Day of the Cheetah

by Dale Brown

  also represented the proper pitch and bank to follow; as long as

  he kept the little fighter model on the road he would be following

  the computer's recommended flight path. The road's curbs rep-

  resented the allowable lateral flight corridor to follow, and tiny

  signposts represented planned tum-points and recommended

  altitude-changeover points.

  As long as the "road" was straight and flat, the ride went

  well. But after a few moments the road began to make small left

  and, right turns, and the going got much tougher. The tiny fighter

  icon penetrated through the road several times, porpoising up

  and down through the recommended altitude block, and Patrick

  had to apply harder and faster corrections to keep the plane

  steady.

  "Stabilize, Patrick," he heard from JC. Powell.

  "I'm trying." The fighter icon slid through the right wall of

  the road, skidded sideways, then entered an uncontrolled spin.

  "Let the computer recover the plane," Powell said. "Don't

  try to fight it."

  114 DALE BROWN

  Patrick forced himself to go along. He concentrated on the

  surface of the computer-generated road without thinking about

  the aircraft control. Suddenly he knew that ANTARES had

  placed both mission-adaptive wings in high-lift modes and de-

  ployed both dorsal and ventral sets of rudders to maximize di-

  rectional control. The fighter icon dove through the right side of

  the flight path depiction, but by rapid lift, power and drag

  changes under precise computerized control, the fighter was soon

  out of its uncontrolled spin and stabilized in a steep dive. A few

  moments later the fighter slowly leveled out and returned to its

  desired flight path once again.

  "Good recovery," Carmichael said. "ANTARES will always

  try to save the air-craft whenever possible, but you still have to

  tell her where you want to go, even in an uncontrolled situa-

  tion. "

  After a few minutes of straight-and-level flight to get his

  confidence back, Patrick accomplished a few turns, with bank

  angles and altitude changes mixed in. "I think I've got the hang

  of it again," Patrick said.

  "Still have those headaches?"

  "Now that you mention it, yes, but they seem to become less

  noticeable when I'm concentrating on something else."

  "Good. How about some formation flying? We can put up

  another fighter and let you fly off his wing for a while.

  "No, bring up a hostile."

  "Getting cocky now, aren't we, sir?" Powell cut in. "Five

  minutes ago you couldn't make a ten-degree turn without going

  out of control. Now you want to do some dogfighting."

  "That's what the damned simulators are for, Bring up a

  high-performance model, too."

  "You got it."

  There was no change in the simulation after several long mo-

  ments. He was going to ask if they had put up a hostile when

  he remembered-none of his fighter's offensive or defensive Sys-

  tems had been activated-

  But that realization was enough. Immediately a computer syn

  thesized voice announced, "Attack radar activated . . . elec-

  tronic countermeasures activated . . . tail warning systems

  activated.

  And there it was, a laser-projected image of a fighter in the

  upper right comer of the screen. Patrick immediately corn-

  manded the simulator's laser-trucking system to lock onto the

  hostile aircraft, and deactivated the attack-radar as soon as the

  laser had illuminated the target. But it wasn't fast enough. Flight

  data on the hostile aircraft showed that it had altered course and

  was on a head-on intercept course. The hostile had detected Pat-

  rick's brief radar emission and had turned to start the fight.

  As the two aircraft merged into a nose-to-nose flight path,

  Patrick was suddenly flooded with information. His laser-

  projection screen was filled with electronic depictions of dozens

  of options, only a few of which included a full head-on pass.

  There were so many options that he lost count. His headache

  had come back full-force now. Beads of sweat obscured his vi-

  sion, blood pounded in his ears. He was conscious, his mind

  still sharp, but the pain, intermingled with hundreds of bits of

  data predicting the outcome of dozens of maneuvers by both

  aircraft soon overwhelmed him.

  The ANTARES simulator suddenly went inverted and pulled

  a heart-stopping eight-G descent. The simulator had activated

  the all-aspect radar as it descended, and Patrick could easily

  "see" his pursuer descend with him. But that was what AN-

  TARES had been expecting. The simulator continued its in-

  verted loop, using its high-lift canards to pull the nose up through

  the horizon. The throttle went to max afterburner as he went

  through the vertical-and Patrick had no doubt that he would

  have been squashed like a grape if he had been in a real jet

  aircraft.

  As the nose dove through the horizon once again he found

  that the pursuer had become the pursued. Whatever kind of air-

  craft they had put up against him, it couldn't keep up with AN-

  TARES. Patrick found himself directly behind his adversary,

  and ANTARES had already an-ned four laser-guided missiles

  and was waiting for orders to fire. Patrick issued those orders a

  split second later. Meanwhile, ANTARES had switched to the

  internal twenty-millimeter multibarrel cannon and was waiting

  for orders to fire as the simulator closed in on the hostile, but

  there was no need to open fire-all laser-guided hypervelocity

  missiles had hit their target.

  "Ground position freeze," Dr. Carmichael ordered. Patrick

  heard footsteps on the catwalk around the simulator's cockpit as

  the cockpit indicators and the deluge of information in his head

  116 DALE BROWN

  abruptly ceased. "Patrick, this is Alan Carmichael. Can you

  hear me?"

  He found himself frozen in his seat, unable to move a muscle

  and barely able to move his lips . . . "Yes."

  "We're going to disconnect ANTARES. Hold on."

  Even though the simulator had stopped, the pain inside Pat-

  rick's head was steadily increasing. He could feel the fighter

  doing some lazy rolls and spins but didn't have the strength to

  . sue the orders to maintain straight and level flight.

  IS - 1 . . . I'm losing it . . ."

  "Let it go, Patrick," Carmichael said. "You're off the sim-

  ulation. Relax. Don't worry about the controls."

  It was like telling a man hanging from a cliff to cut his lifeline.

  Slowly, using every last ounce of strength he had, Patrick fought

  the urge to counteract the spinning aircraft. But the more he let

  go, the more he was drawn to what was happening. As the air-

  craft's altitude began to decrease, he received the aircraft alti-

  tude, "heard" ANTARES' reports on terrain, engine

  performance, structural loads. The closer the fighter got to earth,

  the faster the reports came. When the fighter shot through five

  thousand feet above the ground, ANTARES re
commended it

  take over. Patrick did not respond. At three thousand feet above

  ground, ANTARES issued the order to eject. Again, Patrick

  ignored it.

  He just sat, transfixed, as he listened to ANTARES' neural

  'screams." The computer was literally begging its human oc-

  cupant to do something, anything, to save it. The more the com-

  puter blasted McLanahan with pleas to issue an order to recover

  the aircraft, the more the pain increased and the more Patrick

  was unable to do anything. Carmichael was reaching to discon-

  nect the superconducting helmet from Patrick's clavicle rin

  when the simulator slammed into the ground at nearly two

  thousand miles per hour.

  When the helmet was finally lifted from McLanahan's shoul-

  ders and Carmichael saw his face, even he was shocked. Mc-

  Lanahan's face was a mask of pain, as in a man tortured to the

  very brink of tolerable agony.

  "Patrick, snap out of it, it's over!" Carmichael was yelling

  at him. Technicians had jumped up on the catwalk beside Car-

  michael, and others were unfastening the shoulder harness and

  loosening the heavy connectors and relays on the metallic flight

  suit. Carmichael looped an oxygen mask over Patrick's face.

  "It's over. Wake up, dammit."

  No response. Technicians were still trying to remove the heavy

  metallic gloves from Patrick's hands and undo the suit's fasten-

  ers, so Carmichael bent lower over Patrick and put his ear to his

  mouth.

  "He's stopped breathing, cut the suit off-- An assistant hes-

  itated, looking first at Patrick, then Carmichael. "I said cut it

  off. Now." Carmichael put'his face up to Patrick's. "Patrick,

  wake up, dammit! " He grabbed a pair of steel cutters from one

  of the technicians as the medical team removed the oxygen mask

  and inserted a breathing tube down Patrick's throat, then grabbed

  a wire-laced seam of the suit and made a twelve-inch cut across

  Patrick's chest with the ultrasonic cutting tool, exposing the thin

  cotton undergarments soaked with sweat. "Get a heart monitor

  over here!" He ripped open the underwear to expose Mc-

  Lanahan's chest. He studied Patrick's face as the airway was

  opened and the respirator started. The eyes were fluttering and

  his facial muscles were contorting as if he was locked in some

  nightmare.

  Then JC. Powell stepped up on the catwalk opposite Car-

  michael. As the electrocardiogram leads were taped to Mc-

  Lanahan's chest, Powell took Patrick's head in his hands and

  bent down to his left ear:

  "Wake up, boss," he said in a firm, quiet voice. "Show's

  over, Colonel. Wake up."

  Carmichael studied the EKG readouts. "No pulse. Straight

  line. Charge the defibrillator units. Powell, get out of the way. "

  ignored him. "Patrick, this is I know you can hear

  me-"

  "He can't hear a damn thing, " Carmichael said. "Now stand

  clear-"

  "He can hear me, he knows what's happening. He can feel

  everything. He just needs a direction-"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  did not answer. Instead, he placed both of Patrick's hands

  on his shoulders, moved as close as he could and said, "Patrick,

  you can hear me. Listen to me. ANTARES isn't in charge now.

  You are in control. Wake up.

  "He's been unconscious too long, Powell," Carmichael said.

  118 DALE BROWN

  A medical technician handed him two electrode paddles from

  the heart defibrillator. "He'll die if we don't revive him."

  "And you'll kill him if you shock him with that. " Powell

  grabbed Patrick by his flight suit and hauled him up as far out

  of the ejection seat as he could. "Patrick!" he yelled. " Dammit,

  I said wake up!"

  Suddenly McLanahan's eyes popped open. He grabbed 's

  shoulder in a crushing grip that made Powell wince. He gagged

  on the resuscitator tube in his throat and pulled it out, his chest

  heaving. Powell eased him back into his seat.

  "Sinus rhythm," one of the paramedics reported. "Blood

  pressure high but strong. Heart rate, respiration okay."

  "Are you'all right?"

  "I . . . I think so."

  Carmichael started to put the oxygen mask on his face again

  but Patrick pulled it away, choosing instead to take occasional

  deep breaths from it.

  "It was so weird," McLanahan said, trying hard to control

  his breathing. He seemed to be reviewing, reliving, the scene in

  his mind. "I was watching the intercept and the kill like a spec-

  tator. ANTARES was doing it all. It was like I wasn't there.

  But I felt the pain building and building, and ANTARES getting

  stronger and stronger, along with the pain. But then I couldn't

  do anything. I knew I still had to fly the aircraft on ground-

  position freeze but I couldn't give any commands. I felt like . . .

  like a million hornets were buzzing all around me.'I knew those

  hornets carried information, important data I need to know, and

  I knew something was wrong. But with the pain, I couldn't do

  a thing . . . Suddenly everything was dark and empty. I didn't

  have a body, just a brain. I was searching for a way out of a

  room but didn't know how I was going to make it even if I

  found an exit. That's when I heard 's voice. The more I

  heard, the more . . . alive I felt. I followed his voice . . .

  I . . ." His voice began to fade, and he appeared to be drifting

  off to sleep.

  "Get him out of here," Carmichael ordered.

  He woke up later to find Wendy Tork asleep in a chair beside

  his bed, a magazine across her lap. "Wendy?"

  She came upright. "Patrick? You're awake! How do you

  feel?"

  "Tired. Thirsty. " She poured him a glass of water from a

  plastic pitcher, then rang for the nurse. "I feel like I've just

  paddled a kayak across the Pacific. " He found he had the

  strength to sit up and take the cup in his hands. "What time is

  it? "

  "Nine P."

  "I've been asleep for twelve hours?"

  "Patrick, it's nine P. on Saturday. You've been asleep for

  forty-eight hours. "

  The water glass began to tremble in his hands, and he quickly

  set it on the bedside table. "Was I in a coma?"

  "No-well, technically, yes," Wendy said, moving close to

  him and taking his hands in hers. "They called it extreme ex-

  haustion and depletion. You lost seven pounds while you were

  in that simulator. You could have hurt yourself even without the

  strain that . . . that thing put on you. Are you sure you're okay?"

  He sat up and took a few sips of water. Nothing was said until

  he asked, "How long have you been here?"

  "I never left. I . . . I wanted to talk some more about the

  other night. I know how it is for you-"

  "Works both ways, kid." He let out a tired sigh and his head

  dropped back to the pillow. He managed a short laugh. "I think

  I know why Doctor Jekyll drank his own potions. You want

  something to be so successful that you'll try anything, even mak-

  ing yourself in
to your own guinea pig. I never should have

  strapped myself into that simulator. I wasn't ready for it."

  "It must have been terrible."

  "It was . . . different," he said uneasily. "I have to give guys

  like James and Powell all the credit in the world for flying the

  real thing, never mind the simulator. It's an awesome contrap-

  tion if you can keep yourself from going crazy."

  "Talk about going crazy," a voice said behind them. They

  turned to see General Elliott and Hal Briggs enter the hospital

  room. Hal went over to Patrick and clasped hands with him.

  "You had the'whole place going crazy, brother."

  McLanahan thought that Elliott looked drawn, tired, as if he

  hadn't slept in days. His blue blouse was sweat-stained and rum-

  pled, and he seemed to favor his artificial leg more than usual.

  "How do you feel, Patrick?"

  "Fine, sir." A damn lie.

  120 DALE BROWN

  Takin' a nap for a day and a half, you should be fine," Hal

  put in.

  "We can do that SPO conference tomorrow after I get out of

  here," Patrick said to Elliott.

  "I think we've all had enough for the weekend, Colonel,"

  Elliott said. "I've scheduled a meeting with the senior project

  officers and the engineering staff for Monday morning. You're

  on sick leave until then. Clear?"

  But something else hung in the air-Elliott was showing more

  than just concern for him. Elliott turned to Wendy. "Can I have

  him for a few minutes?"

  "Visiting hours are over." She went to Patrick and kissed

  him. "I'll come by at nine to bail you out." Wendy nodded to

  Elliott and left. Briggs took a big glass of Patrick's ice water

  and moved unobtrusively in front of the door, casually but ef-

  fectively blocking it.

  "You gave us a scare, Patrick," Elliott said. Patrick sat up

  and watched as Elliott began to pace the small room. This, Pat-

  rick thought, was not an ordinary get-well visit. "I hope you'll

  forgive me for suggesting that you train in the ANTARES sim-

  ulator for this project-"

  "On the contrary, General, I wanted to do it. It was a part of