“Target G, please,” the technician said. “On your far right.”
Tom shifted his eyes. Blam! you space critters. Take that — and that — and that! He grinned to himself. How things do turn out. As a kid he'd devoured science-fiction stories. Azimov. Heinlein. Siodmak. All the greats. Now it was real. And he was part of it.
The technicians were busy with the calibrations and adjustments, an exacting and precise procedure. The door to the calibration room opened and Paul stuck his head in.
“Don't move!” he called.
“Verrry funny!” Tom grinned.
“You're a lucky bastard,” Paul said enviously. “You know that?”
Without moving his head, Tom replied, “Luck? Expertise, my boy. Expertise.”
“Who's flying chase?”
“Barnes. Manning himself is flying Chase One.”
Paul whistled, obviously impressed. “Hea-vy!”
“Guess he wants to see first hand how she handles at maximum performance — with the new enhancement modifications,” Tom said. And witness the first maximum-output test of the XM-9, he thought. But he kept his mouth shut. He knew only a handful of people were in the know about the Marcus device, much less that it was about to undergo its first all-out test.
“Look at Target E, sir,” the technician instructed.
“With pleasure,” Tom agreed. “And I do mean pleasure.”
“See you in the equipment room,” Paul called.
“Right.” Tom was eyeballing the bikini-clad girl. Some dish. A shadow flitted across his face.
“Target B, sir.”
He looked away.
The flight-equipment room was one of the neatest and cleanest places on the base. Row upon row of multicolored flying helmets, each in its individual cubbyhole; orderly lines of olive-green compact parachutes hanging from their special racks. Everything in its proper place.
Accompanied by one of the non-com technicians, Tom entered the room. He was wearing his red helmet, the umbilical from the sight hooked onto his flying suit, ready to be plugged into the aircraft. While the technician busied himself with a log, Paul helped Tom into his chute.
“Got your Buck Rogers eyes all fixed up?” he asked.
“You bet,” Tom confirmed. “Calibrated to hit the eye of a mosquito in evasive maneuvers at a thousand paces.” He shrugged into the chute harness. “Whoever did coin the phrase: ‘If looks could kill'?” He grinned.
Paul groaned. “Had to be a woman,” he said.
A quick frown flitted across Tom's face. Paul shot his friend a sidelong glace. “Tom” he said quietly, “is — is everything okay?”
Tom looked up quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
“Hey!” Paul said earnestly. “Tom. You and I've been buddies a long time. You know what I'm talking about. That — that bummer you and Randi were handed. I know it wasn't an easy trip. How — how is everything now with you guys?”
Tom's face clouded over briefly. “Fine, Paul… fine,” he said, his voice flat. He stopped, certain it was obvious he was lying. Soberly he went on. “Oh, hell, Paul, nothing's changed.” He sighed, unaware that he did. “I'm really worried. Randi can't seem to get herself together. Ever since that damned — accident I can't seem to reach her.” He looked at Paul. “If only I'd been there… If only—”
Paul interrupted him. “Tom—”
“I could have done something, dammit!”
Paul looked at his friend earnestly. “Don't you go blaming yourself, old cock. No way.”
Tom nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I know. Only—”
From the door the non-com called, “All set, sir.”
Paul slapped Tom on the shoulder. “Go turn some of that good jet fuel into noise, old buddy.”
Tom gave him a thumbs-up sign and grinned. “Rog on the noise.”
Dr. Theodor Marcus had those clammy hands and that dry mouth again as he sat in the test-flight control room at Edwards watching the maze of telemetry dials, gauges and meters registering a steady volume of information from the aircraft streaking through the California sky at more than the speed of sound.
So far the F-15 had performed flawlessly under Major Darby's expert handling. Every one of the upgrading changes in its capabilities had proved eminently successful. Marcus had been listening to the radio communications between the chase planes and the test plane and the instructions from Control One. In a few moments the test he, Marcus, was waiting for would begin. In a few moments he would experience the culmination of his life's work. Or—
Or — he would not…
He glanced at the Test Flight Director, Control One. He knew the man, but he could never remember his name. A highly competent officer. Control One would do.
He tried to calm himself. He always did. It never worked. He had once read about an opera star — was it Flagstad? — who was always petrified before every entrance, then performed brilliantly. Every launch, every test was like that for him — until it began. Did he have greater reason for anxiety in this case?
The XM-9 required a great deal of instantaneous, confined energy at the point of activation. The plane. A surge of enormous power. Always a potential for problems. It worked in static test. It worked well. But — in flight — there were variables…
He dismissed it from his mind.
Tom felt as if he were riding a cloud, although he knew it to be a cloud that packed one hell of a wallop. More of a wallop than the supreme power locked up in the blackest thundercloud.
The F-15 was one of his favorite aircraft. Of all the fighter planes he'd flown, he liked it best. Perhaps because it was uncompromised. The F-15 Eagle was strictly U.S. hardware; a high-performance, extremely maneuverable fighter — more so now than ever with the new enhancement factors he'd just tested.
Now he was ready for the big one.
He was flying at a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet, about 100 miles north of Edwards. He'd make his turn and start his XM-9 test run. It would take him fifteen minutes to complete the series. He made a visual check for his two chase planes. Barnes in the T-38. Manning in another F-15. They were both with him.
“Control,” he said. “This is Eagle One. Forty seconds out on XM-9 system wet run.”
His earphones crackled. “Roger, Eagle One. We read you.”
Manning came in. “Tom — this is Chase One. You're looking good. You've got a real sweetheart there.”
A pang flitted through Tom's mind.
Randi…
“Roger, Chase One,” he said.
In the control room Marcus listened to the interchange. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs. Only seconds to go. His “Flagstad Syndrome” was at its peak.
“Any signs of stress?” It was Control One.
Tom's voice came over the PA system. “Negative.”
The Flight Director was studying some telemetry indicators. “Eagle One. Looks like you need to come right about five degrees. You're drifting a little.”
“Roger.”
“Your flight angle is good. You're holding about fifty feet left of track at the moment.”
“Roger. Correcting.”
“Helmet umbilical connected, Tom? Lanyard okay?”
“OK.”
“OK. Thirty seconds to firing.”
“Roger. Thirty seconds.”