A low whine swelled up from underneath them as the first engine rumbled awake. Once it was idling steadily, they began the same process for the other two. The plane shuddered with each successive ignition until they were surrounded with a steady, dissonant hum.
Tom made a final check of the engine displays as the tug disconnected with a thud. “All three are sitting pretty at twelve percent. Start up sequence complete.”
“Start valves off,” Ryan said, thumbing a switch above his head. “Igniters...off.”
“All right, then. Tell ground we’re ready to taxi.”
…
Penny watched as one route after another turned yellow on the big map projection, which signaled they were pushing back from their gates and taxiing out for takeoff. Expected departure times flashed above each line. “How’s your team’s telemetry, Charlie?”
“All birds are streaming live, no squawks.”
“And 501?”
Those who didn’t know her well might have been surprised at her concern, but Grant chalked it up to professional caution more than anything else. She maintained a healthy skepticism toward treating any radical flying machine as something routine.
Even the friggin’ Concorde was damned lucky to go thirty years before having a fatal, she’d said many times in private. What do you think would’ve happened if they’d ever had a rapid decompression at sixty thousand feet? Be even worse if that ever happened to us—I sure wouldn’t want to try a high-dive from a hundred thousand feet at Mach 5.
Grant pulled up their status on a monitor. As the plane came to life, so did the streams of information on their screens. “Plane’s off blocks at idle power, cleared to taxi. Relax, Penny. They’re big boys. Let them wring that thing out and stretch its legs.”
“Just make sure your guys have solid data before they blast off,” she said. “When all the stars line up perfectly, you’d better be looking over your shoulder because that’s where the meteor’s usually coming from.”
…
In a remote corner of the building, someone else was monitoring the flight as well. A return signal activated the moment Austral Clipper started transmitting information. Its discreet transmission back to the plane initiated other commands that went unnoticed by both the crew and the control center technicians, all of whom were buried in a torrent of information that they expected to see.
…
Leo Taggart’s phone buzzed, calling his attention to an incoming text message: PACKAGE OPENED. MERRY XMAS.
It certainly will be, he thought.
11
Castle Rock, Colorado
Two days earlier
Tom awoke with a start and pushed a knit blanket off of his chest. Where am I? He sat up and looked around the living room as he rubbed his eyes. A magazine lay on the table behind his head, and another blanket was gathered around his feet.
Oh yeah—home. Must have fallen asleep. I didn’t put a fire on though, did I?
He felt the warmth from the stone fireplace in the center of the room before he saw it, which appeared to have been burning for some time.
She can’t be up already?
He twisted around to lift his watch from the side table and checked it with surprise: it was almost noon. He’d been out for at least eight hours, still in his clothes…wait a minute! Where are my pants?
Not appreciating the humor of his own fleeting thought, he looked down to find his uniform shirt was also unbuttoned. His trousers were neatly folded over a chair in the corner. Now fully awake, he caught the scent of coffee and bacon wafting in from the kitchen. Elise must have been up early and made him as comfortable as she could manage without waking him.
“You in there, babe?” he called tentatively, still halfway expecting her to be asleep.
She poked her head from around the corner, brown hair hanging loosely around the collar of her bathrobe.
“Yes, silly. Who else would be cooking breakfast at lunchtime? One of your girlfriends?” she teased. Elise Gentry walked up behind him and planted a kiss on his forehead, smoothing his tousled hair. “You’re a mess! But I’m glad you’re home.”
Tom grunted as he sat up to make room for his wife while she plopped down next to him. “You okay, honey?” she asked. “Back bothering you again?”
He reached around to rub the small of his back. “Yeah, that’s what I get for sleeping out here all morning. It’ll be all right in a minute. Have you been up long?”
“A few hours,” she said, kneading his shoulders. “You looked dead tired so I didn’t dare wake you. I figured your trip got disrupted, so I just tried to make you comfortable. You sleep like a cat in front of that fireplace.”
He took a long pull from the coffee she’d brought him. “It was kind of a bad night. We seem to be having a lot of those lately. Weather, broken planes...it always come in big bunches. We didn’t have enough duty time left so scheduling pulled us. Imagine we’ll pick up the back end tomorrow. Good to be home though.”
“That’s too bad for them,” Elise said, leaning over to give her husband a tight hug. “It’s always good to have you home.”
He returned the gesture and kissed his wife. “Wish every day could start like this,” he agreed. “I was planning to stay up and make you breakfast in bed. I wanted to surprise you.” He reached over to brush thinning hair away from her face. “I’m sorry, babe. I hate to have you up fussing after me. You need your rest.”
“I can look after myself, caveman,” she said defensively, and laid her head in his lap. “But I’ll expect that breakfast next time you’re home.”
The great room felt warm and close with the curtains drawn, the only sounds were a sputtering coffee pot and a softly ticking grandfather clock in the entryway. As they sat together like that for several minutes, she drifted back to sleep. Tom gently slid out from under his wife to let her have the sofa and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. She slept a lot lately.
12
Austral Clipper
They patiently waited their turn for takeoff as flight 1204, the Gulf Clipper, roared down the runway, destined for Dubai. The noise reverberated through their windshields. Tom craned his neck to watch it lift off into the night, trailing a radiant yellow exhaust plume which illuminated the barren Colorado plains beneath. “Beautiful,” he said to himself, just as his thoughts were interrupted by voices in his headset.
“Clipper 501 Heavy, you’re number one for takeoff. Taxi into position and hold.”
Tom guided them onto the runway with a small steering tiller by his knee. The landing gear’s small wheels and long legs made for a bumpy ride along the pavement. It was at least a mercifully short trip. Denver’s vast airport featured six long runways arranged in a pinwheel around three separate concourses, like islands in a sea of concrete. If the winds had favored a different direction, just getting into position would have made for a long scenic tour of the airport and surrounding plains.
They came to a stop along the dashed white centerline as Tom slipped his toes onto the brakes above the rudder pedals. “How’re you doing back there, Mister Kelly?”
Wade gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up from his position behind them. “Ready to blast off.”
“Okay gents, sterile cockpit procedures from here on—no idle conversation until we pass 18,000 feet,” he added for their guest’s benefit. “But that won’t take long.”
“501 heavy, cleared for takeoff, Yellowstone departure. Clock is started at two-zero-four Zulu,” the tower directed as the Gulf Clipper disappeared ahead of them. The flight was now being officially monitored for their record attempt.
Tom repeated their clearance back and simultaneously punched a cabin chime, cueing Marcy that they were about to depart. He smoothly pushed the throttles up to the stops and the Clipper sank forward like a tiger kneeling to pounce, shuddering and howling as it strained against its own power. The instant his toes lifted from the pedals, they were pressed hard into their seats as the plane flung itself down
the runway.
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on the runway end as Ryan kept his gaze locked on the instruments, monitoring their acceleration and engine condition. “80 knots…100 knots,” he said above the noise as they hurtled down the runway. “140 knots…V1,” which meant they were committed. They would continue the takeoff no matter what now—the plane was going too fast to stop on what little runway was left ahead. “Rotate.”
Their nose wheel lifted off the runway as Tom eased the control yoke into his lap, and he soon felt the main tires leave the pavement as they began climbing away.
“V2…positive climb rate.”
“Positive rate,” Tom agreed. “Gear up”.
Ryan pulled the gear handle and slammed it firmly up into the detent. “Three green, up and locked.”
“Passing eight thousand feet—flaps up,” Tom said as the ground swiftly receded behind them. Their climb angle was so steep that to the passengers they appeared to be heading straight up. “Looking good,” he observed as much for himself as for their guest. “We set to fill the O2 tanks?”
“Affirmative,” Ryan said. “Intakes and heat exchangers on standby.”
…
Narrow ducts opened along the engine intakes, diverting some of the incoming air to be super-cooled as it passed through heat exchangers on its way to storage tanks inside the wings. Their engines would need the liquid oxygen they were creating to climb above the atmosphere before they flamed out and suffocated in the thinning air.
As they gained speed, conical inlet spikes along the bottom of the plane began inching forward, disrupting the shock waves that threatened to ricochet around inside the engines. They would soon close up entirely, bypassing the hurricane of air around the compressors to feed fresh liquid oxygen straight into the combustion chambers. This was the essence of the combined-cycle engine, which allowed them to function as jets or rockets depending on the need.
They quickly went supersonic, hurtling past Mach one within minutes. Although the plane was shaped to minimize their sonic footprint, the noise couldn’t be completely eliminated. A rapid boom-boom echoed dully onto the moonlit plains miles below.
…
Denver
Penny hovered behind the dispatcher consoles, habitually twisting a strand of hair as she watched them gaining speed and altitude. The rest of the fleet was well under their control, which gave her the luxury of shepherding this one flight.
“You’re acting like a mother hen back there.”
She ignored Charlie’s barb. “You slackers need all the help you can get,” she wisecracked, but it sounded testier than she’d intended. “Sorry.”
He waved it off, signaling her it was okay. “You haven’t been in here long enough, that’s all. I’ve heard worse. Said worse, too.”
“I can believe that,” she said, finally taking an empty seat beside him.
“What’s eating you? We wouldn’t have released the flight if it wasn’t safe, and you know Tom wouldn’t have accepted it. This was his idea, remember?”
She brushed her hair back in place with a sigh. “Call me a wuss, but I just don’t like going this far out on the edge of the envelope. Not with pax aboard.”
“I might call you a lot of names, but that isn’t one of them,” he said. “And it’s a mighty big envelope once they get out of the atmosphere. You know that better than I.” Any airplane was limited by its own maximum speed and altitude, which were entirely dependent on its stability in the air. Once a Clipper was in space, those rules no longer applied. The only limit was how fast it could be going when it came back into the atmosphere.
“What’s their status now?”
He highlighted their route and a page full of information appeared. “Looks like they’re sticking to the climb schedule…altitude sixty thousand, Mach two-point-five.” They had leveled off to build speed while drawing in outside air to liquefy for its oxygen. “O2 just topped eighty percent.” By the time their tanks were full the plane would be traveling close to four times the speed of sound.
13
Austral Clipper
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve just been cleared to start our boost climb. Please make sure you’re strapped in tight and have no loose items.”
Tom placed the handset back in its cradle and looked to Ryan for confirmation that nothing had changed since their final checks. He gave a thumbs-up sign and ceremoniously moved his hands away from the controls, signaling that the plane was his. “Ready to zorch, skipper. Center just cleared us into the boost corridor.”
“Good man—almost forgot that! Guess I’m a little excited.”
“You are easily amused.”
“Just easily bored. You all set back there, Mr. Kelly?”
“Wade, please,” he said again, adding with mock bravado, “and I was born ready.” He would never admit his own trepidations to either pilot.
“Put the spurs to her,” Ryan drawled as he cinched down his four-point harness.
Tom slid the throttles forward, simultaneously unlocking a safety lever beneath his thumb to light the afterburners. This injected more fuel into an already furiously burning mixture in the tailpipes to dramatically boost their thrust. The steady rumble of the engines suddenly became a howling vibrato as the plane bolted ahead.
“Whoa,” Wade gasped against the sudden acceleration.
“Warned you.”
Their speed and climb angle had to be pitch-perfect, or they would not make Singapore in a single hop much less set any records. The flight computers were programmed to precisely hit those targets, but Tom was so closely following the yoke and throttle that it was hard to see the computers were in control. He was prepared to hand-fly it all the way over the top if necessary. “Autothrottles are working so far,” he finally said. “Another nice surprise.”
…
Marcy was likewise pressed hard into her seat at the rear of the cabin, but kept an attentive eye on her passengers.
Magrath sat by himself up front with his staff sequestered in the seats behind him. Marcy watched as one alternately looked out the window and down at a notebook in his lap. He appeared to be earnestly working on something, one more person who didn’t feel the need to listen to her safety briefs. He’s going to have to pick a head position fast, she thought, and thumbed a switch on the microphone cable in her lap. “Please keep your head and arms in one position for your own safety. Just lay back against the seat and you’ll have a nice ride.”
The man’s head came to a stop just as Tom’s voice could be heard over the cabin speakers. “Good evening everyone. If you’re watching the display up at the front of the cabin, you’ll see our speed and altitude. Once we reach Mach seven, we’ll pull into a steeper climb and turn this into a real rocket ride for you. You’ll eventually feel about three times normal gravity. This will be a longer boost than you might be used to, but you’ll get to enjoy a longer weightless period when it’s over. We’ll top out with an apogee a little over four hundred nautical miles with a speed of almost twelve thousand miles an hour. We’ll arrive at Singapore in ninety minutes.”
…
The Austral Clipper thundered across the night sky above Nebraska, faintly silhouetted against the darkness by its blazing exhaust. Farther south, another Clipper could be seen on its own high-speed climb to space. Far removed from interfering city lights, anyone watching from the ground could discern their own shadow by the distant glow from above. For a few minutes they were the brightest objects in the sky, man-made meteors climbing swiftly into the night.
14
Denver
One day earlier
At the crew hotel on the other side of the airfield, Ryan was just thinking about catching Marcy downstairs for lunch when his phone rang. It was a control center number, no doubt crew scheduling calling with a new trip.
“Hunter,” he answered with feigned irritation, “what do you want?” Hope they don’t have to airmail me somewhere, he thought. Deadheading into
a new trip was never a good deal—arrive bone-tired from one flight, only to pick up your own and fly it to wherever they tell you.
“This is Frank Kirby.” Surprised, Ryan pulled the phone from his ear to double-check the number. Why is the chief pilot calling me…and from a scheduling phone?
Whatever it was, there had to be a good reason. “Afternoon Frank,” he replied pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
“We need your crew to ferry a spare plane to Frankfurt. 508 got struck by lightning on final. It’s sitting in a hangar with pinhole burns through the nose and tail, and there’s a maze of fried electronics in between,” he explained. Lightning strikes were a subtle problem that rarely left behind the smoking holes that were popularly imagined. “The whole fleet’s scattered to hell and gone, and we’re trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. So you’ll ferry into position, recover the live leg back here, then pick up your normal line to Sydney. Sound good?”
Ryan kneaded the back of his neck, wondering why the Chief Pilot was calling him for this. One thing at a time, hot dog. Answer the question first. “Sounds great. I was afraid you guys were about to deadhead me somewhere. When’s our show time?”
“1900 local.”
“I’ll be there. Who am I flying with?” he asked, hoping to lead their boss into answering his unspoken question.
“Gentry, if we can find him,” Kirby grumbled, not attempting to mask his irritation. He was famously short-tempered, a very senior captain who was barely tolerant of all the rocket-jockeys that had invaded his airline. “That’s why I’m calling you, slick. We need to get him briefed ASAP.”
Goody—more surprises, Ryan thought. “I can find him,” he answered helpfully. “He doesn’t live that far away…I’ll drive down there if I have to. Can’t imagine why you guys haven’t located him,” he wondered aloud, and tried to change the subject. “So…struck by lightning, huh?”
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