by Dale Brown
to be cooled with liquid nitrogen at two hundred seventy-five
degrees below zero.
In the center of the three -story chamber, dwarfed by massive
banks of electronics gear and environmental system ducts, was
an F- 15 single-seat fighter simulator. It had none of the advanced
multi-function displays and laser-projection devices of Chee-
tah-it still used ordinary electric artificial horizons and pneu-
matically driven altimeters and tum-and-slip indicators, and most
of those were barely functioning. The ejection seat was an old
Mark Five "Iron Maiden--type seat from the early 1980s, stiff,
straight-backed, and uncomfortable, its special anti-G padding
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 107
and shoulder harnesses having been cannibalized for spare parts
long ago.
Patrick was not secured in that ejection seat, but neither was
he free to move. He was wearing an early non-cushion version
of Ken James' metallic-thread flight suit. It was far more bulky
than the actual operational model, with thick fiber-optic bundles
interwoven all around the suit, circuit boxes attached to every
conceivable inconvenient point on Patrick's body, and, unlike
James' suit, this experimental model had no integrated cooling
systems built into it. Icy blasts of cold air were directed on
Patrick to help keep him cool, and when the skin's resistance
was completely unbalanced by sweat and vascular dilation on
account of the extreme temperatures inside the suit, the session
would be ended.
"I've been trying out this system for a few months now,"
Patrick said. "My brainwaves or whatever they are .
"Theta signal threshold complex."
"Yeah, right. Anyway, they should start working, shouldn't
they? I I
Carmichael shook his head. "If it was that easy, we'd have a
squadron of ANTARES pilots now. We don't fully understand
how ANTARES works, how the neural interface is achieved.
We can get it to work but we're not sure, for example, why it
works with James and nominally for you and and not for
anyone else. We're getting closer to the answer but it'll still take
some time."
"What is it with James?" Patrick asked. "I can't mentally
control an itch on the back of my neck. He can control a two
million dollar fighter at Mach one."
Carmichael ran a hand up his forehead and across the top of
his bald head-even though it was the style of the mid- 1990s for
some men to have a shaved head, Carmichael came by his nat-
urally, involuntarily. "The sheer strength of his mind is enor-
mous. The ANTARES interface is another addition to his mental
gymnasium, so to speak. He's strengthened by it every time he
uses it. We're learning a lot from him."
"But he's not any smarter than anyone else at HAWC."
"I'm not talking about intelligence . . . stop squirming.
Carmichael motioned to one of his assistants, who ran a cool
towel over Patrick's sweaty face. "He's quite intelligent-an
I. of well over one-fifty. But what counts more is that his
108 DALE BROWN
mind is fluid, adaptable, agile. Are you at all familiar with taek-
wondo, Patrick? "
"Taekwondo? You mean martial arts?"
Carmichael nodded as he scanned an instrument panel beside
the simulator. "A special form of the martial arts that combines
karate, kung fu and judo-James happens to be a black belt in
taekwondo, by the way . . . did you know that? Almost made
our Olympic taekwondo team. It's not an offensive, attack-style
of fighting. In taekwondo the attacker is allowed to engage-as
a matter of fact, there are few moves in taekwondo that can be
perforrned unless in response to an attack."
"Get to the point, Alan."
"The point is, James' mind works much the same way as the
taekwondo style of combat. He allows the flood of information
created by ANTARES to invade him. He opens up his mind to
it-exactly the opposite of the normal reaction to such an inva-
sion. Most of us build barriers against such an onslaught-James
allows it to move in, even expand. But he doesn't surrender to
the information that bombards him. Once ANTARES unlocks
the inner recesses of the mind, the ones we have no conscious
access to, he's somehow able to reassert his conscious will. At
first it's little more than gentle mental nudges, but then he's able
to control ANTARES, steer the mass of information his way.
it's the mental equivalent of a single tree changing the course of
a raging river."
"You're talking in riddles."
"For a good reason." Carmichael's features turned stony.
"I've already said there's a lot we don't understand about AN-
TARES. We're tinkering with this technology before it's fully
understood, but neither of us has the authority to stop it. I just
hope I can learn enough before some disaster happens."
He studied McLanahan. "That was meant as a disclaimer,
Patrick. You've been strapping this stuff on a few times a month
now, probably with faith in me and all this high-tech government
equipment. We use it because it works. Period. We don't know
why it works, and so we won't know what happened if some-
thing goes wrong." He picked up a very large, bulky helmet
with all sorts of cables and wire bundles leading to the banks of
computers below. It was a much larger version of the AN-
TARES flight helmet, obviously not designed for flight-its
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 109
wearer would be completely immobilized by its sheer size and
bulk. "Still want to subject yourself to this, Colonel?"
Patrick shrugged. "Here's where I'm supposed to say 'I regret
I had only one brain to give to my country.........
"You're the project director, it's not your job .
'It's not my job.' That's the most over-used and annoying
phrase in the Air Force." Patrick stopped, looking at the men-
acing ANTARES helmet as if it was some medieval torture de-
vice, then nodded. "I need to know how it works. I need to
understand what it does to the pilots that I'll order to wear this
thing. Let's do it."
Carmichael and an assistant proceeded to lower the heavy hel-
met onto Patrick's shoulders and fasten it in place.
The helmet was very tight arfd heavy. Once attached to the
clavicle ring on his flight suit the device pressed down on his
breastbone and shoulders like a heavy yoke. The superconduct-
ing antennae pressed unmercifully on several spots on his head
and neck, corresponding to the seven areas of the brain that were
constantly being scanned and measured by the ANTARES. There
was a smoked glass visor in the helmet, but Patrick could barely
see anything outside. The thick rubber oxygen mask that en-
closed his mouth and chin was hot and almost suffocating.
After a few seconds, Patrick could hear the faint click as the tiny
headphone in his helmet was activated. "Patrick? All set in there?"
"Check the oxygen flow. I'm not getting any air."
"You've got a
good blinker and all switches are set," Car-
michael replied. Just then Patrick's oxygen mask received a
steady flow of cold, dry air. "I gave you a shot of oxygen. I
can't give you too much or you could hyperventilate. Try to
relax. Start anytime you're ready."
Patrick sat back in the hard ejection seat and began the relax-
ation routine taught to him by Carmichael over a year earlier
when he'd first begun experimenting with an ANTARES trainer.
He began the familiar process, letting the spurts of pure oxygen
in his mask slow his breathing and force the tension from his
body. In his case it was his toes and calves that seemed to be
perpetually clenched, like a swimmer on the starting block, as
if he was always trying to grip onto something. It was refreshing
to feel how good his feet felt after forcing them to relax.
Slowly, he worked his way up his body, ordering each muscle
group to relax. One by one he managed to relax his body parts,
110 DALE BROWN
letting the stiffness of the metallic flight suit support him in the
ejection seat. He knew he'd have to reexamine his leg muscles
now and then, but after dozens of these sessions his relaxation
technique was getting much better.
"Very good," he heard Carmichael say, "much better. Min-
imal beta activity. Very steady alpha complex."
"It seemed to go easier this time," Patrick said. "How long
did it take? "
"You did pretty well, only one hundred and thirty minutes
this time. "
"Over two hours . . . ?
"Easy, easy, maintain your alpha level
Patrick fought to regain his body-relaxation state, despite his
sudden confusion and disorientation. "I thought I was getting
better, it seemed like just a few minutes."
"A good sign. You enter a state of altered consciousness,
much like hypnosis but more so. Losing track of time is a good
sign-if you had said it took two hours it would mean your mind
is still focused on external events like time-"
And then he felt it, a tiny jolt of electricity shooting through
his body. It was like diving into an ice-jo-ld pool of water-the
jolt didn't start or stop anywhere in particular but it shocked his
entire body all at once. It was not totally uncomfortable, just
unexpected-more attention-getting than painful, like a mild
static electricity shock. His body jerked at the first jolt, and he
fought to relax his body again. Surprisingly, he found it much
easier to relax this time.
"Just relax, Patrick." Carmichael sounded as if he was call-
ing from the bottom of a deep well. "You're coming along fine.
Relax, Patrick . . . "
Another jolt of electricity, harder and deeper this time, cre-
ating a shower of sparks before his eyes. There was real pain
this time, completely different from the first. Patrick remem-
bered the three deadman's switches rigged to the seat-one on
each hand and one on the back of his helmet, where all he had
to do was release his grip on the handles or move his head in
any direction and the power to the simulator box would imme-
diately cut off. The electricity was still there, still intense
all he had to do was hold on long enough to command his hands
to move . . .
"Remember tackwondo, Patrick," he heard a voice from no-
VP__
DAY OF THE CHEETAH ill
where say. "Allow the fight to come to you. Accept it. Be pre-
pared to channel it."
Another surge of energy, powerful enough to make Patrick
gasp aloud in his mask. There was a brief shot of oxygen, but
now it felt blasting hot, like opening an oven door . . .
"Don't fight the energy. Relax
"The pain..... I can't stand it .
"Relax..... regain theta-alpha.
Another intense wave of electricity, and he involuntarily
grunted against the pain. The shimmering wall of stars washed
over him-but they were different this time. The lights remained,
and amidst ever-growing jabs of pain throughout his body the
stars began to coalesce into images. Faint, blurred, unreadable-
but they were not just random stars. Something was forming . - .
Here was finally something to latch onto, to grasp and hold
firm, for no other reason than to preserve his sanity and keep
from screaming out in terror and pain. When the pain increased
in severity, Patrick let it hit him head-on, enduring it long enough
just so he could reexamine the sparks of pain floating in his
mind's eye and form another concrete mental image.
He was experiencing what James already'knew and had gone
through . . . His whole body was on fire. The pain was contin-
uous, but so were the sheets of light-and they were definitely
taking shape. Flashes of numbers, some logical, others unintel-
ligible, zipped back and forth in his subconscious mind. The
images were beginning to organize themselves-there was now
a sort of horizontal split-screen effect, with darkness above the
new horizon and floating, speeding numbers and polyhedrons
below. He could hear short snaps of sound, like a stereo receiver
or short-wave radio gone haywire.
The sounds were the key - Patrick now began to concentrate
against the pain, channeling it along with the confusion, trying
to slow the jumble of numbers and letters and shapes into one
positive, concrete form. With each push in the desired direction,
ANTARES would give him a burst of pain for his trouble. But
the pain didn't matter any more. There was an objective now, a
goal to reach, if a childishly simple one . . . three letters-A,
B, JC.-and one device-the simulator's intercom.
The letters were becoming as large as the lower half of the
split screen, but they were finally becoming solid, aligning them-
112 DALE BROWN
selves beneath the blackness. Soon they remained steady, and
even began to slide away from the center toward the-
Patrick?
The voice was like a distant, relaxing whisper, like a church
bell off in the distance, like the friendly toot of a boat horn on
the Sacramento River back home. "Powell?"
"Welcome back, boss. Have a nice trip?"
"Not sure. I've got a lot of pain. Dr. Carmichael?"
"Right here."
"How long did it take this time?"
"You tell me."
Patrick tried to remember back through the interfacing period,
through the waves of rolling pain, through the fleeing mental
images. "I felt out of control, it must've taken another hour."
" Try nine seconds," JC. Powell said.
"Nine seconds?"
"Nine seconds on the dot from the moment you went into
theta-alpha, " Carmichael said happily. "Even faster than Ken's
ever done it, although he doesn't take two hours to get to theta-
alpha.
Patrick tried to turn his head, but found it impossible-it wds
as if two red-hot hands held his head cemented into place. "How
can anyone function with all this pain? I feel like I'm being
microwaved, I can't move a muscle."
> "All I can say is that Ken James is different. He's also been
using the ANTARES system for a long time. Don't focus on the
pain, and don't worry about being able to move around. Relax
and try to enjoy the ride."
A moment later, Carmichael clicked the intercom back on.
"We've repositioned the simulator at thirty-five thousand feet
and five hundred knots. Take the aircraft when you're ready,
Colonel."
Patrick concentrated as hard as he could on the image of the
instrument panel. He had managed to slide the image of the
intercom channel off to the left, but the rest of the panel was
blank. Like a television screen with nothing but snow across it.
Okay. Aircraft attitude was important. Maintain control. Keep
the airplane flying.
Instantly an oval drew itself on the upper half of the cockpit
image. It was sitting horizontal across the windscreen, a deep
white line bisecting it, forming a horizon. In the exact center of
the oval was a wide T, representing the aircraft.
"Release me," McLanahan said.
The T jumped up and to the right just as Carmichael said,
"You're moving."
Patrick concentrated on keeping the T in the center of the
oval. Slowly the T moved back in the center.
"Good start at least, now where the hell am I going?"
The oval disappeared, replaced by the image of a long rib-
bonlike street on the upper portion of the screen. The street was
straight for a distance, but Patrick could see a few gentle twists
and turns in the distance. At the bottom of the screen was a tiny
picture of a jet fighter plane-it appeared to be resting right on
the road.
"Hey, I've got the flight-plan depiction."
"Good," Carmichael said. "That's a major flight image. Fol-
low it as long as you can. How's the headache?"
"It went to splitting migraine long ago, Doc, but as long as
I keep my mind off the pain it'll be okay."
Keeping the simulator flying upright was more difficult with-
out the artificial horizon, but no amount of mental effort would
bring it back, so Patrick used the visual cues on the road itself-
the recommended altitude was to surface on the road itself, which
