The scientists in the room nodded their approval, but in the low murmur of approving voices there was one voice that caused the other delegates to the conference to stop and turn toward the speaker with a great deal of surprise. “Excuse me,” Fursenko said irritably to the one attendee. “Would you repeat what you just said?”
“I said bullshit, tovarisch,” David Luger said in rather stilted pidgin Russian. The other delegates peeled away from the tall, thin man as if he were glowing with radioactivity. Luger went on: “That vertical surface will increase the aircraft’s radar cross-section by a factor of at least four hundred, whether extended or retracted.”
“We have run dozens of tests on the design, Dr. Ozerov,” Fursenko replied. “The data show that radar cross-section is reduced significantly, as close to zero as possible, with the vertical control surfaces retracted.”
“You’re talking about a computer model that merely computes an RCS factor based on the square footage of the control surface in the slipstream,” Luger said. Most of his words, especially the technical terms, came out in English, and his pronunciation of most of the Russian words was barely understandable — the other scientists shook their heads in exasperation, trying to understand him as he continued: “Your computer model doesn’t take into account the lobal-propagation properties of RF energy coming off the wings and fuselage and the wave pattern associated with reflections from the control surfaces, especially when the main wing trailing edge deflects in greater increments during high-speed turns.”
Fursenko rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I did not understand you, Doctor Ozerov. Would you kindly—”
Luger sneered. “Don’t you know anything about stealth characteristics?”
Fursenko let out a resigned sigh and, searching the attendees, let his eyes rest on a man sitting as unobtrusively as possible in the back of the room. The man noticed Fursenko searching for him, and he smiled with great amusement at the scientist. The man in the back of the room made a gesture at Fursenko as if to say, “Answer the man, Doctor.”
But before Fursenko could, Luger proceeded: “Stealth isn’t just a factor of the structural or material composition of an aircraft. You can’t just build anything you want out of composites and call it stealthy. You’ll always have radar reflections because of structural members beneath the skin. But even if the entire thing were built out of plastic, it doesn’t mean you’ll have a stealthy aircraft. What you got there doesn’t even come close. I haven’t run a computer model of the aircraft with those stabilators, but just judging by the light reflecting off those things, you don’t have a stealthy bomber there.
“The key is to channel whatever radar energy is reflected into lobes, with specific direction and amplitude, and you have to be careful not to let the lobes cross with other lobes from other parts of the aircraft. If you can aim the lobes away from the emitter, bingo! You have a stealthy design. The lobes are real, and they’re powerful, just like regular RF energy — if you cross them or blend them, you’ll destroy whatever stealth characteristics you had. Is that clear now?”
“Thank you for your input, Doctor Ozerov,” Fursenko finally said to Luger. “You have certainly explained your arguments… er, succinctly and positively…”
“So run your computer models again, but this time you have to plot the lobes from the vertical stabilizers in every possible position, then combine it with the lobe structure from the main mission-adaptive wings in every possible position and see if you have any cases where the lobes enhance or blend with each other.”
“Thank you, Doctor Ozerov.”
“It may take a while, but it’ll be worth it,” Luger said, his voice more excited, his words more clipped. “You can compute the lobal propagation for the plane by hand, but it’ll take weeks. But if you freed up the computer a little, I’d run the model for you and have an answer in a few days. If you ask me, you should just take the damn vertical stabs off. Increase the range of motion of the MAW actuators, and you’ll have full roll-and-pitch control at all speeds—”
“I said, thank you, Doctor.”
Luger scratched his head, his other hand patting nervously against his right leg. He glanced quickly at his colleagues, but something had suddenly gone out of his eyes. He was feeling confused, disoriented. “And another thing. I…” He looked around, frustration and anxiety giving way to anger. “Dammit, I was going to say something else, but I’ve lost… my train of thought. I …” He scratched his head again, pacing back and forth. “I… don’t know what’s wrong… what I’m doing.”
Fursenko’s eyes darted to the back of the room, but the man who had been watching Luger was already moving toward him from behind.
Luger felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Doc. Hey…” Luger’s face fell into despair, then brightened somewhat. “Hey, Doc where have you been?”
“I think it is time to go, Ivan,” Viktor Gabovich — known to David Luger as Dr. Petyr Kaminski — said gently. “That was a very good presentation.”
“So why are these guys looking at me like this?” Luger asked. “Why are they staring at me?” He glared at one of the delegates and raged in English, “You got a problem? I’m right about those vertical stabilizers, man. You gotta take those suckers off—”
“Speak Russian, Ivan,” Gabovich urged him quietly. “Some of these gentlemen don’t understand English too well.”
“Well, I suppose that’s my fucking fault too, huh?” Luger shouted. A tiny drop of spittle rested on a corner of his mouth. “Just like it’s my fault I can’t get to sleep at night, right? And my fault the first prototype crashed… and now you’re saying it’s my fault that these morons can’t understand me? Well, fuck you, Kaminski.”
By this time Gabovich had led Luger out of the conference room and into an anterior hallway. “Hey, I wasn’t finished with my points, friend, I gotta go back there—”
A fist plunged hard and deep into Luger’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Luger tried to take a breath, failed, wheezed, and sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Gabovich’s deputy, Vadim Teresov, rubbed his knuckles for a moment, then pulled Luger’s head up by his hair. “Quit whining, Luger!”
“Nyet,” Gabovich said. “You idiot — his name is Ozerov.” The two Russians helped Luger to his feet. Luger’s face was turning red from the pain and exertion, but Gabovich could see he was taking deeper breaths. “You must learn not to get so excited, Ivan Sergeiovich,” Gabovich told him. “You will just get yourself and those around you upset for no reason.”
“Why the fuck did you do that?” Luger croaked. “Why did you do that …”