by Dale Brown
Brad felt like crap as he mounted his bike and pedaled back to Cal Poly, and he was still in a somber mood as he made his way to Poly Canyon and Jodie Cavendish’s apartment. She gave him a big hug at the door, which he failed to return. “Uh-oh, someone’s cranky,” she observed. “C’mon in, have a glass of wine, and yabber at me.”
“Thanks, Jodie,” Brad said. “Sorry I smell like the bottom of my feet. I didn’t shower or change after I left the gym.”
“You’re welcome to use the shower here if you’d like, mate,” Jodie said with a wink. Brad didn’t notice the obvious suggestion. He made his way to one of the bar stools at the counter surrounding the kitchen, and she poured a glass of Chardonnay and set it before him. “But it doesn’t bother me. I like a bloke who smells like a bloke and not like a trough lollie.” She waited a few seconds, but Brad said nothing. “You’re not even going to ask what that is? Wow, you must’ve really come a gutser today. Tell me about it, love.”
“It’s not really that big a deal,” Brad said. “I show up for this workout session, a little late, but he said the first time was excusable. The instructor is this retired hard-core chief master sergeant. He has me do this fitness test. I thought I did okay, but he harangues me for holding back and being lazy. I thought I did okay. I guess I didn’t.”
“Well, there’s always next time,” Jodie said. “Fitness instructors are trained to shock and awe their students, and I think he was putting a Clayton’s on you. No worries, Brad—we both know you’re in good shape, except for that bruise on your head. How do you feel? Your bruise still looks spewin.’ Maybe you should skip these workouts until that goes away.”
Brad shrugged. “I told them I’d do it, so I guess I’ll keep on going until I pass out or my head explodes,” he said. The last thing he wanted to do was incur Wohl’s wrath for quitting right after day one. He sat back in his seat and directly looked at Jodie for the first time. “I’m sorry, Jodie. Enough about my new fitness instructor. How was your day?”
“Apples, mate,” Jodie replied. She leaned toward him across the kitchen counter and said in the usual conspiratorial whisper she used when she had something unexpected to say: “I did it, Brad.”
“Did what?” Brad asked. Then, studying her face and body language, he knew. “The inorganic nanotube structure . . . ?”
“Synthesized,” Jodie said in a low voice, almost a whisper but a very excited one. “Right in our own lab at Cal Poly. Not just a few nanotubes, but millions. We were even able to create the first nantenna.”
“What?” Brad exclaimed. “Already?”
“Mate, the nanotubes practically mesh by themselves,” Jodie said. “They’re not yet mounted on the sol-gel substrate, we haven’t hooked it up to a collector or even taken it outside yet, but the first optical nantenna built out of inorganic nanotubes is sitting in the lab on the other side of this very campus . . . on my workbench! It’s even thinner and stronger than we predicted. I’m getting e-mails from scientists all over the world who want to get involved. It’s turning out to be one of the biggest advances in nanotechnology in years!”
“That’s incredible!” Brad exclaimed. He took her hands in his, and they exchanged a kiss across the kitchen counter. “Congratulations, Jodie! Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were already at your workout, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said. “Besides, I wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone.”
“That’s great news! We’re a shoo-in to get the lab space and grant money now!”
“I hope so,” Jodie said. “I might even qualify for a scholarship from Cal Poly—they wouldn’t want me going back to Australia taking a breakthrough like this with me, would they?”
“You’ll get a scholarship for sure, I know it,” Brad said. “Let’s go out and celebrate. Some place not too fancy—I still smell like a gym.”
A sly smile crept onto her face, and she glanced very briefly at the hallway to her bedroom, obviously signifying the way she wanted to celebrate. “I already have dinner started,” Jodie said. “It won’t be ready for about fifteen minutes.” She took his hand again and gave him a sly smile. “Maybe we can soap each other’s backs in the shower?”
Brad smiled broadly and looked into her eyes, but shook his head. “Jodie . . .”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I told you I was going to try again, and maybe again and again. She’s lucky to have you, mate.” She went to the refrigerator, retrieved the bottle of Chardonnay, and refilled his glass.
Brad heard his smartphone vibrate in his gym bag, retrieved it, and read the text message. “Well, how about that?” he remarked. “This is turning out to be a really great day after all.”
“What is it, love?”
“I got a room at Poly Canyon,” he said. Jodie wore an absolutely stunned expression. “Fifth floor at Aliso. I can move in tomorrow, and I can stay through the summer if we get the summer lab grant, and I can stay through my sophomore and junior years.”
“What?” Jodie exclaimed.
“Is that good?”
“Aliso is the most sought-after residence building at Cal Poly!” Jodie explained. “They’re closest to the shops and parking garage. And the top floors always fill up first because they have the best views of campus and the city! And they never allow students to stay at Poly Canyon over the summer, and you have to reapply every year and hope you keep your room. How in bloody hell did you manage that, mate?”
“I have no idea,” Brad lied—he was sure his father and probably President Martindale pulled some strings and made it happen. “Someone must’ve taken pity on me.”
“Well, good onya, mate,” Jodie said. “You got yourself a pozzy there.” She noticed Brad smiling at her Australian slang again, picked up a towel, snapped it at him, then went over and gave him a light kiss on the lips. “Stop perving me with those baby blues, mate, or I might just drag you into the sleep-out and make you forget all about what’s-her-name in Nevada.”
FIVE
There never yet was a mother who taught her child to be an infidel.
—HENRY W. SHAW
MCLANAHAN INDUSTRIAL AIRPORT
BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA
THE NEXT MORNING
“Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Ground, you are cleared to operate in Romeo four eight one three alpha and bravo and Romeo four eight one six November, all altitudes, squawk assigned codes, advise Oakland Center when departing the areas, contact tower, have a good flight.”
“Roger, Ground,” Sondra Eddington replied on the number one UHF radio. She read back the entire clearance, then switched to the tower frequency. “McLanahan Tower, Masters Zero-Seven, number one, runway three-zero, ready for takeoff.”
“Masters Zero-Seven, McLanahan Tower, winds calm, runway three-zero, airspeed restricted to two-zero-zero knots while inside the Class Charlie airspace, cleared for takeoff.”
“Masters Zero-Seven cleared for takeoff runway three-zero,” Sondra replied. She taxied the big jet onto the runway, lined up on the center line, held the brakes, advanced the throttles slowly and smoothly, felt the kick when the engines went to zone-one afterburner, released brakes, smoothly advanced the throttles to zone five, and lifted off in just five thousand feet. She lowered the big jet’s nose to quickly build up airspeed, retracted the landing gear and flaps, then brought the throttles back to 50 percent power to avoid busting the speed limit until they got out of McLanahan Industrial Airport‘s airspace, which would not take long at all.
“Good takeoff, Sondra,” said Hunter Noble, Sondra’s instructor on this training flight. He was in the rear seat of Sky Masters Aerospace’s MiG-25UX, a tandem-seat Mikoyan-Gurevich supersonic fighter with no combat equipment, modified for extreme high-speed and high-altitude operations. The original Russian MiG-25RU was the fastest combat jet fighter in existence, capable of almost three times the speed of sound and sixty thousand feet altitude, but after being modified by Sky Masters Aerospace, the jet was capable of achi
eving almost five times the speed of sound and one hundred thousand feet. “Good timing on the brakes and power. Zone one with the brakes on is okay, but anything after that will shred the brakes.”
“Roger, Boomer,” Sondra said. In fighter-pilot parlance, a “Roger” after a critique from an instructor meant that the student already knew and identified the discrepancy. A “thank you” usually meant the student missed it and acknowledged a good catch by the instructor. “I got it.”
“I show us clear of Class Charlie airspace,” Boomer said. “Heading two-zero-zero will take us to the restricted area.”
“Roger,” Sondra said. In less than two minutes they were in R-4813A and B, two restricted military training areas in the Naval Air Station Fallon complex in north-central Nevada, leased to Sky Masters Aerospace and coordinated with the FAA’s Oakland Air Traffic Control Center for high-performance aircraft testing. “I’m running the pre-high-altitude checklists now. Report when complete.”
“Will do,” Boomer said. The checklist prepared the crew to operate at extreme high altitudes, ones usually not attained by conventional fighters. It only took a few minutes. “Checklist complete. I show us inside R-4813A. Cleared when ready.”
“I got it, Boomer,” Sondra said. “Stand by.” Sondra applied full power, slowly and smoothly advancing the throttles on the MiG-25 until they were at full zone-five afterburner, and then at Mach 1 she raised the nose until they were at sixty-degrees nose-up attitude and still accelerating. As the speed increased, the gravity forces increased, and soon both were grunting against the G-forces pressing against their bodies, trying to keep blood from draining out of their lungs and brains. Both pilots wore partial-pressure space suits and space helmets, plus high-tech electronic G-suits that covered their legs and lower abdomen with a contracting fabric to help keep blood from pooling in the legs from the G-forces—but it still took work to fight off the effects of the G-forces. Soon they were at sixty-thousand-feet altitude and flying well over four times the speed of sound, with over seven times the force of gravity pressing on their bodies.
“Speak to me, Sondra,” Boomer said. “You . . . you doing okay?”
“I’m . . . fine . . . Boo . . . Boomer,” Sondra said, but it was obvious she was struggling to deal with the G-loads on her body. Suddenly the MiG-25 heeled sharply to the left and nosed down.
“Sondra?” No response. The fighter’s nose pointed Earthward. Just before he was going to take control, Boomer felt and heard the throttles retard to idle in the descent and the wings rolled level.
“You okay, Sondra?” Boomer repeated.
“Yes.” Over the intercom he could hear her breathing was a little labored, but otherwise sounded all right. “I’m okay.”
Boomer watched the altimeter and airspeed readouts carefully, making sure that Sondra had complete control of the aircraft. In the rear cockpit, he could take full control of the aircraft if necessary, but touching the controls would mean a failure for the pilot-in-command, and he didn’t want to do that unless it was absolutely necessary. After losing just ten thousand feet, Sondra started to bring the nose back up to the horizon, and as the jet came level and the airspeed went subsonic, she fed in power to keep the altitude and airspeed stable. “How are you doing, Sondra?” Boomer asked.
“I’m good, Boomer,” Sondra replied, and she sounded perfectly normal and in control. “I’ll descend back to thirty thousand feet and we’ll give it another try.”
“We won’t have enough fuel for another high-G high-altitude demo,” Boomer said. “We can do a few high-speed no-flap approaches, and then call it a day.”
“We have plenty of fuel, Boomer,” Sondra protested.
“I don’t think so, babe,” Boomer said. “Let’s do the high-ILS approach to Battle Mountain and do a no-flap power-off approach, do a missed at decision height, then do another for a full stop. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, Boomer,” Sondra replied, the dejection in her voice obvious.
The high-speed instrument approaches simulated an approach in the Black Stallion or Midnight spaceplanes. The MiG-25 was an important step for aspiring spaceplane pilots, because it was the only aircraft that could simulate for brief periods the extremely high G-loads imposed on pilots during their ascent. G-loads of up to nine times the normal force of gravity could be generated in Sky Masters Aerospace’s centrifuge on the ground, but the MiG-25 was a better platform because the pilot had to fly the aircraft while being subjected to the G-forces. Sondra executed the instrument approaches with typical precision, and the landing was dead on the numbers.
They parked the big jet, went to the life-support shop to turn in the space suits and electronic G-suits, debriefed the maintenance technicians, got a quick check by a doctor, then went back to the classroom to talk about the flight. Sondra wore a blue flight suit, tailored to accentuate her curves, and in her flying boots she stood even taller. She shook her straight blond hair loose as she poured herself a cup of coffee; Boomer, in an Air Force–style olive-drab flight suit, already had his bottle of ice-cold water.
“Preflight, takeoff, departure, approaches, landing, and postflight all good,” Boomer said, referring to a notepad. “Talk to me about the climb-out.”
“I was fine—I think I just pulled out too soon,” Sondra said. “You always say, it’s better to break off a high-G run earlier than later. I might’ve gotten a little antsy. I was fine.”
“You didn’t answer up when I called.”
“I heard you just fine, Boomer,” Sondra said. “I had my hands full. The last thing I wanted to do was get myself into a compressor stall or spin.” Boomer looked at Sondra, who had looked away as she sipped her coffee, and decided to accept her response. The rest of the debriefing did not take long. They reviewed the next day’s classroom and flight training objectives, then Sondra got on the phone to check messages, and Boomer went to his office to catch up on messages and paperwork and check in on the many laboratories and design offices that he supervised.
The afternoon began with a company operations executive staff meeting, which Boomer just barely tolerated, but it was was part of his new job as head of aerospace operations. The meeting was chaired by the company’s new vice president of operations, Jason Richter, a retired lieutenant colonel and robotics engineer from the U.S. Army, who was hired to replace the late Patrick McLanahan. Jason was tall, trim, and athletic, with dark good looks. He had been hired by Sky Masters Aerospace for his engineering background, especially in the realm of robotics, but it turned out he was equally adept in management, so he was promoted to lead research and development at the company. Although he was more at home in a laboratory or design facility, he enjoyed the power and prestige of overseeing such a large number of some of the world’s best and brightest minds.
“Let’s get started,” Richter said, starting the meeting precisely at one o’clock, as always. “Let’s start with the Aerospace Division. Hunter, congratulations on successfully bringing the president to Armstrong Space Station and back safely. Quite an accomplishment.” The others in the room gave Boomer a round of light applause—Hunter “Boomer” Noble was considered an eccentric character in the company’s executive boardroom, not a serious one, and was therefore lightly tolerated. “The president apparently is not suffering any ill effects. Observations?”
“The guy did fantastic,” Boomer said, silently acknowledging the positive feedback from his board-member colleagues but also noting the negative reactions. “He stayed calm and cool the entire flight. I was not too surprised when he agreed to do the docking, but I couldn’t believe it when he wanted to do the spacewalk to the airlock. He acted as if he’d been in astronaut training for years. That kind of courage is extraordinary.”
“We’re already getting inquiries about flying the spaceplane, and there’s been talk about funding for more S-19s and the XS-29,” Jason said.
“I’m all for that,” Boomer said, “but I think we need to bring in resources to start working serio
usly on the next series of space stations. Armstrong is hanging in there, but its days are numbered, and if Brad McLanahan’s Starfire project goes forward, which I’m betting it will, Armstrong may be out of the military space-weapon business altogether. I’ve got two folks, Harry Felt and Samantha Yi, working on space-station stuff, mostly designing systems to update Armstrong. I’d like to put them in charge of a new design team, three or four persons to start, coming up with designs for new military and industrial stations in line with President Phoenix’s proposals. We also need to get you and Dr. Kaddiri out to Washington right away to meet up with our lobbyists and find out who’s in charge of this new push for space.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Maybe you or Helen should volunteer to run it, Jason.”
“Me?” Jason asked. “In Washington? I’d rather be buried up to my neck in the desert. But I like your ideas. Submit a proposal and a budget to me right away and I’ll take it to Helen.”
Boomer made a few taps on his tablet computer. “In your in-box now, comandante.”
“Thank you. I knew you’d have something worked out already. I’ll make sure Helen gets it today.”
At that moment the company president and chief executive officer, Dr. Helen Kaddiri, entered the meeting room. Everyone rose to their feet as the tall, dark-eyed, fifty-two-year-old woman with very long dark hair tied in an intricate knot at the back of her neck and a dark gray business suit stood by the doorway. Helen Kaddiri was born in India but educated mostly in the United States, earning numerous advanced degrees in business and engineering. She had worked at Sky Masters for decades, partnering with Jonathan Masters to acquire the original failing aerospace company they worked for, and building it into one of the world’s premier high-technology design and development companies. “Take seats, everyone, please,” she said in a light, singsong voice. “Sorry to interrupt, Jason.”