by Ben Bova
"This the same helmet Jerry wore?" he asked.
The young tech sergeant looked startled. "No sir," she said. "Uh—his size is a little smaller than yours."
Turning to Appleton, the colonel growled, "I thought everything was supposed to be exactly the same. That means exactly."
Appleton raised one hand placatingly while he unconsciously fished for his pipe with the other. "It's all right for this mission, Ralph. By the time we get to the air-to-air combat we'll have adjusted his old helmet to fit you."
Martinez muttered something under his breath and pulled the helmet on. No one made the slightest smile or even thought about a joke involving head size. To a tech sergeant, lieutenant colonels sometimes seem telepathic.
Ten minutes later Martinez was buckled into the cockpit, oxygen mask covering the bottom half his face, all the electrical and radio and oxygen lines connected properly.
He almost believed that he was really flying. The simulator tilted up and down and slewed around in response to his movements of the side-stick and rudder pedals. There were no noticeable g-forces, of course, although his suit actually did hiss and squeeze when g-forces would have assailed him in a real flight.
This mission was a night bombing raid, using the F-22's speed and stealth to sneak through enemy ground defenses and strike at targets before the enemy even knew an attack was underway. Then the problem was to get out, through all the anti-aircraft fire and surface-to-air missiles the bad guys would throw up. No enemy fighters on this mission, but the ground fire would be intense.
Martinez was going through his fence check, the detailed checkout of all the aircraft's systems just before leaving friendly territory and penetrating into enemy airspace. He smiled grimly when he saw that the programmers had left his wingtip lights on: all the stealth technology in the world wasn't worth a damn if you flew with your lights on.
He turned off the running lights. Inside the cockpit the only lights came from the dimly glowing displays on the control panel. Martinez pulled down the visor of his helmet and for an instant even that dim glow disappeared. Then the visor display lit up and he saw the world around him in the weird greenish glow of the passive infrared display.
The bare rocky desert below rolled by swiftly. The night sky was empty of opposing aircraft. He changed his heading every few seconds, zigzagging toward his target so that even if an enemy radar got a slight glint off his plane it would blink away before they realized they were seeing anything real. Fuel check okay. Bombs armed.
As he neared his first target—a hardened bunker that was supposed to house an enemy communications center—Martinez lifted his visor briefly and manually switched his computer system from navigation mode to weapons delivery mode. Then he pulled his visor down again. That would be the last manual control change he made until he was well back into friendly airspace.
In the stereo display on the visor he saw the bunker, half-buried in sand and camouflaged a desert dun brown. "Target acquisition," he said in a throaty near whisper. The view changed, showing the bunker far off near the horizon and the yellow dotted line of his approach path leading to it.
He licked his lips. It was only his imagination, he knew, but he thought he could feel his heart pulsing against his ribs. As he nosed the plane into its attack attitude he noted that his stereo display showed several radar sites, looking like feeble pinkish eyes glowing against the desert sands.
If any of them locked onto him they would turn fire-engine red and a warning voice would alert him. But the radars remained harmless, tracking randomly.
"Open bomb doors." He heard the electric motor whine. The plane shook slightly in the airstream's buffeting. His infrared sensors were picking up parked trucks next to the bunker and an unpaved road that apparently led to a town off beyond his horizon.
Now his stereo display showed crosshairs in one corner, creeping up on the bunker as he flew toward it. "Automatic release," he said. The brilliant thin red line of a laser beam reached out to the exact center of the bunker's roof. The laser actually emitted an invisible infrared beam, but in Martinez's helmet display it looked like a Christmas light.
When the crosshairs centered on the spot illuminated by the laser, Martinez heard a clunk that represented one bomb being released. The plane's controls bucked in his hands just as they would in a real flight when a two-thousand-pounder is suddenly let go.
He pulled the plane's nose up sharply and banked hard to the right, the safety harness straps cutting into his shoulders. His visor display continued to show the bunker. The smart bomb, guided to the laser-lit spot, smashed directly into the center of the bunker's roof.
For an instant nothing happened, then Martinez saw the bunker's doors blow off. Smoke billowed out. The roof fell in and the entire area was smothered with heavy boiling smoke.
Martinez pushed the throttles forward and felt the plane surge higher into the sky. The radars were skewing about wildly now and a volcano of anti-aircraft tracers lit up the night. He was quickly above the small-arms fire, but now there were large-caliber cannon pumping shells up at random, blindly seeking him.
He could feel his blood thundering in his ears now. In the bright helmet display he had to remind himself that for the enemy it was midnight-black out there. They could not see him. They could not even find him with radar. He saw the whooshing flash of a trio of SAMs lighting off. No active radars on them, or at least none that his display revealed. Probably guided by infrared sensors, looking for the heat from my engines. The stealth design reduced the F-22's infrared signature, but if those missiles were advanced enough to have IR-guided upper stages one of them might find him in the dark and fly right up his stovepipe.
But they failed to track him. Martinez banked-away from the frenzied defenders and their destroyed comm bunker, heading for his next target. This time the defense would know there was a bogie sneaking through their airspace. They'd be firing at a fucking bat if it happened to flap by.
Suddenly his helmet display went black. Martinez felt his breath catch in his throat. Then he heard in his earphones,
"MISSION ABORTED. SIMULATION ENDED."
He sank back in his seat and realized he was soaked with sweat. Fucking simulation got me so clanked up I might as well have pissed myself, he snarled inwardly as he slid his visor up. He banged the switch that raised the canopy and was starting to unbuckle his harness when the two junior techs clambered up and began to help him.
"Who the hell aborted the simulation?" Martinez yelled at the chief tech, down by the console. His voice echoed across the big hangar like a roar of doom.
Appleton was still there, standing beside the chief technician. "The program is set to abort automatically, Ralph," he called back, his voice maddeningly calm, "When the pilot's pulse rate hits one-forty."
"That's a goddamned crock of shit!" Martinez pulled himself free of the loosened harness and clambered out of the cockpit past the two young techs.
"It's part of our safety regulations," said Appleton, moving between the colonel and the chief technician.
"Since when?"
Appleton gave him a disappointed look. "Since you insisted on flying the simulation yourself. I don't want you popping an artery in there."
Martinez glared pure fury. "A pilot's pulse rate always goes way up during a mission, dammit! What the hell do think they're doing in there, playing hopscotch?"
"Ralph, it's for your own protection."
"Goddammit, let me worry about my own protection! I don't want any artificial cutoffs on the simulation! Understand me?"
Technically, Appleton was the man in charge of all simulations. But he was a civilian and Martinez was a lieutenant colonel who was enraged at anything that might prevent him from being promoted—or from feeling like a man.
Putting a hand on Martinez's stocky shoulder, Appleton suggested mildly, "Let's take a break, Ralph. It's almost dinner time. We ought to discuss this calmly and—"
"No break," Martinez snapped. "And no
automatic cutoffs. Got that?" He turned on the chief technician. "Crank it up again. And take that stupid pulse-rate cutoff out of the loop."
The chief technician was a civilian. His two assistants were Air Force noncoms. The chief looked to Appleton. Reluctantly, Appleton said, "Set it up for the same mission profile—without the medical subroutine." Then he turned back to the colonel. "But let's take a break anyway, Ralph. You need to cool down and they need some time to refigure the program."
CHAPTER 20
It was at the end of the normal working day when Muncrief phoned Dan to tell him that "this guy from Washington" was here. Dan put aside his work on the stuttering program and headed for Muncrief's office, his mind in a turmoil, wondering what this special job was all about and why he was going to have to spend his nights and weekends working on it when he should be putting every moment into the stuttering program.
And in the back of his mind he still felt that he was letting Dr Appleton down. I should have at least phoned him, he thought.
People were already coming down the corridor, heading for the parking lot out back and evenings of relaxation at home or restaurants or entertainment. But the red light was blinking over the door to Wonderland; Jace was in there fooling around with something.
"How do, Dr. Dan!"
Startled, Dan saw Joe Rucker lumbering down the corridor toward him.
"Joe," he said. "On your way home?"
The one-armed guard was in his street clothes, a checkered shirt and faded jeans.
"Nope. Gonna play another game or two with ol' Jace," said Rucker cheerfully. "We play jes 'bout every night."
"You do?"
"Surely do." Rucker's lopsided grin showed all his uneven teeth. "Why, inside that-there game Jace rigs fer me, I got two whole arms and two whole legs! We play till I'm plumb tuckered out."
Dan did not quite know how to respond. "Well," he said weakly, "have a good time."
"You bet!"
Rucker opened the heavy steel door with his one hand while Dan hurried up the corridor, guiltily hoping that Joe would not mention bumping into him to Jace.
Dan was surprised to see Muncrief alone in his office with the stranger. Somehow he had expected Vickie would be in on this, as she was on everything else. But she was not there. Only Muncrief standing behind his desk as if it were a defensive barricade and the man from Washington, also on his feet in the middle of the room.
He introduced himself as Quentin Smith. "I know Mr. Muncrief here doesn't believe it, but that's my name, so help me." Smith raised his right hand as if taking an oath.
Dan saw that Smith was about his own height, but much more solid in his build. Sandy blond hair, conservative gray suit and dark tie, broad shoulders: he reminded Dan of the kind of actor who always played FBI agents. Smith looked young, and he was smiling pleasantly. But his blue eyes were hard as agate. He had a blocky square-jawed face with a silly little button nose in the middle of it. There was an air of tension about him, an aura almost electrical, as if he were ready to spring at the slightest stimulus.
Muncrief ushered them to his round conference table, and took the seat in the corner for himself, his back to the wall.
"Mr. Muncrief was good enough to send me your personnel file," Smith said to Dan, "so I know your professional qualifications."
Dan twitched inside but said nothing.
"What we're trying to. do," he went on, "is extremely important. It's got to be done quickly, but it's got to be done right. The first time. We don't have time for screwing around."
Dan glanced at Muncrief. His normally-affable face was radiating something close to anger. He doesn't like this guy, Dan realized. He doesn't like him at all. So why is he helping him?
"What's the job entail?" Dan asked. "And why does it have to be so quickly?"
Smith smiled tightly. "The schedule is fixed. There's nothing I can do about that."
"Why? What's this for?"
Instead of answering, Smith said, "We need a VR system that can show various scenarios. Instead of reading a report or watching a video, I want a VR system that will allow the user to manipulate a scenario; make changes in it and see how they work out. Can you do that?"
"Within limits," Dan said.
"What limits?"
Glancing again at Muncrief, Dan replied," That depends on how complex your scenarios are and how much time we have to develop the system."
"It's got to be ready by February first."
"I know."
"That's a solid date," said Smith. "If you can't have it done by then tell me now and I'll go elsewhere."
"There isn't anyplace else," Muncrief said in a low rumble.
"There's Chapel Hill. And MIT."
"Universities," Muncrief snorted. "You'd get along swell with university types, wouldn't you?"
"NASA and the Air Force have been heavily involved," Smith countered.
"Then why didn't you go to them in the first place? Or Silicon Valley, for that matter?"
Smith let his teeth show. "Look, we're here," he said. "We need to have this job done by February first." Turning to Dan, "Can you do it?"
"I've got to know the size of the job," Dan answered. "It all depends on how complex these scenarios are; how complex a simulation you need."
The man from Washington looked into Dan's eyes for a long moment. Then he turned in his chair to face Muncrief. "We don't need you in on this. The fewer people who know the details, the better."
Muncrief threw up his hands. "Fine by me! I've got plenty of other things to do with my time, believe me."
"Why don't we go down to my office, then," Dan suggested.
They walked down the emptied, half-darkened corridors, past Wonderland where the red light still blinked steadily, their footsteps echoing off the silent walls. Dan gestured Smith through his office doorway, then stepped in himself and closed the door softly behind him.
Smith looked around the neatly-kept little office and took a flat oblong black box from his inside jacket pocket. He swept it through the air, along the desk top and phone console, across the bookshelves as if he were dusting them with a hand-sized vacuum cleaner.
"You think the room's bugged?" Dan asked.
"It's all right, it's not." Smith took the plastic chair in front of the desk. "But you never know."
Dan felt relieved as he went behind his desk and sat in the swivel chair. "You're doing a good job of making me curious as hell," he said. "Now just what is this all about?"
Smith seemed to relax half an inch. "People in high places have to make important decisions. Those decisions are based on the information they receive from their staffs. But the information gets more complex every year, and the time scale gets shorter, too. They've got to make their decision quick, and they've got to be the right decisions, too. If you can produce a VR system that helps certain people make better decisions—well, you'll have done your nation an important service."
"People in high places," Dan echoed.
Smith leaned forward in his chair and laid one powerful arm on the edge of the desk. "Get this, Santorini: the quality of the decision can only be as good as the quality of the information input. Understand that? When a man has to make a decision about going to war in the Middle East, he has to juggle a thousand factors: the price of oil, the reaction of ethnic groups here at home, the readiness of the armed services, the number of bases available in the proposed area of conflict, the reaction of our allies, the possibilities of other nations joining the country we're going to fight, the United Nations, the international banking system—a thousand other details. He's got to make a decision fast, and he's got to consider all those interacting factors."
"This is for the President, then," Dan guessed. "You're working for the President of the United States."
Smith actually laughed. He leaned back in his chair and broke into a sharp barking laughter. Dan thought of a hyena.
"What's so funny?"
Smith shook his head and pulled out a
Kleenex to dab at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh at you. People who aren't in the loop always think that the President makes all the big decisions."
"He doesn't?"
"Oh, sure, of course he does." Smith's face went sober again. "He makes the ultimate decision. But by the time a problem gets to the Oval Office a lot of other people have worked it over. They make their decisions before the President ever sees the problem."
Dan thought that over for a moment. "You're saying that the President's just a puppet? His staff people make all the real decisions?"
"Hell no! Nothing like that! The Man in the Oval Office makes all the final decisions, that's for sure. Hell, most of the time the staff's split seventeen different ways on any really tough issue and the Man has to decide which way to go."
"So you want a VR system that can show certain scenarios—"
"And play them out to their logical end," Smith said. "We want to use VR to show the user what will happen if certain kinds of decisions are taken."
"Give me an example," Dan said, feeling an old thrill of excitement edging up his spine.
Smith looked excited too. He had dropped his suspicious, cloak-and-dagger attitude. Dan wondered if Smith was some kind of engineer or technician. Maybe he's from the President's scientific staff, Dan surmised.
"Okay," Smith said, "let's go back to the example of a war in the Middle East. We do a VR scenario that shows what will happen if we don't go to war; just let things happen without us getting involved. That leads to one conclusion. We see what happens to the price of oil. What happens to Israel, to Saudi Arabia, to the Moslem Republics on Russia's southern flank. All that kind of stuff."
Dan nodded.
"Then we can run another scenario that shows what would happen if we went to war, but all by ourselves. Without any allies, not even Israel. How we fight the war. How many casualties. All the factors I mentioned in the first scenario, of course. We can change our military tactics, see which approach works best. Then we see how it would go if we went in with allies, or under a UN authorization—you get the picture now?"