“Not so hard,” Rebecca said. “You’re banging the control surfaces around too much.”
“Keep in mind that you don’t have any control-stick feel,” Daren pointed out. “You have to use the indicators and the flight instruments to tell you how you’re doing — no ‘seat of the pants’ flying. Use your cameras on the takeoff roll, but if you go into the clouds, transition quickly to your instruments.” Daren got takeoff clearance from the air base’s robot “control tower”: “You’re cleared for takeoff, VAC.”
“Here we go, boys and girls,” Zane said. He put his hands on the “throttles” and slowly pushed them forward — too fast. He moved them more slowly, stopping just as he advanced into zone-one afterburner, then released brakes as he slowly advanced them further into zone five.
He felt as if nothing were happening — and then, before he realized it, the computer said, “Vampire, rotate speed, ready, ready, now.” Zane wasn’t ready for it. He pulled back on the stick — nothing happened. He pulled back more… still nothing — and then suddenly the nose shot skyward.
“Get the nose down, Lieutenant,” Rebecca warned. “You overrotated.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Zane said. He released some of the back pressure.
“Too much!” Rebecca shouted. “Nose up!” They were less than fifty feet aboveground. Zane pulled back on the stick — and started another PIO, or “pilot-induced oscillation.” Rebecca cried out, “I’ve got it!”
“Let Zane fix it, Rebecca,” Daren said calmly. “Nice and easy with the controls, Zane,” he said softly. “There’s a slight delay in the datalink — be ready for it. Put in a control movement, then keep an eye on it. Everything you see is delayed slightly from what the plane’s doing. Use your instruments, but be aware of the delay.”
“Vampire, configuration warning,” the computer announced.
“You wanted to do the takeoff, Zane. You’re the one who has to remember to clean up the plane,” Daren said.
“Shit, yeah,” Zane muttered. “Vampire, after-takeoff checklist.” Immediately the landing gear started retracting, lights turned themselves off, the air-traffic-control transponder activated, and the mission-adaptive flight controls changed from takeoff to en route climb configuration.
“After-takeoff check complete,” the computer reported seconds later.
“This is totally cool,” Zane said. He experimentally turned the plane side to side. “Once you get used to the delay, it’s not bad at all.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rebecca said nervously as she watched her bomber do its random gyrations. “It figures you young kids would enjoy it — it’s like playing a big video game, right, Zane?”
“Yes, ma’am. How about we see if it’ll do a roll?”
“You do and I’ll court-martial you — and then I’ll kill you.”
“Enough fun. Let’s fly this thing like it was meant to be flown,” Daren said. “Vampire, activate flight plan one, standard en route climb.”
“Vampire, flight plan one activated,” the computer responded.
Zane released his grip on the stick, and the autopilot took over, immediately reducing the throttles out of afterburner, reducing the climb rate, and turning to the first waypoint.
“Two’s airborne, tied on radar,” John Long reported.
Daren watched in utter amazement. “I simply can’t believe this,” Daren said incredulously. “I’m sitting here flying a three-hundred-thousand-pound supersonic attack bomber from a trailer on the ground in the middle of nowhere in northern Nevada. It’s unbelievable.”
“It’s totally cool from here,” Jon Masters said. “It’s better than a video game. It’s hard to believe that’s a real machine out there. We should—” Just then he noticed a flashing message on a computer screen. “We got a fault in the primary datalink computer,” Masters said.
“What happened?” Patrick asked.
“Master computer fault. It automatically shifted control to the secondary computer,” Jon replied. “We got an automatic reboot of the primary computer. It’ll take a couple minutes to come up.”
“How about we put this thing on the ground now, boys?” Rebecca asked. “We’ll let the wingman take over.”
“We’ve got four redundant, independent operating computers driving the datalink and aircraft controls, plus an emergency system that will force the aircraft to execute a direct return to base, no matter what systems are damaged,” Masters said. “The system did exactly what it was supposed to do — hand off control to another good computer, restart itself, and then, if it checks out, wait in line for a handoff.”
“Another handoff? You mean we could lose more computers?”
“We plan on the worst and hope for the best, General,” Masters said. “Aha… the first computer came back up, so we’ve got four good computers again. We’re back in business.”
“Doctor, you’re not exactly filling me with confidence,” Rebecca said. “Everyone remember: This is my wing’s bird. I signed for it, and I decide when this test mission ends.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Zane said. “Now, just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride.”
Only his tracked vehicles had the capability to go across the open desert, so Jalaluddin Turabi had no choice but to split up his force. He divided his group into three: Two would encamp along the Kizyl-Tabadkan highway, divided by fifteen kilometers, ready to move toward each other if trouble appeared; the third force, led by Turabi himself, would trek across the desert to the crash site. Because of weather and their upcoming battle at Gaurdak, helicopter support would not be available until dawn — Turabi was effectively on his own. He had some working night-vision goggles, and the weather was improving, so he decided to start out in the relative coolness and cover of night and head toward the crash site, using only a compass and prayers to guide him.
It took an hour to travel the first twenty kilometers, driving an old Soviet-era MT-LB multipurpose tracked vehicle they’d captured in Kerki. He deployed an even older GSh-575 tracked vehicle — actually a ZSU-23/4 self-propelled antiaircraft-gun system, with the antiaircraft guns unusable and deactivated long ago — out three hundred meters ahead of the MT-LB as a scout; this vehicle managed to throw a track every five to ten kilometers, which made for even slower going. Several times Turabi ordered his men to abandon the vehicle and hide when his scout heard jet aircraft nearby, but they were never able to pinpoint its location after the echo of the roar of their own engines faded away. Nerves were on edge.
About three hours before dawn, they reached the place where Turabi thought the smoke had come from, but there was no sign of a crash. There was nothing else to do but start a search pattern. Using both tracked vehicles, they set up a search grid and moved out, crisscrossing the desert with soldiers on foot continually moving the grid in different directions, overlapping slightly at the ends.
After an hour they still hadn’t come across the wreckage. “This is insane,” Turabi muttered after he received the last report. “I swear to God I saw a crash out here. I have traveled the deserts for most of my life — I do not imagine such things.” He turned to his senior sergeant, Abdul Dendara. “What am I missing here, Abdul?”
“If you saw smoke, sir, there has to be surface wreckage. Aircraft or weapons that bury themselves in the sand don’t release enough smoke to spot from a distance,” Dendara said. “I checked to be sure the men were probing underneath the sand. There was a short but pretty strong storm that came through here yesterday — the wreckage could be lying just under the surface.” He looked around. Of course, in the darkness, there was little to see. “No landmarks, no exact position — maybe we’re not at the right spot, sir.”