Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  Aforementioned sophisticated aerodynamic engineering features combined to produce slightly wobbly takeoff; borderline maladroit performance no doubt exacerbated by haste. Had someone noticed preparations, asked entirely reasonable question, “Candy, what are you doing with that plane...?” would have had awkward time coming up with answer sufficiently disarming to send snoop back to minding own business.

  (And really hated thought of having to pummel friend to make good escape.)

  So took advantage of plane's STOL characteristics to minimize interception probabilities: Took off more or less directly out of hangar door.

  Stallions particularly well suited for such highjinks. For all intents, purposes, turboprop warms up instantly. Hit starter, engine spins up to minimum ignition rpm. Light torch—thrill to nifty jet-engine wail as, within seconds, rpms come rest of the way up to operational speeds.

  Sound level, however, not exactly stealthy; so prior to engaging starter, had already set prop pitch, flaperons, trim tabs for departure mode: Everything in short-field-takeoff configuration.

  Wherefore, advanced throttle to stop, released brakes, eased yoke forward. Tailwheel off ground before Stallion fully out hangar door; plane lifted off without further pilot intervention only two, three seconds later—almost before clearing apron.

  Banked immediately to establish climb-out parallel to active runway, just in case actual conflicting traffic might be present. (Not likely; airstrip boasts three, maybe five non-training-session operations per week.)

  Once clear of traffic pattern, climbing away from field (with guilt feelings waning in direct proportion to distance covered), didn't take long regain feel for controls. Stabilized, trimmed for standard cruise-climb.

  Upon reaching manual-listed maximum-efficiency altitude of 13,000 feet, netting 188-knot (201 mph) cruise, burning roughly 50 gallon per hour, leveled off, switched on autopilot.

  Left ship's radios turned very much off. Same with pair of borrowed satellite phones. Little doubt what family, friends would have to say. Even less doubt—common-sense arguments, emotional entreaties alike would have no effect on decision.

  Redundant GPS units operational; even more satisfying, agreed amongst themselves. Teacher says most GPS satellites can be counted upon to remain on-station, on-line for years to come; long enough, he feels, for hominems, led by AAs, to develop own space program based on lightweight Rutan-pioneered technology; take up global-comm maintenance duties; plus, in time, embark upon further exploration out into Big Dark.

  Unbuckled, adjourned to improvised navigational station just aft of pilot's seat. Had “borrowed” one copy of each paper chart covering proposed route up U.S./Canadian/Alaskan west coast, straight across inland Alaska to Bering Strait, along with most of eastern, central, western Asia, eastern Europe. Plus had full collection of applicable GPS-linked 3-D topographical satellite-photo DVDs to load into Garmin moving-map “glass cockpit” big-screen primary flight-information display.

  Spread out first chart. Rather than following westerly-then-northerly-curving coast all the way to Seattle area, point at which Canadian coast bends westward further still, had decided to plot inland-angling, less Pacifically scenic but shorter, geodesic “great circle” course.

  Quick glance showed route workable: Regularly spaced general aviation fields within reasonable detouring distance on both sides of track.

  Returned to pilot seat. Inserted first DVD into Garmin. After brief delay while system loaded, digested data, full-color moving map appeared, with cute little you-are-here airplane icon just below screen center. Quick glance out windows confirmed on-screen picture matched geography below.

  (Amazing, what scientists can accomplish when not coming up with ever more imaginative ways to eliminate whole sapient species....)

  Even without electronic goodies, Stallion's panel more than adequate to fly through soup. However, have no intention whatever of attempting IFR (instrument flight rules) operations. Yes, have demonstrated acceptable degree of proficiency, both in simulators as well as while wearing don't-peek, instrument-practice hood in real planes.

  However, absent, at minimum, up-to-date weather information from ground-based air-traffic controller, pilot has no idea whether cloud one is driving through is merely local phenomenon—or perhaps zero-zero conditions exist all the way down to unplanned right-of-way dispute with unyielding minerals. Only way to be certain is to fly only when ground visible, meaning VFR operations for me exclusively, thank you very much.

  Planned to fly short legs only, topping up tanks by halfway point whenever possible. If specific airport turns up dry, will have plenty of fuel remaining to move on.

  * * * *

  Had had variety of planes to choose from back at Mt. Palomar; some smaller, others larger (all the way up to Globemaster IIIs!). However, while Stallion larger than would have preferred, advanced aero technology actually simplifies piloting, maintenance chores; minimizes odds of potential mechanical failures.

  Lennel says turboprops way more reliable than reciprocating engines. Oversimplifying proposition to almost comical degree, turboprop consists of only one moving part: turbine/compressor shaft. True, that single piece drives gearbox, which slows 125,000-plus-rpm turbine shaft rotation to 2000-2500 rpm-ish prop speed, as well as driving peripherals such as alternators, etc.

  Adam agrees with Lennel; says far fewer modern propjet engines and/or gearboxes fail than piston engines’ exhaust valves—to say nothing of recips’ other eleven moving parts per cylinder (minimum); plus all those components in common, such as crankshaft bearings (or crank itself), connecting rods, camshaft, pushrods, rocker arms, valve springs, magnetos, distributors, sparkplugs, etc.

  Of course, regardless which engine type, any failure beyond most minor of causes shifts expedition to Plan B in big way—substantive engine repairs simply beyond 11-year-old ingenue-type capabilities.

  Wish had Plan B....

  And sure wish had dared try to bring Adam. Merrily wicked, irrepressible good humor, coupled with our fundamental compatibility, would have made trip much more pleasant. Plus, of course, boy so useful: Even limited to campfire or crudest gasoline-fueled camp stove, routinely produces culinary miracles; and, though major aircraft engine blowup might crowd even his talents (at least without access to fully equipped aviation repair shop), can fix pretty much anything.

  However, company simply not in cards. No question, Adam would have responded to invitation with attempt to stop me. Probably would even have stooped to irrefutable common-sense arguments. When that failed to work (as if!), favorite boytoy in whole wide world would have dug in heels, shifted to transcendentally superior Male Authority mode: Forbidden Me To Go.

  (And according to leading relationship experts, tying, gagging, locking Significant Other in closet prior to departure appears nowhere among top ten recommended couple-bonding strategies.)

  Still, would have been nice to be able to count on intelligent, resourceful, fearless backup In The Event Of ... Particularly someone so familiar with the frequently out-of-boxly way Plucky Special-Ops Girl's brain operates—coordinated efforts, when working as team, sometimes leads family, friends, associates to accuse us (probably no more than half-kiddingly) of reading each other's minds.

  Hmm ... No way to soft-shoe around it, Posterity; that was digression. Back to Stallion:

  At least as important as reliability for traveler forced to glean necessities en route, turboprops’ diet of choice: Jet-A/JP-4—staple of civilian passenger/air freight industry/military air fleets. Millions of gallons still conveniently available pretty much worldwide, even at modest-sized general aviation and/or military airports.

  Toward which end, on-board tool inventory also includes pair of industrial-grade fuel-transfer hand-plumps, with hoses, high-tech filters to remove condensed water, screen out particulates, algae, etc.

  In interests of historical accuracy, however, Dauntless Girl Flying Ace must confess: Deserve no credit fo
r equipment's inclusion; not product of own foresight. Each of hominem community's planes carries them, since even officially condoned flights mostly involve refueling far afield.

  Plus, even more critical for under-five-foot-tall airplane thie—er, borrower, inventory includes lightweight folding stepladder. No kidding: Fuel filler caps on this ship recessed into upper wing surfaces, tippy-tip-tops of wingtip tanks—all over nine feet off ground...!

  Also brought along additional piece of equipment necessary to accommodate Yours Truly's “special” requirements: Firm, three-inch-thick, foam block on pilot's seat enables vision over instrument panel in level flight. More comfortable, as well as lighter (and surely more professional looking), than phone book, which had used during earlier flight with Lennel.

  Lastly, homemade rudder/brake pedal lift blocks, transferred intact from pedals of own van. Neatly mini-C-clamped into place, pads enable leg-length-challenged pilot (hey, I resemble that remark!), falling outside designed-for specs, to steer, coordinate flaperons/rudders for smoothly banked turns; operate brakes when circumstances mandate.

  * * * *

  Teacher's bomb dropped just after breakfast. Ferreting out necessary details on Daddy's probable whereabouts took almost ‘til noon. Packing required another two hours.

  All Stallion maintenance logs kept in pigeonhole shelf unit mounted on hangar wall, so plane selection took only minutes. And since unwritten Mt. Palomar “air force” protocol states, “You fly it, you service it,” could be certain that, unless red-tagged, all ships present fueled, flight-ready.

  Transferring gear (including pedal blocks) from van to plane took half hour.

  Lifted off, finally, at about three p.m., leaving only about five hours’ daylight.

  Night flying? Thank you, no. Hominem vision extension into infrared fringes not adequate substitute for runway lights during night landings. (Okay, if had really good reason, might be persuaded to take shot during warm, cloudless, full-moon-lit night.) Upon reflection, have decided to flightplan for solid, two-hours-before-sundown cushion, just to be sure.

  Flying weather perfect: Glorious, haze-free, clear blue skies, intermittent fluffy, sparklingly white cumulus puffies (a few reminiscent of animals) above, below flight level; gorgeous panorama of forested mountains, rivers, lakes passing beneath, all the way from Palomar to Klamath Falls, Oregon.

  Where redoubtable World-Class Ultralight Pilot/Retired Space Shuttle Copilot redeemed self, reestablished confidence eroded during flying-clown takeoff, by floating down, executing (tragically unwitnessed) perfectly squeaked-on three-point touchdown.

  * * * *

  Excerpts from the Journal of Kim Mellon:

  Really, wouldn't you think that by now we'd all have learned...

  If there's one quality that exemplifies Candy's personality, it's her decisiveness and determination.—Wait. Sorry; that's two qualities. Her resourcefulness, decisiveness, and determination—Damn, that's three. And—

  Sorry; worry scrambles my brain, and of course I'm practically beside myself at this point, so naturally I sound like a refugee from a Monty Python Inquisition skit.

  I think what I'm trying to say is that Candy isn't like other little girls; not even other Homo post hominem little girls.

  (At least I don't think she is—or maybe I'm just hoping: Periodically, the recurring suspicion that one day Lisa may be just like her causes my blood to run cold.)

  Prior to saving the world (and before dying even the first time), Candy had demonstrated a selfless courage and determination at least comparable to that of ... of...

  Of an adult, obviously.

  But an adult what...?

  Sugar? Spice? Everything nice?

  A warrior, of course. Though still essentially a child in appearance, and in her merry, uncomplicated devotion and loyalty to her friends and loved ones, the innermost core of Candy's soul of souls cannot be other than that of a warrior. Yes, four feet, ten inches in height, preteen—nearly prepubescent, for heaven's sake!—but clearly a warrior:

  Repeatedly she's faced death in defense of others; sometimes spontaneously, reacting almost without thought, as when she dived into that flaming car to rescue Adam. But that last time...

  With full awareness of the consequences, making a rational, calculated, “needs of the many” decision—displaying a courage which to this day brings tears to my eyes to contemplate—she stepped forward and volunteered to die for her newly discovered people.

  And did.

  But she's also killed. On the first occasion, she was hurried into mortal combat by a sociopath.

  The second time, however, the killing was carried out in the coldest of blood: an utterly premeditated execution. Kyril Svetlanov, the Khraniteli agent, stood between her and the lives of those whom she had pledged herself to protect. Deliberately, efficiently, she distracted him with childlike tears, got close enough, and then, with a minimum of risk to herself and her mission, she invoked hysterical strength, twisted his neck, and killed his treacherous, back-stabbing, sorry Khraniteli ass...!

  (Wow. Where did that come from? I must be even more upset than I realized.)

  Anyway, certainly the courage and integrity are inborn, but those life-and-death experiences have ... changed her. Since returning from space (and, particularly this last time, from death), Candy has possessed a certain ... perhaps awareness would be the closest descriptive of her current outlook, though an adult-level element of confidence is part of it.

  Now, whether that confidence is best described with the prefix over or not ... I'm barely a First Degree Black Belt and I've never died, so, in the language of my engineering background, I lack the training, experience, and/or data necessary to express an opinion.

  In any event, I should have recognized the signs: I actually heard Teacher tell her that they'd gotten a line on her adopted father. More importantly, I also heard him tell her it would probably be another six months before we could mount another expedition into the area.

  Then I bumped into Danni coming out of the showers, and she told me how Candy had grilled her for everything she'd heard about Doctor Foster.

  However, it was only at dinnertime, when most of us were assembling in the chow hall, and I looked up to see Lisa arriving with Terry on her shoulder, that the dots began to connect, and the first squads of goosebumps started their march up my spine.

  “Lisa, honey, how come you have Terry? Where's Candy?”

  At six years of age and the product of a double dose of hominem genes (my beloved, dearly departed Jason almost certainly was one of us), Lisa is one of the most terrifyingly precocious children on the planet. An empath, having demonstrated beyond question her ability to tap into Candy's emotions, both directly and via Terry's mind, and almost as certainly mine and others, getting information from her which she feels might upset us can be an exercise in frustration.

  She eyed me thoughtfully before replying. “Candy's not eating with us tonight,” she said carefully. “So I thought I'd bring Terry.”

  Mm-hmm ... Not enough content to be a lie, and so not responsive to the question. (Daniel Webster would have gotten all misty-eyed with pride.)

  I tried again, my voice dripping a warm, uncritical curiosity—knowing all the while that the tone was irrelevant; that she was picking up my mounting apprehension directly from the source: “Where is Candy eating?”

  Lisa's eyes hooded. Another classic null-A pause ensued which would have warmed the cockles of A. E. van Vogt's slannish heart. This was followed by an even more painstakingly less informative reply: “She didn't say.”

  By this point, throughout the chamber all eyes were swiveling toward us. Conversation, after the briefest upward flurry, began tapering to a halt.

  “Around eleven this morning,” Wallace Griffin contributed unhappily into the deepening silence, “Candy dropped by my office and pumped everything out of me but my bone marrow about what we'd gleaned regarding her dad. She even left with copies of our field reports.” />
  “Which would have been right after she'd wrung me dry,” interjected Danya, regarding Lisa with that unblinking gaze so reminiscent of a cobra.

  Whereupon, my daughter found that stroking and scritching Terry required all her attention. Clearly no further assistance would be coming from that quarter.

  Another pause followed, increasingly pregnant, broken when Lennel Palindrome, our leading aviation maintenance guru, cleared his throat and rose awkwardly to his feet. “If I could see a show of hands of anyone who knows why one of our Helio Stallions executed a remarkably nonstandard departure around three this afternoon?” he asked. “And is still gone....” he finished apologetically.

  The dearth of hands in response was equaled only by the depth of the silence that finally had descended throughout the room, unbroken even by the sound of breathing.

  The crash of Adam's chair toppling over ended it. Catapulting to his feet, he leaned forward, arms braced on the table, his face suddenly ashen. Wide-eyed, he glared around the room. “She's gone!” he hissed. “You all know she's gone! She's going to fly to Russia all by herself, and then, single-handedly, she's going to storm the goddamned castle...!”

  * * * *

  Candy's Journal:

  Lovely area, Klamath Falls; could be talked into living here: Pretty town, prettier surrounding suburbs; located at southern end of large, lovely lake, among low, heavily forested mountains, rising higher to west. Whole area situated among eastern flanks of Cascades, some 60 miles south of Crater Lake.

  Stallion's resting angle so steeply nose-up, on extra-tall, conventional, tail-dragger landing gear, renders vision straight ahead over nose while on ground effectively invisible. So S-turn taxied (snatching alternating peeks right, left, to see what lay directly ahead) over to fixed-base operator facilities.

  Identified half-full Jet-A fuel truck. Employed hand pump, filters (ladder!) to refuel Stallion.

  Thereafter performed plane's bedtime chores: Checked oil, various fluid reservoirs, battery electrolyte level, tire pressures. Removed aerodynamic contamination represented by bugspot accumulations from propeller's, wings', tail group's leading edges. Carefully washed windshield (formed from nearly bulletproof, but ever-so-scratchably soft, Lexan), etc.