Buck Rogers- A Life in the Future

by Martin Caidin

  A Life in the Future

  Buck smiled, knowing Blacky would be as angry as he was caught unaware by the outlaw maneuver. Buck was following a rule far more to the point than flying by the rules. The fighter pilot who catches his opponent by surprise is almost always the man who wins. In a dogfight, there is no second best, only the victor and the loser. Short of firing live ammunition. Buck was determined to win.

  He squeezed his gun trigger. The television screens showed a line of red dots along the lower right wing of the Spad. Had the guns been live, he would have stitched a line of bullets through Blacky's wing. He eased in the left rudder to bring the cockpit of the Spad in his sights.

  Blacky was faster than expected, and he realized immediately what Buck was doing. In a flash, the Spad turned upside down and dived earthward. The sudden burst of speed carried him barely out of the laser beam. As Buck's speed in the climb diminished, the Spad accelerated swiftly, pulling out at the last moment, using the speed from its dive to race away. Out of range now of Buck's weapon, Blacky began a wide turn, always keeping the Fokker in sight.

  "Round one is yours," Blacky said grimly into his lip microphone. "Now we'll try it my way." The Spad was faster than the Fokker, and Blacky was using everything he had to come around on the tail of his opponent.

  But Buck had the more maneuverable plane. He pulled the stick back hard, tramping the left rudder and slamming the throttle forward. No way could the Spad turn with him.

  The next moment he realized just how good Blacky was. Instead of trying to match the Fokker's tight turning ability. Blacky went into a series of tight aileron rolls to reduce the distance between the two planes. It was a trick few fighter pilots had ever mastered, and Blacky was making the most of the moment. As he rolled, he walked his rudder slightly from side to side. With live ammunition, he'd be spraying bullets right where the Fokker had to fly; this way he had a good chance to get some laser strikes on Buck.

  There was only one way out. Dangerously close to the ground. Buck threw the Fokker into a series of snap rolls, the Fokker gyrating wildly through the air as if the plane were suddenly out of control. This would bring the Spad even closer. It looked like

  Buck Rogers

  the worst move Buck could make. Buck timed his next move perfectly. He chopped power, and the Fokker seemed to fly into mud as its speed fell off drastically. Now the Spad was close behind him but too far to one side to get in a shot. Blacky rolled away before he overran Buck.

  For the next fifteen minutes of grueling flying, they parried, dived, and whirled, each trying to gain the upper hand for a clean shot. They were two fencing masters in an aerial death duel. Blacky kept trying for superior altitude so he could dive with great speed at Buck, while Buck twisted constantly to stay out of range and used his superior maneuverability to close in for a killing shot.

  In a tight turn at low altitude, the Fokker slewed wildly to one side. Mistake! Immediately Blacky dived against his opponent, confident his height advantage would let him pick the perfect position to fire directly into the Fokker and end the fight.

  To Blacky's surprise, Buck slammed into a near-vertical dive. Groans arose from the crowd. Buck had to pull out to prevent slamming into the ground, and when he did the battle would be ended. The Fokker seemed doomed. What was wrong with Buck? On the television screens, the crowd watched Buck's head rocking back and forth as if he were only semiconscious. Could he have blacked out from one of his wild maneuvers?

  Blacky came down in what he was convinced was the final dive of the fight. In moments the Fokker would fill his sights. He held his finger on his trigger. Far ahead of him, he saw the German fighter slew to one side. Then one wheel careened on the ground, and the airplane skidded out of control.

  Blacky counted off the seconds, his finger tightening on the trigger in anticipation. He watched the Fokker rock from one wheel to the other, on the razor's edge of buckling its landing gear and smashing into the ground. After what seemed an eternity. Blacky fired.

  Missed! The Fokker had gone to full power. Buck clawed around on one wheel, turning into the strong wind blowing across the field. Blacky couldn't get in a shot as the Fokker flashed before his nose and then was gone.

  With his speed building rapidly, Buck pulled up into a wild climb. Blacky had to pull out from his dive, and as he came level with the ground, the Fokker was directly beneath him. On every

  A Life in the Future

  television screen, bright red spots appeared as Blacky flew straight into the path of Buck's weapons. Had the lasers been machine guns, a stream of bullets would have ripped into the Spad's engine and fuel tanks, exploding the plane into a ball of fire.

  The battle was ended—but not the danger. Blacky banked into a tight turn. For the moment, he couldn't see the Fokker. There was no room for Buck to break out of the climb as the distance between the two planes narrowed swiftly.

  A million people watched in horror as the propeller of the Fokker sliced into the rear fuselage of the Spad. The sound of tearing metal carried sickeningly across the field. With its tail torn away, the Spad tumbled violently out of control. It careened out of the sky to smash into the ground, well away from the crowd, disintegrating into a mushrooming mass of flaming wreckage.

  But Buck was also paying the price for the sudden collision. The Fokker flew through the debris of the aerial smashup, its propeller twisted into a metal snarl. Pieces of one wing tore away. Buck had practically no control left, and he was too low to bail out. In that instant. Buck saw he was going to crash directly into the crowd.

  Hundreds of people would die, while others would be burned horribly as the fuel tanks exploded. With what little control he had left, he kicked the rudder hard and threw the Fokker into a flat spin, away from the screaming throng on the ground. He also gave up his one and only chance at a controlled crash from which he could survive.

  In those final moments, everyone watching knew that Buck had made his final decision. The flat spin would send his plane down away from the helpless onlookers, but at a terrible price.

  The Fokker spun wildly, crossed over the grass, and thundered against the concrete runway just beyond, skidding wildly as the airplane broke into pieces.

  The last clear view on the television screens was of the engine bursting into flame, ripping loose from its mounts, and tumbling backward . . .

  . . . directly into the cockpit, where a helpless Buck Rogers knew he was about to die.

  Chapter 3

  Dr. Arthur Bedford gripped the shoulders of Angelina Bar-zoni. He held her tightly, as much to keep her from dashing past him toward Madison Hospital's Trauma Center as to keep the distraught, shaken woman from collapsing at his feet.

  "I've got to see Buck!" Angle hissed through clenched teeth, forcing the words through her inner pain. "I've got to." Tears streaked her face, mixing with soot from the burning airplane in which her future husband had been trapped. Along with several others, doused in fire-fighting foam from the crash trucks, she had hurled herself into the flames and rummaged through the fractured metal, struggling to reach Buck to release his safety harness so that she and the other rescuers could drag him from the wreckage of the airplane before the remaining fuel geysered outward in all directions. Asbestos-suited men dragged her back from the fire, carrying her like a child as she screamed to be let free, her arms and legs kicking wildly. Through the intense glare, she'd caught a glimpse of the limp and unconscious form of Buck as fire danced ever higher along his legs. Even as she was dragged to safety, other members of the rescue crews sprayed foam on Buck and the immediate wreckage in an attempt to hold down the flames.

  An armored vehicle on tracks punched into the fire and

  A Life in the Future

  wreckage, huge metal pincers snapping through the debris to clear the way for the rescue crew. It was the last Angie saw of her lover as the bulk of the tracked vehicle cut off her view. Above the din of crackling flames and roaring engines, she heard the fearful sh
out of "Down! Hit the deck! It's going to explode!"

  Two asbestos-clad men fell heavily on her, throwing her down and covering her body with their own. She felt the heat of exploding fuel tanks even before she heard the deep bass boom. She fought to breathe, hanging precariously to consciousness. Strong hands moved her back against a fire truck; unseen figures clamped an oxygen mask to her face.

  Hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, she recognized the familiar whoosh of helicopter blades and whine of shrill jet engines. She staggered to her feet just in time to see a large white shape rise before her eyes, blurred and accelerating, a stark red cross emblazoned on the side of a medivac helicopter. Whirling rotors swirled a blast of fetid air against her. She felt consciousness slipping away, and then welcoming blackness.

  ^ >}: ^; H< ^t

  Angle awoke slowly, her mind swimming upward through her confused thoughts, her memory struggling to cut through the murk. Her eyes fluttered. White . . . white everywhere. Could this be death? She blinked her eyes, winced with pain. No long tunnel of death. I couldn't hurt this much if I were dead, she thought. Reasoning is coming back. I'm alive. But what's all this white? She tried to move her left arm. It was locked rigidly to her side. Again she blinked and tried to . . .

  "Miss Barzoni? Lie still, please. Don't try to move." Nice face, concerned look, blonde hair, white uniform. Nurse ... a nurse. Objects swam into focus. An intravenous bottle on a hook, dripping its contents into a vein . . . her vein. More needles. Huge white loaves of bandages. The nurse held up a large mirror at an angle so she could see herself. She saw a snowman in a hospital bed. Then it all came back to her, right up to the moment when she saw the medivac chopper lifting off the runway with Buck. She could figure out the rest of it. She had received burns of her own, perhaps other injuries. They must have brought her here.

  Buck Rogers

  "Where . . . where am I?" she asked the nurse. Her voice sounded muffled and hoarse through the facial bandages.

  "Madison Hospital. Intensive Care Unit. You've received some serious burns, and you've inhaled a good deal of smoke and heat. You have several lacerations and cuts, but everything will be fine. Please, just relax."

  Relax? Was this woman mad? "Buck ... I want to know about Buck!" Angelina shouted as loudly as she could, ignoring the pain of moving her facial muscles and the pressure within her injured chest. "Where is he? How is he! I don't even know if he's alive, and you babble to me about relaxing!"

  Anger brought her strength. She tore the IV tube loose from her arm and pushed away covers. She eased to the floor as the nurse, horrified, rushed to her side. With the strength born of desperation, Angelina shoved the nurse back. Half-staggering, she walked clumsily to the door and pushed her way through to the hallway. There, at the far end of the corridor, she saw the trauma center, where she knew they must have taken Buck. She staggered and weaved down the hallway until suddenly a tall doctor stood before her. She recognized him. "Arthur!" she croaked aloud. "Buck . . . how is he? I've got to talk to him!"

  The doctor gripped her tightly, more to keep her from falling than to stop her uncertain progress to the trauma center doors. He motioned to an aide. "Wheelchair, now!"

  Moments later he helped lower Angelina to the chair. "I'll take you inside," he promised her. "You can't get to him, Angle. He's in the hyperbaric chamber and it's sealed. But you can see him through an observation port."

  "Is he . . . ?" She finished the question with her eyes.

  "He's alive,' Dr. Bedford told her. "I can't say much more than that. He's in the chamber under high oxygen pressure. We've got him on full life support. . . transfusions, skin coverings, that sort of thing. We've also run a current through his brain to keep him asleep so he'll be out of pain without our loading him up with drugs."

  "Th—that means he can't hear me?" she asked tremulously.

  "He can't hear any of us, Angle, but it keeps him out of pain. He's asleep, and we want to keep him that way as long as possible."

  She nodded slowly. "How bad . . . ?" She let the question

  A Life in the Future

  hang.

  "I won't lie to you," Bedford said quietly. "I understand you saw the crash."

  She nodded slowly.

  "Then you can understand why we're taking these precautions. We're giving him all the help we can. At least you can see how he's set up."

  Dr. Bedford wheeled her chair into the trauma center. A huge tank dominated the center of the room. Medical technicians stood by monitors, making adjustments. Dr. Bedford stopped by an observation window and helped Angelina to her feet. Slowly she moved her body until she could peer through the port.

  She felt her heart sink. Her body sagged. Bedford eased her back into the chair.

  "He ... he looks so helpless," she said finally, her voice quavering. She had expected the worst, but the sight of the man she loved drained her strength. Beneath her bandages, she tasted salt as her tears and blood mixed along her lips.

  Dr. Bedford's words penetrated her bandages like the voice of doom. "There is no gentle way to say this," he told her quietly. "Mr. Rogers is completely helpless ... at least for now."

  Angelina looked up slowly. "Tell me straight out . . . what are his chances of recovery?"

  "Slim to none. And if we do pull him through, I can't see how he'll ever fly again. He'd be extremely fortunate even to walk with crutches."

  Angelina heard the doctor's voice as a death sentence for the man she loved. Never fly again? Buck would rather be dead.

  "When will we—I—know if he'll live?"

  "We'll know in twenty-four hours, Angle. Look, the truth is going to hurt. I—"

  She gestured. "I know the rest, Doctor. Buck and I have both lost friends before. It's the nature of what we do."

  "I know. Now, I must get you back to your room. You'll be under around-the-clock observation for at least a week. You took some pretty bad knocks yourself. I don't want you dying on me as well."

  Her next words shook him to the core. "You don't understand. Doctor. If Buck dies, then inside, I'll be dead as well." She paused and closed her eyes with a pain much worse than those of her

  Buck Rogers

  injuries. "You'll tell me if—I mean—"

  "One way or the other. I promise." He wheeled her back to her room. In the bright, antiseptic light, Angle thought she had never seen anything so stark and lonely.

  Dr. Nancy Reilly toyed with her coffee mug, staring across the conference table at Dr. Bedford. Two other surgeons sat beside her.

  "You didn't tell her there's no hope he'll live?" she asked. "That in most respects Rogers is already dead?"

  Dr. Rutger Claudius, to her right, shook his head slowly. "Arthur, that's wrong. For God's sake, man, he's on full life support now. His body has failed him. If we lose power for even a few seconds, he'll be a corpse."

  Bedford showed no emotion. "Alive or dead," he answered, "tomorrow morning we inform Miss Barzoni that Buck Rogers died during the night."

  Another doctor gestured for attention. "Why?"

  Bedford turned in his seat to directly face Dr. Charles Ramirez, executive head of the Cyberdyne Medical Complex. "You know the answer as well as anybody else in this room," Bedford said coldly. "Because if we're going to save this man's life, then everyone he knows must accept that he is already dead. Otherwise, the legal and moral problems will delay things so much that it will surely kill him. Only then, for all intents and purposes, his death will take place in a courtroom."

  The one doctor who had not yet spoken was not a medical man. Dr. Myron Packwood was the leading laser scientist in the country. "Listen to what Arthur says. He's right. This is a move we make now, or we can all attend Rogers's funeral services."

  "But your laser program is still experimental!" Dr. Reilly protested.

  "That's meaningless to a dying man," Packwood retorted. "I'm waiting to hear from Rex Caliburn. He's the government representative. If the president approves what
I've recommended, then we're all protected legally and ethically. And the federal government will pay for what we're going to try. Millions of dollars." Packwood nodded to Bedford. "How long can you keep

  A Life in the Future

  Rogers alive—breathing and brain-alive, anyway? It doesn't matter if he's unconscious. Frankly, I prefer it that way."

  "Three, maybe four months at the most. And, yes, he'll remain unconscious."

  "Then as soon as Caliburn gets here with government approval, I suggest you move Mr. Rogers into total isolation. You have the unfortunate responsibility of telling his fiancee that he died."

  Bedford nodded in silence.

  Dr. Bedford, with Nurse Helen Timmons by his side, wheeled Angle Barzoni slowly and carefully into the private hospital elevator. They rode in silence to the rooftop, where Dr. Bedford moved Angle to an open area so she would have an uninterrupted view of the sky in all directions. A buzzer rang softly in a receiver behind the nurse's ear. She touched a solenoid on her wrist to activate the miniature telephone system all medical personnel carried. "Go ahead," she said softly.

  "Helen, this is Anita in the communications center. Five minutes to go. They'll approach from the east."

  "From the east," Timmons replied, her voice picked up by a wire-thin speaker at the side of her mouth. She turned to Angle. "The aircraft will be flying in from the east," she told Angle. She received a silent nod for answer, then a weak, barely audible "Thank you."

  Dr. Bedford leaned closer to Angle. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, being up here, and—"

  Angle reached deep through her misery for hidden strength. "They fly from the east," she said in a hoarse whisper, almost as if she spoke to herself rather than to the doctor.

  "You see," she went on, "they always come from the east. Buck has already gone west. Did you know that?"