Day of the Cheetah

  to be cooled with liquid nitrogen at two hundred seventy-five

  degrees below zero.

  In the center of the three -story chamber, dwarfed by massive

  banks of electronics gear and environmental system ducts, was

  an F- 15 single-seat fighter simulator. It had none of the advanced

  multi-function displays and laser-projection devices of Chee-

  tah-it still used ordinary electric artificial horizons and pneu-

  matically driven altimeters and tum-and-slip indicators, and most

  of those were barely functioning. The ejection seat was an old

  Mark Five "Iron Maiden--type seat from the early 1980s, stiff,

  straight-backed, and uncomfortable, its special anti-G padding

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 107

  and shoulder harnesses having been cannibalized for spare parts

  long ago.

  Patrick was not secured in that ejection seat, but neither was

  he free to move. He was wearing an early non-cushion version

  of Ken James' metallic-thread flight suit. It was far more bulky

  than the actual operational model, with thick fiber-optic bundles

  interwoven all around the suit, circuit boxes attached to every

  conceivable inconvenient point on Patrick's body, and, unlike

  James' suit, this experimental model had no integrated cooling

  systems built into it. Icy blasts of cold air were directed on

  Patrick to help keep him cool, and when the skin's resistance

  was completely unbalanced by sweat and vascular dilation on

  account of the extreme temperatures inside the suit, the session

  would be ended.

  "I've been trying out this system for a few months now,"

  Patrick said. "My brainwaves or whatever they are .

  "Theta signal threshold complex."

  "Yeah, right. Anyway, they should start working, shouldn't

  they? I I

  Carmichael shook his head. "If it was that easy, we'd have a

  squadron of ANTARES pilots now. We don't fully understand

  how ANTARES works, how the neural interface is achieved.

  We can get it to work but we're not sure, for example, why it

  works with James and nominally for you and and not for

  anyone else. We're getting closer to the answer but it'll still take

  some time."

  "What is it with James?" Patrick asked. "I can't mentally

  control an itch on the back of my neck. He can control a two

  million dollar fighter at Mach one."

  Carmichael ran a hand up his forehead and across the top of

  his bald head-even though it was the style of the mid- 1990s for

  some men to have a shaved head, Carmichael came by his nat-

  urally, involuntarily. "The sheer strength of his mind is enor-

  mous. The ANTARES interface is another addition to his mental

  gymnasium, so to speak. He's strengthened by it every time he

  uses it. We're learning a lot from him."

  "But he's not any smarter than anyone else at HAWC."

  "I'm not talking about intelligence . . . stop squirming.

  Carmichael motioned to one of his assistants, who ran a cool

  towel over Patrick's sweaty face. "He's quite intelligent-an

  I. of well over one-fifty. But what counts more is that his

  108 DALE BROWN

  mind is fluid, adaptable, agile. Are you at all familiar with taek-

  wondo, Patrick? "

  "Taekwondo? You mean martial arts?"

  Carmichael nodded as he scanned an instrument panel beside

  the simulator. "A special form of the martial arts that combines

  karate, kung fu and judo-James happens to be a black belt in

  taekwondo, by the way . . . did you know that? Almost made

  our Olympic taekwondo team. It's not an offensive, attack-style

  of fighting. In taekwondo the attacker is allowed to engage-as

  a matter of fact, there are few moves in taekwondo that can be

  perforrned unless in response to an attack."

  "Get to the point, Alan."

  "The point is, James' mind works much the same way as the

  taekwondo style of combat. He allows the flood of information

  created by ANTARES to invade him. He opens up his mind to

  it-exactly the opposite of the normal reaction to such an inva-

  sion. Most of us build barriers against such an onslaught-James

  allows it to move in, even expand. But he doesn't surrender to

  the information that bombards him. Once ANTARES unlocks

  the inner recesses of the mind, the ones we have no conscious

  access to, he's somehow able to reassert his conscious will. At

  first it's little more than gentle mental nudges, but then he's able

  to control ANTARES, steer the mass of information his way.

  it's the mental equivalent of a single tree changing the course of

  a raging river."

  "You're talking in riddles."

  "For a good reason." Carmichael's features turned stony.

  "I've already said there's a lot we don't understand about AN-

  TARES. We're tinkering with this technology before it's fully

  understood, but neither of us has the authority to stop it. I just

  hope I can learn enough before some disaster happens."

  He studied McLanahan. "That was meant as a disclaimer,

  Patrick. You've been strapping this stuff on a few times a month

  now, probably with faith in me and all this high-tech government

  equipment. We use it because it works. Period. We don't know

  why it works, and so we won't know what happened if some-

  thing goes wrong." He picked up a very large, bulky helmet

  with all sorts of cables and wire bundles leading to the banks of

  computers below. It was a much larger version of the AN-

  TARES flight helmet, obviously not designed for flight-its

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 109

  wearer would be completely immobilized by its sheer size and

  bulk. "Still want to subject yourself to this, Colonel?"

  Patrick shrugged. "Here's where I'm supposed to say 'I regret

  I had only one brain to give to my country.........

  "You're the project director, it's not your job .

  'It's not my job.' That's the most over-used and annoying

  phrase in the Air Force." Patrick stopped, looking at the men-

  acing ANTARES helmet as if it was some medieval torture de-

  vice, then nodded. "I need to know how it works. I need to

  understand what it does to the pilots that I'll order to wear this

  thing. Let's do it."

  Carmichael and an assistant proceeded to lower the heavy hel-

  met onto Patrick's shoulders and fasten it in place.

  The helmet was very tight arfd heavy. Once attached to the

  clavicle ring on his flight suit the device pressed down on his

  breastbone and shoulders like a heavy yoke. The superconduct-

  ing antennae pressed unmercifully on several spots on his head

  and neck, corresponding to the seven areas of the brain that were

  constantly being scanned and measured by the ANTARES. There

  was a smoked glass visor in the helmet, but Patrick could barely

  see anything outside. The thick rubber oxygen mask that en-

  closed his mouth and chin was hot and almost suffocating.

  After a few seconds, Patrick could hear the faint click as the tiny

  headphone in his helmet was activated. "Patrick? All set in there?"

  "Check the oxygen flow. I'm not getting any air."

  "You've got a
good blinker and all switches are set," Car-

  michael replied. Just then Patrick's oxygen mask received a

  steady flow of cold, dry air. "I gave you a shot of oxygen. I

  can't give you too much or you could hyperventilate. Try to

  relax. Start anytime you're ready."

  Patrick sat back in the hard ejection seat and began the relax-

  ation routine taught to him by Carmichael over a year earlier

  when he'd first begun experimenting with an ANTARES trainer.

  He began the familiar process, letting the spurts of pure oxygen

  in his mask slow his breathing and force the tension from his

  body. In his case it was his toes and calves that seemed to be

  perpetually clenched, like a swimmer on the starting block, as

  if he was always trying to grip onto something. It was refreshing

  to feel how good his feet felt after forcing them to relax.

  Slowly, he worked his way up his body, ordering each muscle

  group to relax. One by one he managed to relax his body parts,

  110 DALE BROWN

  letting the stiffness of the metallic flight suit support him in the

  ejection seat. He knew he'd have to reexamine his leg muscles

  now and then, but after dozens of these sessions his relaxation

  technique was getting much better.

  "Very good," he heard Carmichael say, "much better. Min-

  imal beta activity. Very steady alpha complex."

  "It seemed to go easier this time," Patrick said. "How long

  did it take? "

  "You did pretty well, only one hundred and thirty minutes

  this time. "

  "Over two hours . . . ?

  "Easy, easy, maintain your alpha level

  Patrick fought to regain his body-relaxation state, despite his

  sudden confusion and disorientation. "I thought I was getting

  better, it seemed like just a few minutes."

  "A good sign. You enter a state of altered consciousness,

  much like hypnosis but more so. Losing track of time is a good

  sign-if you had said it took two hours it would mean your mind

  is still focused on external events like time-"

  And then he felt it, a tiny jolt of electricity shooting through

  his body. It was like diving into an ice-jo-ld pool of water-the

  jolt didn't start or stop anywhere in particular but it shocked his

  entire body all at once. It was not totally uncomfortable, just

  unexpected-more attention-getting than painful, like a mild

  static electricity shock. His body jerked at the first jolt, and he

  fought to relax his body again. Surprisingly, he found it much

  easier to relax this time.

  "Just relax, Patrick." Carmichael sounded as if he was call-

  ing from the bottom of a deep well. "You're coming along fine.

  Relax, Patrick . . . "

  Another jolt of electricity, harder and deeper this time, cre-

  ating a shower of sparks before his eyes. There was real pain

  this time, completely different from the first. Patrick remem-

  bered the three deadman's switches rigged to the seat-one on

  each hand and one on the back of his helmet, where all he had

  to do was release his grip on the handles or move his head in

  any direction and the power to the simulator box would imme-

  diately cut off. The electricity was still there, still intense

  all he had to do was hold on long enough to command his hands

  to move . . .

  "Remember tackwondo, Patrick," he heard a voice from no-

  VP__

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH ill

  where say. "Allow the fight to come to you. Accept it. Be pre-

  pared to channel it."

  Another surge of energy, powerful enough to make Patrick

  gasp aloud in his mask. There was a brief shot of oxygen, but

  now it felt blasting hot, like opening an oven door . . .

  "Don't fight the energy. Relax

  "The pain..... I can't stand it .

  "Relax..... regain theta-alpha.

  Another intense wave of electricity, and he involuntarily

  grunted against the pain. The shimmering wall of stars washed

  over him-but they were different this time. The lights remained,

  and amidst ever-growing jabs of pain throughout his body the

  stars began to coalesce into images. Faint, blurred, unreadable-

  but they were not just random stars. Something was forming . - .

  Here was finally something to latch onto, to grasp and hold

  firm, for no other reason than to preserve his sanity and keep

  from screaming out in terror and pain. When the pain increased

  in severity, Patrick let it hit him head-on, enduring it long enough

  just so he could reexamine the sparks of pain floating in his

  mind's eye and form another concrete mental image.

  He was experiencing what James already'knew and had gone

  through . . . His whole body was on fire. The pain was contin-

  uous, but so were the sheets of light-and they were definitely

  taking shape. Flashes of numbers, some logical, others unintel-

  ligible, zipped back and forth in his subconscious mind. The

  images were beginning to organize themselves-there was now

  a sort of horizontal split-screen effect, with darkness above the

  new horizon and floating, speeding numbers and polyhedrons

  below. He could hear short snaps of sound, like a stereo receiver

  or short-wave radio gone haywire.

  The sounds were the key - Patrick now began to concentrate

  against the pain, channeling it along with the confusion, trying

  to slow the jumble of numbers and letters and shapes into one

  positive, concrete form. With each push in the desired direction,

  ANTARES would give him a burst of pain for his trouble. But

  the pain didn't matter any more. There was an objective now, a

  goal to reach, if a childishly simple one . . . three letters-A,

  B, JC.-and one device-the simulator's intercom.

  The letters were becoming as large as the lower half of the

  split screen, but they were finally becoming solid, aligning them-

  112 DALE BROWN

  selves beneath the blackness. Soon they remained steady, and

  even began to slide away from the center toward the-

  Patrick?

  The voice was like a distant, relaxing whisper, like a church

  bell off in the distance, like the friendly toot of a boat horn on

  the Sacramento River back home. "Powell?"

  "Welcome back, boss. Have a nice trip?"

  "Not sure. I've got a lot of pain. Dr. Carmichael?"

  "Right here."

  "How long did it take this time?"

  "You tell me."

  Patrick tried to remember back through the interfacing period,

  through the waves of rolling pain, through the fleeing mental

  images. "I felt out of control, it must've taken another hour."

  " Try nine seconds," JC. Powell said.

  "Nine seconds?"

  "Nine seconds on the dot from the moment you went into

  theta-alpha, " Carmichael said happily. "Even faster than Ken's

  ever done it, although he doesn't take two hours to get to theta-

  alpha.

  Patrick tried to turn his head, but found it impossible-it wds

  as if two red-hot hands held his head cemented into place. "How

  can anyone function with all this pain? I feel like I'm being

  microwaved, I can't move a muscle."


  "All I can say is that Ken James is different. He's also been

  using the ANTARES system for a long time. Don't focus on the

  pain, and don't worry about being able to move around. Relax

  and try to enjoy the ride."

  A moment later, Carmichael clicked the intercom back on.

  "We've repositioned the simulator at thirty-five thousand feet

  and five hundred knots. Take the aircraft when you're ready,

  Colonel."

  Patrick concentrated as hard as he could on the image of the

  instrument panel. He had managed to slide the image of the

  intercom channel off to the left, but the rest of the panel was

  blank. Like a television screen with nothing but snow across it.

  Okay. Aircraft attitude was important. Maintain control. Keep

  the airplane flying.

  Instantly an oval drew itself on the upper half of the cockpit

  image. It was sitting horizontal across the windscreen, a deep

  white line bisecting it, forming a horizon. In the exact center of

  the oval was a wide T, representing the aircraft.

  "Release me," McLanahan said.

  The T jumped up and to the right just as Carmichael said,

  "You're moving."

  Patrick concentrated on keeping the T in the center of the

  oval. Slowly the T moved back in the center.

  "Good start at least, now where the hell am I going?"

  The oval disappeared, replaced by the image of a long rib-

  bonlike street on the upper portion of the screen. The street was

  straight for a distance, but Patrick could see a few gentle twists

  and turns in the distance. At the bottom of the screen was a tiny

  picture of a jet fighter plane-it appeared to be resting right on

  the road.

  "Hey, I've got the flight-plan depiction."

  "Good," Carmichael said. "That's a major flight image. Fol-

  low it as long as you can. How's the headache?"

  "It went to splitting migraine long ago, Doc, but as long as

  I keep my mind off the pain it'll be okay."

  Keeping the simulator flying upright was more difficult with-

  out the artificial horizon, but no amount of mental effort would

  bring it back, so Patrick used the visual cues on the road itself-

  the recommended altitude was to surface on the road itself, which