fun). Another cake-walk was the MMU training. An MMU (for Manned Mobility Unit) was NASA’s latest, state-of-the-art “space suit”—over $10,000,000 per suit.
Wentz dug it.
Days lapsed as they always had in the past, a new joyride, a new thrill. Duty, yes, but the adrenalin always made it better. At forty-five years old, Wentz scored higher on the spirometer, the MMPA, the MMU field test, and the technical diagnostic batteries than most of the country’s active astronauts.
“Looks like you’re ready, General,” one of the training tests told him.
“You think?” Wentz had answered. “It might look like it, but this ain’t a lug-wrench in my pants, son.”
No, even a day after the surgery, Wentz never doubted himself. He was going to this job like he’d done every job in his career.
The best job.
His “shit” was “square.”
And on the day before his first live test flight of the OEV, unfazed by the deformity of his hands, General Jack Wentz looked straight in the mirror with a leveled eye and said: “Hardcore. I’m fuckin’ there.”
Yes, that was how the days went. He was the best pilot in the world, and they were great days.
The only thing that bothered him were the nights. When he’d dream and later wake up to the sound of dripping blood…
««—»»
Wentz sat strapped in to the operator’s seat, a modified job by Hughes Aircraft. He wore a visorless helmet and standard Air Force jumpsuit. Ashton wore the same, sitting beside him.
They felt the modest vibration as the platform elevator lifted them up thirteen nuke-proof levels through this underground complex.
When Ashton glanced at his bare, three-fingered hands, he moved them away.
“Don’t be self-conscious, sir. It could debilitate you, it could degrade your performance.”
“I’m not gonna fuck up your goddamn UFO,” he snapped back. He looked at her with a sly grin. “I’m gonna fly this thing better than Farrington ever dreamed.”
“Fine. Don’t talk about it. Do it.”
Bitch, he thought. I’ll show her ass.
The elevator droned upward, then shuddered to a stop.
“This is a daylight test flight,” she reminded. “This is strictly familiarization. Fly slow, fly stable. This first run is just for you to get the feel of the OEV. If you fly too fast in daylight, you’ll burn the camouflage paint off the hull, then we could be spotted by the KH-12 and Russian surveillance satellites.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I hear ya.”
The elevator had lifted them up into a hangar-shaped structure, covered with sand. Just another dune.
Then the dune began to open.
Wentz glimpsed the beautiful desert beyond. The hangar door held open like a stretched jaw.
“Go for it, General. Place your hands into the detents…and fly.”
Even after all of the simulations, Wentz froze for a moment. All of his instincts were different now—
“Raise the craft and move forward out of the hangar,” Ashton said.
“I know!”
No stick, no throttle.
“Give me a sec,” he said.
“Let your mind do the work, sir. We can go back down if you’re apprehensive, give it another shot tomorrow.”
Bitch, he thought again.
And then he let his mind do the work.
Wentz lightened the pressure of his hands into the detents. He thought.
Immediately a dark garnet-tinged light filled the interior, behind a very low sub-octave thrumming sound. Then the craft raised a foot off the elevator platform and began to move forward out of the hangar.
“Good. You’re doing it.”
“Charlie-Oscar, this is Jonah One,” Ashton transmitted from her CVC mike. “Request permission for take-off.”
“Roger, Jonah One. Permission granted.”
Wentz eased the OEV fully out of the hangar. It’s working, he thought, dumbfounded. I don’t believe it… He moved the entire craft out into the high, sweltering sun. Beyond the OEV’s strange windows, the desert shimmered. Wentz remained in partial stasis as the craft just sat there and
Wentz dug it.
Days lapsed as they always had in the past, a new joyride, a new thrill. Duty, yes, but the adrenalin always made it better. At forty-five years old, Wentz scored higher on the spirometer, the MMPA, the MMU field test, and the technical diagnostic batteries than most of the country’s active astronauts.
“Looks like you’re ready, General,” one of the training tests told him.
“You think?” Wentz had answered. “It might look like it, but this ain’t a lug-wrench in my pants, son.”
No, even a day after the surgery, Wentz never doubted himself. He was going to this job like he’d done every job in his career.
The best job.
His “shit” was “square.”
And on the day before his first live test flight of the OEV, unfazed by the deformity of his hands, General Jack Wentz looked straight in the mirror with a leveled eye and said: “Hardcore. I’m fuckin’ there.”
Yes, that was how the days went. He was the best pilot in the world, and they were great days.
The only thing that bothered him were the nights. When he’d dream and later wake up to the sound of dripping blood…
««—»»
Wentz sat strapped in to the operator’s seat, a modified job by Hughes Aircraft. He wore a visorless helmet and standard Air Force jumpsuit. Ashton wore the same, sitting beside him.
They felt the modest vibration as the platform elevator lifted them up thirteen nuke-proof levels through this underground complex.
When Ashton glanced at his bare, three-fingered hands, he moved them away.
“Don’t be self-conscious, sir. It could debilitate you, it could degrade your performance.”
“I’m not gonna fuck up your goddamn UFO,” he snapped back. He looked at her with a sly grin. “I’m gonna fly this thing better than Farrington ever dreamed.”
“Fine. Don’t talk about it. Do it.”
Bitch, he thought. I’ll show her ass.
The elevator droned upward, then shuddered to a stop.
“This is a daylight test flight,” she reminded. “This is strictly familiarization. Fly slow, fly stable. This first run is just for you to get the feel of the OEV. If you fly too fast in daylight, you’ll burn the camouflage paint off the hull, then we could be spotted by the KH-12 and Russian surveillance satellites.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I hear ya.”
The elevator had lifted them up into a hangar-shaped structure, covered with sand. Just another dune.
Then the dune began to open.
Wentz glimpsed the beautiful desert beyond. The hangar door held open like a stretched jaw.
“Go for it, General. Place your hands into the detents…and fly.”
Even after all of the simulations, Wentz froze for a moment. All of his instincts were different now—
“Raise the craft and move forward out of the hangar,” Ashton said.
“I know!”
No stick, no throttle.
“Give me a sec,” he said.
“Let your mind do the work, sir. We can go back down if you’re apprehensive, give it another shot tomorrow.”
Bitch, he thought again.
And then he let his mind do the work.
Wentz lightened the pressure of his hands into the detents. He thought.
Immediately a dark garnet-tinged light filled the interior, behind a very low sub-octave thrumming sound. Then the craft raised a foot off the elevator platform and began to move forward out of the hangar.
“Good. You’re doing it.”
“Charlie-Oscar, this is Jonah One,” Ashton transmitted from her CVC mike. “Request permission for take-off.”
“Roger, Jonah One. Permission granted.”
Wentz eased the OEV fully out of the hangar. It’s working, he thought, dumbfounded. I don’t believe it… He moved the entire craft out into the high, sweltering sun. Beyond the OEV’s strange windows, the desert shimmered. Wentz remained in partial stasis as the craft just sat there and
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