Authors: Edward Lee
Operator B (11 page)
“What’s it called?” Wentz managed to ask.
“We call it the OEV,” Jones replied.
Then Ashton defined, “Operational Extraterrestrial Vehicle.”
My God,
Wentz thought.
Wentz thought.
Jones went on to explain. “Since 1944, the military has documented over sixty instances of vehicles of extraterrestrial origin crashing within the continental United States. Most of these vehicles were completely destroyed upon impact. Four were recovered reasonably intact but rendered inoperable via crash damage… General Wentz? Are you listening?”
Wentz nodded slowly, his mouth open, his eyes flat.
“One vehicle, however, was recovered
completely
intact, and that would be the vehicle you’re looking at. It was recovered outside of Edgewood, Maryland, in 1989. It is our estimation that the OEV didn’t crash but instead landed near the U.S. Army’s Edgewood Arsenal. The vehicle’s two occupants then disembarked upon what we believe was a field survey of several weapons depots on the Edgewood installation, whereupon they were shot and killed by post sentries. In other words, General, the OEV is—”
completely
intact, and that would be the vehicle you’re looking at. It was recovered outside of Edgewood, Maryland, in 1989. It is our estimation that the OEV didn’t crash but instead landed near the U.S. Army’s Edgewood Arsenal. The vehicle’s two occupants then disembarked upon what we believe was a field survey of several weapons depots on the Edgewood installation, whereupon they were shot and killed by post sentries. In other words, General, the OEV is—”
“Undamaged,” Wentz dully replied. “Still flies.”
“That’s correct, sir. It is fully operational as we speak… General? Are you
listening
?”
listening
?”
Wentz mutely nodded again. He could not divert his stare.
“Give him a break,” Ashton said to Jones. “It takes time.”
Jones seemed exasperated. “I know this is difficult, General, I know this comes as the biggest shock of your life. But you must listen carefully. Will Farrington was the OEV’s primary operator.”
“Will Farrington is dead,” Wentz guttered.
“Yes, sir. And that means that
you
are now the vehicle’s primary operator—”
you
are now the vehicle’s primary operator—”
Snap out of it!
Wentz shouted at himself.
Jesus Christ, this is serious. You’re looking at a fucking UFO! Snap out of it!
He broke from his paralyzed stance and quickly approached one of the guards.
Wentz shouted at himself.
Jesus Christ, this is serious. You’re looking at a fucking UFO! Snap out of it!
He broke from his paralyzed stance and quickly approached one of the guards.
“You,” he ordered.
The guard snapped to attention. “Yes, sir! Good afternoon, sir!”
“Fuck that good afternoon shit. Slap me in the face. Hard.”
The black-suited guard blinked. “Sir, I can’t strike an—”
“Do it!”
The guard lowered his M-17 4.4mm ACR rifle and—
CRACK!
—
slapped Wentz across the face so hard he saw stars. “As you were,” he bumbled, shaking off the rest of his stupor.
Wow, that hurt.
He blinked out the bright spots, then paced briskly back to Jones and Ashton.
slapped Wentz across the face so hard he saw stars. “As you were,” he bumbled, shaking off the rest of his stupor.
Wow, that hurt.
He blinked out the bright spots, then paced briskly back to Jones and Ashton.
“All right,” he said. “My shit’s square and I’m good to go. Now…show me the inside of this bird.”
««—»»
They’d climbed aboard via a standard Air Force hull ladder. The OEV sported a circular hatch a yard wide, and next Wentz was stepping in, following Ashton down another ladder that clearly was not manufactured by the Air Force—the rungs and siderails of
this
ladder were thin as wire but supported Wentz’s weight without so much as bowing. Now Wentz stood at the bottom of a yard-wide tube, the same dull silver as the pre-painted hull.
An airlock,
he guessed. Red instructions had been stenciled:
this
ladder were thin as wire but supported Wentz’s weight without so much as bowing. Now Wentz stood at the bottom of a yard-wide tube, the same dull silver as the pre-painted hull.
An airlock,
he guessed. Red instructions had been stenciled:
CAUTION: SET DECOMPRESS
(30-SECONDS EGRESSION TIME)
ACTIVATE DETENT, THEN DEBARK
Wentz stepped through the airlock’s oval manway; Ashton stood waiting for him.
“Sweet Jesus,” Wentz murmured when he glanced forward, starboard and port.
The interior stood stark, smoothly featured. There were no signs of original flight controls in the “cockpit,” though several banks of indicators had been mounted by Air Force technicians, as were two high-tech flight chairs installed over two contoured humps that clearly were the pilot and co-pilot seats of the vehicle’s original operators. Wentz leaned over and peered through two prism-shaped windows beyond which he could see the maintenance scaffolds and the interior hangar. The small windows bore no indication of casements, seams, frames, or sealant—as if they’d somehow been
grown
into the front of the craft. Aside from the sparse man-made additions, everything inside was the same color as the outside, that dull, lusterless silver.
grown
into the front of the craft. Aside from the sparse man-made additions, everything inside was the same color as the outside, that dull, lusterless silver.
“I don’t know if I believe this,” Wentz said.
“Once you fly it, you will.”
He examined the aft section. Some supply compartments had been installed, a SNAP-4 nuclear battery and water cell, and an EVA rack, but he didn’t notice anything that might resemble an engine compartment, nor fuel stores.
“What’s the fuel source?” he asked the first logical question.
“Unknown. Our physicists believe it has something to do with gravity amplification synchronized with or against magnetic-pulse waves. We’re confident that the manner in which the vehicle harnesses available energy is unlimited.”
“Endless fuel source…”
“More than likely, yes,” Ashton concurred. She pointed to a cylindrical protrudement on the floor, molded into the coaming. It was no bigger than a Coke can. “We believe
that
is the gravity amplifier, or what you would think of as an engine. More than likely, other navigational and guidance components exist in the hull. The crew were oxygen/nitrogen breathers just like us. It’s more than likely that the air supply is also unlimited.”
that
is the gravity amplifier, or what you would think of as an engine. More than likely, other navigational and guidance components exist in the hull. The crew were oxygen/nitrogen breathers just like us. It’s more than likely that the air supply is also unlimited.”
“That’s a lot of ‘more than likely’s,’” Wentz posed. “I don’t want to be the driver at the stick when this thing runs out of gas.”
“I’ve been in it during many of Farrington’s para-orbital flights. So if I’m not worried about it, a big tough senior test like you shouldn’t be either.”
Wentz didn’t exactly appreciate Ashton’s rising snippiness, but he hardly cared.
“Top speed?” he asked.
“Unknown. Within the earth’s atmosphere we estimate a maximum forward velocity of about 50,000 miles per hour.”
“Impossible. The inertia would turn the pilot into ground chuck.”
Ashton’s slippy manner edged back. “General, this vehicle wasn’t built by Boeing or McDonnell-Douglas; it was built by
alien
engineers. You’re
standing
right in the middle of the proof. You have to modify your powers of belief. Once you get it in your head that this isn’t a balsa-wood plane with rubber-band propeller, we’ll all be better off.”
alien
engineers. You’re
standing
right in the middle of the proof. You have to modify your powers of belief. Once you get it in your head that this isn’t a balsa-wood plane with rubber-band propeller, we’ll all be better off.”
“All right, Colonel Smart Ass,” Wentz shot back. “Then you tell me how an aircraft can travel 50,000 knots and not smash the pilot’s brain against the inside of his skull, pop his eyeballs, squirt his spinal fluid out his ears, and blow all of his internal organs out his mouth and his
asshole?
”
asshole?
”
Ashton shrugged as if these considerations meant nothing. “General, we’re obviously dealing with a technological base that’s probably a thousand years ahead of us. It’s only logical that the OEV is fitted with some sort of integrated velotic envelope that counters forward inertia with reverse inertia, precisely in time with acceleration. Who cares how it works? It just does.”
“All right, fine. So how fast is it…
out
of the atmosphere?
out
of the atmosphere?
“Again, unknown. All we
do
know is that the propulsion system is capable of producing velocities that seem to be exponentially faster than—”
do
know is that the propulsion system is capable of producing velocities that seem to be exponentially faster than—”
“No, no! Don’t even say it!” Wentz nearly yelled.
“—the speed of light. Farrington’s longest range flight was to Alpha Centauri. It took him four days instead of four years.”
Shit,
he thought. How could he object?
he thought. How could he object?
“Let me put it this way, General. Everything you’ve ever believed before today…is wrong.”
Frustrated, Wentz combed his gaze around the cockpit area. “Where are the controls? Where’s the stick?”
“Keep cranking that rubber band, sir. There’s no
stick.
This is a para-orbital, hyper-velotic, self-contained intragalactic transport unit. It’s founded on technologies that are virtually unknown to the human race.”
stick.
This is a para-orbital, hyper-velotic, self-contained intragalactic transport unit. It’s founded on technologies that are virtually unknown to the human race.”
Wentz was getting pissed. “I don’t care if it’s a goddamn Good Humor truck! How do you fly it without controls?”
Ashton’s tone moderated. “The controls are…integrated.”
“Integrated with what?”
“With the operator—the pilot…”
Wentz squinted at her like a caveman glimpsing the ocean for the first time.
Ashton touched the brushed-silver surface of an angled ledge in front of the port-side flight chair.
A seamless panel
hummed
open.
hummed
open.
“What in the holy hell?” Wentz asked.
The opened panel revealed two narrowly outlined indentations. Outlines like two bizarre hands possessing only two fingers and a thumb.
Ashton audibly gulped. “Those are the controls,” she said.
CHAPTER 8
“Those things,” Wentz said, “those outlines. They’re handprints, aren’t they?”
They’d left the hangar and now sat in a brightly lit in-briefing room, Jones behind a standard industrial-gray military desk, Wentz and Ashton in opposing armchairs.
“We don’t call them handprints, General,” Major Jones explained. “We call them operator detents.”
Ashton, then: “Synaptic activity in the brain is processed into and out of the detents by way of the median and ulnar nerves in the arms and the collateral nerve branches in the fingers.”
“You’re talking about thought, aren’t you?” Wentz figured. “I put my hands against those handprints,
think,
and the thing flies?”
think,
and the thing flies?”
Jones nodded yes. “That’s correct, General. It seems that thought conduction on the part of the operator is effectively converted to operational commands which are processed into the vehicle’s guidance system.”
“Fly-by-wire, only the pilot’s
nerves
are the wires…”
nerves
are the wires…”
“Precisely,” said Ashton.
“And, hopefully, General, given what you’ve witnessed today, you’ll be canceling your retirement plans.”
Wentz closed his eyes and heard a deafening silence. Behind the lids, he saw an insuperable void, a vastness like looking down from the highest places on the earth. He saw a pilot’s most fantastic dream come true, and then he saw the faces of Joyce and Pete…
“I can’t,” he said. “I promised my wife and kid. I’ve been breaking promises to them for the last ten years, but I
can’t
break this one.”
can’t
break this one.”
A final tempt, a final image to maraud his pilot’s ego: he saw somebody else, some other pilot bestowed with this impossible honor.
It’d be some punk,
he guessed,
probably some boner’d up hot shot Navy kid from Whidbey NSA or Miramar or, worse, a Blue Angel. Am I really gonna step down let some cocky F-18 PUNK fill my shoes?
It’d be some punk,
he guessed,
probably some boner’d up hot shot Navy kid from Whidbey NSA or Miramar or, worse, a Blue Angel. Am I really gonna step down let some cocky F-18 PUNK fill my shoes?
“Shit! God
DAMN!
” Wentz bellowed.
DAMN!
” Wentz bellowed.
Ashton and Jones just looked at him.
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