As he walked down the steel steps, he thumbed through the magnetic cards, praying he had the one needed to open the lower bay and access the computers. Then he began inserting them one by one into the green metallic slot, trying to keep his hand steady in the freezing cold.
Finally one worked. The three encoded diodes blinked, and a hydraulic arm automatically slid the port open. Next the interior lights came on, an orange high-voltage sodium glow illuminating the gray walls.
This third bay, like the two above it, was big enough to stand in. As he stepped in, he glanced back up the stairs, then quickly resealed the door. Off went the lights again, so he withdrew his penlight and turned to start searching for what he wanted.
Directly in front of him was a steel monolith with banks of toggle switches: electrical power controls, communications controls, propulsion system controls, reaction-control systems. Okay, that's the command console, which was preset for each flight and then monitored from the cockpit.
Now where's the damned on-board AI module?
He scanned the bay. The AI system was the key to his plan. He had to make certain the computer's artificial intelligence functions could be completely shut down, disengaged, when the crucial moment came. He couldn't afford for the on-board system-override to abort his planned revision in the hypersonic flight plan. His job tonight was to make sure all the surprises were his, not somebody else's. There wouldn't be any margin for screw-ups. Everything had to go like clockwork.
He edged his way on through the freezing bay, searching the banks of equipment for a clue, and then he saw what he was looking for. There, along the portside bulkhead. It was a white, rectangular console, and everything about it told him immediately it was what he wanted.
He studied it a second, trying to decide where to begin.
At that moment he also caught himself wondering fleetingly how he'd ever gotten into this crazy situation. Maybe he should have quit the Air Force years ago and gone to engineering school like his father had wanted. Right now, he had to admit, a little electrical engineering would definitely come in handy.
He took out a pocket screwdriver and began carefully removing the AI console's faceplate, a bronzed rectangle. Eight screws later, he lifted it off and settled it on the floor.
The penlight revealed a line of chips connected by neat sections of plastic-coated wires. Somewhere in this electronic ganglia there had to be a crucial node where he could attach the device he'd brought.
It had taken some doing, but he'd managed to assemble an item that should take care of his problem beautifully when the moment came. It was a radio-controlled, electrically operated blade that, when clamped onto a strand of wires, could sever them in an instant. The radio range was fifty meters, which would be adequate; the transmitter, no larger than a small tape recorder, was going to be with him in his flight suit. The instant he switched the turboramjets over to the scramjet mode, he was going to activate it and blow their fucking AI module out of the system. Permanently.
He figured he had ten minutes before one of the security team came looking to see what he was doing; he'd timed this moment to coincide with their regular tea break. Even the Japanese didn't work around the clock.
Now, holding the penlight and shivering from the cold, he began carefully checking the wires. Carefully, so very carefully. He didn't have a diagram of their computer linkages, and he had to make sure he didn't accidentally interrupt the main power source, since the one thing he didn't want to do was disconnect any of the other flight control systems. He wanted to cut in somewhere between the AI module's power supply and its central processor. The power source led in here… and then up the side over to there, a high-voltage transformer… and then out from…
There. Just after the step-up transformer and before the motherboard with the dedicated CPU and I/O. That should avoid any shorting in the main power system and keep the interruption nice and localized.
The line was almost half an inch thick, double-stranded, copper grounded with a coaxial sheath. But there was a clear section that led directly down to the CPU. That's where he'd place the blade, and hope it'd at least short- circuit the power feed even if it didn't sever the wires completely.
He tested the radio transmitter one last time, making sure it would activate the blade, then reached down and clamped the mechanism onto the wire, tightening it with thumb screws. When it was as secure as he could make it, he stood back and examined his handiwork. If somebody decided to remove the faceplate, they'd spot it in a second, but otherwise…
Quickly, hands trembling from the cold, he fitted the cover back on the module and began replacing the screws with the tiny screwdriver. It wasn't magnetized, a deliberate choice, so the small screws kept slipping between his bulky fingers, a problem made more acute by the numbing cold.
Three screws to go… then he heard the noise. Footsteps on the aluminum catwalk in the pressure bay above…. Shit.
He kept working as fast as he could, grimly holding the screws secure and fighting back the numbness and pain in his freezing fingers.
Only one more. Above, he could hear the sounds of someone checking each of the equipment bays, methodically opening and then resecuring them. First the starboard side bay was opened and closed, then the portside bay. Now he heard footsteps advancing down the metal stairs leading to the computer bay. They were five seconds away from discovering him.
The last screw was in.
He tried to stand, and realized his knees were numb. He staggered backward, grabbing for something to steady himself… and the light came on.
"Yuri Andreevich, so this is where you are. What are you doing here?"
It was the gravel voice of his father. He felt like a child again, caught with his hand in his pants. What should he do? tell the truth?
"I'm — I'm checking over the consoles, passing the time. I couldn't sleep."
"Don't lie to me." Andrei Androv's ancient eyebrows gathered into the skeptical furrow Yuri knew so well. "You're up to something, another of your tricks."
Yuri stared at him a moment. How had he known? A sixth sense?
"Moi otyets, why are you here? You should be getting your sleep."
"I'm an old man. An old man worries. I had a feeling you might be in here tonight, tinkering with the vehicle. You told me you were planning something. I think the time has come to tell me what it is."
Yuri took a deep breath and looked him over.
No, it was too risky. For them both. His secret had to be ironclad.
"It's better if you don't know."
"As you wish," the old man sighed. "But if you do something foolish…"
"I damned sure intend to try." He met his father's steely gaze.
"So did you do it?" Andrei Androv examined him, his ancient face ashen beneath his mane of white hair. "Did you manage to sabotage the AI module?"
He caught himself laughing out loud. Whatever else, his father was no fool. He'd been a Russian too long to believe anything he heard or half of what he saw. Intrigue was a way of life for him.
"Let's go. They'll come looking for us soon. This is the wrong place to be found."
"You're right."
"Go back to the West Quadrant. Listen to a string quartet." He opened the port and waited for his father to step out. Then he followed, closing it behind them. "There's no reason for you to be involved. Heads are going to roll, but why should yours be one of them?"