear of the hangar.”
“Fine,” Jerry grumbled, crossing his arms in annoyance.
A few minutes later, once they were outside and well away from the hangar, Cleo called, “Permission to start engines, sir?”
Jerry Rodell was captivated by the view. They were not far from where General Winslow and he had left the T-38. He glanced at the guardhouse and was surprised to find Winslow’s airplane was gone. Panic flashed through him at the thought that General Winslow might have left him behind. He relaxed when he finally realized he was watching a scene made some time before his arrival at Groom. He nodded in approval. If he didn’t know for a fact that he was in a simulator somewhere inside the building that he was now observing from the outside, he’d swear that it was all real. He half-expected to see the air police sergeant come charging out of the open hangar doors, waving his pistol in one hand while screaming something unintelligible about ten paces.
“Permission to start engines,” Cleo repeated, this time with a touch of pique in her voice.
“You said ‘fine.’”
“Okay, start the goddamn engines.” He glanced around, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. The aircraft rumbled softly, as first the right and then the left engine started. A control panel appeared on the screen in front of him. It contained far fewer displays than he normally expected. In fact, about all he saw was a typical HUD, or heads-up display, with airspeed, direction, altitude, and ground reference shown. Beneath was a series of pie-shaped dial gauges showing the engine power settings and other information a pilot might like to have from time to time.
“What’s next?” he yawned with boredom.
“Permission to run the checklist.”
“Granted.”
A convulsion seized the aircraft, as though it had suddenly been afflicted by a demonic force. First, the right engine roared to full power, then the left. At the same time, every control surface moved on its on volition. A moment later, it was over.
“Checklist complete, all systems nominal, fifteen thousand pounds of internal fuel, no live ordnance, no external stores, sir.” Cleo’s voice had a mischievous tone.
“What the hell!”
“What, sir?” Cleo inquired innocently.
“I thought we were going to run the checklist?”
“I did.”
“B-b-but,” Jerry sputtered, “you didn’t call anything out?”
“I didn’t need to, sir. Why should I have?”
On the defensive, Jerry Rodell stopped to consider the situation. Colonel Kelder’s analogy of him now being the captain of an ocean liner came back to mind. The captain has a crew to do all the dirty work for him; why should he get involved?
“Okay, wiseass,” he answered as he leaned back into the pilot’s couch and folded his arms again, “take us out.”
“Take us out?” Cleo asked, obviously confused by the ambiguous wording.
“You have my permission to do whatever you need to do to take off and fly wherever it is we’re going,” he replied.
“Thank you, sir,” Cleo responded eagerly. “Watertown tower, this is Pixel Two-seven at Hangar 18, departing northwest to Brush Burner Two.”
The Espionage Game Page 6