A tall black security officer wearing a nine-millimeter Beretta automatic pistol on his waist walked quickly to the general officer as he emerged from the entrapment area. “Sorry, sir,” Major Hal Briggs said, handing Elliott a cup of coffee. “New guy on the security console. Buzzed the sky cops when the metal detector in the entrapment area went crazy. He’s been briefed again on your … special circumstances.”
“He did right. You should have commended him. The response guards too.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Briggs had time to mutter as Elliott pushed on past him and entered the communications center. One of the controllers handed him a telephone.
“Storm Control Alpha, go ahead.”
“Alpha, this is Storm One. Flight of two in the green and ready to taxi.”
“Stand by,” Elliott said. As he lowered the phone Briggs handed him a computer printout.
“Latest from Lassen.Mountain Space Tracking Center,” Briggs said. “Three Russian satellites will be in the area during the test-window: Cosmos 713 infrared surveillance satellite still on station over North America in geostationary orbit, but it’s the other two we’re concerned with. Cosmos 1145 and 1289 are the kickers. Cosmos 1145 is a low-altitude, high-resolution film-return photo-intelligence satellite. Cosmos 1289 is a radar-imaging film-return bird. We believe they’re mainly ground-mapping satellites with limited ability to photograph aircraft in flight, but obviously they can be damaging. Both will be over the exercise area during the test throughout the day. Do you want to reschedule, sir?”
“No,” Elliott said. “I don’t want to give the Russians the pleasure of thinking they can disrupt my schedule with a couple of old Brownies. Just make sure DreamStar and Cheetah stay in the bluff while they’re overhead.”
He took a sip of coffee, scowled at it, then set the cup down with an exasperated thump. “Besides, it seems like they have all the information they need on DreamStar anyway. I could have dropped my teeth when I saw the DIA photo of the Ramenskoye Flight Test Facility in Moscow with the exact same short-takeoff-and-landing runway-test devices as ours here at Dreamland. The exact same ones. In precisely the same position right down to the inch.”
“We’ve known the Russians have been working on high-performance STOL fighter-aircraft for years, sir …”
“Right. Exactly as long as we’ve been working on them here at Dreamland. We launch Cheetah; they launch an STOL fighter. We develop a supercockpit for DreamStar, and four months later we intercept plans for nearly the same design being smuggled into East Germany. The Joint Chiefs will close down Dreamland if we don’t stop the leaks around here.”
“I’m rechecking the backgrounds of every person remotely connected with the project,” Briggs said. “DIA is rechecking the civilian contractors. But that adds up to over five thousand people and more than a hundred and fifty thousand man-years’ worth of personal histories to examine. And we do this every year for key personnel. We’re just overloaded—”
“I know, I know,” Elliott said, picking up the phone again. “But we’re running out of time. For every success we have on the flight line we have one defeat with intelligence leaks. We can’t afford it.” He keyed the switch on the telephone handset. “Storm Flight, this is Alpha. Clear for engine start. Call for clearance when ready for taxi.”
“Roger,” McLanahan replied.
Elliott turned to Briggs. “Join me in the tower when you’ve gotten the overflight update on those two Russian satellites. Before I have you work your tail off to find our security leaks, the least you can do is watch a little of our success.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the stolen STOL plans in Ramenskoye,” Briggs said, and immediately regretted it as Elliott gave him a look and limped out of the command post.
“Storm Two starting engines,” James reported to Powell. The pilot of the F-15 Cheetah barely had time to acknowledge when the whine of the engine turbines pierced the early morning stillness.
Engine start was triggered by a thought impulse that selected the “engine start” routine from the “home” menu transmitted to James by ANTARES. Computers instantly energized the engine-start circuits and determined their status; since no external air or power was available, an “alert” status would be performed.
Less than a second later the ignition-circuits were activated and a blast of supercompressed nitrogen gas shot into the sixteenth-stage compressor of DreamStar’s engine. Unlike a conventional jet engine, it was not necessary for one compressor stage at a time to spin up to full speed — all compressor stages of its engine were activated at once, allowing much faster starts. Less than twenty seconds later the engine was at idle power and full generator power was on-line. Once the engine-start choice had been activated, the computer knew what had to be done next — James just allowed the results of each preprogrammed check to scroll past his eyes as the on-board computers completed them.
“Storm Two engine start complete, beginning pre-takeoff checks.”
“Amazing,” Powell murmured in Cheetah. He had begun his engine-start checklist at the same time James had, but he had barely had his left engine up to idle-power by the time DreamStar’s start-sequence was completed.
Immediately after James made his report to McLanahan and Powell, he commanded the start of an exhaustive computer check of all of DreamStar’s systems. With the engine powering two main and one standby hydraulic pump; energy was available to DreamStar’s flight controls. Outside, the check made Dream-Star’s wing surfaces crawl and undulate like the fins of a manta ray. From outside the cockpit the flight-control check was almost surreal … each wing bent and unbent in impossible angles, stretching and flexing more like a sheet of gelatin rather than hard fibersteel. The process from hydraulic system power-up to full flight-control certification had taken fifteen seconds.
Next was an electrical system check. Total time for a complete check of two generators, two alternators, one emergency generator, and two separate battery backup systems: three seconds. James stayed immobile during the checking process, allowing his senses to be overtaken by the rush of information.
The aircraft itself was like a living thing. Personnel were not allowed near the aircraft during the preflight because damaging radar, electromagnetic, and laser emitters were being activated all around the aircraft at breakneck speed. The throttle advanced and retarded by itself. The mission-adaptive wings continued their unusual undulations, arching and bending so wildly it seemed they would bend clean in half or twist right off the fuselage.
Through it all James was constantly informed about each system’s exact status and operation. He could no longer feel his feet or hands, but he knew which circuit in the superconducting radar was energized, and through that system he knew down to the millimeter how far Cheetah was parked from him. He knew the position of DreamStar’s canards, the pressure of the fluid in the primary hydraulic system and the RPMs of the ninth-stage engine’s turbine, just as one might know which way his toes were pointing without seeing them or the way one picks up a pencil and begins to write without consciously thinking about the action. ANTARES had cut James off from monitoring his own body, had relegated that function to a deeper portion of his brain and had shifted his conscious mental capacity to the task of operating a supersonic fighter plane.
Suddenly, DreamStar ceased its wild preflight movements, and the engine throttle returned to idle …
“Storm One, Two is in the green, ready for taxi,” James reported.
“My radar’s not even timed out,” Patrick said to J. C. Powell. “How are you coming on your preflight?”