by Bill Roberts
She looks abashed. “I’m sorry. I know you feel awful, but something you said keeps bugging me.” She looks at me seriously. “Why did you ask Doctor Morton why he took the nanites?” They must have gossiped about me like only old women and military types can.
I soften a bit. “Why do you ask?”
She answers rapidly: “It is just that everyone else just acts so happy to find out they are going to be young again, and skinny, and well … everything. But you didn’t. You act like … it might be a bad idea.” She runs out of gas and looks at me the implied why written all over her face.
I ask another question: “How old are you?”
“Twenty-Eight.”
Too young then. More questions: “You married? Any kids?”
“No I am not. And no I don’t have any kids.”
She is too young to have been in the war. She is too young to have realized that getting old is not that big a deal. She has no real responsibilities to anyone but herself. She is in the medical profession, so she has probably seen some pain and loss, but it was likely an impersonal thing or something she could get over quickly. But she is smart enough to worry about why somebody might think immortality might be a bad idea. So I decide to try and explain it to her.
“I am half again your age. I am not trying to insult you, but that is a big difference,” I pause then continue, “This isn’t coming out very well. Basically I am trying to say that getting old isn’t that bad. There is a natural order to things and you learn to embrace it as you go. Also, again I mean no offense, I have dealt with greater responsibilities than you have and seen more terrible things. These things weigh you down over time. I just can’t imagine them piling up on top of each other forever, without someday getting really tired of it.”
Roberts looks at me seriously. “I see your point,” she says. She starts to hook up the syringe to the IV and says: “I am sorry I bothered you, but … “ After a quiet moment she continues “Thank you.” She presses the plunger and I drift off to sleep.
This time when I wake up I feel much better. I feel comfortably exhausted and sore, like I have recently completed a Judo tournament. I check the clock on the wall. Zero Six Hundred. I decide that I have slept long enough and slowly sit up. The IV bag hanging from the cart is almost empty. The monitoring machine beeps. I start silently counting down to myself. Just as I reach one the door opens and Roberts bustles in. “How are you feeling?” She asks.
Ha, nailed it. “Great,” I reply.
She gives me a professional sort of look. “No pain? No exhaustion?”
I smile broadly. “Well of course I have a little soreness and exhaustion, but honestly it feels great. It is an alive and growing sort of discomfort.” She looks at me quizzically. Mary and all the Saints, what kind of people normally come through here? I wonder if maybe Langsdorf brought Lance and I here for more than our tactical acumen. It is beginning to feel like this place is mired in tedium. I ask: “Why are looking at me like that now? Was I supposed to say something else?”
Roberts responds: “Not at all.” She looks slightly amused. “You just never seem to answer a question the way I expect.” She starts bustling about, removing the IV and organizing the cart. “You will feel soreness and slight exhaustion for another twenty-four to forty-eight hours. This is normal. However, if you start feeling dizziness or acute pain please return here immediately.” She assumes an air of professionalism while reciting the litany of a medical caution. She looks at me and continues with sincerity: “Sorry about yesterday.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Apologies are for those who have something to apologize for.” I grab my boots and start putting them on. “I assume I am now free to go and discombobulate somebody else?”
“Did you just say discombobulate?” She replies.
I smile. The temptation to respond with ‘Does that discombobulate you?’ practically overwhelms me. I am glad I am looking down at my boots. This gives me options. I can ignore the comment and drive on. I can compose something else appropriately witty. Or, I can say something sweeping and dramatic. I decide I have disturbed Roberts enough. I finish lacing my boots stand up and ask: “Is Major Benson up yet?”
I see her resume her professional air as she deals with this common work concern. “Major Benson is still sleeping. He could wake up at any moment, but it might take a couple more hours for the sedatives to wear off.”
No sense in waiting around then. I ask politely: “Am I free to go?”
“Yes. Let me escort you out.”
I smile at her. “That won’t be necessary.” I walk around the cart, open the door and head for the waiting room. I really do feel great. The last couple of days have been filled with fascination and terror. My interaction with Captain Roberts has reminded me of something that has gotten lost in the weighty secrets and technological marvels. Even here, at the beginning of the great change that humanity is about to go through, people are still people. I may have problems with people as a whole. You cannot fight a couple of wars without seeing people at their worst. However, individually I like people. Most of them at least. Whatever I have to do is going to be worth it.
Once out of Medical I head for Langsdorf’s office. The good cheer I feel keeps growing. Today is going to be great. I start whistling the Fourth Movement to Beethoven’s Ninth. Even though he wrote it after he went deaf, or perhaps because of it, I think it is his greatest work. I see Langsdorf’s door is open. Excellent. I poke my head in and smiling broadly ask: “Breakfast, Sir?”
He looks up from his computer. Seeing the look on my face he assumes his normal lopsided, mischievous, and downright interesting grin. “Why in the hell would I want to go to breakfast with you?”
Ahhh Langsdorf. My smile grows broader. “Because I am such a charming conversationalist, not to mention tremendously good looking.”
“You are neither,” he replies. “However, since I am I guess I will go with you.” He slams down the lid of his laptop and rises with his usual energy. He joins me in the hallway and shuts his office and locks the door. He asks: “Benson still sleeping?”
“Yessir,” I reply cheerfully. As we walk down the hallway the armor provided by my good cheer drives me to tweak Langsdorf. Normally this would be a dangerous proposition; Langsdorf has a very sharp tongue. However, today I am fully ready for it. “They are definitely silly looking wings,” I quip.
“I will ground fight you right now Morris.” I savor the mock heat in Langsdorf’s voice.
“When I win do I get to recommend a better design?” I return.
“You would lose. Besides we don’t have any crayons or construction paper.” Nobody does derision like Langsdorf.
“Is that what you used, Sir?” False curiosity.
“I used an uppity major’s face and the ground.” A growling artificial threat.
I laugh happily. I could keep going, but Langsdorf always wants the last word. Besides, knowing Langsdorf as I do, I realize my good mood has rubbed off on him. Based on my conversation with the Marine test pilots yesterday I imagine it is probably not common for people to banter with Langsdorf. He thrives on it. Langsdorf speaks again: “Quit laughing. You sound like a dimwitted baboon.” Oh he is definitely in a better mood. Today is absolutely going to be great.
We enter the chow hall and I grab one of everything. The smell of the bacon piled high on my plate causes my mouth to water greedily. Living forever may ultimately prove to be awful, but I am going to enjoy getting there. We grab a seat and I begin to eat, savoring the bacon and fried potatoes. I ponder for a moment as I chew. My good mood sings through me and I decide to just go for it. “So what exactly am I doing here? I get it. I get it. You need my help. I am brilliant, witty, and essentially awesome, but what do you really need?”
Langsdorf snorts as he replies: “You are only awesome at being insolent.” He pauses then continues seriously: “Yo
u met Lieutenant Colonels Troy Dvoracek and Stuart Harkins?” I nod my head. “They were pilots before they got here. Harkins flew gunships and Dvoracek flew fighters. That is the real problem here. All of the Kodiak pilots I am working with come from aviation backgrounds. Department of Defense looked at these things and felt that pilots would be the way to go. I am the only tanker here. I have two Army aviators, a chief warrant officer and a lieutenant colonel who flew gunships. The Air Force, sent a couple of lieutenant colonel fighter pilots. And finally the Navy sent a couple of commanders that are also fighter pilots. They all keep trying to wedge these things into aviation style organization and concepts.”
Something occurs to me. I ask: “Then why are you here?”
I see a crooked smile as he replies: “Because the Commandant is a genius.” The smile disappears as Langsdorf continues seriously: “As the branches of service were divvying up the various projects here the Marine Corps ended up with Heavy Combat Systems. He knew that DoD was going to only send pilots. He thought the idea was stupid. Yes the Kodiaks are expensive and complicated, but they fight on the ground. You need a guy with a ground combat background. So he took advantage of the fact that the Corps owns the project and sent a ground combat guy here to run the thing.” Langsdorf’s crooked grin returns. “And since he not only picked a tanker, but picked the best tanker ever, me, the Commandant is obviously a genius.” Langsdorf’s grin disappears in to a scowl. “But sending me was all the Commandant could do at first. We would have had you and Benson here from the start, but it took the two years that I have been here to convince DoD it was good idea. Idiots.”
My experience with DoD in the past is right in line with what Langsdorf is saying. To be fair they are not really idiots. But the shear bureaucratic inertia of the organization makes change glacially slow. Langsdorf’s tale makes what Lance and I need to do clear. But to make sure I understand I ask: “So what you need is for Lance and I to start fitting these Kodiaks into a proper tank-like doctrine?”
“Exactly.” Langsdorf replies. “But not only that. I need you two to focus some of the technical development. The pilots here don’t challenge the complexity of the design. I don’t think we need to make the Kodiaks too simple; we would sacrifice too much capability. But they need to be simple enough that we have a broader pool of people who can pilot and maintain them. We are going to need a lot of them.”
I nod thoughtfully. Lance and I had some experience working tank development on the Abrams Main Battle Tank in the past. This has given us a lot of experience with engineers. Engineers have an ingrained desire to overcomplicate things. We had thoroughly enjoyed beating them in to using simplicity wherever possible. We will doubtlessly be able to use these experiences help Langsdorf with Kodiak development.
I decide I need to move on to another question that I have been mulling over. “What is up with Harkins and Dvoracek?”
I see the distinctive Langsdorf scowl as he replies: “You met them, you tell me.”
“They seem like typical alpha male types. Enamored with their own greatness. Also based upon my earlier conversations with you I gather they lack imagination. They like to stick with the Marine Corps way without ever stopping to ask why, or could things be done differently.” I respond.
“Exactly.” The scowl on Langsdorf’s face grows deeper. “They also question almost everything I ask them to do. It wouldn’t be so bad if the pilots from the other branches didn’t take their cue from them. I would have just fired them, but it is tremendously difficult to get people approved for this project. They know it too, the bastards.”
I can tell Langsdorf is honestly and genuinely frustrated by the situation. I decide I should commiserate with his frustration. It would do him a world of good. I could be serious. I could sympathize with Langsdorf and tell him something appropriately comforting. That would be a terrible idea. That is not the way Langsdorf works. So I respond with: “You mean I can’t be fired? Excellent.” I smile cheerfully. “Those are really silly looking wings.”
For once Langsdorf does not respond with sarcasm or derision. He does not make any mock threats or punch me in the chest. He simply bursts out laughing. A true smile replaces his normal crooked grin. He says: “Shawn, I’m really glad you’re here.” Ha. Like I said. Today is going to be great.
As I merrily return to my huge breakfast I surreptitiously sneak a glance around the chow hall. I do not see Harkins or Dvoracek, but I do see about a dozen members of Heavy Combat Systems. And they are all looking over at us. Excellent. I had honestly wanted to make Langsdorf happy. It was more than enough reason for the banter and the commiseration. However, I also realize the laugh I had drawn out is perfect for another purpose. The new major, who nobody knows anything about, just made the boss laugh out loud. I can practically hear the gears turning in their heads. That is right people. Langsdorf and I go way back. As Bob Dylan said: The times, they are a-changin’.
I notice the chow hall doors open and I see Lance and Roberts enter. They are engaged in friendly conversation. Lance looks very earnest and Roberts looks politely interested. I smirk. Lance is cheerfully single and I suspect he is making a gentle play for Roberts’ attention. Langsdorf notices as well. He quietly says: “She is out of Lance’s league.”
Langsdorf may be right, but Lance is my friend so I respond: “Ten on Lance.” I needed the ten bucks less than I needed to show support for my friend. Especially to Langsdorf. Although, when I lose he is going to be merciless.
The crooked grin returns and Langsdorf responds: “You’re on.”
Lance and Roberts get their food and head over to our table to join us. When they sit down we greet each other politely. Lance’s assumes an air of professionalism that seems a little forced and asks: “So, Sir, what are we going to do today?” Oh my God, I am going to have to pummel him about Roberts later.
“Today you and Morris begin your Kodiak training,” Langsdorf replies.
“Perfect,” Lance returns.
He holds his fist over the table towards me and I bump it. I forget all about Roberts and Langsdorf and remember the times I had bumped fists with Lance before and add: “Let’s show them how things are done.”
Lance replies: “Bet your ass.”
I catch Roberts looking at Lance and me curiously. She pipes up: “Somehow, I think you two are not just bragging.”
Langsdorf says: “No they are not.” I look over to Langsdorf and then to Lance. The three of us share savage grins. We had pounded a lot of dirt together and crushed even more enemies. Watch out Heavy Combat Systems, the Marine tankers are here, life as you know it has ended.
The simulator room is massive. There are four simulators in here. They look nothing like an actual vehicle. They are simply metal boxes mounted on pistons that replicate the movement of a Kodiak. The pistons must be hydraulic because the room smells faintly of hydraulic fluid. Inside the metal boxes would be exact replicas of the cockpits. The simulators are hooked up to a control station that monitors them and provides the scenarios for the pilots inside. A collection of chairs set in front of a substantial flat screen TV mounted on a pedestal create an open classroom next to the simulators. Lance and I sit in the front row of the classroom. We have two instructors. One is Lieutenant Colonel Harkins. The other is a civilian we had just met. His name is Art Murray and he is the lead engineer for Kodiak control design.
Our instructors have spent the last two hours explaining the basics of the Kodiak’s controls and how to manipulate them. The controls consist of a joystick on the right, a throttle on the left, and a pair of foot pedals. They essentially work like an aircraft’s controls. The joystick controls direction. It also has various triggers and buttons for selecting weapons and firing. Aiming the weapons is taken care of by a ‘china hat’ style thumb switch that toggles up, down, left, and right. The throttle controls speed by simply moving it forward and backward. It has various buttons and triggers
that control the jump jets. The foot pedals control twist and braking.
I have already spotted several flaws. While the control design allows for sufficient control of the Kodiak’s movement, it seems to me to not take full advantage of what a Kodiak could do. Furthermore, the controls seem to require too much subtlety in their use. This thing will need controls that both allow for more simultaneous action and more intuitive use.
As the instructors appear to be wrapping up this class I lean over to Lance and whisper: “Bad Cop time.”
Harkins looks at me pointedly and asks: “Any questions?”
I look back at Harkins. He looks slightly put out by my whispers. He is really not going to like what is coming. Like I care. I ask: “Sir, why are the controls set up this way?”
Harkins looks temporarily nonplussed. He obviously did not expect me to ask a question. He rallies and says: “We tried to replicate aircraft controls as much as possible. This makes it easier for pilots to make the transition to piloting a Kodiak.”
“But a Kodiak is not an aircraft. Don’t you think we are unnecessarily limiting ourselves here?” I reply.
Lance chimes in: “I’m not a pilot. And I am sure there will be plenty of others who need to control these things that aren’t pilots either.” God I love a good partner.
Harkins starts to get angry. “You haven’t even driven one of these things yet. How the hell do you know?” The new minions are most certainly not supposed to complain about the controls. They are majors and should therefore say ‘Aye Aye, Sir’ and carry on. Jesus where do people like this come from?