Feeling faintly ridiculous, Rodriquez turned back to Honey, saying, “OK. I’ll give it to you in abbreviated form. You know that heat dissipation is one of the biggest headaches in hypersonic flight, and that remains our biggest problem. Fortunately we’ve made the airplane big enough, almost one hundred feet long, and the fuel load large enough so that we can use fuel as a heat sink. We turned the nose of the airplane into a radiator using two techniques. One is passing fuel lines through it to soak up the heat, much more efficiently than the SR-71, I’m glad to say. The other is brand-new. We’ve a heat pipe, same composite material as the aircraft itself, containing lithium. The lithium vaporizes as the wing heats up, distributing the heat evenly throughout the leading edge. When the aircraft slows for descent and landing, the lithium condenses back into a liquid.”
He paused, watching Honey for a reaction, then went on.
“We had to have a big airplane to hold the fuel to get the range we need, so there is ample tankage to dissipate the heat. We also needed a big airplane because of the real secret—I hope—of what we are doing.”
Rodriquez pulled a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and sketched the hypersonic liner’s long, narrow profile.
“You can see that we’ve stayed with the wave-rider design—I don’t know any way around it—but that we’ve extended the scramjet over a much longer, narrower portion of the undersurface of the fuselage. The entire structure is composite, and actively fuel-cooled, for we’ve established Mach 8.0 as the goal.”
Rodriquez kept looking up and staring at Honey the way boxers do as the referee gives them instructions at the start of a fight. Honey appeared not to notice.
“We’ve spent five years making some key discoveries in how to lay out the nozzles that turn the bottom of the fuselage into an engine. At the rear of the fuselage, we have a modified Pratt & Whitney F119 with about forty thousand pounds of thrust the way we have it tuned. It is mounted behind and below the main fuel tank.”
Rodriquez hesitated. The new element that had changed all the equations was radical—and at first glance, so apparently ill-advised—that he was sure Honey would laugh. If he did, the session might end right there.
“I’ve never shown this to anyone besides the major partners and to some key engineers and machinists. Don’t leap to any conclusions. Let me explain it.”
Honey concealed his impatience, nodding affirmatively. Rodriquez took the yellow pad and made another drawing. “Here’s what happens, believe it or not. The engine is moved up and forward into a flexible tunnel that is built into the bottom of the fuel cell. The cowling remains below and acts as a channel for the scramjet efflux. As the engine moves, the cowling is extended and reconfigured to maximize thrust. At the present time we are not introducing fuel into it to make it a genuine afterburner, but it still has the effect of increasing the thrust of the scramjet by about 50 percent—at no increase in fuel consumption. More important, it helps maintain a constant pressure, avoiding the ‘choke’ that has been the bane of most scramjets so far.”
Rodriquez stopped again, looking closely at Honey, ready to fly off the handle if the Australian smiled or joked. This was too serious, it was his life. The man could choose not to believe it if he wished, but he’d better not laugh at it.
Honey said nothing. He reminded Rodriquez of Paul MacCready, silently running figures through his head, checking ideas, balancing out the pros and the cons.
At last he said, “You say that you’ve checked this out in wind tunnels? Your computer analysis confirms this?”
Rodriquez could not tell if his tone was friendly or derisive. “You’re damn right I did. I can’t tell you how many times I went over the numbers before I committed to the design.”
“You can stand the shift in the c.g., the center of gravity, when the engine moves?”
“It’s automatically offset by fuel transfer from the tunnel area. In the few seconds it takes to move the engine up and forward, fuel is transferred at high pressure from the bladder in the fuel tank out to the wings. It’s a zero sum transfer, the airplane never knows the c.g. is changing. When the engine moves back, it moves much more slowly, and the pilot can trim out the change in c.g. as it happens.”
“What about the engine’s heat? It’s like moving a flaming torch into the fuel cell.”
“The whole thing is purged with nitrogen. The tunnel is actually a bladder placed next to the main fuel cell. It contracts as the fuel is pumped out, so there is no fuel or fumes in contact with the engine during or after the move. There is some danger that the nitrogen will have some effect on the hot engine metal, but we’ve been experimenting with ceramic coatings on the most critical areas, and I think we have that beaten. Later, after reentry, the engine is moved back into place to start up for a powered landing.”
Honey was quiet again, a long, tapered finger going over the outline of the drawings, back and forth.
“I see you’ve elected not to have a conventional cockpit canopy, no doubt to avoid the heating—”
Rodriquez interrupted him, saying, “Exactly. We are using our own specially developed composite material creating a bonded pijoint structure. We’ll rely entirely on electro-optical means to create a virtual cockpit for the pilot. To Shannon, here, who will be flying, it will appear just like the simulator, a big beautiful blown canopy but with 360-degree visibility. And we did it for safety reasons as well. The entire cockpit serves as an ejection capsule, if it were ever necessary.”
The ejection capsule had been a late addition, a sop to Rodriquez’s concern over V. R.’s safety.
There was again a long silence as Honey and Martin examined the sketches again. Neither man spoke until Martin suddenly nodded to Honey, who said, “Mr. Rodriquez, you’ve asked me to take a lot on faith. I’ve got to believe that you can get the aircraft to scramjet speed on fan-jet power, not using a rocket. I’ve got to believe that you can move an engine a full four feet up and ten feet forward and nestle it in a fuel cell, for God’s sake! And toughest of all, I’ve got to believe that the engine’s cowling, extended and shaped, is going to add thrust to the scramjet. That’s a lot to take on faith.”
Rodriquez’s temper flared, “Goddammit, I never asked you to take anything, you asked me, and I told you. And furthermore—”
Martin, Shannon, and O’Malley looked apprehensive, but Honey smiled, shook his head, and said, “Let me finish. You are asking me to take this on faith, and I do, for I believe what you’ve told me is true. I have the greatest respect for you and what you’ve done for aviation. Now, please, you are going to have to listen to me, and take on faith what I am telling you. These ideas are as radical as yours, and as proprietary. I am taking exactly the same risk with you that you are taking with me—but frankly I don’t think either of us believes there is any security risk involved. We wouldn’t be talking if we did.”
Rodriquez’s anger fizzled out in a wave of embarrassment. This man was being a gentleman—and, as usual, he was not. He was glad Mae wasn’t there.
“May I call you Bob? Bob, I’m going to do some sketching on the yellow pad, if I may, and I’ll show you what I’m proposing to offer you as an idea, in addition to some funds. A lot of funds.”
Honey sketched quickly and expertly, his drawing much more precise than Rodriquez’s. He deftly replicated the outline of the Hypersonic Cruiser in his own drawing, but changed the nose. Instead of the stilettolike needle of Rodriquez’s creation, there was now a wide, liplike disk shape that extended out perhaps four feet before being streamlined back to the fuselage, serving as a chine where it merged into the meld of the wing and fuselage.
Honey handed him the sketch, laughing. “Makes it look like a bit of a platypus, eh, very appropriate for an idea from Australia.”
Rodriquez looked blank for a moment, then asked, “For cooling?”
“Yes, but even more important, drag reduction. Your needle nose is a physical air spike; this is a virtual air spike. We’ve done studies for years
on saucer-shaped vehicles—it does the hearts of the UFO people good—and finally come down to this. As small as this extension is, it is almost a ‘virtual saucer’ and its effectiveness is boosted by high velocity air being pumped out at explosive speeds in incredibly small quantities all over the lip. You might think that this would be ‘reverse thrust’ and cost you but it does not. If you wanted to look for a primitive example, it is the super Russian torpedo, the VA-111 Shkval, that hits high speed by releasing bubbles. Except in this we are ejecting superheated air from the scramjet in ultra-microscopic jets. The effect is almost miraculous. It reduces your cooling problem by a major factor, and cuts your drag by perhaps 50 percent.”
“You’ve tested this?”
“Just as you’ve tested your ideas—on the computer and in the wind tunnel. We could never get enough money from the government to fly a vehicle. Besides, it is too radical an idea for the establishment to accept without twenty-five years of testing.”
Rodriquez sat down, weak at the knees. His heart was pounding and he worried, as he did so often lately, whether he was going to have a stroke. His father had died of one at seventy-seven, his age. He was suddenly flooded with remorse. What in hell had he gotten into? Had he given away his fundamental secrets for nothing? Did Honey have a crack-brained idea, or was it the solution of a lifetime?
Honey reached for the telephone saying, “Shall I call 911? Are you all right?”
Rodriquez shook his head.
“Get me some water, please. Give me a few minutes. I’ll be OK.” He sipped the water slowly, gazing at Honey’s drawing, his mind racing, a thousand ideas flowing through it. As he stared at the drawing he saw how the cruiser would have to be revised. The first flight date would slip, but if Honey was talking serious money, that would not matter.
“I won’t ask you how much money is involved now, but tell me, would you offer it whether or not I adopted your virtual air spike, your platypus nose?”
Honey said, “The offer is for half a billion dollars, and it depends solely on your adopting our idea. Frankly, I think your concept might work. But I know it will work if you mate it with our virtual air spike.”
Steve O’Malley had been quiet longer than he had been in years, repressing every bad Crocodile Dundee gag he could think of. Now he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Bob, first you’ve got to decide what it does to the flying characteristics of the Cruiser. V. R. and I have been flying the simulator for two years now, and think we can handle your design. If this is going to alter the handling significantly, I think we have to look at it. But if it won’t alter them too much, then I’ll tell you how I’m voting, and I can tell from the look on V. R.’s face how he’s voting. I’ll bet Dennis will go along with us. Bob, you don’t have to decide now, but if you tell me the flight characteristics won’t change, I say we go ahead with the Australians. You are a hell of a lot smarter than I am, and so is Mr. Honey, I’m sure, but I’ve got a gut feel about this. It is the way to go.”
Honey said, “Look, there’s no hurry. If we are right about this, we are ten years ahead of everybody else. If we are wrong about it, delaying will give us a few more days not to worry about going broke. Why don’t you take this and go back to California and do your own computations? Then let us know. We’ll be in the States for another month, looking into another Super Hornet buy.”
He handed Rodriquez a set of computer discs.
“Everything we know is on them. I’m giving them to you on faith. And I’m not worried a bit about it. Don’t lose them, though.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE PASSING PARADE: Sectarian violence continues undiminished in Iraq; veteran general, politician Ariel Sharon felled by massive stroke; Jacques Chirac announces that France will use nuclear weapons in response to any terrorist attack on French soil; Iran announces plans to restart work on its nuclear energy program, denies warlike intentions; Iraqi government formed with Shiite and Kurd coalition; Sunnis form minority opposition party; evidence of mass fraud in Iraq reconstruction fund distribution; Samuel Alito confirmed as Supreme Court Justice; satellite images confirm extensive underground Chinese nuclear facilities; insurgents bomb Askariya Shrine in Samarra; vicious fight between Shiites and Sunnis, killing more than 1,000; Muslim world erupts in furor after publication of cartoons of Muhammad in a Danish newspaper; Canada has first Conservative Prime Minister in years, Stephen Harper; Slobodan Milosevic suffers heart attack and dies in cell; super-lobbyist Jack Abramoff sentenced to almost six years in prison on fraud charges; widespread fallout among congressmen and staffers expected to follow; Tom DeLay announces his resignation; only 66 percent of U.S. chemical weapons stockpiles will be destroyed by 2007, British police prevent al Qaeda terrorist attack using poison gas; in massive test, North Korea launches series of missiles, including two that have range to reach United States; terrorist plot to blow up airliners between United Kingdom and United States foiled by Scotland Yard; in surprising reversal of form, Marine veteran Congressman John Murtha accuses Marines of killing Iraqis in cold blood; bombs kill Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a particularly violent terrorist; General George Casey estimates need for a year to 18 months more training for Iraqi security forces before they can take over; Saddam Hussein found guilty of crimes against humanity, sentenced to death; Iraq Study Group report released, recommends reaching out diplomatically to Syria and Iran, states that situation is “grave and deteriorating”; Saddam Hussein hanged; American death toll reaches 3,000.
December 31, 2006
Palos Verdes, California
I’m glad you insisted that we not sell this place. If we had, the money wouldn’t have helped much and we managed to scrape by. Now we’ve got the old Vance Shannon library for our party, just like the old days. And the Australians seem to be having a good time. I thought I’d never get Honey away from Vance’s model collection.”
Steve O’Malley and V. R. Shannon were, as usual, sitting apart, going over the prospects for the early 2007 mission of the Hypersonic Cruiser, the immense dangers of the first flight weighing on them equally. Shannon was still scheduled to fly, but both were ready. As always, their conversation centered on the mission, rehashing subjects they had discussed a dozen times before, always trying to find a new slant.
“Sometimes I wish we had not been so damn audacious. It is enough to fly this thing, without doing an operational test with a missile. The Air Force spends months flying its prototypes before it ever launches a missile.”
“I know. I flip back and forth on this. Remember Delmar Benjamin?”
V. R. looked blank.
“Benjamin built the exact replica of the Gee Bee R-2 racer, the one Doolittle set a speed record in. The airplane had a reputation as a pilotkiller, terribly dangerous to fly. On the first flight, Delmar flew it in knife-edge flight, and then flew it low-level, inverted. Everyone said he was crazy, but Delmar had confidence in what he had built. I have confidence in this, and I know you do, too, or you wouldn’t be flying it.”
He hesitated a moment and said, “And remember the Boeing 777; they didn’t build a prototype, they went right to a production aircraft, and did it all depending on computers.”
V. R. winced, saying, “And remember the A380 and the mess they are in now because of computers! Overweight, behind in production, lots of wiring problems.”
O’Malley said, “Rodriquez really called that one, didn’t he! But we’ve just used one computer system, and by chance or by the gift of God, it’s exactly compatible with the one the Australians are using.”
V. R. pulled out the well-worn sheets of the mission profile and they huddled together, going over it item by item as they had done already, dozens of times before.
Dennis Jenkins peered in the room at them, aware of their intense concentration, not wishing to intrude. This flight was life or death for Shannon and for RoboPlanes as well as for the Australian group that joined them and added so much to their engineering and their finances.
&nbs
p; Beside him, John Honey spoke quietly, “Dennis, you know, I’d been warned that those two men were mentally unstable, that their obsession with the terrorist threat made them unbalanced. But in all the time I’ve known them, they’ve hardly said a word about it. What happened?”
Dennis took him by the arm as they walked toward the kitchen over the now-worn Mexican tiles that had supported so many parties like this.
“They believe that they are creating the perfect weapon to control terrorism. This is just intuitive on my part, but I think their actions are taking the place of their words. I’ve never seen two men work as hard as they have in the past year, getting the cruiser ready for flight.”
It was true. When Honey and Rodriquez had combined their teams to modify the Hypersonic Cruiser and incorporating the Australian concept of a virtual air spike, Shannon and O’Malley had thrown themselves into the program with an intensity that reminded Jenkins of them in the old days, when O’Malley was feverishly getting new business for their company and V. R. was all wrapped up in the F-117 stealth fighter program.
They went into the kitchen where Steve’s caterer had done what he thought as an Australian theme, with Foster’s beer, Penfold wines, and an array of barbecued shrimp, beef, and ribs. Dennis winced, for Honey often talked longingly of the finer Australian wines, and he knew that the caterer should have stuck to his Mexican food specialties. No matter. The events of the last year and the coming year were so heavy on everyone’s minds that not much would be eaten and still less drunk.
Only two women were there, Sally O’Malley ineffectually puttering around the kitchen, the caterer following her and rearranging what she had done, and Mae Rodriquez, drawn and obviously very worried about her husband. Their son, Rod, was on the east coast, working out some further leasing deals, and she wished he were there, for “Bob the father,” as O’Malley called him, could draw strength from him.
Jenkins and Honey wandered out onto the veranda. V. R. had installed an open-pit fireplace and thrown some branches of mesquite on the brightly burning wood, giving off a taste of the desert.
Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age) Page 38
