Martin Caidin - Cyborg_玖贝云文库

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Cyborg by Martin

Caidin

CHAPTER 1

LONELY MOUNTAIN took the first harsh whisper of naked sun. Far

beyond the ridges of the San Bernardino, the San Gabriel, and the Shadow

Mountains, the peak the Spaniards long ago named Soledad glowed

against desert morning sky. Earth's horizon dipped lower to cast Lonely

Mountain with increasing brilliance. It was a clear sign of blistering heat

to come during the day.

Many miles distant from the stone-hard, baked desert floor of Rogers

Dry Lake, the sight of the faraway peak brought eyes flicking to

wristwatches. The events of the morning were to be measured as a race

against a wickedly hot sun and its enervating temperatures. Not so much

the heat itself but its thermals wavering in the desert air could snatch

dangerously at stub wings already teetering on precarious balance. The

time to get things done in the California desert was early in the morning,

and that was now…

From the floor of the dry lake, sunrise began with the daring upthrust

of Lonely Mountain. As the men glanced up from their work the sawtooth

edges of near mountain ranges were yielding to light. Silhouetted

ramparts in deep shadow rang brightly with the fireball impact of the sun.

Etched by early-morning dust, sunlight stabbed through crevices as huge

glowing shafts across the vast desert floor. There was now that magic

transition between dawn and day. With the sun angle still so low, there

was stark contrast; clumps of scattered tumbleweed hid their brambled

surfaces in the form of soft puffballs glowing along one side, casting long

shadows behind the other. Along a nearby ridge, midget desert flowers

shone in purple and yellow. Sagebrush seemed to glow, but above all there

rose from the flat tableland the oldest denizens of this desert nowhere, the

great cactus trees known as Joshua trees. Some of these grotesquely

crooked giants of their kind reared fully thirty feet above the flatness at

their base, frozen in some ancient torment, and it was difficult to realize

as they accepted the morning sun that they had stood here as long as the

towering redwoods had stood farther to the west. Against the hazy blue of

dust already shrouding the distant peaks, charged with a mild electrical

glow by the ascending disk in the sky, they set a somber mood of stark

contrast against the newcomers to this forsaken flatness.

Through most of the night there had been other light here in the

Mojave. Along the western rim of the floor of the dry lake, a blue-white

incandescence showered upward. These were brilliant floodlights and

under their harsh glare there had been created a small oasis from which

night was banished. Great generators howled and thumped and whined

through the long hours to power the lights, and their exhausts and vapors,

rising slowly, had added to the feeling of an outpost on another world.

There were other vehicles; long trailers gleaming whitely beneath the

lights, identified in glowing signs and blinking panels of their own. Several

large-bodied trucks displayed thick red crosses. Other vehicles were

tracked, coated with armor and asbestos, and studded with hand grips

and thick hatches. Still others were a garish red, knobbed from bumper to

bumper with the protuberances of nozzles and hoses; each of these could

instantly be transformed into a dragon foaming from half a dozen nozzles

and spouting flame-depressing liquid from half a dozen more. A great

crane on sixteen massive wheels stood silently by on the perimeter of the

island cluster of lights and sound and movement. Long, yellow trucks with

cylindrical bodies and chains dragging behind to eliminate static

electricity waited patiently to move kerosene fuel into metal-enclosed

tanks. Other fueling vehicles were present; these were painted dazzling,

international orange, splashed with warning signs, glowing beneath lights

flashing the unmistakable signal of danger. There were sedans and station

wagons, some Air Force blue, others the white of the National Aeronautics

and Space Administration. On the latter the blue insignia circle of NASA

was displayed prominently. Communications vans extended wispy and

curving helical antennas high above their bodies. And there were, finally,

several personnel trailers, long-bodied enclosures sealed so completely

from the outside, air-conditioned and humidity-controlled so carefully

that they were literally spacecraft on wheels to sustain their internal

environment.

All these, the screaming generators and flashing lights and trucks and

cars and vans, were present to meet the needs of two other machines. At

first glance only one of these was visible, and not until the sun rose high

enough to bathe its vast spread of wing was its true size apparent. It

hulked along the dry desert floor, a brooding monster of many hundreds of

thousands of pounds, a technological vulture with wings sagging at their

tips nearly to the ground. It was a football field of metal shaped and

angled into its present form of wing and body and towering tail, all of it

balanced on tandem sets of tires, the far edges of the wing tips teetering in

impossibly silly fashion on stick legs of outrigger gear.

Standing close to the right wing the observer had no view of the second

machine, which was the reason for this great assembly of machinery and

more than two hundred people. This second and smaller machine nestled

closely to the underside of the left wing, a blunt dart beneath a great

spread of metal, sandwiched in between jet engines and long, external fuel

tanks. It to be a thing intended for flight, but rather than wings it had

stubby appendages jutting from a rounded body shaped like a bathtub.

Three flaring fins marked the aft section, sharply angled metal quivers

ending a ridiculously short and stubby metal arrow. The nose of the

strange machine, marked with black lettering that read M3F5, revealed a

shaped glassy enclosure that gave it the appearance of a whale with a

transparent snout.

Two men wearing bright-orange jump suits and white helmets with

fluorescent stripes stepped back from a final inspection of the finned

bathtub. One glanced at his watch, then turned to study a long, white

trailer bearing the rounded NASA insignia. "About that time," he noted.

His companion nodded, saying what they both knew. "Any minute now."

As if on cue a door in the trailer side opened, a man stepped out

quickly, turned about, and stood expectantly by the steps, looking back

into the trailer. He appeared nervous, as if wishing that whatever was

scheduled to happen would do so quickly. Moments later another man

appeared in the doorway, moving with greater deliberation, almost

shuffling clumsily within the constraints of a white pressure suit, his face

obscured by a gold-opaque sun visor. He might have been an astronaut

stepping from a trailer at the foot of a launch pad on Cape Kennedy; he

wore much the same garment as the men who had voyaged to the moon.

He had been one of those men, a member of the last crew to make the

voyage between earth and its desolate satellite a quarter of a million miles

distant. His name was Steve Austin; he had been a test pilot before his

weightless traverse of vacuum and he was now, again, a member of his

former profession. No shifting lunar soil awaited this journey, but still, the

flight he anticipated to a height of some sixty miles above the floor of the

desert held far more danger. The path to the moon had been well

established with mathematical certainty before he watched his planet fall

away during Apollo XVII. The machine into which he was soon to be

sealed lacked such certainty, and in its area of unknowns were dangers

unpredictable but predictably lethal. It was a simple rule of thumb. No

one had ever been killed on his way to or on his way from the moon. Every

year at this sprawling center of test flying in the California desert, every

year for the past twenty years, an average of eight good men had been

killed.

Austin stood for a moment in the doorway, looking out past the jumble

of vehicles, studying the huge winged shape with its wicked little machine

suspended beneath the left wing. His gloved hand lifted slowly to slide the

opaque visor away from the plexiglas bubble before his face. Then,

satisfied, he nodded his head, an acceptance within himself that it was

time to move on. He had worn this clumsy garment often enough to know

its restrictions, and he moved his left foot forward, crabbing his body as

he did so, leaning into the step in a practiced maneuver. The man waiting

at the foot of the steps reached forward anxiously to support Austin at the

elbow, for the test pilot was encumbered with a portable air conditioner in

his left hand. Even at this early hour, being sealed within a suit designed

for survival in vacuum guaranteed immediate severe perspiration without

internal cooling air flow. Steve Austin took the steps carefully, stopped for

a moment as if to test the fit of his heavy garment, then moved off steadily

toward the huge airplane. Directly behind him walked his suit technician,

a cold-eyed fuss-budget connected by swaying telephone wire to the radio

headset in Austin's helmet.

Austin's appearance in the trailer doorway was an unspoken signal for

almost all activity in the area to end. It was, of course, a story familiar to

all who were there. Austin could not move an inch into that waiting black

sky far above the earth without their coordinated efforts. But they would

remain well within the comfort of earth-surface gravity, while he was the

one to attack the unknown with its inevitable dangers. So they stood, by

some unspoken signal, to watch him take his final steps before

commitment.

All but one. "Steve!" Her cry caught everyone's attention but his own.

Within the pressure helmet he heard only the voice of the man walking

behind him, but that man grinned into his headset.

"Colonel, I think someone wants to say good-bye."

As the girl ran to Austin's side, her brown hair flowing from her

movement, the suit technician was lifting his headset from about his ears.

He cast a swift approving glance over the lithe figure standing before

Austin, then handed her the headset and boom mike. Austin smiled down

at her as she fitted the equipment. It was almost impossible not to smile

at the sight of Jan Richards.

"Steve, I—I didn't mean to, you know, interfere, but I just had to say

something before… before you left."

The smile broke into a broad grin. "Say it, then."

She glanced about self-consciously, edging closer to him, whispering

the words in the microphone. "I love you, Steve Austin."

He gestured with an easy laugh. "You sure must like privacy."

"Is that all you're going to say?"

She saw his head move inside the helmet, tilted slightly to the side as if

appraising her. "Same here."

She thrust her arm about his, glanced behind her at the suit technician

eyeing them both. "Can I walk with you to the plane?"

His gloved hand patted her arm. "Sure." He glanced at the suit

technician. "Charlie's already having his fit so I guess it doesn't matter."

She moved as close to him as his bulky covering allowed, matching his

shuffling pace, the suit technician staying immediately behind with quick,

short steps. Jan did her best to keep her words easy.

"It's hard to believe this is the last one for a month, darling." She

squeezed his arm, suddenly hating the thick material separating them.

"And starting tomorrow…"

"Save your strength," he told her. "You're going to need it."

"Breakfast in bed, right?"

"Breakfast and lunch and dinner."

"You'll never make it to dinner. Not when I get through with you."

"Got it all planned?"

She nodded. "I intend to wreck you, my love."

"God," he laughed, "what a way to die."

She glanced at the flying wedge suspended beneath the huge machine.

Oh, God, I hate that thing, she thought suddenly. I've been here too long

and I've seen too many of them… She refused to think deliberately of the

word die. She turned her eyes from the gleaming metal back to the man at

her side.

"I'm afraid I love you more than you deserve." Quickly she removed the

headset and microphone and handed them to the suit technician trying

unsuccessfully to remain at a discreet distance. If she stayed with Steve

any longer… It wouldn't do to cry, for God's sake. She hurried away

without turning back until she was far from the metal that frightened her.

When she stopped, finally, she knew Steve would be only a figure in a

white pressure suit. She turned as a bearded man approached, and

quickly she wrapped his arm in hers. He glanced at the sudden tears.

"Steve see that?"

She shook her head angrily. "No. Just you, you old bastard."

Rudy Wells patted her hand with open affection. "If it makes you feel

any better, Jan," he said, "as his flight surgeon I can tell you that Steve

Austin is in perfect shape for this—"

"That's how I want him back."

"That's how you'll get him back," he said confidently. "My God, Jan, I've

never seen you with jitters like this. That man has walked on the moon.

The moon," he emphasized. "This is just a little hop around the old

meadow in comparison. You of all people should know that."

"I know it, I know it," she said, almost hissing the words. She pointed to

the blunt shape beneath the wing of the giant plane. "But that thing is,

well… Oh, dammit, Rudy, you know what I mean."

"I know." He didn't need to say any more. Not on that subject. Time to

turn to one that was safer. "Everything set for tomorrow?"

"All set. Twelve noon at the base chapel for the marriage ceremony and

time for a party afterward. A damned brief party," she added.

She studied the winged machines. "Thank the Lord," she whispered

aloud, "this is his last one."

He looked at her with affection. "For a month, anyway," he said gently.

"You didn't need to remind me," she said. Her arm went rigid against

his. The figure in the white suit was climbing into the swollen belly of the

finned dart. They watched in silence.

He paused for a moment, one foot still on the ladder, the other within

the cockpit of the M3F5. Paused for that final scan of the horizon, for the

telltale signs. Even at this early hour the air, cool and still at sunrise, had

changed its temper. The hazy-bright horizon was gone. Now that horizon

had fuzzed, thermals dragging dust and vapors from the ground, building

a miragelike effect that made the peaks and ranges appear higher and

closer than they really were. The long shadows from the Joshua trees had

diminished; soft gray had become intense black greatly foreshortened on

the ground with the climbing of the sun. And there was still another sign

to his practiced eyes; the most certain of all omens that the heat of day

was blistering the desolate land and casting back its writhing heat. In the

distance, picked out by his keen eyesight, the black shapes of buzzards

casually riding the thermals, soaring in wide, sweeping-circles higher and

higher above the desert floor. Buzzards this early in the morning. It was

going to be a bitch with updrafts on the way back.

He half turned for a glance at Jan, standing with Doc Wells. For a

moment he thought of that splendid body and the wonder they had found

in making love—Steve Austin cut himself short. Get your ass in the cockpit

and your head out of your ass, he snapped to himself. The fastest way in

this business to get killed, and it was by God the fastest, was to let your

mind roam instead of paying attention to what was at hand. When you

drifted between earth and moon in that delicious zero-g fall that went on

day after day, you could mess up your thinking all you wanted to. Three

guys in the cabin, and autosystems to take care of everything but the

laundry. But not in one of these vicious little things. They had hidden reefs

and all manner of nasty surprises up there in the sky, and this chunk of

angry metal was intended to chart a safe path through those lethal

mantraps. Which meant keeping your nose to it. He allowed himself one

more extraneous thought. The lights; the sun was up. What the hell did

they need the lights for? A quick smile; the lights went out silently, the

pressure helmet hiding the sounds of heated metal shrinking back to

normal size.

He grasped the handholds, slid into the contoured seat. For a moment

he sat quietly, not moving, allowing his mind and his body to feel what

might be wrong. You look for the things that don't fit. The mind has been

trained so that whatever is normal, whatever is right, snaps into place and

rings no bells, makes no clamoring warning. What doesn't fit, what's

slipped out of the pattern, then jars you. No bells, no lights; it was all

there, in place. He waited a moment as a technician leaned over the side

of the cockpit, took hold of the air-conditioning hose. Austin nodded at

him, held his breath. The technician unsnapped the hose, stabbed it into

its proper receptacle inside the cockpit to resume the cooling flow of

oxygen. Austin glanced at the gauges, gestured with his raised thumb. The

technician slid from view and another face appeared in place of his. They

began the long checklist. Austin checked out his communications circuits

with the B-52 pilot, the drop officer, and radar control, and made a final

test of the link to the chase planes that would be with him during part of

his flight. It was all terribly familiar, as close to home as brushing his

teeth in the morning, and yet every step was critical. It went quickly

enough, a mechanical, rote procedure, and then it was time for the last

man leaning almost into his lap to disappear. Austin took the hand signal

to button up, confirmed with the drop officer in the bomber, closed and

locked the canopy. There was now little for him to do; he would wait out

the engine start and climb to altitude, becoming progressively more

concerned with different gauges as he approached that moment when he

would be released from the mother ship.

"Relax." He breathed deeply, slowly. Plenty of time later to be afraid.

She could never watch that huge damned thing moving along the desert

floor without feeling her lungs were going to explode. She couldn't help it.

Some silly thing in the back of her mind told her that if she held her

breath through the long, pounding run on the desert she would be able to

help the giant claw its way into the air. Whatever the cause, she was never

able to remind herself to breathe. She waited until the thunder rolled

slowly down the long desert strip; no movement yet. The giant sat poised,

black strength and fury, the engines howling, throwing back swirling

plumes of kerosene smoke that built into a great cloud rolling over hard

and dusty sand. Then came that bare shift in sound, the signal that brakes

had been released and metal was dragging itself ponderously forward.

From this distance she could not see the tiny silver dart beneath the wing,

had no view of the terrible little machine her lover was strapped and

sealed into. But at such moments, as the giant rushed closer and closer,

she held her breath, sucking it deeply into her lungs, her nails biting into

her palms. This time, only one palm would show the signs of her inner

strain. Unknowing, her other hand holding the arm of Dr. Wells, she

would make him the victim of her gouging nails.

Jan Richards watched the monster rush toward them. She saw the

great wings flexing, the upward bend of metal that told of lift changing the

forces on the wing. She knew the signs, had watched this same scene many

times before, but no matter how many times, it was always inner torment,

with her breath held until she needed desperately to breathe, and did so

explosively, her heart pounding. The takeoffs were almost the worst; only

the landings were worse. The seconds dragged on and on, and the great

machine seemed to take forever in its sluggish early motion. But now it

had speed, and she knew enough of the world of flight to know that at such

times speed was everything. It was control and lift, it was life, and she

wished speed—Godspeed!—to the great black shape, and then it was

almost on them, malevolent in its suddenly swooping approach. Then it

was alongside, directly before them, and she saw two things at the same

moment, the silver shape of the tiny aerospace machine, with a glimpse of

the pressure helmet within—she saw that and she saw the nose wheel of

the B-52 rise away from the desert, and the breath rushed out of her. The

nose rotated higher, and then daylight showed between the clumsy main

gear and the desert floor. Now the thunder crashed back against them,

shaking their bodies, and she turned to bury her head in Dr. Wells's

shoulder as the stink of kerosene washed over them. When she looked up

again the black cloud stretched high into the bright desert air, a winged

destroyer at its head. Two black minnows flashed into view, cracking the

morning wide with their own thunder. The chase planes on their way to

ride tight formation with Steve Austin until he would outstrip them and

arrow away from the planet itself.

"Checklist complete. Over."

Austin nodded to himself within the helmet. "Okay," he said. "Stand by,

Roadrunner. Cleaning up the office."

"Roger."

Austin stuffed the checklist into its enclosure by his right arm, pressed

on the velcro seal. One last, careful look around the office. Everything in

the cockpit was clean. Just about that time.

"Cobra to Roadrunner," he called the drop officer in the bomber.

"Ready for final count."

"Right, Steve. Three minutes coming up. Please call off your tank

pressures and qualify valves armed."

They went through the final predrop checklist quickly. As they moved

down into the last sixty seconds the personal tones faded away. Crisp,

no-nonsense exchanges now, broken by a personal touch only when the

man in the wicked little M3F5 led the way.

"Cobra," they called Steve Austin. "On my mark, one minute." A pause

for five seconds, then: "Mark! Sixty seconds and counting."

"Roger, Roadrunner." Steve Austin flicked his eyes over the gauges,

glanced again, swiftly but steadily, at every control and lever and dial. He

didn't bother to glance to his sides to check the position of Chase One and

Two. The big, black SR-71 jets would be sitting well to each side, slightly

higher and behind the B-52; the moment he dropped away and lit up,

they'd be on him like faithful sharks. Until he left them behind.

"Thirty seconds."

"Okay," he said. The bright-orange hand swept around the timer. At

ten seconds the drop officer called it out. At the count of zero he would—

"Drop!"

"Right on the money," Austin said easily, feeling the old gut-sinking

feeling as he went from solid gravity to that momentary free fall of

dropping away from the giant ship above him. There was a brief glance at

Martin Caidin - Cyborg

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