The nurse shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I don't."
"It's from way back in the First World War. When a man was killed in the air, the other pilots always said he'd gone west—the last flight he'll ever make." Angle paused to search the sky. "Now Buck's making his final flight. Tonight they'll all stand and drink a last toast to Buck and Blacky Dillard. I'd almost forgotten
Buck Rogers
about him. He died in the crash, too-in the air, I mean. He was lucky. Bang! Lights out, you're gone. He didn't have to hang on for all those horrible days like Buck."
Nurse Timmons wanted to draw Angle out of the black mood that hovered about her. Angle was also a pilot. She knew the risks and penalties of a single mistake in the air-show routines.
"Are they releasing Mr. Dillard's ashes also?" she asked.
Angle nodded. 'Tes. They had a pact. They always said that if they both went together, their ashes were to be released together from a plane. I—"
The distant sound of engines reverberated in the air. Her voice stopped, and she scanned the sky. Look to the east; they'll come from that way, she told herself silently. There they were, the old-timers, the powerful winged machines from old wars, other times.
In the center was a gleaming four-engined bomber, a Flying Fortress, the immortal B-17, shepherded by a squadron of fighter planes. Even through her tear-blurred vision, she could pick out the twin-boomed shape of the P-38, three Mustangs, two gull-winged Corsairs, a P-40, and a P-47, followed by two of Buck's friends in British Sea Fury fighters.
They swept overhead in an ear-rattling blur of thunder. Suddenly the P-38 lofted gracefully, pulling up in a steep climbing turn, leaving an open space in the tight formation. Now it was the Missing Man Formation, the final salute to a fellow airman gone west. The formation made a wide turn and circled back from the east. The planes tightened once more in a perfect formation. This time a Corsair lofted high, the final salute to Blacky Dillard.
Finally the planes disappeared into the west. She watched them dwindle until they were mere dots, heard their thunder become a thin echo, hollow and haunting. Somewhere over the mountains, a man in the B-17 would stand on the edge of an open bomb bay and release the mixed ashes of Buck and Blacky.
Angle felt a wash of blackness sweeping over her, and she yielded to an insurmountable need for release from the nonstop torment. She lapsed into unconsciousness and then a deep, deep sleep that would begin her recovery.
Oh, Buck, I loved you so! was her final thought before she lost consciousness.
Chapter 4
Deep in his subconscious, Buck's mind played and replayed the last few harrowing moments before the crash.
The impact of the collision ripped Buck from head to toe. Instantly he knew these might be the last sensations he would ever feel, the bone-jarring deceleration as the Fokker disintegrated into wreckage. He braced himself for the fire he knew would come, but nothing could prepare a man for the sheet of blazing flames that swept around him. Then he felt the sickening fall, the loss of all control. An instant later, his reflexes took over as he punched the harness release. He still might be able to get out of this tumbling, burning death trap. He was low, much too low for his chute to have time to open, but for this kind of flying, he always wore a low-altitude system. When he yanked the metal D-ring on his chest, it would fire an explosive sabot up and away from his body, hauling the entire parachute free in less than two seconds.
Hope mocked him as he ran the possible life-saving scenario through his mind. He released the harness and the straps fell limp, but tangled metal held him like giant pincers. At that moment, the horizon whirling before his eyes as the burning wreck spun crazily downward, he caught a last glimpse of the crowd, saw Angle, her hand to her mouth. Then the concrete runway came up to smash him like a bug against a wall. Yet still it
Buck Rogers
wasn't over. Enough wreckage remained to absorb some of the impact, the torn wings and fuselage yielding to the blow like shock absorbers. He refused to give up hope, to stop searching for the miracle that might throw him free from the wreckage. Suddenly he felt the fuselage break in half the crumpled aft portion spinning away like garbage down the drain of a disposal. He might yet fight his way free!
But life plays cruel jokes, and Buck was in the midst of a prolonged comic act. What took mere seconds seemed like hours, with everything happening in slow motion. The collapsed forward structure had trapped his legs. He would die now, and his only hope was to meet his end quickly in a crushing blow or explosion when the tanks let go.
The cruelty continued as the engine ripped free of its mounts. Through the glare of flames, he saw the shadowy form of the engine tumbling backward to smash into his chest and then into his face. His last thought was one of thanks for the hammer blow that hurled him into blackness as his brain shut down.
"You've got to understand the kind of forces his body endured during those final seconds." Doctor Nancy Reilly glanced at her medical associates and the scientists gathered in the inner research laboratory of Cyberdyne Systems. "I will review, albeit briefly, why his life is now out of our hands. First, his burns show only the visible effects of the fire. How he survived flames that literally gushed into his open mouth and scorched all the way down his throat and into his lungs is a mystery. Had Rogers not been in superb physical condition, he would have died on the spot from the burns, trauma, and crushing of vital organs. He literally could not breathe to live. The exchange of gases in the alveolar structure shut down in minutes. Had the rescue crews not gotten pure oxygen to him, under high pressure, we'd have nothing to discuss right now. His life was saved by a rescue team that had only seconds to do their work.
"His entire cardiac system went into shock. Emergency procedures, carried out in the medivac chopper, kept him alive long enough to place him in the hyperbaric chamber. Right now pure oxygen is being absorbed through whatever skin was protected
A Life in the Future
with the help of four atmospheres in the chamber. But even this is a stopgap measure. After several days under this level of pressure, the oxygen will become poisonous to his system. We are racing the clock, and we are barely keeping up," she said somberly.
"What about the skeletal system?" The brief query came from Dr. Myron Packwood, the reknowned laser scientist.
Dr. Reilly shook her head slowly. "It's easier to count the few bones, even the cartilage structures, that were not broken or crushed. The loss of red blood cells because of destroyed or damaged bone marrow is at least something we can handle through constant transfusions, which we've been doing from the outset. Again, we're racing time, but eventually we are going to lose.
"Finally there's the matter of internal tissue damage." She shook her head. "I've never seen anything like it." Neither had anyone else present in the secret gathering.
"The damage was not merely confined to tissue, of course," she continued, "but the organs as well. Damage is severe to kidneys, bladder, pancreas, lungs, and intestinal tract." She paused again. "Damage to the upper chest and throat is severe. Malfunctioning of the pituitary and the thyroid make for a terrible combination. We've had him on heavy hormone intake, of course, but all his other problems, especially loss of fluid through the skin burns . . . well, we simply don't have much time if we're going to go through with our plans."
Dr. Bedford studied Buck's charts. "Nancy, this tissue damage. It doesn't seem to fit the pattern merely of trauma, even severe trauma."
"No, sir. It's not uncommon in aircraft crashes. Or even highspeed vehicle impacts, except that the airman endures the cause of damage over a greater period of time. Even seconds make a huge difference."
Were Buck conscious and functioning, he might have told the doctors he knew the specific syndrome he suffered. As a test pilot, he'd sat bedside with many friends who'd survived violent crashes. The impact of collision, continuing through the violent descent, and then the battering deceleration, made a lethal combination. His body fluids had
sloshed back and forth with such violence they acted as if they were heavy mercury, ripping and tearing fragile body tissues, blood vessels, nerves, sinew. He not only showed open wounds, but most of his body was also a
Buck Rogers
swollen mass of discoloration, as if he'd been beaten with bamboo canes over the entire surface of his body.
He had been head-slammed and body-sloshed beyond the point at which most men would have died almost instantly. What kept Buck alive, at least until now, were artificial systems of life support, plus the fact that he was a superb physical specimen. Buck had always been a natural athlete, his body heavily muscled yet supple.
He had no control, even were he conscious, of eliminating liquid and solid wastes from his body. Both automatic systems and kind hands of nurses and medical technicians kept him from stewing in his own wastes. Within the hyperbaric chamber, where his skin permitted physical contact, those same hands massaged muscles and tendons, soothed his skin with medicinal salve. Electrical current kept his heart beating, his muscles alive, and stifled the pain that would have had him writhing even in his unconscious state.
Dr. Charles Ramirez turned from a long study of the man in the chamber. "Can we keep him alive, without further deterioration, for another month?"
Dr. Reilly took a deep breath and glanced at the other medical doctors. "A month, perhaps five weeks, but no more than that," she said finally. "Will you. Dr. Packwood, be ready by then?"
"We'll have to be ready or he dies," Packwood said brusquely. "The facts are that Buck Rogers should already be dead. With all we've reviewed, we haven't even talked about the broken ribs, the crushed pelvis, the large gashes in his intestine, the broken vertebrae, the blood vessels that must be reconnected. . . . Why am I sa3dng all this?" He looked about, as if his pronouncements would somehow aid the shattered body in the chamber. "Let's put it on the table," he added. "We cannot hope to repair this man. The best we can hope for is to keep him alive for a limited period of time.
"Our only hope is to send him somewhere where people far more advanced than we can not only save him, but restore him to what he was. Perhaps even better."
They turned as the security doors at the far end of the room slid open. Rex Caliburn, with a strange gait to his walk, a subtle
A Life in the Future
hint of mechanical movement, came through. They were grateful that it was Caliburn who had been with the president, who championed the extreme and costly measures they planned. Caliburn walked on legs of steel and plastic, his own legs lost years ago when a Russian missile exploded into his fighter-bomber in the Gulf War, tore it open like a giant can opener, and ripped the legs from his body. Caliburn was a living legend not only to the navy, but also to the entire medical field. He'd remained conscious long enough to pull his ejection seat handle and send the remaining half of his body up and away from his blazing, broken aircraft. Hanging in his parachute, in a nightmare of pain, he somehow managed to tie tourniquets about both legs, above the knees. Just before he landed on the desert floor, with his last wave of strength, he half-somersaulted in his parachute straps and hit the ground with his hands. Though the last part of the story had its share of doubters, legend had it that after that he'd held off a group of Iraqi soldiers with an automatic pistol until a rescue helicopter thundered to his aid, weapons ablaze.
Caliburn somehow managed to live, adapted to his artificial limbs, pulled himself together, and one day climbed back into the cockpit of a navy jet fighter and piloted it through a series of dangerous, complex maneuvers. The President of the United States had personally pinned the new golden wings to his uniform and promoted him from commander to admiral.
If anyone in this world would fight to give Buck Rogers his chance at some sort of meaningful survival, it was Rex Caliburn. He walked slowly past the group without a word, studying the still form in the hyperbaric chamber. He didn't need to ask the doctors questions. He had all their medical reports. But what he saw now didn't fit impersonal charts and words.
He wanted to reach out to touch the man, to reassure him, to tell him they were going to pull off a miracle for him. Or at least try. Caliburn had his own mental system of impressing into his conscious and subconscious mind what he saw in the form he called "the bottom line."
If ever there was a bottom line of survival, this was it. He saw a man reduced to an unconscious biological mass with tubes and lines running every which way from and into and through his body, every line connected to rows of life-supporting machines. It was as if Rogers had been clenched in the teeth of some terrible
Buck Rogers
beast, chewed upon, ripped and torn, then swallowed and finally vomited out again. He was ministered to by a flock of electronic and mechanical angels that protected his life. He didn't lie in a normal bed. Even the pressure of normal gravity would have been enough to overburden what remained of his body systems. He lay suspended in a net that slowly but constantly shifted pressures on his smashed and ruptured body. My God, thought Caliburn. He's so close to the end that bedsores alone could kill him.
Caliburn turned to face the group. He took a deep breath, his face coldly unemotional, his mind totally on what needed to happen now.
'Tou're aware that Anthony Rogers is a dead man?"
His words startled them until they realized he was referring to what the public had been told.
Nancy Reilly spoke for the group. "We're all aware of that, sir. The planes flew over. Miss Barzoni, his fiancee—"
"I know who she is," Caliburn said impatiently.
"Then I'm sure you will be put at ease when I tell you that, as his named beneficiary, his airline has paid one million dollars to Miss Barzoni. Also, the air-show insurance will provide her with fifty thousand dollars a year for the next twenty years. She—"
"You're annoying me with all these numbers, Nancy. Cut to the bottom line."
Nancy Reilly ignored the attempted put-down. "Angelina Barzoni has signed all appropriate releases. They are filed in the proper courts. She knows Rogers is dead."
"Good," Caliburn said brusquely. "Now let's get down to the nitty-gritty. You say you believe you can keep Anthony Rogers alive for as long as it takes for medical science to advance to the point where he can be, first, revived, and second, cured of his injuries."
"Not quite, Mr. Caliburn," Arthur Bedford said icily. He didn't like this overbearing, pompous government man, and he didn't hide his feelings. "We never told you we believe we can do everything you just stated."
"Wait a moment! You told me yourself, only yesterday, that you could—"
Bedford leaned forward. "You have poor memory retention, sir. I never told you that this is what I believed. I said we are
A Life in the Future
capable of keeping Rogers in a form of suspended animation— although that is not the proper terminology—in perfect stasis for one century or a hundred."
Caliburn had been through weird situations before. It was his job to cut through all the hoopla to separate the scam artists and weirdos from the real thing. "How will you do all that?" he said with open sarcasm.
Dr. Packwood laughed. "Perhaps it will be more than even you can understand, Caliburn. We're going to suspend him in time."
The statement didn't faze Caliburn. "Show me," he retorted. He patted his briefcase. "And if you convince me, I have here in my case your funding authorization for thirty million dollars to bring your proposal to reality."
The group before Caliburn—they already referred to themselves as the Rogers Team—rose to their feet as one. "Come with us, sir," Charles Ramirez said with quiet confidence.
Chapter 5
The group stopped before a heavily shielded door with radiation warnings displayed prominently. Caliburn turned to study the people with him. None showed any surprise at entering what appeared to be a source of nuclear radiation danger. He remained still when Nancy Reilly pinned a radiation badge to his jacket.
"Nuclear reactor?" Caliburn aske
d tersely.
"Yes, sir. Modified. It's really a combination of a fission reactor and an auxiliary fusion power source. It uses helium three, so we get great power, steady and controlled, but without the danger of ionizing radiation."
Caliburn knew more than enough about radiation. He had checked dozens of sites as an inspector for the Atomic Energy Commission, but he'd never heard about any reactor at Cyber-dyne. He started to query Reilly and the others, then decided they'd brief him as they went along.
The next several minutes confirmed the wisdom of his decision to wait, since he discovered that it was all a facade. They passed through massive doors that rolled heavily aside to permit their entry. Everywhere he looked, signs warned of danger areas. Flashing amber lights cautioned visitors that they were receiving low levels of radiation.
He glanced at his radiation badge. Nothing showed—not s
A Life in the Future
sign of anything leaking from a reactor, and he'd been in enough of those facihties to know there was always some leakage.
Warning horns sounded, and he saw men and women in radiation protection suits pass by. This is one hell of a show they're putting on, he mused. This could prove interesting. . . .
They went through two massive air-lock doors. Pneumatic pressure hissed like some prehistoric monster. Pressure changes battered his ears as the last thick door rolled into place behind them and thudded into its locks.
Caliburn had had enough of this play-acting. What had been created here had obviously cost millions of dollars, but it was all a farce. There wasn't enough radiation in this place to bother a sparrow. Caliburn stopped and touched Dr. Charles Ramirez, the chief scientist of the Cyberdyne group, on his shoulder.
"Let's put an end to the fun and games, shall we?" Caliburn said testily.
Ramirez smiled. "Then you have judged for yourself," he chuckled. "No radiation. If that was your conclusion, then you are correct."
Buck Rogers- A Life in the Future Page 4
