by Dale Brown
“But the really cool application of electro-reactive collimation is in materials science, and it’s there that I’ve had the most fun over the past couple years,” Masters went on, his excitement evident in his voice. “That’s because solids can be collimated just like liquids and gases. Now we start getting into some really neat applications!” He held up another, larger wire frame, this time with a thin, light gray material hung within it. “This is a piece of one of the BERP materials I’ve developed. It’s lightweight fabric, about as light and flexible as nylon.” He rustled the frame, and the fabric swayed as everyone expected. “Now check this out.”
Masters picked up a hammer, hefted it, and swung it at the fabric. The observers were stunned to hear a dull thud. They saw Masters drop the wire frame after he hit it with the hammer, but they were still too startled to take any notice. He picked up the frame and shook it again, and the fabric moved as before, like a linen handkerchief-but when he swung the hammer, the fabric again instantly solidified into a hard plate.
He also dropped it again after he hit it, jumping in surprise when the electric shock came, a bit stronger this time. And this time Helen Kaddiri noticed. “Jon, what’s wrong?” she radioed to him via his earset communications unit. “Why do you keep dropping it?” There was no reply, confirming Helen’s worst fear. “Jon, is that thing shocking you again?”
“It’s nothing, Helen,” Masters whispered, loud enough for his voice to be picked up on the private earset link but not loud enough to be heard by those watching the demonstration in Washington. “I’ll just hold it with the pliers, like we planned.”
“But if it’s malfunctioning, you’ve got to terminate the demonstration,” Helen said, horrified. “It’s one thing to shock your hand. But if it lets off a voltage spike next to a hundred pounds of TNT, it could malfunction and blow you to bits!”
“It’s not malfunctioning, Helen. Look at these guys-they’re mesmerized. It’s working perfectly!”
“Terminate this test, Jon. You can’t do the demonstration until we figure out why it’s doing that.”
In response, Masters picked up the wire frame, this time using an insulated pair of pliers so that the small electric current that built up on the frame each time he hit it wouldn’t shock him. He beat on the fabric repeatedly, and each impact was punctuated with that same hollow thud. Then he took the fabric off the frame, folded it, and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
“That’s… that’s unbelievable!” someone in the audience gasped. “Amazing!”
“The applications for BERP are unlimited,” Masters said. “I thought about all the possible military uses of the process-protecting vehicles, making punctureproof tires, making bulletproof tents, even creating portable roads resistant to land mines. But there is one use for it that has always stuck in my head: enhancing flight safety for the general public by strengthening the cargo compartments of airliners to protect against terrorist bombs or any other catastrophic explosion destroying an aircraft, such as the fuel tank explosion that brought down TWA Flight 800 a while back. Just a few hundred pounds of BERP and its control equipment per airplane-far less weight and cost than lining an airplane or cargo containers with Kevlar or other armor material-can save hundreds of lives.”
“Now how is this possible, Dr Masters?” Fenton asked incredulously. “That can’t possibly be strong enough to protect against a bomb blast or a fuel tank explosion!”
“Glad you said that, Ed,” Masters said. “That’s why I’m here talking to you on the satellite videoconference from the Aerojet rocket-testing site near Sacramento today-a satellite videoconference, by the way, provided by Sky Masters, Inc.’s NIRTSat small tactical communications and reconnaissance satellite technology specifically for this demonstration.” Jon was never above plugging his own products. “I’m in the first-class section of a surplus Boeing 727 airliner fuselage.” The shot of Masters changed to an overhead shot of the Boeing 727, minus its wings and engines. “Located within this fuselage are three suitcases loaded with fifty pounds of TNT apiece. One is inside the cockpit in a large Rollaboard suitcase, such as the flight crew might carry on board; another is located directly underneath the first-class compartment in the cargo hold; and the third is located underneath the coach-class compartment in the baggage space.
“I’ve placed my BERP material in two places in the plane.” The camera shot changed again, revealing an interior view of the plane’s forward cargo compartment. The only baggage in the compartment was a lone crate marked DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVES. In the background, illuminated by spotlights, the gray BERP fabric could be seen clearly. “First, I’ve lined the cargo compartment directly below the first-class section with exactly eighty-three pounds of BERP.”
The camera shot changed again, this time to the airliner’s cockpit. Except for removed avionics and upholstery stripped off the seat frames, it looked like an average cockpit. A wheeled suitcase marked DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVES sat between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. “Second, I took off the headliners in the cockpit and lined the fuselage there with forty-one pounds of BERP, then replaced the headliners. I also put some BERP in the cockpit door leading out to the galley. In addition, I sandwiched some of the BERP fibers into the Lexan cockpit windows on the copilot’s side of the cockpit, but not on the pilot’s side. This darkens the windows slightly, equivalent to number one ultraviolet tinting. Tinting is not currently allowable on cockpit windscreens in the US, but maybe when you see this, the rules can be modified a little.”
The camera changed back to a shot of Masters, amazingly still sitting in his seat. “I also made a curtain of BERP material between the coach- and first-class sections of the plane. There is no BERP anywhere else on the plane. I’m leaving the coach section unprotected just to show the kind of damage we’re talking about, and also just because I like to see things blow up.” Masters paused, grinning like a kid at the zoo, then put on a set of headphones. “I will now detonate all three crates of explosives, starting with the cockpit. Here we go…”
“What!” Fenton and several of the others shouted almost in unison. “Are you crazy, Masters? Do you actually plan on blowing up that plane with you inside it? Get the hell out of that plane, right now!…”
But the screen had changed to four separate shots: The upper half of the screen showed the overhead satellite view of the airliner; on the lower half, one shot showed Masters in the first-class section; one showed the cargo compartment underneath the first-class section of the plane; and a third showed a shot of the cockpit from outside, right from the nose of the airliner looking through the copilot’s windscreen. Masters waved once to the camera and held up a box with three large red switchguards on it.
“Is he serious, Dr Kaddiri?” Fenton asked. Kaddiri didn’t know how to respond. They could very well be watching Jonathan Colin Masters’s last day on earth, and she was powerless to stop him. “Is he going to…”
As if in response, Masters lifted the first red switchguard, gave a last jovial “Fire in the hole, folks!” and pressed the button underneath. The entire audience leaped to its feet in shock as the images unfolded before them.
The cockpit was the first to go. It erupted with a bright yellow fireball, but amazingly only the pilot’s windows blew out, sending a shaft of fire and smoke sideways out of the plane-the copilot’s windows crazed into white spiderwebs but did not break. In the first-class section, Masters jumped in surprise, but there was no other hint that fifty pounds of TNT, enough to bring down a small building, had just exploded less than thirty feet in front of him.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!” he shouted gleefully. “Perfectly all right! That was a fifty-pound TNT explosion just a few feet away from me, and I’m fine!” The airline executives looked relieved and angry at the same time-relieved that he was all right, and angry that they had been forced to watch such a suicidal display.
“Washington, Washington, this is Range Control,” an excited voice cut in on the closed secure link. “Helen
, I’m picking up a power surge in the BERP circuits. I’ve set the explosives continuity circuits to safe. Jon, if you can hear me, you better get out of the plane now. That surge could cause the rest of the BERP to malfunction-it could even set off the other explosives.”
Jon touched his earset so he could hear better through the ringing aftermath of the explosion that had erupted right in front of him. “Negative!” he shouted. “Don’t safe those circuits! I’m all right! We can continue the…”
A second later, seen from the overhead satellite view, the entire aft section of the airliner heaved and flopped awkwardly into the air, the cargo section completely blasting apart before it was obscured by smoke and debris. Masters never touched the detonate button-and if he had, it would have had no effect because the range safety officer had terminated the test and disconnected all detonation power from both the arming switch and the explosives. But the surge of energy in the BERP material had discharged through the cabin, grounding on the nearest available object-the fifty-pound case of TNT. The electrical discharge was enough to bypass the safety interlocks, set off the electrically actuated blasting caps, and detonate the TNT.
Masters was thrown back into his seat as the entire interior of the aircraft rocked forward from the concussion, the deck jerked upward as it buckled, and a new gust of smoke forced its way into the first-class section-but again, Masters was unharmed. The entire aft two-thirds of the Boeing 727 was either in pieces or lying crumpled and twisted on the ground, but the forward third was intact. More smoke rushed into the first-class cabin. Helen noticed with horror that the large ventilators designed to keep the air clear had malfunctioned. The surge of power caused by the BERP system had shorted out the ventilators.
“Jon! Can you hear me!” Kaddiri shouted. The airline executives were watching in horror as smoke partially obscured their view of the interior of the first-class cabin inside the test article. “The ventilators have failed! Get out! Range Safety Control, get Masters out now!”
Inside the test plane, Masters jumped again as a third explosion ripped into the plane. The camera shot of the cargo compartment under the first-class section disappeared in a blinding flash of yellow. This time Masters really seemed scared. They could see his eyes bugging out with the first hint of concern and worry about whether this stunt was really a good idea. The floorboards under his feet buckled, a few of the first-class seats broke free and flew through the air, they heard him scream… and then the camera went dark. The overhead shot revealed nothing-the first-class cabin appeared to be intact, but huge billows of smoke and occasional tongues of flame began pouring up from underneath the fuselage near the already ripped-up coach-class section.
“Oh my God!” Kaddiri screamed. She picked up the direct-line telephone beside the lectern. “Jon, come in! Range Control, come in! Is someone there? Answer me, goddammit!…”
“What happened?” Fenton shouted. “What happened? Is Masters…”
“I’m okay, I’m okay!” they heard a moment later. The first-class section camera came on again, showing a disheveled but otherwise intact cabin, faintly obscured by a thin haze of smoke. Then Masters’s face appeared behind a firefighter’s positive-breathing face mask, almost touching the lens. There were some streaks of black under his nostrils from exhaling smoke, and his short-cropped hair appeared to be standing on end, but he looked unhurt. A range-safety fireman was trying to pull Masters to his feet. “The camera broke free of its mooring-hold on a sec.”
“Is he insane?” Fenton shouted. “That plane is on fire!”
“ ‘Hold on a sec,’ my ass!” Kaddiri shouted in the telephone. “Range Control, pull Masters out of that plane right now!”
Masters aligned the camera in its original place, straightened his seat, sat back down, took a deep breath from the oxygen mask, then handed it back to the fireman. He looked a bit shaky, his eyes darting around the cabin, his breathing a little rapid, but he was unhurt. “I’m all right, guys. The explosion ripped the seat rails off the deck, and all the seats went flying. Here.” Masters grabbed the camera and swung it around the cabin, focusing on the floor. “But see? The deck is still intact. It ballooned up about a half-foot but didn’t rupture.” He swung the camera aft toward the coach-class cabin. Smoke was beginning to pour through the curtain, but he lifted it so he could point the camera at the devastation beyond. The cabin was completely destroyed, mangled and blackened. Fire-fighting foam extinguishers had already discharged to cut off the fire. “All I had was a BERP curtain between me and all that. Awesome.”
“He’s crazy, Dr Kaddiri, crazy!” Fenton shouted. As if the explosions had been set off in the conference room in Washington rather than a rocket-test site in California, the airline and government execs were scrambling for the door in shock and disgust. “This is either some kind of trick, a publicity stunt, or the work of a seriously deranged mind. In any case, I’m not going to allow myself or the US government to be manipulated by such antics!”
“What are you saying, Secretary Fenton?” Kaddiri asked in amazement.
“The department will not consider Masters’s development request and will block any efforts to utilize that… that BERP technology until we can get someone in your organization to present a rational, scientific demonstration and validation program,” Fenton said angrily. “And if he tries to sell that technology overseas, you’ll be sanctioned here in the US, and any foreign aircraft using that technology will be barred from entering US airspace.”
“But-but we proved the technology works!” Kaddiri argued. “I’ll admit, Secretary Fenton, that Jon’s methods were a little extreme…”
“Extreme! We could have watched Masters blow himself to bits!” Fenton shouted. “He couldn’t place a robot or a dummy in that seat instead of himself?” Fenton massaged his temples, in visible discomfort. “I still can’t get that picture out of my head, Dr Kaddiri-it’s like watching images from Vietnam, of Viet Cong prisoners being executed in the streets or Buddhist monks immolating themselves on TV…”
“Listen, Ed… I mean, Secretary Fenton,” Masters said through the satellite videolink, deciding far too late that he had better be more diplomatic-and fast. By this time, more rescue workers in breathing apparatus had arrived and were hauling him to his feet, trying to hustle him out of the stricken fuselage. He looked like a hunted animal. “This technology is too important to ignore,” he shouted. “Forget this demo. No one got hurt. I’ll turn over all my test data to you. It’s for real, believe me…” But the fear and panic over the demonstration overrode his protests. It was too late. Fenton and the others were gone.
Helen Kaddiri plopped down on a nearby chair in the empty conference room, deflated. Years of research, months of preparation-wasted. It would be at least another year, maybe longer, before they’d be allowed to present any information on BERP again. Damn Jon, damn his screwy project names, damn his complete disregard for prudence! It could take a complete change in administrations at the Department of Transportation, even the White House, before they got to present any more projects to the government, to anyone!
The range-control phone rang, and Helen picked it up. “Kaddiri.”
“Helen, it was so cool!” Masters shouted gleefully into the range-control officer’s speakerphone. “I mean, it was scary-man, when I saw that deck buckle, I thought I was a goner-but it held! It works!”
“Jon, everyone here is gone…”
“Hey, don’t worry about the FAA or the airline guys,” Masters said. “They’ll calm down, and when they realize how important this technology is, we’ll have another dem-val program set up very soon. We’ll-”
“Not ‘we,’ Jon,” Helen Kaddiri said bitterly. “I’ve had enough of you and your complete disregard for anyone else’s feelings or thoughts or opinions. You seem to think this is all a big game, and you don’t seem to give a damn how it affects our business.”
Jon looked for the switch to turn off the speakerphone and flipped it but instead turned on the
area-wide loudspeakers. Their conversation was broadcast all around the testing area, making it easy for the three dozen range personnel to hear Kaddiri go on: “I tried to have you removed as president, and I failed, so I’m not going to try it again. I’m resigning as chairman of the board of directors, and I’m leaving. I’m not going to work for a nutcase. If you want to kill yourself, go ahead, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you take the company down from underneath us.”
“Helen, wait a sec. Everything is cool! We’ll be fine…”
“You are not fine, Jon. You’re obsessed. You’re crazy. You’re unstable. I’m not going to work with someone who completely disregards his own safety and the reputation and quality of this company, the company that I founded, not you. I’m going to trade in and sell my stock options and start Sky Sciences Inc. again, and this time I won’t let you or anyone else tell me how to run it, no matter how much of a whiz kid they might be. Good-bye, Jon. I’ll see you in the funny papers-or in the obituaries. You’re sure to end up in either place.” And she slammed the receiver home.
The slam reverberated through the loudspeakers around the old rocket test site like a 155-millimeter howitzer shot. A sheepish Masters looked at the faces of the stunned and amused technicians around him.
“That crazy kid-she’s still in love with me,” he said, though his characteristic boyish grin was strained. He took a swallow of Pepsi from his squeeze bottle and tried to walk nonchalantly back to his mobile control bunker. “She’ll be back-she still loves me,” they could hear him muttering.
He was still in a daze when he entered the bunker, so he didn’t even notice the two strangers in black battle-dress uniforms. He went to his little cubicle, put his feet up on the desk, and punched up a digitized video replay of the test, complete with telemetry readouts. But he really wasn’t watching the replay-he was thinking about Helen. The two men approached the cubicle, and the first one raised two fingers out of his belt as if drawing a pistol from a holster, aimed it at Masters, and mimicked pulling the trigger. Still no reaction. “Shee-it, Doc,” said Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Harold Briggs, “killin’ you wouldn’t even be no fun.”
