Christopher Anderson
The Ghost of Flight 666
PROLOGUE: Windows
Air Force test pilot Jeremiah Slade hated his given name. Most people just called him Slade, but not Jay or Jerry, and never Jeremiah. Rather like the Johnny Cash ballad, Slade grew up not only hating the name but developing a cold, impenetrable exterior to deal with the ridicule.
That armor never left him.
Today was no different. As Slade left his squadron operations building at Edwards Air Force Base to conduct a high level test mission, his test engineer, a DARPA guy who was good but chatty, needled him. “Lots of Congressmen and Senators watching today’s test flight Jerry — you nervous?”
Slade didn’t answer as they stepped out of the air conditioned building into the blast furnace heat of the flight line. The tarmac shimmered. The smell of jet fuel, exhaust and asphalt was stifling. Neither the heat nor the test engineer appeared to bother Slade. Topping six feet, at an athletic two hundred and ten pounds, Slade walked with an easy, almost panther-like stride. As a rule he was serious. His most demonstrative action was to brush back the lone forelock of his dark hair from his lean, gunfighter face with its piercing eyes.
“Jeez, you really are touchy about your name aren’t you?”
No answer. Slade saw no reason to waste words on the obvious.
“You do know how important this mission is don’t you — Slade?” the engineer asked, now getting nervous. His butt was on the line as well. “Those guys from D.C. will be listening to every word, watching everything via datalink. This is as big as it gets!”
Slade finally answered enigmatically, “Yeah, it ranks right up there.”
They climbed into a specially modified F-15E Eagle and performed their preflight, including a lengthy routine on the small box connected to a belly pod codenamed “Magic.” Everything checked. They started engines, taxied out, and then Slade shoved the throttles up for takeoff. The Eagle accelerated quickly, pushing them back in their ejection seats. The runway markings sped by, and Slade eased the stick back. It didn’t take much, the Eagle was sensitive. Half a mile down the runway the Eagle effortlessly climbed into the sky.
The fifty-eight thousand pounds of thrust generated by the engines dominated the cockpit, permeating Slade’s flesh, shaking his bones — he loved that, but he would never admit it. The twenty-five ton aircraft accelerated into the hazy blue sky. As the hangers of the flight line disappeared beneath the canopy rail, the test engineer announced, “Approaching the first test point Jay.”
No answer.
He cursed and repeated the declaration. “First test point — Slade!”
“Checks,” he replied to the unnecessary announcement. “Test point one, three thousand feet; two hundred fifty knots; clean configuration — mark — clear for magic!”
“Magic — on! ALQ nine-seven-two mode alpha engaged,” the test engineer replied, adding unofficially, in a bad Scottish brogue, “Cloaking device engaged Cap’n, all systems nominal!”
“Stick to the script,” Slade reminded the engineer.
“Approaching test point two!” the engineer announced.
“Test point — hold on,” Slade started to say, but he stopped. As the altimeter swept through ten thousand feet the Eagle began to shudder, not violently but conspicuously. Instinctively, Slade backed off the throttle, slowing down. The buffeting stopped.
“What’s up; what was that?” the engineer asked with concern.
“I don’t know, but it felt like it was coming from the tail,” Slade told him, stabilizing the aircraft at 240 knots. He lightened his grip on the stick, feeling for any further vibration — nothing. “We’ll approach the test point again — stand by.” He accelerated slowly, smoothly, but once again at 250 knots the aircraft began to shudder. Slade felt it in the elevators via the stick. The rudder pedals chattered, transmitting the buffet on the rudder into his boots.
“Turn the Magic off!”
“That’s not in the test script!” the engineer complained.
“Turn it off!”
“Magic off!”
The buffeting continued.
“That’s it,” he said sharply, easing the throttles back. The buffeting stopped. Slade allowed the speed to bleed off, levelling the jet. “We’re scrubbing the mission and returning to base. Call operations and get a chase ship up here to look us over.”
“You sure Slade?” the back-seater said. “This is as high priority as a test gets!”
“The test won’t matter if we’re a pile of smoking metal in the desert,” he replied, leaving no room for argument.
“You got that from a bit of buffet? I think it’s just the big gyro in the pod,” the engineer theorized, meaning the heavy rotating electromagnetic transmitter mounted on the belly. “We knew there might be turbulence problems caused by the rotation. It’s just the pod deforming in the windstream. Don’t worry, it’s stressed up to nine g’s; the pod’s not going to come off.”
“It’s not the pod; it’s in the tail not the belly,” Slade reiterated. “Let operations know that we’re doing a controllability check and bringing it in slow; get that chase ship. I’ll declare an emergency with Joshua Control.”
“Are you sure?”
“Get on the horn with Ops,” Slade told him emphatically.
“All right, but I’m not taking the fall for this! The general brought half of Washington out here on a weekend to see this mission! He’s not going to be happy!”
“The general isn’t in charge up here — I am!” Slade replied coldly.
As it turned out, the engineer was right. The general was not happy at all. He was so steamed, that he marched out of the test control center and left the dressing down of Slade to the Test Wing Commander Colonel McFarland.
McFarland scowled at Slade with knit brows and a clenched jaw, reminding the junior officer, “Captain Slade, you did a Functional Check Flight on this aircraft three days ago — right — no problems?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well there better be a problem now! The old man is hot!”
Maintenance took the aircraft and went over it, finding — nothing. Slade told them to check again. Again they found nothing. Colonel McFarland was irate.
“Maintenance can’t find anything wrong with the aircraft. Captain, as the chief test pilot of this program you’ve grounded the aircraft; by regulation my hands are tied. Only you can clear it to fly again. I suggest you take it back up and do another check profile.”
“Sir, with all due respects, I think this is a structural problem in the tail. That’s where the buffet came from.”
“Maintenance buys the test engineers story about the pod being the problem,” the Wing King replied impatiently.
“Sir, I’ll talk with maintenance; we’ll find out what’s wrong,” Slade replied.
“Make it fast captain, Washington wants these tests done and they want them done now! We have operational missions waiting to go.” The colonel hung up.
Slade talked to maintenance. They went through the aircraft with a fine toothed comb. The next morning they got back to him. “Sir, we checked the gear doors, the fairings, balance bays, cables, the pod, you name it. Everything checked out.”
“What did you check in the tail?”
“Both stabilizers are at the same trim setting, elevators move fine, hydraulics are within limits — we’re stuck.”
He hung up, but before Slade could second guess himself the phone rang. It was General Green. He was blunt. “Captain Slade, I don’t think I need to tell you how important that jet is. We need to know whether this system is going to work before we commit reconnaissance aircraft to high risk areas — do you understand?”
“Yes sir, and that’s part of my reasoning for grounding the aircraft,” Slade said. “If the problem is structural there’s a chance of losing the empennage. We’re risking a unique testbed. It took six months to outfit this Eagle. We can’t afford a mishap sir.”