Roger’s grand total of aerobatic maneuvers to that point had been two spin recoveries with his instructor during flight training decades earlier. He’d also been on a few moderate theme-park rides with Frank and Susan. Again, many years ago. Cindy wouldn’t go near them, but she’d hold sunglasses, cell phones, and other paraphernalia while from her perspective, her husband and their children risked life and limb.
“Yeah, just don’t add that to my list of favorites,” Roger responded, his voice shaky. “Let’s light this thing.” His fear of the cockpit continued. He forced himself to concentrate on the critical intercept—fighting off the life-sucking memories of his last flight as a pilot.
Justin displayed the S-TADIL-J18 telemetry at the top of his Multiphone’s wall projection. On the bottom left was the operation's manual checklist, and a programming window on the bottom right. The Multiphone now stood on a stand. He manipulated it with hand motions over a wireless 3-D plate on his desk and made data entries using a wireless keyboard.
“You’re sixty percent to superconductive. Probably another forty-five seconds. Can you hold altitude?”
Roger checked his altimeter. Not good. The small turbojet was designed for low altitude maneuvering without the scramjet and ion drive engaged. It also served as a high capacity auxiliary power unit to run dual-cycle compressors to cool the magnets, and to provide electricity to charge them once they became superconductive.
One benefit of the increasing tensions with China was that corporate America had learned to create high gauss magnets without foreign supplies of rare earths like neodymium. The alloys developed over the last few years included one—Cliff Nesmith and PDI held the patent—for relatively high temperature superconductivity at minus fifty-five degrees Celsius. So instead of requiring liquid helium or even liquid nitrogen for cooling, they were cooled by R744 refrigerant: liquid carbon dioxide; CO2.
“Negative,” Roger replied. “Losing 1,000 feet per minute. Can’t afford a spin.” No stall tests had yet been performed during flight testing, and certainly no spin recoveries.
In Justin’s programming window, he set up a spreadsheet and plugged in equations and variables. The data displayed as a graphic with curves on his wall and uploaded to display in Guardian’s cockpit. In a straight vertical dive with the 12,000-pound thrust of the turbojet, the aircraft should go supersonic within a 22,000-foot drop. But the lower the altitude, the denser the air. That meant more aerodynamic drag and a higher speed to break through the sound barrier’s pressure wave. Worse, Roger would lose another 2,000 feet while lighting the ion drive. Plus several thousand more feet to pull out of the dive without blacking out since there had been no G-suit for him.
And a straight dive wouldn’t give the coils time to charge. “Can’t wait, can I?”
“No.”
In a formal test plan, checklist actions would be completed sequentially. First, establish superconductivity. Second, charge the magnets. Third, bring the magneto-hydrodynamic—MHD—generator online to provide the energy to light the ion drive once a supersonic shockwave slammed through the air intake for the scramjet. The MHD would use very little fuel to become a screaming electrical generator and combine with the shockwave and scramjet to rocket Guardian forward, propelled by a gas plasma torch.
In its intended Concept of Operations—CONOPS—at an alert facility, a pilot would quick-start the turbojet and cool the coil while taxiing for takeoff. He or she would ignite the full-power SRBs after clearing the runway and retracting the landing gear. Climb-out would be at forty-five degrees for greatest gain of altitude and speed. By the time the aircraft passed 10,000 feet, the magnets would be superconductive, and the pilot would begin charging them. That height above buildings and sensitive equipment would give an adequate safety margin from minor inconveniences…like locking up a person’s pacemaker.
Once the craft hit Mach Two, systems would be ready for a smooth transition to scramjet and ion drive at 30,000 feet, where the thousands-of-miles-per-hour ion stream wouldn’t pose a threat.
In its intended CONOPS.
Justin added more calculations to his spreadsheet. His math skills were considerable, as that was his undergraduate major before following his computer software minor to attain a Master’s degree in advanced programming and simulations. One unique requirement of DPI was that, except for the receptionist and cleaning personnel, its employees had to have solid expertise in at least two disciplines. Most had three; a few had even more.
Justin continued: “Go for minus sixty. That will give you more time to charge up and an extra margin of safety. Keep your easterly heading to put you further out from Amarillo when you light off.”
Justin had opened another window to show the GPS location of Guardian overlaid on a Google Earth map. The cargo plane had departed from Groom Dry Lake just north of Las Vegas, heading east-southeast. Roger had kept that same basic heading and would have been dangerously near the eastern outskirts of Amarillo, Texas.
Roger nosed over to minus sixty degrees—only thirty degrees’ shy of diving straight down. Gravity plus the turbojet caused the airspeed indicator to climb, even as the Mach indicator crept toward the magic “One Point Zero.” Glancing away from the instruments, he saw the city lights beneath him and agreed with Justin’s recommendation to climb out to the east. Or make a crater between I-60 and I-40. He again fought off nausea and looked back at his panels.
“Coil temp dropping fast,” Justin reported. “You should be S-C in ten.” Superconductive in ten seconds…
Roger slammed the large Main Charge circuit breaker to ON. “Main Charge Breaker on,” he reported. Even in a sixth-generation super-interceptor like Guardian, a few actions remained mechanical. Engineers agreed that charging the MHD superconductive coils would be one of them.
The first Charge Status segment turned to a bright green, and he knew current was flowing, building magnetic flux.
“Justin, I need you to open a link to NORAD. General Alvarez should have authorized our datalink by now.”
“I’m on it,” Justin responded. He’d already retrieved the access codes pre-coordinated for later test flights.
The second of ten Charge Status indicators illuminated: Twenty percent. The perimeter of the charge icon turned solid green. The MHD magnets were now superconductive. In moments, the magnetic gauss would exceed MRI machines, at over sixteen Teslas. Roger remembered his years of wearing eyeglasses, grateful for the successful cataract surgery and lens implants. Not only were ferrous metals a no-no; so were any metals that could act as inductors. Metal eyeglass frames might have burned his face. Even metal implants disqualified a pilot. The aircraft was probably the first one in over a century without a backup magnetic compass.
“Don’t forget to pull up…” A slight hint of Justin’s humor returned. But his voice remained strained through Roger’s piezoelectric headphone transducers. Because of the high gauss field, a unique characteristic of Guardian was that even the headset’s microphone and headphones had no magnets. Throughout the aircraft, any ferrous material—and there was precious little—had to be shielded.
There was a compelling reason Roger waited until Guardian flew clear of the C-17 before cooling and powering the magnets. As the seventh Charge Status indicator announced seventy percent charge, Guardian’s presence anywhere near the cargo aircraft would have doomed the Globemaster III and everyone on board.
The flatscreen’s Mach display showed Zero Point Nine Two.
Nine. Frank was nine when we bought our travel trailer…
Tears mingled with the sweat trickling down Roger’s face.
15. PETERSON AIR FORCE BASE
Nicholas Cage. Mel Gibson. John Wayne. Brigadier General Selectee Donald Draper. Four men, several differences. Primarily, the first three may have acted the parts of military heroes; Don was one. He’d earned his Air Force rank with several combat tours, two below-the-zone promotions, and real-world, life-and-death responsibilities.
One thing they h
ad in common, however, is that each one attracted the ladies.
Don had attracted one too many.
“Stay at Peterson. Let Donna finish high school believing that we have some kind of marriage. It’ll be easier to play the part if you’re there and we stay here.” Brenda was his college sweetheart since their freshman year. She was his wife and the mother of their grown-and-gone son Scott, and soon to be off-to-college daughter Donna.
For too long, things hadn’t added up for Brenda. So, she logged into his “private” accounts and checked his statements using passwords she knew he’d used in the past. And she knew that the theater tickets, charges to FTD, and a big purchase from Jared’s had not been for her benefit. They certainly had nothing to do with his military career. He was back at it. What little trust he’d rebuilt over the last few years had gone down in flames.
As Colonel Draper drove to Petersen Air Force Base, home of the 21st Space Wing, he reflected on the new emotion he’d sensed from Brenda. Her call the night before had caught him off guard. Brenda presented herself as cool and to-the-point as any professional briefer he’d seen at his Pentagon tours. She had exhibited the most damning emotion possible for the future of their marriage: Indifference. Her manic-depressive responses to his promises to reform after each affair—at least those she had learned about—all of that was gone. They say the opposite of love is not hatred; it’s indifference. That was Brenda.
“The Bible is a story of reconciliation between God and man. And God wants his people to reconcile. You know I’ve given you every chance. Your continued infidelity has killed our marriage covenant.”
Strangely, her matter-of-fact presentation finally got Don’s attention.
I’ve lost her. I really lost her.
He tried to remember names, faces, events, even the most high-energy, erotic, over-the-top sexual marathons he’d had with several of his flings. But he could only think of Brenda. And he was not the only “looker” in their house. Even after all he’d put her through, she was gorgeous.
What in the world was I doing when I had Brenda at home?
Was Brenda having an affair? She’d become active in her church in Warner Robins during his tour at Robins Air Force Base. Sure, it was a church, and she now claimed to be a Christian, and Christians weren’t supposed to do such things. But had she found someone there during his tour at Peterson?
They agreed to let Donna finish school at Houston County High instead of uprooting her again as they’d done so many times during Don’s whirlwind career.
Major Withers. That’s the guy’s name.
Don decided to see if the Chaplain was still assigned to Peterson. Don’s official responsibilities had led him to attend a Base Chapel service a year ago. The Chaplain made several points that almost broke through Don’s “that’s fine for you and the women but not for me” firewall. He had to respect the Major’s no-nonsense, in-your-face presentation. He was a straight-shooter. Actions have results; choices have consequences.
Still, Don had been content with his successful career and extracurricular activities, so he just filed the points away to eventually be forgotten.
But now he thought back and remembered a few of the main ones:
Almost everyone’s deceived.
If you’re deceived, by definition, you don’t know it.
Two cures: Either seek or be confronted with the truth. Usually the latter.
Man-up and admit you’ve been wrong.
Don remembered the Chaplain explaining that he wasn’t being sexist, because typically women were quick to make necessary changes once confronted with the truth. But a man’s pride often got in his way. Ouch.
The only solid, reliable truth, he’d said, was the Word of God. Anything else led to circular reasoning, changing philosophies, and deeper deception.
There was more, but what Don remembered was enough. He’d find Withers and set up an appointment. The realization surprised him; he would fight for his marriage. He would try to win her back.
Don leaned over in his car just enough to glance in the rear-view mirror—his classic BMW didn’t have the newer panoramic rear cameras and monitors. As he sped past LED street lamps, he could see his short black hair along with his strong, high cheekbones and cleft chin. He knew this task would be the hardest of his life. This enemy was more resourceful, cunning, and determined than any he’d faced in combat. And he was looking right at him. Don was sure that not even his high-stress shift in The Chair would keep his mind off Brenda. Not this time.
He was wrong.
Don entered the base, cleared security, parked, and walked toward the NORAD tracking room. Even as he approached the ultra-secure Command Center, he felt a strange tension. The stern, pale faces of the men and women from all U.S. and Canadian branches of service showed an urgency far beyond exercises and occasional real world cyber-attacks.
Don picked up his pace and hurried into the room. As soon as he stepped inside, his heart rate jumped as if he’d just finished his morning run. On the main screen, a low red arc originated from a location that was not a recognized space or missile launch facility. The solid red track showed that its trajectory was southern, not northern.
FOBS?! Or did the Russians secretly develop the super-ICBM they were threatening?
The semitransparent red oval, predicting the possible impact zone, extended upward along the eastern United States. Down south, the bottom of the oval spanned across both Florida coasts, with Orlando in the center. The northern point spanned from Delaware to the central part of West Virginia. He thought of his wife and daughter in Warner Robins, Georgia. But realistically, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to speculate that the intended “ground zero” was much farther north: Washington, D.C.
There was no possible intercept anywhere within the range of that arc. Except for an SLBM—a Submarine Launched Ballistic Missile—no one in recent years had suspected an enemy missile attacking upwards from the south. While tensions were higher with Russia than since the fall of the Soviet Union, they had not reached the point that the U.S. was on the alert against an SLBM attack from the South.
No, this was coming in high and fast. There was nothing to stop it. Hundreds of thousands could die. Eventually, many more. The loss would be incalculable if a full-out nuclear war followed. He confirmed on separate monitors that U.S. strategic forces, for the first time in decades, were raised to a high Defense Condition—DEFCON—readiness. Status lights also changed colors as Air Force bombers and ICBM launch crews reported in at a much higher quick-response Posture status. He knew the president would already be in a deep underground bunker, or aboard Air Force One flying north away from the potential impact zone.
God help us. It’s really going to happen.
At the Command Console, Colonel John Nelson hit the speakerphone button. “Don, you won’t believe this!” Louder, drawing the attention of everyone in the room: “Everyone listen up! You’re about to get an upgraded security clearance!” Back to Don, “Biometrics verified and the voice link is secure. It’s Lieutenant General Alvarez via SATCOM-3 from a C-17 over Texas. They’ve just launched something that has a chance to intercept the ‘incoming.’ General, you’re on speaker.”
The General’s voice boomed through the room—the cargo door was secure, aircraft engines were back to cruise, and he was wearing a noise-cancelling headset. “That’s correct. Listen, Don, I need your team to provide full and immediate datalink access to a Mr. Justin Townsend from DPI—that’s Delta Papa India. We have just launched a hypersonic manned interceptor code-named Guardian. Do your jobs and there’s an outside chance we’ll vaporize that warhead.”
Don leaned toward the speakerphone: “General, where did the interceptor launch from?”
“Near Amarillo, Texas. He’s about to go hypersonic.”
The room sat in stunned silence as each expert contemplated the distance and the speed required to cross multiple states in minutes. Air Force Technical Sergeant “Buck” Owens looked up
from his screen: “It’s Justin, with secure access codes for datalink to Guardian!”
16. IGNITION!
"Oh no.”
Too late, Roger realized that his chances of surviving would have been much higher had he thought to have the Airmen break out a first aid kit. They could have wrapped his feet and legs to keep blood from pooling in his lower extremities. If his spinal cord hadn’t lost contact with his lower half, he could tighten those muscles to help some. Instead, it was up to his sixty-plus-year-old heart, now in AFib, to…
An alarm sounded as the Mach display turned green.
“One Point Zero!”
As Roger called out the magic number, he and Justin fixated on the altimeter; Roger on one of his “glass cockpit” displays, Justin on his Multiphone’s wall projection. As soon as the scramjet kicked in and the MHD powered up to light the ion drive, Roger would have to pull out of the dive as hard as he could endure. And he had to do so without the benefit of a G-suit or the years of a fighter pilot’s acclimation to high Gs. If he started an instant too soon, he would drop to transonic. The mission would be over, there would be a smoking hole in Texas, and a nuclear fireball somewhere on the East Coast.
For a brief moment, Justin wondered if he was sitting on “ground zero.” Maybe Gainesville? Only way Florida won’t lose this one, he reflected darkly. Jacksonville? Now that would certainly be a huge target. The Naval Air Station in Jacksonville continued to take on more roles, responsibilities, and personnel. The city, too, had become more of a shipping hub for the southeast. Jacksonville was still the largest city in the “lower forty-eight” of the United States’ in terms of square miles and had a population of over one million. While New York had eight times as many, the latest estimates of the warhead’s trajectory put The Big Apple well outside the warhead’s CEP—the circular error probable.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 7
