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Authors: Sky Masters (v1.1)
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response would be seen
as provocative, and we have no way of winning any conflict with the People’s
Liberation Navy. We would gain nothing . . .”
“Always the general, eh, Samar ?” Teguina asked derisively. He turned away
from him to the President. “I agree with General Santos. We have a navy,
however small—I say to send them to protect our interests in the Spratlys. We
have an obligation to our people to do nothing short of that.”
Arturo Mikaso looked at each of his
advisers in turn and nodded in agreement. Little did he realize the
extraordinary chain of events he was about to set into motion with that slight
nod of his head.
2
Over New Mexico, 100 miles
south of Albuquerque
June 1994, 0745 hours local
With his boyish face, long, gangly
arms and legs, his baseball cap, and his thirty-two-ounce squeeze bottle of
Pepsi-Cola— he drank five such bottles a day yet was still as skinny as a
rail—Jonathan Colin Masters resembled a kid at a Saturday afternoon ball game.
He had bright-green eyes and short brown hair—luckily, the baseball cap hid
Masters’ hair, or else his stubborn cowlicks would have made him appear even
younger, almost adolescent, to the range officers and technicians standing
nearby.
Masters, his assistants and
technicians, and a handful of Air Force and Defense Advanced Research and
Projects Agency (DARPA) officials were on board a converted DC-airliner,
forty-five thousand feet over the White Sands Missile Test Range in
south-central New Mexico. Unlike the military and Pentagon officials, who were
poring over checklists, notes, and schematics, Masters had his feet up on a
raised track in the cargo section of the massive airliner, sipping his cola and
smiling like a kid who was at the circus for the first time.
“The winds are kicking up again,
Doctor Masters,” U.S. Air Force Colonel Ralph Foch said to Masters, his voice
one of concern. .
Masters wordlessly tipped his soda
bottle at the Air Force range safety officer and reached to his control
console, punched in instructions to the computer, and studied the screen.
“Carrier aircraft has compensated for the winds, and ALARM has acknowledged the
change,” Masters reported. “We got it covered, Ralph.”
Colonel Ralph Foch wasn’t mollified,
and being called “Ralph” by a man—no, a kid—twenty years his junior didn’t
help. “The one-hundred-millibar wind patterns are approaching the second-stage
‘Q’ limits, Doctor, ” Foch said
irritably. “That’s the third increase over the forecast we’ve seen in the past
two hours. We should consider aborting the flight.”
Masters glanced over his shoulder at
Foch and smiled a dimpled, toothy smile. “ALARM compensated OK, Ralph,” Masters
repeated. “No need to abort.”
“But we’re on the edge of the
envelope as it is,” Colonel Foch reminded him.
“The edge of your envelope, Ralph,” Masters said. He got to his feet, walked a
few steps aft, and patted the nose of a huge, torpedo-shaped object sitting on
its launch rail. “You established your flight parameters based on data I
provided, and you naturally made your parameters more restrictive. ALARM here
knows its limits and it still says go. So we go.” “Doctor Masters, as the range
safety officer I’m here to insure a safe launch for both the ground and the air
crews. My parameters are established to—”
“Colonel Foch, if you want to abort
the mission, say the word,” Masters said calmly, barely suppressing a casual
burp. “The Navy doesn’t get their relay hookup satellites on the air until
tomorrow, you can spend the night at the Blytheville , Arkansas , Holiday Inn again, and I can
as provocative, and we have no way of winning any conflict with the People’s
Liberation Navy. We would gain nothing . . .”
“Always the general, eh, Samar ?” Teguina asked derisively. He turned away
from him to the President. “I agree with General Santos. We have a navy,
however small—I say to send them to protect our interests in the Spratlys. We
have an obligation to our people to do nothing short of that.”
Arturo Mikaso looked at each of his
advisers in turn and nodded in agreement. Little did he realize the
extraordinary chain of events he was about to set into motion with that slight
nod of his head.
2
Over New Mexico, 100 miles
south of Albuquerque
June 1994, 0745 hours local
With his boyish face, long, gangly
arms and legs, his baseball cap, and his thirty-two-ounce squeeze bottle of
Pepsi-Cola— he drank five such bottles a day yet was still as skinny as a
rail—Jonathan Colin Masters resembled a kid at a Saturday afternoon ball game.
He had bright-green eyes and short brown hair—luckily, the baseball cap hid
Masters’ hair, or else his stubborn cowlicks would have made him appear even
younger, almost adolescent, to the range officers and technicians standing
nearby.
Masters, his assistants and
technicians, and a handful of Air Force and Defense Advanced Research and
Projects Agency (DARPA) officials were on board a converted DC-airliner,
forty-five thousand feet over the White Sands Missile Test Range in
south-central New Mexico. Unlike the military and Pentagon officials, who were
poring over checklists, notes, and schematics, Masters had his feet up on a
raised track in the cargo section of the massive airliner, sipping his cola and
smiling like a kid who was at the circus for the first time.
“The winds are kicking up again,
Doctor Masters,” U.S. Air Force Colonel Ralph Foch said to Masters, his voice
one of concern. .
Masters wordlessly tipped his soda
bottle at the Air Force range safety officer and reached to his control
console, punched in instructions to the computer, and studied the screen.
“Carrier aircraft has compensated for the winds, and ALARM has acknowledged the
change,” Masters reported. “We got it covered, Ralph.”
Colonel Ralph Foch wasn’t mollified,
and being called “Ralph” by a man—no, a kid—twenty years his junior didn’t
help. “The one-hundred-millibar wind patterns are approaching the second-stage
‘Q’ limits, Doctor, ” Foch said
irritably. “That’s the third increase over the forecast we’ve seen in the past
two hours. We should consider aborting the flight.”
Masters glanced over his shoulder at
Foch and smiled a dimpled, toothy smile. “ALARM compensated OK, Ralph,” Masters
repeated. “No need to abort.”
“But we’re on the edge of the
envelope as it is,” Colonel Foch reminded him.
“The edge of your envelope, Ralph,” Masters said. He got to his feet, walked a
few steps aft, and patted the nose of a huge, torpedo-shaped object sitting on
its launch rail. “You established your flight parameters based on data I
provided, and you naturally made your parameters more restrictive. ALARM here
knows its limits and it still says go. So we go.” “Doctor Masters, as the range
safety officer I’m here to insure a safe launch for both the ground and the air
crews. My parameters are established to—”
“Colonel Foch, if you want to abort
the mission, say the word,” Masters said calmly, barely suppressing a casual
burp. “The Navy doesn’t get their relay hookup satellites on the air until
tomorrow, you can spend the night at the Blytheville , Arkansas , Holiday Inn again, and I can
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