‘Need to know, Epstein.’
‘That important, huh?’
‘Yep, that important.’
The Article’s flight plan was classified because Thompkins couldn’t risk word getting out that they knew Atlantis’s position. Only Administrator Cunningham and the marines had that information.
‘I’ll tell you as soon as you need to know.’
‘Roger that.’
Thompkins and Mahoney had been inseparable during their time in the air force. They did everything together, from sharing an apartment to being each other’s wingman while out tomcattin’ the ladies. That changed once they transferred to NASA to become the Article’s primary flight team and Thompkins’ career moved to the fast track. Over time, Thompkins found himself actively avoiding Mahoney because his career so outstripped his old friend’s that he was embarrassed and didn’t how to act around him.
The Article turns onto Kennedy’s main runway. The tower grants clearance and Thompkins takes a shallow breath. He’s flown this beast a total of 532 hours, but the thrill of it never gets old, the thrill of acceleration, instant, pure, unapologetic. ‘Ready back there?’
‘Punch it.’
Thompkins throttles the Pratt &c Whitneys. It feels like he’s been kicked in the back — by God.
The Article rips down the runway then slices into the azure sky.
31
Kelvin now knows why the runway’s so long, the same runway he landed the Galaxy on when he first arrived in this desert four days ago. He also knows why he’s helping bolt metalwork to the top of the Galaxy. He knows, but still can’t quite believe it. So, as much for confirmation as anything else, he turns from his position atop the Galaxy’s fuselage and takes in the distinctive shape of the space shuttle, lit by the muted glow of moon and runway light.
They actually stole a shuttle, and by ‘they’ he means ‘he’, because ‘he’ is a member of ‘they’ — a junior member, sure, but part of the Frenchman’s crew nonetheless.
An oversized mobile crane is parked beside the spacecraft. It was here when he landed, as was the large tent where the Tigers were assembled, and where the Frenchman’s crew slept and ate. The whole mission had been meticulously planned and generously funded. Henri must have been planning it for years.
The crane’s boom towers high above the shuttle. From it hang two pairs of fat chains that reach halfway to the ground, then attach to two large loops that almost touch the desert. The loops are 15 metres long and a metre wide, constructed from a flat, flexible material. Kelvin quickly realises they’re slings.
Two men grab each sling. One pair guide their sling under the nose of the shuttle, pull it up to the landing gear. The other pair slot their sling under the rear of the spacecraft and drag it to the trailing edge of the wing.
‘How much longer?’
Kelvin turns to Nico. ‘It’s done.’
With a torch, the Italian examines the bolts and welds that secure the metal structure to the top of the Galaxy’s fuselage. They will allow the shuttle to be attached to the jet, piggyback-style.
It had been a relatively straightforward job. Kelvin had performed the work with three members of Henri’s crew, who were later joined by a man and a woman from the Kinabara Dish. They both looked like they’d been in a nasty fight. Kelvin wondered if it had been with each other.
So what did old Kelvy boy do now? There had been no opportunity to escape since he arrived. He’d been busy helping build an auxiliary fuel tank in the Galaxy’s hold, then securing this metalwork. And if he had escaped, well, what would he have done? He was in the middle of an unforgiving desert, hundreds of kilometres from civilisation. Henri’s men would’ve hunted him down within the hour.
Now he wonders if he could, somehow, throw a spanner into the Frenchman’s plans. He could be the guy who saw the error of his ways and heroically thwarted the hijackers. The notion holds genuine appeal to Kelvin. He likes the idea of being a hero. It was a lot better than his memory being villainised through a fleeting association with the Frenchman, even if he was paid a million.
Nico finishes his inspection. ‘Okay. I need the jet there.’ He points at the port side of the shuttle. ‘The nose in that direction. Get it parallel, close as you can. We’re going to load it now.’
Kelvin nods, moves to the ladder that leans against the side of the aircraft, climbs to the desert below, his mind racing.
32
It floats above him, sharp grey angles stark against deep blue. Thompkins studies the three-engined KC-10 aerial refueler. The arse end of a tanker was a sight you quickly became familiar with when you flew the Article. It may have been the fastest aircraft ever built, but its appetite for avgas meant in-flight refuelling was an integral part of its driver’s skill set. If Thompkins could fly it directly to Central Australia he would be there in just on two hours. Unfortunately that’s not possible. Central Australia is over 17000 kilometres from Cape Canaveral but the range of the Article is 5300 kilometres.
He needs quick refuels today, and the previous three have been just that, the aeronautical equivalent of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Unfortunately fourth time was not the charm. After descending from 80000 to 30000 feet he’d wasted five minutes tooling around the Pacific looking for this damn refueler because it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. Mahoney finally found it on his scope with three minutes of gas in the tank. Due to a snafu at Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, the KC-10 had been set on a track 30 kilometres east of where Thompkins had instructed it to be.
Thompkins waits as the KC-10 disgorges fuel into the Article’s tanks, which take up most of the aircraft’s fuselage. Not only does avgas power the engines, but it also acts as their coolant, a unique design feature only Kelly Johnson could have devised.
Thompkins’ eyes lock on the fuel gauge. Ninety-six per cent and rising quickly. Hawaii is the last pitstop before the blast across the Pacific to Central Australia so he needs the tanks full to the brim. The fuel gauge touches 100 per cent.
‘Okay, we’re done.’ Thompkins disconnects the Article from the boom, drops below the tanker and scans the gauges again, just to be sure everything looks cool. It does. The single most important factor when flying the Article is to make sure the engines don’t run hot. If they did, a turbine blade could melt and that’d end the trip real quick. Thompkins eases the throttle levers forward. The jet leaves the KC-10 behind like a bad memory.
Mach 1. Thompkins’ gloved finger moves to the small wheel on the instrument panel that adjusts the aircraft’s pitch. He rotates the wheel 3 millimetres. Not much, but it will yield a 500-foot-per-minute climb until the Article reaches a ceiling of 80000 feet. He can feel the aircraft’s nose rise slightly, just one-sixth of a degree in real terms, but enough for the job.
Mach 2. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The acceleration comes not as a jolt but a surge, harnessing the energy of fifty locomotives, a power that builds and builds and keeps building as the engines drink 100000 square feet of air per second.
Mach 3. He’s going to push this thing harder than it’s ever been pushed before. Mach 6.5 is his destination today, just on 8000 kilometres an hour. Faster than anyone has ever travelled in an aircraft. He presses the throttle levers forward again. The surge continues.
Mach 4. It is relentless, the ultimate rush. Nothing compares to it. Unlike an astronaut who is strapped to a rocket with limited control, Thompkins is in complete control of this machine. He realises, not for the first time, that flying this plane is the only thing that’s ever made him happy.