Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra! Read online

  He was not at all interested in my vague precognitions; he was interested in my ability to fly helicopters at a standard unparalleled in the Kingdom. He had a good idea what the problem was and part of his answer lay in helicopters. How choppers of any number or sophistication could surmount the peril I felt creeping up on us all I didn’t know; but that I would at length be informed I had no further doubts. We prattled harmlessly while the storm wept beyond the windows. For the most part we talked about flying; that was what we were there for after all.

  One after the next the various craft then in the air were discussed and their various merits weighed up. The Doctor knew a lot about the subject although he ventured no opinions. He limited his discourse to known and provable facts; of these he had an ample supply. Following his example, I restricted my contributions to ones relating to craft I had actually flown. It was after I had related my experiences in a twin-engine jet-ranger, where I had passed the four-fifty-knot point for the first time, that he directly addressed a question to me, for the first time in a good while. “And if the old crate had been fitted with afterburners; how fast do you think it would have gone?”

  “Afterburners?” I was puzzled by his bringing up a dangerous and practically unworkable concept, “The rotors on that craft couldn’t take the extra stress of being made to rotate any faster; that I know. If they went any more rapidly they would shatter, ceramic being what it is. And the extra thrust that afterburners would provide wouldn’t give it more than twenty knots or so, as far as I can see.”

  He nodded happily, “Perfectly right, Cassandra, perfectly right. I’m glad you are aware of that. Nonetheless, just suppose the afterburners were multi-stage ramjets, effectively trebling the total thrust from the exhaust; and the rotors were disengaged as the afterburners were engaged; what then?” I did not answer at once; I could see he was perfectly serious; his eyes alight with a sudden enthusiasm, his bearing electric.

  He had posed a question he expected me to answer, in which he expected me to be genuinely interested. I suddenly realised that this was the key question, the one whereon he would decide whether or not I was going to be useful to him. I turned my mind to the problem, imagining the jet-ranger thus modified. Being twin-engined, the thrust would be stable; “You would have a bit of a speed-demon on your hands.” I said slowly, “The extra thrust would help to stabilise the unbalanced lift of the rotors in that slipstream; but the tail of the craft would have to be modified; it would need ailerons and rudder, or something along that line. The whole fuselage would need modifying, now I come to think of it, to act as a wing-surface. The rotors would give considerable lift but would hinder forward velocity. If the thrust was three times the original thrust, I believe something in the order of seven-fifty knots could be achieved.”

  “Good, very good; almost perfectly right. For somebody who has not studied the subject that was a most intelligent answer. You are within four percent of the absolute theoretical answer, and the experimental craft I built to test that theory actually achieved a top velocity of seven-forty-four knots for fifteen minutes.” He was rubbing his hands together. “The boys from the air-force snapped up the idea at once; but the craft was too limited for my purposes.”

  “Fuel?” I asked succinctly. Triple maximum thrust would mean at least triple maximum consumption; and there wasn’t much space on a twin-jet craft of that class to begin with.

  “Quite.” He agreed, “Thirty minutes flight time using the afterburners, four minutes of manoeuvring at either end of the flight; and that was with all the payload space given over to aviation spirit.”

  “Useful if you want to run away and land on a table-cloth; but not much scope for a fighting craft.” The Colonel rumbled, “We have plenty of really fast V.T.O.L’s without drafting choppers.”

  “Choppers have always been good front-liners, jungle support, heavy airborne artillery; that sort of thing.” Eddie agreed, “Extra speed is always useful but the top speeds we have now are quite adequate.”

  “Of course, my dear fellow.” The Doctor agreed amiably, “Choppers, as we all understand, specialise in difficult landings and hovering. Good reconnaissance vehicles, rescue and general workhorses. It seems such a waste that so much of their payload was devoted to fuel.”

  I still remember that sudden thrill at the Doctor’s apparently ungrammatical lapse. I remember glancing at him, feeling the shock of meeting his eyes, dark with warning, firmly on my face. I choked back the question that had immediately framed itself and dug around for something else to say in keeping with the topic.

  “Fuel’s rather dangerous stuff of which to have too much,” I agreed, “Especially in a war scenario.” The Doctor nodded, silent, as the Colonel frowned thoughtfully at his polished shoes. “Dash it all, someone should invent some beam-transmission, battery-operated jobbie and leave the perishing fuel-tanks behind. I mean, it stands to reason.”

  “Batteries and deep cell accumulators are rather heavy.” Eddie contributed intelligently.

  “You know what I mean. What you need is a power station, some nuclear or geo-thermal set-up, safely underground, beaming out microwaves or some other penetrant carrier on a tight beam to each craft. Infinite range! Fifty percent extra payload; electric motors are small; the whole converter needn’t be larger than a packing case or something. It’s perfectly simple. It stands to reason. Can’t see why the physicist boys need to make things so damned complicated.”

  A dozen objections and complications came to mind almost at once, but I kept them to myself. I was fond of the old man; and he seemed to be sold on the idea. The Doctor was just as polite but Eddie wasn’t so discreet. He scoffed at the idea, pointing out that the craft would have to be unpiloted because most chaps didn’t like being fried in microwaves and the craft would have to have batteries of some sort aboard to provide emergency power in case of main power failure, so he would end up with a craft three or four times heavier than the original spirit-powered chopper. He and the Colonel argued amiably for a good half-hour, becoming more vehement in defence of each point of view at the expense of any vestige of reason. The loud, uproarious laughter was interrupted by James. “Luncheon is served.”

  It was halfway through the main course, excellent but easily forgettable, that Dr. Tregont seemed to come to a firm decision. He pointed his fork at me, cleared his mouth once he was sure he had my attention. “Cassandra, you’re the sort of person I’m looking for; good mettle and all that. I’ve put together a fleet of long-range, high velocity space capable vehicles, based on a new concept on which I’ve being working. Craft with an inertia-reducing system of thrust; total energy consumption very low. The point is that I’m looking for good pilots. People like you. Would you like to come and have a look at the Wrens? Say, tomorrow morning?”

  I knew what my answer was; but I hadn’t expected the question so soon. Obviously my initial assessment of the man that he would not act until he was totally sure of his groundwork was sound enough; but it neglected that essential trait that all true leaders require. He could reach a firm decision as quickly as each situation required. My later experience with him showed that he would stick tenaciously, even stubbornly, to his decisions.

  He would change his mind if the idea was patently unworkable but once he was convinced he was right he could, -did-hold his decisions to the point of disaster. I respected that strength of character at the time though it took me a moment to frame a reply. “Thanks.” I said softly, “I believe I would like to see your work.”

  “Good.” He nodded, turning back to his food as if the topic had never been raised. It was then that I noticed Eddie’s eyes on me, his brow furrowed with a worried look I had not seen before.

  It was as if some aspect of the arrangement had just occurred to him, one of which he was suddenly not so sure. Whatever premonition Eddie had he didn’t share it with me; he didn’t seem to think it was sufficiently important to mention, or maybe he didn’t want to throw cold water on my first job. However h
e didn’t get a chance to speak to me alone and maybe that put him off. Not that I would have changed my mind either; I was fascinated by the Doctor’s description of the craft; and at the back of my mind the cold, nagging fear egged me on.

  “Are the Wrens helicopters?” I asked belatedly, “I don’t somehow link space-capability with rotors.”

  “Normally not; you’re right. But with an inertially-reunified system rotors can be converted into wings when the craft is at a high enough altitude. The craft rides on its ramjets to a point where the atmosphere is thin enough for the rotors to be braked completely and locked into a chevron. It’s a tricky operation at speed but I’ve done it eight or nine times. Once done, the Wren can attain velocities well beyond the speed of sound. Unlocking the rotors can be done at any speed below a thousand knots, or the craft can be landed at speed on any three-mile runway. And the ramjets are sufficiently powerful to accelerate the Wren beyond the jolly old seven-mile-a-second speed limit to break out of the Earth’s gravity-well.”

  “Sounds jolly impressive.” I assured him; though he patently didn’t need any assurance, “But I don’t know how I would cope in control of the craft at forty-thousand-odd miles an hour.”

  “You don’t really have to duck and dive; just head more or less on your trajectory.” Eddie told me; he was a space-veteran, “Up there you’re going too fast to dodge things anyway. It is actually harder to hold a chopper straight and level a yard above the ground on a painted line in a crosswind than it is to get a rocket into its correct orbit. And you don’t have any trouble doing that.” There was a slight hint of envy in his voice and the Colonel looked at him reprovingly; but his words brought that part of the test vividly to mind; how I had held the chopper a yard above the ground, easing it quickly along the three straight sides of a thirty yard triangle, stopping and turning on its axis above each corner. The test had been done to time; and I had taken nearly ninety seconds off the previous record for that class of craft.

  “The Wren is relatively easier to get into the void; its inertialess-system obviates the necessity of falling into orbit.” The Doctor told me cheerfully, “So you can go up at almost any angle and make your approach to re-entry with relatively little regard to most of your laws of rocketry. With the ram-jet the faster you go the more power you have available. No, I don’t really think you will have any problems with the Wrens.”

  He spoke with warmth and pride, his eyes bright upon me, so cheerful and alive. I clench my hands, feeling the cold stone of the heavy rail storm-drenched in the rain before me, hearing the roar of wind and sea, feeling again that terrible, sinking cold that had clutched me then, seeing his enthusiasm and the light of battle in his eyes.

  2. Airfield

  It was still raining heavily when we piled into the car later that afternoon. The fierce blackness of the storm had given way to everlasting grey drear though the rain was solid. The Colonel and I waffled harmlessly in the back while Eddie and the Doctor maintained an almost brooding silence as the car negotiated the slick roads. The Doctor had decided shortly after lunch that he wanted to confirm arrangements with my father; something that I was distinctly in two minds about. I had no idea what my father would think of the good Doctor but I was glad that Dr. Tregont was going to meet him. At least there would be no confusion about my future, the job or anything else; the Doctor was not likely to be anything less than explicitly clear in his explanations. My mother’s reaction I had no qualms about; but my father has always been a difficult man to impress.

  The front door was standing open as the big car swept up; my mother stood framed in the doorway. That was another of her harmless habits when expecting people; the joys of dithering and scuttling up and down were foreign to me; but she seemed to derive some sort of pleasure from it. Dr. Tregont had my door open for me before it occurred to me to open it myself. We darted through the now gentle rain with the Colonel coming slowly behind us.

  I performed introductions and my father shook the Doctor’s hand firmly, listened in silence to the Doctor’s summation of our arrangements then turned to me. He looked carefully at my face, seeming to realise that I had already made up my mind. He took a few moments to digest the full implications.

  “The Doctor says you will simply be looking around and seeing if you’re happy with his organisation, then making up your mind about his offer. Nevertheless you’ve done that already, haven’t you?” His voice was quiet, his tone gentle. I nodded, gathering myself for the plunge. “It’s very challenging. I feel that I will give it my best shot. I have the training, I have the skill; the Doctor has faith in me and has made me a most generous offer. I seem to have found a definite direction in my life. I believe that I will accept the offer.”

  He nodded, turning back to the Doctor. The discussion entered into details such as salary, hours and leave. I didn’t contribute much to the conversation. My father was an astute negotiator; the Doctor readily complied with his suggestions on all points but one. He was adamant that he was not prepared to compromise his security arrangements with too much travel between this house and his airfield. The distance was extreme, his work highly sensitive; I must not expect to return home on even a monthly basis.

  “The work is demanding, but I do not expect you to be on active duty for more than four hours at a time unless you are on a protracted mission. Even at this early stage however I can ensure four pilots per craft on duty. Nonetheless I do not want you relaxing discipline or losing your edge. One month’s leave, three months service; I’m afraid I must insist on this.”

  Although the argument was directed at me, I wasn’t arguing. It was my father who was blustering and insisting without any support from me.

  The Doctor had his reasons and I had suddenly developed an almost blind faith in his ability to solve such problems as that feeling of black fear seemed to indicate were imminent and pressing. My father was clearly not happy with this work arrangement; but without my support he didn’t have all that much ground to work from. He finally gave in with good grace and the conversation turned elsewhere.

  The evening drew to a close, the rain packed itself in; and the good Doctor took his leave. After we had seen the three men off, my father turned to me, a shadow in his green eyes. “Better get packed then, love. They’ll be taking you away in the morning.” I felt the pain; I feel it now, an empty, dull ache that nothing seems to shift. I embraced him; he returned the embrace fiercely.

  “I love you, daddy.”

  “I know, Cassandra; I love you.”

  My mother was already at my wardrobe, “You must take some of your pretty dresses, dear; there’s sure to be some sort of social get-togethers even if it is an airport. And some warm jumpers; I cannot imagine why you insist on wearing those dreary jeans all the time; you won’t be flying all day long, you realise. And what about this pretty skirt?” My mother and I had been arguing about clothes as long as I remember; she did not seem to realise that clothes which suited her petite and tiny frame looked rather odd on my long and lean body.

  Whereas I was swift and graceful I had no yen for flowing garments. This antipathy was doubly reinforced by my training as a pilot. There is simply no space for skirts at the controls of an aircraft.

  It comes back to me now; just before I retired I leaned far out of my window, looking at the star-dusted firmament. The look was compounded of unease and excitement but there was nothing beyond that sable night-scape that caught my attention. The high trailers of cloud drifted wispily across the sky, the moon was nowhere to be seen and the wind had to it a vicious tang of rain and cold.

  I slept well that night, all things considered. I was a solid sleeper as a general rule though sounds that were out of place tended to wake me swiftly. The pace of events at that time had not arrived at a point where they thoroughly unnerved me. The chill draught of pre-dawn mist awoke me fifteen minutes before my clock got round to it. I was clear-headed and alert; my body warm from the duvets and my muscles pleasingly supple. I went th
rough my morning routine swiftly, slapping the clock to silence before it went off. I drifted down the stairs, my jeans and jersey offset by a pair of pink puppy-slippers, dog-eared and worn, of which I was irrationally fond. I drifted into the kitchen, collected Elizabeth’s greeting and a cup of tea amiably then drifted back to my room to attend to my last-minute packing. I remembered to shove my slippers into a corner of my case as I changed into a pair of dark track-shoes.

  Eddie arrived in time for breakfast; the meal was a good hour earlier than normal. It was a silent meal; a gloomy and thoughtful meal in which my mother’s cheerful leavening effect had little impact on conversation. Her observations went largely unanswered though Eddie made the occasional light-hearted reply. He was rather subdued; my father was positively brooding. I was too far away to pay much attention.

  “It’s a lousy day for flying.” My father rumbled, glaring disconsolately out of the window. Nothing but mist was visible though there was enough of that. Eddie looked at the mist as if noticing it for the first time. “Bit of a soup.” He agreed though he made no comments about flying. Both he and I knew this soup to be a low-level fog; that at normal flight-altitude the air would be scalding clear and bright.

  I took my leave from my parents almost formally; partially inhibited by Edward standing politely at the doorway but as much distracted by the fact that it was the first time I had left home for more than the odd weekend. Three months suddenly seemed like a terribly long time. Edward stopped at the Hall to pick up some obscure article that he had forgotten, giving me a chance to greet the Colonel one last time. The old fellow seemed rather dour and sober; some fallout from the previous day’s events had percolated through his thoughts as this sudden melancholia.

  “Look after yourself, Cassandra; keep a good eye on the Doctor; make sure he doesn’t take on more than he can handle. Dashed if I can work out what all the fuss is about, anyway!” He nodded at my assurances before turning away grumpily.