Friday 8:37 A.M.
As Vance stepped off the motorized cart, the hangar around him was
shrouded in white vapor. The swirling cloud on the ground, the eerie
chiaroscuro of the lights, the amplified voice that ticked off the
countdown--all added to the other-worldliness of the scene. And above
the turmoil two giant spaceplanes loomed, silver monoliths that seemed
to hover atop the pale mist.
Chariots of the gods, he thought, gazing up.
The Russian technicians had carefully suited him exactly as Yuri
Androv, right down to his boots. Next to his skin was the dark-blue
flight suit and cotton-lined leather cap issued to all Soviet pilots,
and over these came a pressurized G-suit fabricated from a heavy
synthetic material; it felt like a mixture of nylon and Teflon. This
was topped off with the flight helmet, complete with a removable
reflecting visor, which conveniently prevented anyone from seeing his
face.
Although the helmet restricted his peripheral vision, he still could
hear clearly through headphones miked on the outside, although they did
make the din of the hangar sound tinny and artificial. A Velcro-backed
insignia of the Minoan Double Ax adhered to his chest; he was posing as
a Mino Industries pilot.
For all its unfamiliarity, however, his gear felt very much like the
rubber wet-suit he donned for scuba diving at depths. The two hoses
fastened to his abdomen could have been connectors for compressed air
tanks and his helmet the oxygen mask. He felt equally uncomfortable.
Only the damned flippers were missing.
Since his RX-10 G-suit was designed for high-altitude flight, intended
to do double-duty as an emergency backup in case of cockpit
decompression, he had to carry along his own personal environmental-
control unit, a white, battery-powered air conditioner the size of a
large briefcase. It hummed lightly as it cooled and dehumidified the
interior of his suit, keeping his faceplate moisture-free. The recycled
air he was breathing smelled stale and vaguely synthetic.
The most uncomfortable part of all, however, not to mention the most
nerve-racking, had to be the six sticks of C-4 plastic explosive and
their radio-controlled detonators now secured against his chest.
Since the Soviet engineers had suited him up in a separate room,
avoiding any contact with the Mino Industries doctors who'd been giving
Androv his preflight physical, he'd yet to see Yuri Andreevich Androv
clearly. He had a partner and he hadn't even had a good look at him
yet.
"The other M-I pilot will be arriving in a few minutes," Androv was
announcing to the white-jacketed Japanese technicians standing by the
Personnel Module. "He was delayed in the briefing." For their benefit
he was speaking English, which, to Vance's surprise and relief, was
almost perfect. They nodded as he continued. "We'll just go on up in
the module. I want to check over the cockpit one last time, make sure
there're no last-minute glitches."
The Personnel Module resembled a small mobile home, except its
pneumatic lift could elevate it sixty feet straight into the air,
permitting direct access to the cockpit's side hatch. It was worlds
away from the fourteen-foot metal ladder used to access a MiG cockpit.
"Flight deck." He was speaking through his helmet mike as he pointed
up. "Understand? Cockpit." Then he turned and motioned for Vance to
follow as he stepped in.
_"Hai_." Vance nodded gravely, Japanese style. "_Wakarimasu_."
Let's hope the haze keeps down visibility, he was thinking. This place
is sure to have video monitors everywhere. And this fancy elevator is
probably bugged too.
Intelligence from Command Central was that Tanzan Mino's two Yakuza
"pilots" were receiving a last-minute briefing from the CEO himself.
Still, they were certain to show up soon. This was no time to dawdle.
The technicians closed the door of the module, then activated the lift
controls. As it began gliding upward, Androv glanced over and gave
Vance a silent thumbs-up. He flashed it back, then set down the heavy
air-conditioning unit and shifted his weight from foot to foot, still
trying to get the feel of the suit.
Maybe, he told himself, this test pilot game is easier than it looks.
But only so long as you never actually have to leave terra firma. Then
it's probably more excitement than the average person needs.
The upward motion halted with a lurch and the module door automatically
slid open. At first glance the open cockpit of the USSR's latest plane
made him think of the inside of a giant computer. Nothing like the eye-
soothing green of a MiG interior, it was a dull off-white in color and
cylindrical, about ten feet in diameter and sixteen feet long. Three
futuristic G-seats equally spaced down the center faced a bank of
liquid crystal video screens along one wall, and lighting was provided
by pale orange sodium vapor lamps integrated into the ceiling.
The real action was clearly the middle G-seat, which was surrounded by
instrument consoles and situated beneath a huge suspended helmet, white
enamel and shaped like a bloated moth. Everything about the controls
bespoke advanced design philosophy: Instead of the usual flight stick
placed between the pilot's knees, it had a multiple-control sidestick,
covered with switches and buttons, situated on the pilot's right,
something only recently introduced in the ultramodern American F-16
Falcon.
Although the throttle quadrant was still located on the left-hand
console, in standard fashion, it, too, had a grip skillfully designed
to incorporate crucial avionics: the multiple radars, identification-
friend-or-foe (IFF) instrumentation, instrument landing system (ILS),
and tactical air navigation (TACAN).
He realized they'd utilized the new Hotas concept--hands on throttle and
stick--that located all the important controls directly on the throttle
and flight stick, enabling the pilot to command the instruments and
flight systems purely by feel, like a virtuoso typist. Even the thin
rudder pedals looked futuristic. The whole layout, in severe blacks and
grays, was sleek as an arrow.
In the end, however, maybe it was all redundant. According to Andrei
Androv this vehicle incorporated an advanced control system called
_equipment vocal pour aeronef_; it could be flown entirely by voice
interface with an artificial intelligence computer. All flight and
avionics interrogations, commands, and readouts could be handled
verbally. You just talked to the damn thing and it talked back. The
twenty-first century had arrived.
The other two G-seats in the cockpit, intended for research scientists,
were positioned on either side of the pilot, about four feet away, with
no controls whatsoever. All this baby needed was Androv and his
computer.
There was more. The space was cylindrical, which could only mean one
thing: It was designed to be rotated, again probably by the computer,
adjusting the attitude or inclination of the pilot continuously to make
sure the G-forces of acceleration and deceleration would always be
acting down on him, like gravity, securing him into that special G-
seat. And why not? Since there was no windscreen, the direction the
pilot faced was irrelevant--up, down, or even backward; who cared?
And the helmet, that massive space-moth intended to be lowered over the
pilot's head. From the briefing, he knew that the screens inside were
how the pilot "saw." Through voice command to the central computer he
could summon any of the three dozen video terminals along the walls and
project them on the liquid crystal displays before his eyes.
"So far, so good," Androv said, stepping in and down. Vance followed,
then reached back to secure the hatch. It closed with a tight,
reassuring thunk. The silent blinking of computer screens engulfed
them.
"By the way, it's up there," Vance said quietly, shifting his head
toward the newly installed video camera positioned just above the entry
hatch. Androv glanced up, nodded, and together they turned away from
it. Then without further conversation they each ripped off their
Velcro-secured insignias--Androv's, the Soviet air force red star
bordered in white; Vance's, the double ax--and exchanged them.
"How much time?" Androv whispered.
"Just give me ten minutes." He held up his heavy wrist-watch. Together
they checked and synchronized.
"Good luck." Androv nodded and gave another thumbs- up sign, then
clasped him in an awkward Russian hug. Vance braced himself for the
traditional male kiss, but thankfully it didn't come. "_Do svidania,
moi droog_," he said finally, standing back and saluting. Then he
grinned and continued in accented English, "Everything will be A-okay."
Without another word he swung open the hatch, passed through, and
stepped into the personnel module.
Vance watched him depart, then turned back to examine the _Daedalus_
cockpit more closely. It was a bona fide marvel.
Screens, banks of screens, all along the wall--almost like a TV
station's control room. Everything was there. Looking across, left to
right, he saw that the engine readouts were placed on top: white bars
showing power level, fan rpm, engine temperatures, core rpm, oil
pressure, hydraulics, complete power-plant status. The next row started
on the navigation and avionics: the radar altimeter, the airspeed
indicator, the attitude-director indicator (AID) for real-time readings
of bank and dive angle, the horizontal situation indicator (HSD) for
actual heading and actual track, and on and on. All the electronics
modules were already operating in standby mode--the slit-scan radar, the
scanners, the high-resolution doppler. Other screens showed the view of
the hangar as seen by the video cameras on the landing gear, now
switched over from their infrared mode to visible light.