Broken Wing: A million deaths were not enough for Cassandra! Page 7
From about nineteen-sixty the island is referred to as empty; as if anyone cared. Certainly nobody appeared to care; the ships passed or didn’t pass as the mood took them. They loaded a cargo of this or that as the spirit moved, the cargo costing nothing more than the voyage to that desolate spot and a bit of elbow-grease, after all. Black Crag became the more enigmatic for its ability to make the world forget it even existed, which may have suited any number of people; it certainly suited the Doctor. Who it was he had eventually bought that peculiar parcel of real-estate from, I have thus far not discovered. I am not even sure that the island was purchased. As far as the ledge dwellers are concerned, there is nobody to claim ownership of Black Crag. How the Doctor found out about the Crag I am not sure but his notes on the island are certainly extensive. If there is anything he has not looked into it is certainly not referred to in his notes or on file in the memory banks.
Whether or not he found out what happened to the ledge-dwellers in actual fact I do not know but there is one reference in the folklore of that odd group which may have led to a suggestion of the answer. In the last few voyages where trading in some form occurred, the natives appeared to have developed a certain dislike to the island; there were a number of incidents where they tried to purchase passage from its lonely shores and failing that to stow away aboard the unfriendly ships of the time. The reason was rooted in a new and disturbing tale which had been doing the rounds. The gist of the tale was that some sort of large and hungry creature had taken up its abode in one of the lower caves from whence it sallied forth at night with views to augmenting its diet. What the creature was, the tales do not specify, nor do they state in any but the vaguest terms exactly where the creature had come from. The only fact on which the old tales do not disagree is that somehow, somewhere, the creature had been placed there with the view to emptying the island of all people, forever and without let; and the person who had released the creature on the hapless ledge dwellers was none other than the enigmatic Master.
4. Wren
I caught my breath, my eyes still on the Doctor’s face far below. The look of shock in his eyes, the paling of the dark, lean visage as his eyes searched for the person who had spoken.
Then his expression almost magically returned to its enigmatic calm. He had found who had spoken and decided that the statement carried no real significance. His eyes met mine; superficially calm though he was I could feel the electric energy from his glance. He knew, was aware that I almost knew, was deciding how much to say if the matter ever came up. It was then that I first resolved to keep my eyes open, to discover and learn all I could. I resolved to confront him at some stage soon, to ask of the Doctor all that he would be prepared to tell me.
The hubbub in the hall was winding itself down, the pilots were coming back to their senses and their sense was sceptical. They had decided that there was a catch somewhere; Newton’s laws of Thermodynamics, they decided, could not be flouted. In all the Doctor had told them there was a leak. It was not possible to get that much energy out of a measure of something even as volatile as aviation spirit. Anyway what was the Doctor, quite obviously not attached to any government institution, doing with so much nuclear material, what did he think he was up to? A good number of the pilots the Doctor had invited to the lecture were now asking specific questions and their mood was argumentative. The Doctor’s calm and passive mood didn’t settle their minds as this new outburst grew in passion and vigour. Why did the Doctor want a supersonic chopper?
Why had he broken away from the Institute? Who was financing this extravagant setup and what did he want with so many class-A pilots? Was he planning to overthrow…
The questions became wilder and less focussed, leaving the original topic completely behind. Through all of this the Doctor waited, calm and poised, not deigning to answer the flood of almost meaningless words directed at him. He was patently waiting for the pilots to start using their minds, to start behaving in a more or less civilised fashion, to wait their turn and ask intelligent questions. His eyes were roving around the hall, dismissing one face after another; it suddenly seemed to occur to him that he was not going to be able to pick and choose those pilots he would at length employ. As well as that, he realised that whoever he took into his confidence, the rest of the men in the hall may create problems for him at a later date, especially as he was in sole control of this new technology.
Abruptly I reached a decision; it took me a few moments to act on the idea that had occurred to me largely because I was at a loss as to how to proceed. I stood up from my place, pleased and surprised at how quickly the Doctor gave me his attention.
“Ah, Cassandra; you have a question?” He asked quickly; there was a sudden lull in the strife-torn lecture hall at this new focus of his attention.
“Yes, Doctor; I am impressed by what you have shown us here, as I am sure the rest of us are,” I began, competing with the dying buzz of conversation and unruliness in the hall. Surprisingly quickly the rest of the pilots quieted down, giving me the floor. “However, you have not yet broached the matter that caused you to invite us all here; you have told us of your part-solution to a problem that you have not yet explained. As well as that you have not told us how we can be of assistance to you, this is, I am sure, the reason why we were invited here this morning to attend your lecture.”
I left the matter hanging thus for him to answer as he saw fit.
“Yes, well; you are jumping a bit ahead of me with that query but let me see how I can satisfy your curiosity! Obviously the reason why I summoned all of you here today is because I need highly qualified pilots. The Wren project is more or less as I have already explained; the development of supersonic helicopters and a feasibility study into their future application. What I need are pilots willing to test and fly the fleet of craft that I intend putting together. Eventually this base will come under the jurisdiction of the Royal Air Force and will become the first supersonic helicopter wing but all that is a long way in the future yet. At the moment everything is in its initial stages and I am working at getting this fleet off the ground. I would like you to work with me, assist me in making this project work. The project is indirectly financed by the government; I have a no-strings research grant from the War Office, as long as I keep them up-to-date with each new development. I have built the prototype you have seen on the film and beyond that I have assembled, completely from scratch, a comprehensive design and requirements dossier, taking into account every single detail and every requirement that a supersonic craft employing helical rotors requires for safe and efficient operation, employing the unilinear accelerator of which I have spoken. From that dossier, Frank and Bob, my aeronautical engineers, with June and I, have built the prototype of the Wren that is a completely nuclear-powered craft. The Wren has been test-flown at an atmospheric limit of just under five mach, with its sealed reactor core giving the turbine-ram jet twin stages a first stage thrust of ninety-thousand pounds per square inch total and a super-stage output of three-hundred thousand pounds per square inch. The craft is rather larger than the modified twin-jet-ranger but rather more manoeuvrable. Most of the research and technical side has been covered; what I need now is a group of pilots willing to take up their duties immediately, to assist me with the final stages of development.”
His eyes were on the men in the hall; I had sat down and faded into the background. Nonetheless something had broken the thrall he had held over everyone in the hall. Maybe it was his ill-advised mention of the fact that the Wrens were entirely nuclear-powered, or maybe it was the basic reluctance of the men, all of whom knew from rote or experience the fact that rotor blades free on the hub of a helicopter could not withstand the stress of supersonic flight. However his convincing speech somehow lacked that final tiny bit of conviction and the men for the most part had lost interest.
“No, doc,” One fellow said, “I really don’t have the time for this.” He did not mention garbage and mare’s nests; but his tone implied it
. Almost as one a muttering of agreement rippled around the hall as that first fellow lazily uncoiled his length from the comfortable seat, “Thanks for the tea, doc, but I must be on my way.” There was a great getting-to-feet and it seemed as if the hall would empty itself of its own accord.
“I rather expected this.” Jim told me as he got to his feet to see the disaffected men from the hall, from the grounds of the base; out of our lives forever. I saw Paul amongst those migrating outwards; one familiar face in that chaotic maelström of faces. I felt a furious flush on my face, my embarrassment for the Doctor. I turned to look at him, almost ashamed to meet his eye in his moment of defeat.
However his expression was not of desperation or defeat; rather it was one of resignation, as if he had almost expected something of the sort to happen. He did not look too terribly disappointed and I glanced around the hall to see why. The crowd had left, leaving his own people and eight of the pilots. I remember what he had said to me, that he needed nine pilots at the very least; well, with me, he had that. I felt a wave of relief, but that feeling was strangely chill, as if it wasn’t really good news. I looked down at him again. His eyes were on me, his expression warm. I gave him the thumbs-up and he smiled.
So seldom did I see him smile, his face was nearly always serious or at the very least thoughtful, it seemed to take the chill from my heart to see him grin. The buzz of conversation had died down but what the remaining pilots lacked in quantity they made up for in intensity. Each pilot had cornered one of the base personnel and was asking eager questions, nodding intently at the answers elicited. A group of about ten people remained in a clump at the front of the hall, chin-wagging for all they were worth. I saw James and Bernhart in that earnest group, Bernhart intent, Jimmy triumphant. ‘I told you so’ was written all over his face and his voice was cheerful and penetrating, “Like I said earlier, all we need is the right approach to the old chopper itself and Bob’s yeruncle. And here’s the jolly old doc, stirring in a bit of cunning and plutonium hellfire with leather belts and a bit of whizz-bang and whadyer have? Isn’t it I told you so?”
He beamed impartially around him, his ingenious expression an almost irresistible invitation to the outliers in the lecture hall to join the little group, “And here’s Bob himself, designer of whadyer call it, the Wren, looking smug and handsome.” Jimmy patted Bob on the shoulder in a brotherly way. June stood up beside me as the others in the hall migrated down to the front tiers. I stood up with her as Jim came back into the hall, shutting the doors behind him.
“Ho, doc,” He called, “The sticklers in the mud are all on their way home. What’s the score this end; I make it nine or ten or somewhere thereabouts?”
“Nine is right.” The Doctor replied calmly, “However Cassandra ought to count for two, don’t you think?” His words raised a chuckle as Jim escorted June and me politely to the front of the hall.
“Good old Cassie.” Bernhart remarked, staring rather too intently at me as I sat myself down a good long distance away from him. I did not bother to meet his glance; ‘Cassie’ being one of the variations of my name of which I am not particularly fond.
“Good, do get yourselves comfortable; now we can get down to business, now that we’re all here.” The Doctor became almost affable; his cheerful bonhomie up-welling now that what must have been a painful experience was behind him. He was obviously content with the nine pilots which had elected to remain with him, or had decided to put a good face on a bad deal.
“Now people, I must explain that I told you a few fibs earlier, anticipating that your numbers would be thus diminished. So let me put them right straight away. Firstly there is no more research or testing to be done. The prototype has been thoroughly tested and the fleet has been made. There are five Wrens, all more or less the same, all ready to fly. As I explained to Cassandra yesterday, they are rather more than simple super-choppers; they are all space-capable, with a complete system of life-support and radiation screening.” He turned away from us, back to the screen behind him. The hall lights dimmed again and an image formed on the screen.
As familiar as I have become with the sleek, powerful shape of the Wren, that first view of the Doctor’s ‘super-chopper’ sticks in my mind. The craft is low and long in appearance, the rotors rather shorter than the blades of conventional craft. The rotors are twin, stubby and wide at the base, the broad edge much broader than in any other craft I have seen or flown. The body of the craft is wide and low, the fuselage moulded into a broad wing-surface, the undercarriage retractable. The front view that we were first presented with showed the double intakes of the formidable nuclear turbines, the forward stage less than a third of the width of the secondary intakes. The gleam of the idling turbine blades, the silver of the craft’s body, the wide hub flush against the roof of the craft.
The hub is a sealed unit designed solely to support the rotors against the hellish power of the slipstream it was to be exposed to as an almost regular thing. The windscreens were set back at a very low profile, the two panels flush-glazed and moulded to the rakish lines of the craft. The view panned around the craft, showing the long, sweeping lines of the craft, the height and depth of the cabin showing that the craft had a generous interior space. The moulding of the jet and ramjet, the low and wide exhaust nozzles, the long tail with the sweeping tail planes and rudder were sleekly moulded into flowing extensions of each other. The anti-torque rotor was smaller than I expected, but geared to a higher ratio than the main rotors.
The tail planes and rudders had flaps to guide the craft at high speeds, the ailerons and rudders minute in first appearances, but totally effective. There were other exhaust nozzles, carefully shielded and small, to aid the craft once it was in space. Nevertheless there was something more to the craft than speed, something suggested by its sleek lines as more than just an incredible pace. It had an aura of tangible power; as if the Wren was in actual fact a war machine. The economy of lines, the solid, almost heavy appearance of the craft, the bright metal of its hull so obviously not paper-thin, the curious, lively glints of glass-like rivets, like eyes looking intelligently from the depths of the craft.
“My God,” A voice breathed from somewhere close behind me, “She’s a looker and a half.” Jimmy-boy was looking at the screen reverently, his keen blue eyes taking in the details of the powerful craft.
“Mach five, you say, doc? She certainly looks the part.” Another voice told him, “But you need a bit more than that to bust out of the gravity well.”
“Point her nose up, set the rotors into a chevron and let loose with the juice,” Roger said cheerfully, “And her top speed in atmosphere is forty-five thousand miles an hour, about thirteen miles a second. That’s twice the escape velocity. Out there she can really trot along, not being hindered by normal inertia-momentum considerations. We haven’t tried her to her ultimate top speed, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she eventually got to a good percentage of the old C-factor.”
“And that,” The Doctor informed us, “Is HX-PROTO-I-WREN, the one of five fastest choppers in existence. We’ll be having a look at the fleet in the morning; the rest of today we’ll spend getting settled down and familiar with the routine of the base. But for now it is enough that we have a little talk then adjourn for lunch.”
A new view of the Wren appeared on the screen, one lending the silver craft with a new and faster appearance whilst yet it was earthbound and stationary. It took me a moment to spot the difference. The twin rotors that were a moment before opposing one another, were now both aligned with the broad-edge facing forwards and the two blades were aligned in a sweeping chevron, the angle between them about one-hundred and twenty degrees.
“Wing-wrack.” The Doctor said blithely, “The high-speed configuration of the craft. Entirely an automatic procedure, usually accomplished at high altitude where the atmosphere is thin enough for the craft to be supported on its jets and for the rotors to be braked completely. With the inertia-unifying force, this is relative
ly easy to accomplish, as the mass of the craft, therefore the resistance given, is very low, tending towards zero real mass. The total operation takes about eighteen seconds to accomplish, once the conditions are favourable. The starboard side of the disc is locked with the starboard rotor in its correct final position, then the port rotor, using wind pressure in a flight circumstance, simply folds down and swivels sixty degrees within the hub, locking itself into position. When the wing-wrack is released, the starboard rotor is powered forwards; the port is brought into the slipstream. The wind pressure is used to reverse the previous procedure, and the two blades are locked at the old one-eighty degree position.” He was looking at the screen which was following his discourse obediently, showing side, front and upper side views, with a top view showing the chevron, the straight line, and the deft movement interchanging the two positions. He carried on with his lecture, pointing out various details with the searing red dot of his laser pointer.
The sweep of the rotors in the chevron position leads me to realise that they had been designed for that position, not for the conventional position. In the chevron, the broad base, the gradual taper to the hook-edged outer end, the sweep of the rotor’s leading edge, that slightest of gentle curves, gave the two winglets an ideal supersonic configuration. Certainly the Doctor’s aeronautical engineers had a clear and broad talent. I, for one, wouldn’t have known where to begin.
Now that the sceptics had removed themselves the Doctor let his hair down in a big way. He told us all about the work involved in designing the Wrens, the choice of materials finally to build the craft, almost everything. Even at that late stage he did not mention one of the most basic things; why he had put himself to all this trouble. The superficial reasons, the challenge of the task, the needs of science, the glory of a royal appointment sure to come his way; those reasons were enough for all the other pilots. But I clearly saw that these matters didn’t really mean all that much to him, even the deep and commanding demands of progress in science was not goad enough to call the Doctor to this final effort. He had something else on his mind; that I saw.