Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (33 page)

 
          
And
DreamStar was trapped.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
A
quick mental command, and DreamStar’s attack-radar flashed on, then off, at
precisely two hundred and twenty yards from where Kenneth Francis James, Andrei
Ivanschichin Maraklov, had stopped his fighter short of the burning gate ahead.
Six hundred and sixty feet, then over a twelve-foot-high obstacle. Another
mental command: DreamStar’s computers sampled the external air temperature,
inertial winds, pressure altitude, relative humidity, aircraft gross weight,
engine-trim- and-performance variables, then computed takeoff data at max
performance best angle of climb over the obstacle.

 
          
Not
good enough. DreamStar reported that it needed at least one thousand feet to
clear the obstacle.

 
          
James’
reaction was instantaneous. He brought DreamStar’s turbofan engine to full
power, moved the vectored thrust- nozzles to full reverse and released the
brakes. DreamStar began to move backward toward the taxiway throat leading to
the ramp in front of the hangars—back toward the melee he had just escaped
from. At the same time he activated DreamStar’s radar system, which scanned in
every direction around the fighter.

 
          
DreamStar
had moved only a hundred feet farther from the gate when he “saw” the first
M113 armored vehicle approach.

 
          
It
was moving fast, nearly forty miles an hour, past the burning piles of debris
scattered around in front of the now-abandoned Hangar Five less than a hundred
yards away. He hit the brakes just as the superconducting radar detected the
Mii3’s twenty- millimeter cannon open fire.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“Hal,
what’s your situation?” General Elliott called over the security net.

 
          
Hal
Briggs grabbed a handhold on the Mug’s door for support as he keyed his
microphone: “We’re approaching the plane from the left. It’s now about three
hundred feet in front of us, facing down the throat toward the gate. I’d swear
the thing backed up or somethin’ . . . Over.”

 
          
Elliott,
now in a staff car with McLanahan at the wheel, was racing down taxiway delta
toward the hangar area, careening over ditches and weaving through gates to get
back to the ramp. McLanahan looked at Elliott. “Did he say DreamStar ^ was
backing up?”
Elliott had no answer.
“Hal,” Patrick said, “what’s DreamStar’s range to the gate?”

 
          
“Hard
to tell until we get closer, but I’d say less than three hundred yards.”

 
          
Elliott
looked at Patrick. “Is it enough . . . ?”

 
          
McLanahan
didn’t dare take his eyes off the road, floored the gas pedal and gripped the
wheel tighter. “Cool morning, half a fuel load, a little headwind . . . it’s
enough.”

 
          
“God
damn.
Who the hell’s flying it?” Even
then, Elliott could not believe that James, one of only three men alive who
could possibly fly DreamStar, was in the cockpit. “How the hell did he get in
there?” Elliott pressed the mike switch hard enough to turn his finger white.
“Shoot out the tires, Hal. If the plane moves, shoot to kill. If DreamStar
moves ahead,
destroy
it.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Eight
hundred twelve point seven feet.
Now.

 
          
Keeping
the brakes on hard, James commanded the throttles to full power, let them
stabilize for a few seconds, then pushed them to max afterburner. He allowed
another halfsecond for the computer to perform a single full-power engine-trim
adjustment, then opened the dorsal engine louvers. DreamStar’s aft end pitched
down and the nose shot up at a steep angle. He set the flex wings and canards
for high lift and max performance climb-out . . . then released the brakes.

 
          
DreamStar
had not rolled more than a hundred feet forward when he realized he was not
going to make it. He knew it even before the performance computer, receiving
data from radar on range to the obstacle, reported a collision warning and
recommended an immediate takeoff abort. Maraklov overrode the recommendation
with the thought: this is how I’ll die? Not after a dogfight trying to steal
and save DreamStar. Dying in a fireball crashing into the security gate, trying
something that I knew had no chance from the beginning . . .

 
          
Five
hundred feet to go. All wheels still firmly on the ground, airspeed hardly
registering. Maraklov could feel the absence of lift on his wings, the absence
of the familiar twist that the composite flex wings underwent during the
takeoff acceleration. Countering the wingtip twist was a simple
computer-controlled correction, as simple as swallowing, as simple as—

 
          
He
cut short his gloomy predictions. The wingtip twist ... DreamStar automatically
neutralized the twist in the wingtips because the twisted wing created vortices
under the wing and fuselage, which created turbulence, which increased drag and
lengthened takeoff roll distances. But the turbulence under the fuselage
created something else—ground effect.

 
          
And
the power of ground eflFect would be to cushion the plane a few feet oflF the
ground, just below flying speed but still airborne. If that was true . . .

 
          
Four
hundred feet left . . .

 
          
Maraklov
overrode the order to counteract the wingtip twist. In response, the tips of
DreamStar’s wings curved even more, creating two hundred percent more lift as
well as two virtual tornados of wind that swirled counterclockwise from the
wingtips down and under the wings and across the fuselage. He felt the vortices
slam into the fuselage and fought for control. DreamStar felt sluggish,
unresponsive, out of pilot control.

 
          
Ninety
knots. Three hundred feet remaining . . .

 
          
A
loud creak from the left wingtip, and a
“CONFIGURATION”
warning flashed in Maraklov’s conscious mind. He ignored it. The wingtips
were now being buffeted by winds nearing hurricane force, while the rest of the
wing was wallowing in relatively calm winds nowhere close to takeoff speed.
Maraklov stiffened the wings by twisting the inner surfaces, allowing the power
being generated in the wingtips to flow to the lazy parts of the wing. The
aircraft rumbled in protest. He was receiving
“CONFIGURATION”
and
“COLLISION”
warnings, and had to struggle not only to ignore the warnings but to
prevent ANTARES from taking command and aborting the takeoff. DreamStar’s
artificial brain was programmed for self-preservation at all costs, not
self-destruction.

 
          
One
hundred knots, two hundred feet remaining ... DreamStar’s nose gear popped off
the runway, held aloft by the large canards and by the force of the upwardly
directed thrust from the dorsal louvers. DreamStar was in takeoff attitude but
she was still far, far from lift-off speed.

 
          
One
hundred fifty feet... one chance left—he commanded the landing gear up.

 
          
One
hundred feet, one hundred ten knots. An ANTARES- generated warning from the
flight-configuration computer flashed in Maraklov’s mind, warning him that the
landing gear safety switch still showed pressure on the gear struts—DreamStar
was still on the ground. Instantly he overrode the warning, commanded gear up,
then closed his eyes and waited for DreamStar’s tail to hit the runway.

 
          
Seventy-five
feet, one hundred fifteen knots—liftoff speed for this takeoff configuration.
The tail did not hit the runway.

 
          
Zero
feet left... With the tall, bulky landing gear retracted, DreamStar accelerated
to one hundred thirty knots, and was able to use the extra airspeed to lift its
nose even higher, clawing for every last bit of altitude. A shower of sparks
erupted from the top of the steel gate as DreamStar scraped past the reinforced
barbed wire, tearing apart the two ventral rudders that had automatically
deployed in DreamStar’s slow- flight mode—Maraklov did not think to retract
those low- speed rudders in time. DreamStar shuddered as the rudders ripped off
her belly, but she did not stall or hit the ground.

 
          
DreamStar
was airborne.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
McLanahan
and Elliott had just reached the hangar area as DreamStar lifted over the gate,
the aircraft flying so slowly and at such a steep climb that it seemed almost
suspended in midair, an apparition at the end of a shaft of fire. It also
appeared to be falling slightly, but this was mostly an illusion; DreamStar’s
nose dipped slightly to build up valuable airspeed, and it began to accelerate
as it crossed the deserted runways and climbed slowly into the dawn.

 
          
McLanahan
slammed on the brakes in time to avoid an M113 combat vehicle that continued to
fire heavy caliber rounds into the sky until DreamStar was completely out of
sight. A few moments later Hal Briggs climbed out of the ACV, head tightly
bandaged and carrying an M-16A2 rifle, and moved over to McLanahan’s sedan.
After Elliott opened a door for him, he nearly collapsed in the backseat.

 
          
“Sorry,”
Briggs gasped, painfully hauling himself upright. “Couldn’t . . . couldn’t stop
him.” Before Elliott could speak, Briggs had pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Red
Man, this is Hotel. Notify the four-seventy-fourth tactical fighter wing at
Nellis. XF-34A fighter aircraft stolen from this location. Aircraft is armed
with air-to-air missiles and must be considered hostile. Orders from Alpha are
to search and destroy.”

 
          
“Copy,
Hotel.”

 
          
“Break.
All Dreamland security units, this is Hotel. XF-34A aircraft is airborne, last
seen heading southwest out of Dreamland at slow speed. The aircraft has been
hijacked by unknown persons. It is equipped with air-to-air missiles only. Air
defense units have authorization to engage and destroy at will; report
detection or engagement to Red Man, Nellis and Las Vegas Air

 
          
Traffic
Control Center ASAP. Repeat: all units, engage and destroy at will. Hotel out.”
He dropped the walkie-talkie into his lap as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

 
          
“Take
us over to Hangar Five, Patrick,” Elliott said. He turned to Briggs, gently
lifting up the bandages to check his wound. “Cancel that. Take us to the
infirmary.”

 
          
“I’m
all right,” Briggs said, gingerly touching the top of his hairless head and
checking his hastily applied bandages. “The guys on the ACV fixed me up.”

 
          
At
least for the moment, Elliott didn’t want Briggs in the hospital any more than
Briggs wanted to be there. As McLanahan headed for the hangars he asked, “What
the hell happened, Hal?”

 
          
Briggs
wiped stinging sweat from his wounds and burns. “It all happened so fast,
General. The Foxtrot guard posts didn’t look right. I had them report in.
Whoever was in Five Foxtrot’s Commando, it wasn’t Jacinto. I headed over to
check it out when I got hit by the fifty cal. I barely made it to Rover Nine
when flash grenades start popping. Before I knew it DreamStar was out in the
throat. I’ve never seen anything like that takeoff, whoever did it. It was like
he levitated right over the gate. I didn’t think he’d make it . . .”

 
          
They
drove up to the entrance of Hangar Five. Rover Seven, the second M113 armored
combat vehicle, was positioned in front, with guards covering both the front
and back. Rover Seven was also aiming a huge spotlight inside the hangar.
“Seven, this is Hotel. Is the hangar secure?”

           
“Affirmative.”