Velocity

by Steve Worland

  Something rushes from behind a large boulder in the desert in front of him. Dirk looks closer. It’s large but he can’t see it clearly. Whatever it is, it’s moving like there’s no tomorrow, a day it will not see if Dirk has anything to do with it. He aims the Top Hawk and the targeting grid locks on. He blinks and bullets zip across the desert.

  It’s a kangaroo. It makes it to another rock and disappears. The German’s genuinely happy the marsupial got away. It momentarily lifts his mood, then the frustration floods back and all he wants is to spend every second he has before departure searching for the astronaut.

  ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ He says it to himself and takes a breath, remembers this mission is for his commander, the man who gave Dirk the life he is so hell bent on protecting. Now that they’re a chopper down and the astronaut has the satellite phone it’s even more important that Dirk get back to base camp, make sure they depart on time and be prepared for any threat that might present itself.

  ‘Okay, let’s get back.’

  Big Bird grunts an affirmative and swings the Tiger around, aims it towards the runway.

  The sound of the black chopper retreats.

  Judd’s head throbs. He needs to get up and get moving but the smooth boulder against his face feels fantastic. It’s like a cool pillow on a balmy night. Just like the pillow in that hotel. What was it called? The one in Hawaii. He can’t remember its name. It was pink. It doesn’t matter. He needs to get up and get moving - The Royal Hawaiian! That’s the name. His eyelids are heavy. He decides to close them for a moment. He’s not going to sleep because he needs to get moving, he’s just going to have a little rest, just for a minute.

  Judd closes his eyes and passes out.

  **

  30

  The Article is one of its names. Habu is another, comparing it to a particularly tenacious Okinawan pit viper. Archangel is a third. The Sled is preferred by some, though the wider world knew it by only one designation.

  Blackbird SR-71. The fastest aircraft ever built.

  Will Thompkins is happy to call it the Article. If it was good enough for Kelly Johnson, the man who designed it, then it was good enough for him.

  Thompkins strides across the tarmac towards the jet, baking like a gator in the Florida sun. Major Clark Mahoney, his Reconnaissance Systems Officer, follows.

  This is the last Article still flight-certified and operational. After the air force decommissioned the Blackbird SR-71 fleet in 1998, NASA kept this one for one simple reason: nearly fifty years after it was designed, it was still the best platform for testing new technologies at high speed and high altitude.

  Thompkins takes in the aircraft’s flat, razor-sharp outline, painted a muted, heat-emitting dark blue. He glances underneath, sees the puddles of JP-7 avgas that drip from the fuel tank’s panels, panels that will swell and seal once the aircraft is at speed and its titanium skin has been sufficiently heated by air resistance.

  Memories flood back as he mounts the ladder to the cockpit and climbs inside. He remembers one reconn mission he flew over Libya back in the day. Some of the locals took exception to having their photo taken so they fired on the aircraft. Thompkins was forced to take drastic evasive action, which meant pressing the Article’s throttle levers full forward. The aircraft accelerated to Mach 3.6, or 4000 feet per second, and easily outran the threat.

  It also outran its KC-10 aerial refueler. With dry tanks Thompkins circled back and managed to lock on to the refuelling boom twelve seconds before the flight computer performed an engine unstart, which was a fancy way of saying, ‘You just ran out of gas, moron, so I’m shutting down the engines - best of luck with the ejection’.

  Thompkins grins at the memory as he attaches his helmet then connects his suit to the life-support system, straps himself in, closes the canopy then begins his pre-flight checklist. It’s been almost a year since he flew the Article and he’s surprised by how much he missed it.

  As soon as Thompkins hung up from Judd Bell he met with NASA’s Administrator Charlie Cunningham and advised him of Atlantis’s location. The marine commander overseeing the shuttle’s retrieval was then notified and a force dispatched to the position. The marines’ ETA was between three and four hours. But there would be no satellites in place to photograph the area until the next day and unmanned Predator reconn drones were too slow to get there before that. The marines needed photographic intel and Thompkins knew the only way to obtain it in time was to use the Article.

  Over the past decade NASA had secretly enhanced the aircraft, designated 844 on its tail fins, with a raft of twenty-first-century technologies. Not only did it utilise a live datalink that had not been available earlier in its operational life, it also incorporated improved avionics and, most importantly, two Pratt & Whitney J5 8 engines with upgraded compressor inlets. The new inlets allowed the engines to run much hotter and meant a top speed of low Mach 6, almost twice as fast as before. Incredibly, the Article’s increased speed did not affect its fuel consumption. With the engine’s unique turbofan within a ram-jet design, it became more fuel efficient the faster it travelled.

  So Thompkins would fly the Article over Atlantis’s position at 80000 feet. Mahoney would take photographs and document the area in minute detail, right down to the brand of footwear anyone in the vicinity happened to be wearing. The digital images would then be datalinked directly to the approaching marines and give them an invaluable tactical advantage.

  The Article taxis towards the runway’s threshold, its wings vibrating over the uneven tarmac.

  ‘So where are we going, Horshack?’ Strapped in behind him, RSO Mahoney’s voice buzzes in Thompkins’ headset. He uses the nickname he gave Thompkins twenty years ago, when they first flew together in the air force and discovered that they both loved watching reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter when they were kids.

  ‘Need to know, Epstein.’

  ‘That important, huh?’

  ‘Yep, that important.’

  The Article’s flight plan was classified because Thompkins couldn’t risk word getting out that they knew Atlantis’s position. Only Administrator Cunningham and the marines had that information.

  ‘I’ll tell you as soon as you need to know.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Thompkins and Mahoney had been inseparable during their time in the air force. They did everything together, from sharing an apartment to being each other’s wingman while out tomcattin’ the ladies. That changed once they transferred to NASA to become the Article’s primary flight team and Thompkins’ career moved to the fast track. Over time, Thompkins found himself actively avoiding Mahoney because his career so outstripped his old friend’s that he was embarrassed and didn’t how to act around him.

  The Article turns onto Kennedy’s main runway. The tower grants clearance and Thompkins takes a shallow breath. He’s flown this beast a total of 532 hours, but the thrill of it never gets old, the thrill of acceleration, instant, pure, unapologetic. ‘Ready back there?’

  ‘Punch it.’

  Thompkins throttles the Pratt &c Whitneys. It feels like he’s been kicked in the back - by God.

  The Article rips down the runway then slices into the azure sky.

  **

  31

  Kelvin now knows why the runway’s so long, the same runway he landed the Galaxy on when he first arrived in this desert four days ago. He also knows why he’s helping bolt metalwork to the top of the Galaxy. He knows, but still can’t quite believe it. So, as much for confirmation as anything else, he turns from his position atop the Galaxy’s fuselage and takes in the distinctive shape of the space shuttle, lit by the muted glow of moon and runway light.

  They actually stole a shuttle, and by ‘they’ he means ‘he’, because ‘he’ is a member of ‘they’ - a junior member, sure, but part of the Frenchman’s crew nonetheless.

  An oversized mobile crane is parked beside the spacecraft. It
was here when he landed, as was the large tent where the Tigers were assembled, and where the Frenchman’s crew slept and ate. The whole mission had been meticulously planned and generously funded. Henri must have been planning it for years.

  The crane’s boom towers high above the shuttle. From it hang two pairs of fat chains that reach halfway to the ground, then attach to two large loops that almost touch the desert. The loops are 15 metres long and a metre wide, constructed from a flat, flexible material. Kelvin quickly realises they’re slings.

  Two men grab each sling. One pair guide their sling under the nose of the shuttle, pull it up to the landing gear. The other pair slot their sling under the rear of the spacecraft and drag it to the trailing edge of the wing.

  ‘How much longer?’

  Kelvin turns to Nico. ‘It’s done.’

  With a torch, the Italian examines the bolts and welds that secure the metal structure to the top of the Galaxy’s fuselage. They will allow the shuttle to be attached to the jet, piggyback-style.

  It had been a relatively straightforward job. Kelvin had performed the work with three members of Henri’s crew, who were later joined by a man and a woman from the Kinabara Dish. They both looked like they’d been in a nasty fight. Kelvin wondered if it had been with each other.

  So what did old Kelvy boy do now? There had been no opportunity to escape since he arrived. He’d been busy helping build an auxiliary fuel tank in the Galaxy’s hold, then securing this metalwork. And if he had escaped, well, what would he have done? He was in the middle of an unforgiving desert, hundreds of kilometres from civilisation. Henri’s men would’ve hunted him down within the hour.

  Now he wonders if he could, somehow, throw a spanner into the Frenchman’s plans. He could be the guy who saw the error of his ways and heroically thwarted the hijackers. The notion holds genuine appeal to Kelvin. He likes the idea of being a hero. It was a lot better than his memory being villainised through a fleeting association with the Frenchman, even if he was paid a million.

  Nico finishes his inspection. ‘Okay. I need the jet there.’ He points at the port side of the shuttle. ‘The nose in that direction. Get it parallel, close as you can. We’re going to load it now.’

  Kelvin nods, moves to the ladder that leans against the side of the aircraft, climbs to the desert below, his mind racing.

  **

  32

  It floats above him, sharp grey angles stark against deep blue. Thompkins studies the three-engined KC-10 aerial refueler. The arse end of a tanker was a sight you quickly became familiar with when you flew the Article. It may have been the fastest aircraft ever built, but its appetite for avgas meant in-flight refuelling was an integral part of its driver’s skill set. If Thompkins could fly it directly to Central Australia he would be there in just on two hours. Unfortunately that’s not possible. Central Australia is over 17000 kilometres from Cape Canaveral but the range of the Article is 5300 kilometres.

  He needs quick refuels today, and the previous three have been just that, the aeronautical equivalent of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Unfortunately fourth time was not the charm. After descending from 80000 to 30000 feet he’d wasted five minutes tooling around the Pacific looking for this damn refueler because it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. Mahoney finally found it on his scope with three minutes of gas in the tank. Due to a snafu at Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, the KC-10 had been set on a track 30 kilometres east of where Thompkins had instructed it to be.

  Thompkins waits as the KC-10 disgorges fuel into the Article’s tanks, which take up most of the aircraft’s fuselage. Not only does avgas power the engines, but it also acts as their coolant, a unique design feature only Kelly Johnson could have devised.

  Thompkins’ eyes lock on the fuel gauge. Ninety-six per cent and rising quickly. Hawaii is the last pitstop before the blast across the Pacific to Central Australia so he needs the tanks full to the brim. The fuel gauge touches 100 per cent.

  ‘Okay, we’re done.’ Thompkins disconnects the Article from the boom, drops below the tanker and scans the gauges again, just to be sure everything looks cool. It does. The single most important factor when flying the Article is to make sure the engines don’t run hot. If they did, a turbine blade could melt and that’d end the trip real quick. Thompkins eases the throttle levers forward. The jet leaves the KC-10 behind like a bad memory.

  Mach 1. Thompkins’ gloved finger moves to the small wheel on the instrument panel that adjusts the aircraft’s pitch. He rotates the wheel 3 millimetres. Not much, but it will yield a 500-foot-per-minute climb until the Article reaches a ceiling of 80000 feet. He can feel the aircraft’s nose rise slightly, just one-sixth of a degree in real terms, but enough for the job.

  Mach 2. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The acceleration comes not as a jolt but a surge, harnessing the energy of fifty locomotives, a power that builds and builds and keeps building as the engines drink 100000 square feet of air per second.

  Mach 3. He’s going to push this thing harder than it’s ever been pushed before. Mach 6.5 is his destination today, just on 8000 kilometres an hour. Faster than anyone has ever travelled in an aircraft. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The surge continues.

  Mach 4. It is relentless, the ultimate rush. Nothing compares to it. Unlike an astronaut who is strapped to a rocket with limited control, Thompkins is in complete control of this machine. He realises, not for the first time, that flying this plane is the only thing that’s ever made him happy.

  **

  33

  Pistol in hand, Judd wipes sweat from his face and sprints towards Atlantis, which now piggybacks the Galaxy.

  A man runs at him, gun raised. Judd turns, fires, hits him in the chest. To the left another man raises a rifle. Judd pivots, fires, drops him to the desert.

  Judd wipes sweat from his face. A Hummer is parked beneath one of the Galaxy’s engines. He sprints to it, leaps onto its hood, then its roof, jumps, grabs hold of the engine cowling and swings himself into the turbine’s gaping maw. He scales the cowling then drags himself onto the wing.

  Atlantis is right in front of him. He wipes sweat from his forehead and sprints along the Galaxy’s wing towards it.

  Bright flashes light up the night. A man fires at him from the ground. Judd swivels, fires, hits him in the gut, then runs on, leaps, grabs the trailing edge of the shuttle’s wing, heaves himself onto it. He finds his feet, sprints towards the hatch.

  It’s open. Judd reaches the front of the wing, leaps, grabs the edge of the hatch, scrambles inside.

  Tango in Berlin towers over him, aims his pistol. Judd’s too fast. He fires and the bullet slams into the German’s forehead. Judd wipes sweat from his face, scales the ladder to the flight deck.

  Rhonda.

  She’s strapped to her chair. She sees him, elated. ‘I knew you’d come for me.’

  He rips her free but there’s still sweat on his face. He wipes at it. Then again. And again ...

  Judd wakes with a start, pulls his face from the sand. Ants. Big ones. On his face. In his mouth. They bite! Sting! He claws them from his skin, spits them out, shakes his head to remove the little bastards.

  He clears his eyes, looks at his PloProf, takes a moment to focus on the watch. Christ. He’s been out for over two hours. His head pounds with a dull ache. He ignores it, finds the telescope, puts it to his eye. The first sunlight peeks over the horizon and casts a golden hue across Atlantis and the Galaxy, makes the giant vehicles seem small and inconsequential against the expansive landscape.

  The tents are down and a tanker truck is parked near the Galaxy’s undercarriage, filling it up. It’s about to leave.

  Judd glances at his PloProf. Where are the marines? He thought they wouldn’t make it in time and it looks like he was right. He reaches for the sat phone. It’s half-buried in the sand nearby. He dusts it off, works the keypad. The screen illuminates. A blinking LOW BAT warning greets
him. One quarter of a bar of power remains. He dials. Waits.

  Thompkins’ voicemail asks him to kindly leave a message. Judd hangs up. Who else can he call? Who will know when the cavalry will arrive?

  He dials.

  **

  A BlackBerry rattles on the small bedside table. A hand reaches through a tangle of sheets, taps the table in search of the smartphone, finds the source of annoyance. A thumb presses a button on the handset, pulls it towards the sheets. ‘Severson.’