“Class G, OK, but that’s low altitude. Speed limit of 250 knots, and it ends at 14,500 feet max, right?”
Dr. Gore joined in. “Right. Keep in mind, the area is so remote, controlled traffic stays much higher to maintain radar coverage and radio contact. With almost no traffic and no cops, well, let’s just say nobody out there drives the double nickel, either. On occasion, we act like normal traffic and pop up a little higher. We’ve even filed in-flight IFR flight plans a couple of times and taken it up to 58,000 feet.”
I frowned. “But you’d have to act like a Learjet, right?”
Gore nodded. “Right, but at least we got some flight time in on it, and a little altitude. Handles nice. Lands a little fast.”
Jake slapped Dr. Gore on the back. “Sounds like another Yeager, don’t he, Tom? Don’t think Yeager ever flew a plane he didn’t like, even the ones that scared everybody else spitless.”
Dr. Gore blushed. “I’m no Yeager. I’m ready, though.”
Jake’s eyes twinkled. “We re going for it, Tom.”
“Orbit?!!” My eyes must have about popped from their sockets.
“Lee-Oh, lee-hee-hee-oh,” Jake sang. “Low Earth Orbit and then we come home.”
“Be a little hard to hide that,” I observed.
“Sure hope so,” Jake said, the grin contorting his lace like a Greek mask. “ We’ll take off out of here like private IFR traffic, fly south a little to get well clear of Canadian airspace while we clear the Cascades, then turn west and request clearance to flight level 600. Spot we picked rarely has any traffic, especially Sunday morning. If there is, we can abort, dump the fuel, land, and try again, though that would be bound to draw a crowd. If we get clearance, we point the ship almost straight up and pour on the Gargle-blaster. When we pass 60,000 feet, we’re back in uncontrolled airspace, only need to maintain visual separation with the Aurora, and can give air traffic control the razz-berry.”
“Now, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I argued. “You’re taking off to the west, against Earth’s rotation.” Jake shrugged. “Well, more to the south-west, actually. No problem. Light load, plenty of fuel. Be a great demonstration of what we can do. Besides, it puts us over water quicker, gives Vandenberg a real good look at us, and we don’t pass over nobody with nukes until everybody knows what we’re up to.”
“Jake, they’re gonna throw you in jail for sure.”
He nodded. “Probably. But they’ll pay attention.”
After a late night, we rose early to finish launch preparations.
Most of the data acquisition would be handled over the Internet through a couple of old computers Jake had bought when I finally convinced him a Commodore wasn’t a proper machine for rocket science; never mind he did most of the design with it. My computers weren’t needed, but my video system and rental plane were. My job was to fly a chase plane mission.
“Like a 182 is going to keep up with a rocket,” I quipped.
“You’ll get a nice fly-by, and maybe even get the takeoff,” Jake said. “And we’ll try to work it out so you can track the main climb. Patti will go with you to work the camera. One way or another, we’ll make the evening news. Film at six!’”
“You’re in the Civil Air Patrol, right?” Dr. Gore asked.
“Yeah. So far. If this doesn’t get me kicked out.”
He pulled an emergency locator transmitter from a pocket on the right leg of his flight suit. “Can you track an ELT from the Cessna?”
I nodded. “No DF equipment, but I can do it with wing shadow method.” “Good. If something goes wrong I can bail out. If I’m still over land, get a fix on me, OK?”
“No problem.”
The launch had been planned for Sunday morning because the good people of the surrounding farms and communities would be in church, and paying no mind to unusual aircraft showing up at the airport. We drove to the airport just after dawn to check the systems and fuel the ship, waited for everyone to get to church, and rolled Dervish out to the run-up pad, with the help of that faithful old tractor, George.
Dr. Gore climbed in, wearing a skintight home-made pressure suit with a helmet that looked a little like something you’d see in a movie from the ’30’s. His nomex flight suit was worn over the pressure suit. I took off in the Cessna to get into position, while the preparations continued, and checked in with Center, a local courtesy due to the nearby Canadian border. I suppose the best way to describe the launch is to give you what I recorded on the radio.
“Pasayten traffic, Lear 214 Papa Whiskey, taking the active on 16 for immediate takeoff.”
“Pasayten traffic, Lear 4 Papa Whiskey, departing to the south.”
“Lear 4 Papa Whiskey, Cessna 2 Golf Sierra, ten south at ten five has you in sight.”
“Cessna 2 Golf Sierra, roger, no joy, beginning climb.”
“Cessna 2 Golf Sierra, Lear 4 Papa Whiskey, tally-ho, commencing flyby.”
“Four Papa Whiskey, roger, 2 Golf Sierra has camera rolling.”
“Pasayten traffic, Lear 4 Papa Whiskey leaving frequency for Center.”
“Seattle Center, Lear 214 Papa Whiskey, over Loomis at ten five, opening flight plan.”
“Lear 4 Papa Whiskey, Center, roger, squawk 1722.”
“One-seven-two-two, roger, 4 Papa Whiskey.”
“Lear 4 Papa Whiskey, radar contact over Loomis, approved on course as filed. Clear above, climb to flight level 600 at your discretion. Flight level 600??! Uh, what model Lear is that?”
“Oh, Lear 4 Papa Whiskey is a real special model, as you are about to see. Id like to climb pretty quick. You sure it’s clear above us?”
“Four Papa Whiskey, Center,” the controller answered testily, “nobody above you for two hundred miles in any direction. You could take off straight up if you wanted. You came awfully close to the Cessna traffic that departed ahead of you a few minutes back, though.”
“’S’OK, we coordinated it. Straight up? That sounds like fun. Think I will. Thanks, Center.”
At that point, Gore opened the throttle and showed the controller just how special his little business jet was. Patti still had him clearly on the video. The previously invisible exhaust suddenly turned to a streak of flame like a welder’s torch, but white-violet hot and a whole lot longer. Dervish pitched up and accelerated for the sky like, well, a rocket. In eighty seconds, it had passed its assigned altitude.
“Center, orbital rocket 214 Papa Whiskey is now clear of your airspace. Just go ahead and cancel that flight plan, will you? And after that, maybe you could call NORAD and let them know a crazy bunch of amateur rocket scientists has just launched a manned flight southwest from the Pacific Northwest for retrograde orbit. They should be hearing from us over the Internet about now, but they’ll probably think it’s a prank. I’ll give Hawaii a buzz in about sixteen minutes, and be back with you in about an hour and a half”
I will not print the controller’s reply, in the interest of his continued employment. We tracked Dervish until it was out of sight, then stayed on-station until there was no chance we could be of any assistance, which took only a few minutes. We returned to the airport.