by Terry James
“Pretty fancy, huh?”
“You bet! Don’t know how to use all this impressive stuff in this baby. But, the kids have managed to use it all, I think,” he said.
“Good flight?”
“Great. Excellent! Beats standing in those lines and getting poked and probed, I’ll tell you for sure. This way of getting around is something I could become accustomed to!”
“Good, good,” Christopher said, peering hard into the lights, trying to see if he could determine which was the aircraft conveying his friend toward the terminal.
When they had broken off the conversation, Christopher said softly to his wife, “We have about an hour and a half flight to LA, I think. Maybe you can catch a few Zs.”
“I’m okay. I’m too excited about getting to ride in that swanky jet to sleep,” Susie said, returning her husband’s hug.
“Just pray that we aren’t just wasting time and money,” he said, more to himself than to Susie.
The Criterion’s takeoff was smooth, the bird climbing at 250 knots past 10,000 feet, toward the temporarily assigned 15,000. Jeb Strubble asked departure for a center frequency, changed over and filed an IFR round robin flight plan with them by touching a few buttons on the integrated flight management system. Just for fun, the pilot requested flight level five one zero, 51,000 feet. He did so more to hear the awe in the responding controller’s voice, than to show off this fantastic plane’s capability.
Strubble dialed in “510” on the altitude reminder read out and the airplane accelerated to 320 knots, 30 knots shy of the max operating speed of 350. At some 31,000 pounds, well below the max take off weight of 36,000 pounds, the plane shot up into the blackness.
The vertical velocity indication on Strubble’s CRT pegged above 3,500 feet per minute, and it took the Criterion less than 20 minutes to reach altitude. Leveling off at mach 0.92, the articulated throttles moved to set their own fuel flows, and again, all Strubble and Hamilton Lamb had to do was watch it happen.
David Prouse’s wrist was beginning to hurt by the time the aircraft leveled off. Cassie’s slim fingers gripped him so tightly that he wanted to remove them. That was the last thing he would do, however. Gripping his arm helped her cope with the anxiety of the tremendous thrust that had rocketed them after lifting off from Phoenix International.
He reached to put his big hand over her small hand.
“You’re not scared, are you?” he teased.
“A little,” she said, feeling calmed by his warm hand covering her hand. “I’ve never taken off like that before. That’s quite a ride!”
“Yeah, I heard the pilot asking Chris if it was okay to stretch it out a bit on the take-off. Guess he about maxed it out,” David said with a chuckle.
“And you didn’t warn me?” She playfully slapped his arm in a show of disapproval.
“I thought it was fun,” he said, pulling her hand back to under his.
Cassie, sitting next to the aisle, craned to look at Kristi. Their eyes made contact, and she was glad to see that her friend’s expression said that Kristi’s stomach remained somewhere below, with her own. Kristi raised her eyelids to a wide-eyed expression of amazement.
Kristi had traveled extensively by air but had never felt an ascent like this one. She felt she was getting sick to her stomach. But, momentarily, after several seconds of level flight, the nausea settled, and all was well.
“Well,” Christopher said to Susie, who had heard him give Jeb Strubble permission to “have a little fun” with the takeoff. “I wanted to get our money’s worth.”
She punched her husband’s arm. “Maybe you won’t think it’s so much fun if some of us throw up all over the plane,” she said, laughing at his little boyish amusement over the spectacular takeoff.
“We’ll ask if they can make her do more when we depart LAX,” he said.
Although George Jenkins detested, even was always anxious about, the times when the big wigs from the Pentagon wanted to meet at the complex, his renewed confidence put his mind at ease. The confidence was born of his special friends giving him the otherworldly look into their imperative for history’s future. What other human being knew such things? The thought was exhilarating while he quickly walked the hallway that led to the big conference room.
He wished for April Warmath. But, she was still with them. They didn’t say why she couldn’t be released back into his service. Just that there was follow up that required her to stay with them for a while longer.
She always acted as a buffer between him and the bigwigs from D.C. The middle-aged, over-sexed men were easily put off the scent of blood because of one gaffe or another some of his staff might have committed. She could flirt and cajole like no other woman he had known, and it was an asset he needed now, while he approached the large oak door with the gleaming brass door handle plate.
Several men stood in the ante room just inside the big door. They broke off conversation when they saw Jenkins enter. He smiled, offering his right hand in greeting.
He knew them all, except one--a man younger than the others. “This is Ernst Kline,” one of the DOD special ops directors said, guiding the younger man toward Jenkins.
“Pleased to meet you,” Kline said in German accent. Probably Austrian, Jenkins thought, taking the man’s hand.
“Glad you could come,” the black operations director lied. He was never glad to have new people to deal with. They usually had turfs they wanted to protect –egos that needed scratching. Who was this one? And, what was his particular itch?
“Thank you,” the German said, his facial expression remaining solemn.
“Ernst is here representing the European Union, George. They want a little better understanding of things involving Scotty, and the BORG projects, and so forth,” Lester Graves, the DOD director who had introduced him, said. “The secretary, upon the President’s suggestion, thought this would be the forum that could…provide enlightenment in the quickest, yet most thorough way possible.”
“We will do our best,” Jenkins said with a clenched teeth smile. “I’ve asked one of your own to help explain things,” he added.
They sat in large, recliner-type chairs especially arranged to face the giant monitor screen inset within one wall of the enormous conference room. Jenkins sat in another of the chairs, one with a small console that he swung from the right arm of the chair, to in front of him, once he had settled into its seat.
He pushed a few buttons and manipulated some levers, and the screen lit up. The DOD officials watched it fill with different graphics and colors while Jenkins tested the various components for selecting what he wanted to emphasize during the presentation.
He could, with a movement of a lever, precisely project a thin, laser-like pointer that streamed in a line from the monitor screen’s edges to direct attention to whatever he needed.
Jenkins pored over the several aspects of things he deemed would satisfy their inquiry.
“Project Scotty includes all things involving the Rapid Atomic Particle Transmolecular Unification Reassembly Energizer technology,” he said, pointing to the term with a vivid red line that streamed from the screen’s edge. We call it the RAPTURE. Seems there’s a popular fiction series on that around right now…”
The men chuckled their agreement when Jenkins paused for effect.
“The project is named for the obvious--Mr. Scott, and his much-beloved Transporter aboard the Starship Enterprise…”
Again, the black ops director paused for effect, and the DOD visitors obliged with laughter that expressed their amusement.
“We have made spectacular progress over the past few years, despite some serious problems. The physicists involved have –as you know—been able to break through some of the problems elucidated by the Heisenberg indeterminacy principle.”
Jenkins looked at the faces, some which, he noticed, reacted as if they didn’t have a clue.
“Briefly stated,” he said, “the Heisenberg indeterminacy principle out
lined the problems with time and space, and the movement of matter at the molecular level. There are certain atomic rearrangements that are…were…required, that were not possible…or so it was thought…to affect a translation. That is, the taking apart of an object’s atomic structure here…”
He manipulated the controls and colorful graphics on the large screen displayed through realistic animation the disintegration and disappearance of a wine bottle, then its reconstitution and reappearance on the other side of the screen.
“Mr Scott’s Teletransporter,” he said with satisfaction in his voice.
“Most specifically,” Jenkins continued when the screen was electronically wiped clean, then the picture replaced with a visual of a man-like creature that reached from top to bottom of the monitor screen, “the RAPTURE has been applied to our creation and development of the BORG, the Battlefield Operation Ready Giant.”
He again looked at the faces, and this time saw deep concentration etched in each. All eyes were upon the enormous man-beast shown on the screen, all ears attuned with rapt attention to his every word. This is the reason they had come to the complex. The military application. Always DOD wanted results to accomplish war-making ends.
“We have had immense success as of late with the teletransportation of the BORG, the product of a special genetic manipulation of certain primates. Certain components from human Deoxiribbo Nucleic Acid—are also figured into the mix. The results, a being that can circumvent or by-pass the Heisenberg indeterminacy principle. To a large extent, at least.”
When Jenkins started to continue, Lester Graves interrupted. “These BORGs, they will be the troops of the future? Is that what we’re talking about here?”
“Only for special operations. And, I don’t see these operatives ever becoming much more than used in very special instances. Right now, their prime worth is that their genetic make-up makes them ideal for experimentation with RAPTURE.”
“What kind of special operations?” another of the visiting DOD directors asked.
“Things like fighting in high altitude, in extremely unfriendly environments, where our troops would be ineffective,” Jenkins answered.
“Like in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan?” the same man said.
“The War on Terror will benefit greatly, once this army is fully battlefield operational,” the black ops chief said with conviction in his voice.
“How long before these…things…are ready?”
“As complete biological beings, they are as ready as they will get,” Jenkins answered. “But as programmed to do specific jobs in battlefield situations, we have a way to go. This involves new methodologies, new instrumentalities we are working with to program these creatures’ brains for the jobs that are expected of them.
“This much, the European Union has knowledge of,” Ernst Kline said. “But, other things trouble us. We have not been given knowledge of this technology as it involves the--teletransport--of people. Why not?”
Jenkins was not taken off-guard. He had been forewarned that the question would come.
He pushed a button on the console in front of him. “Send him in,” he ordered.
A door swung open behind the group facing the screen, and a tall, youthful man walked in front of the big monitor screen. He faced the others, framed by the brightness of the electronic graphics that somewhat obscured his features.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m Blake Robbins of Transportec Industries. I’m here to, I hope, answer your questions.”
Chapter 16
It was love at first sight. He devoured its beauty through the big window that looked down on the concourse parking ramp. Mark’s eyes sparkled only slightly less than did the Criterion X, which was pearlescent white, the same color of those new Cadillacs that sometimes roared along the California freeways, he considered. The bird was magnificent, indeed!
Jeb Strubble parked the Criterion, pulled back the throttles with a flick of his fingertips, and, after checking several instrument controls for proper shutdown, followed the co-pilot into the cabin, standing by the big door while his passengers disembarked.
“This is quite the airplane,” Christopher Banyon said, talking to Strubble and Hamilton Lamb. “Loved the take-off,” he grinned, causing Susie, holding to his right arm, to push him in mock irritation.
“Hope we didn’t scare you, ma’am,” Strubble said. “We love to show off what the Criterion can do.”
“Nothing frightens this woman,” Christopher said, moving past the pilot to step down the few rungs and onto the tarmac.
“I was scared,” Randall Prouse said. “Don’t mind telling you. That was quite a kick!”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Lamb said, seeing the laughter in the archaeologist’s eyes.
David Prouse stood at the bottom rung, extending his hand to help Cassie and Kristi onto the concrete. He and Cassie walked arm in arm toward the terminal’s doors, out of which Mark Lansing was emerging.
Lori, who preceded her husband out of the doorway, embraced both girls, then Susie Banyon, talking in animated cheeriness with them while Mark and Christopher talked, Mark greeting Randall Prouse with a handshake and hug.
The former Delta pilot was anxious to examine the plane, so the three men continued in the conversation while approaching the craft.
A yellow fuel truck was refilling the main tanks while Jeb Strubble and Hamilton Lamb walked around the bird in a pre-flight check. Several maintenance personnel opened the big hatch just forward of the port engine. They stashed the Lansings’ bags into the space that could hold more cargo than any comparable business jet.
Mark, watching with fascination, had studied this jet, and knew that area could be used to transport the pets of those of privilege who would travel in style aboard the Criterion. The compartment was pressurized and heated, and there was easy access to it from the rear of the cabin, near the bathroom.
He remembered reading that the Criterion had temporary fuel tanks that would extend the aircraft’s range to unimaginable numbers. The plane was already well known in magazines and on the news as something that could travel coast to coast above 50,000 feet at mach 0.92 --92 percent the speed of sound. That, he silently calculated, worked out to be about 350 knots indicated airspeed.
Those huge engines that looked to be–he thought-- out of scale somehow, were rated at 6,700 pounds of thrust each, more than adequate to lift the machine up at its max gross weight of 36,000 pounds. It had been designed to hold nearly 13,000 pounds of fuel. The additional fuel add-on capability seemed to be a curious extra cost, but he figured that somebody wanted to provide the feature for those who might want to stay up a long time, or go somewhere far, far away.
The three men met the pilot and co-pilot at the plane’s rear, where Mark stood peering into the back of the left engine.
Mark saw the epaulets on the taller man’s shoulder. It had three black stripes with a gold star at its center. This was, he knew, the pilot –probably the chief pilot of the charter service.
“Quite a bird,” Mark said, moving away from the engine’s exhaust opening. “How long you guys been flying this one?”
“It’s my tenth flight. It’s the newest and the best,” Strubble said. “Ham, here, he’s new to the aircraft, but will be assigned one in a few more flight hours.”
Handshakes and shared information soon prompted the Criterion pilot to say, “Delta, huh? I flew for American, but just couldn’t resist this one.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse, huh?” Mark said with a chuckle, running his gaze over the 72-foot beauty, one of the most unusual aircraft he had seen.
Mark was, for the first time in days, thinking of things other than Clark and Morgan. This was pleasure, a brief respite from the troubled thoughts that had, for the moment, melted into total concentration on this jet.
He marveled over the unique engineering, like the attachment point of the wings. This cleared enough fuselage space to give the plane a full-
length, stand up aisle that stretched 24 feet. This looked odd, at first. In fact, it reminded him of how weird the F-4C Phantom had looked to all the pilots –including himself-- as they caught their first glimpse of the warbird back in 1964. They soon learned that the Phantom might be ugly, but it grew on you the first time you shoved the throttles forward and got mashed into the seat.
Mark followed Strubble and Lamb while they walked around the plane, starting at the integrated stairs just aft of the cockpit area. The pilot showed Mark the access panel to the environmental control systems and, just aft of that, the larger door that covered the electronics bay. The two-foot-wide hatch was open for inspection, and one of the ground crew had been loading the computer with new flight information and data bases.
“The new data base will make the nav systems completely independent of any input from the ground while in flight,” Strubble said with pride. “The bird has dual Honeywell GPS, and the newest Laseref V IRS,” he added. “You can't get lost,” the pilot said. “The GPS knows where you are at all times, and, if you're in doubt, the radar even has a ground-mapping mode.”
Just like the F4, Mark thought. Now there was something that could get you into trouble, he grinned to himself, remembering how the F-4 pilots would sometimes engage in--extracurricular strafing activities. Had to be careful with such a tracking system…
“When’s our take-off?” Christopher asked, interrupting the pilot’s impromptu lecture.
“Eleven-thirty, sir,” Hamilton Lamb said after Strubble looked at him for the precise time he, himself, didn’t know.
“And, when is our ETA?” Christopher said.
“Two forty-five, sir,” Lamb said. “Remember, we lose that hour we gained.”
“Oh, yeah. Back to Mountain Time,” Christopher said absent-mindedly while turning and walking back toward where his wife stood with the others.
