Cyborg, page 15
For the next hour they studied films that depicted an exhaustive variety of grueling performances. They watched Steve racing with tremendous power and agility through obstacle courses. Approaching high walls he ignored knotted ropes and hurled himself against the wall, his legs pistoning him high enough to reach the top with his hands. "Notice how he favors his bionics arm when brute strength is required," Wells told the others. "His legs take the initial requirement, he grasps with his left arm, the bionics limb, balances with his right, and then pumps himself over with the bionics arm. It's really quite something."
The scene changed to a large swimming pool. "You'll notice," Wells said, "that where the swimming begins without a hard dive, Steve is being beaten, not by much, but still he is being beaten by some excellent swimmers. In the short dash performance he is on their level but no better. Where a dive is involved, well, look for yourself. He is twenty feet along his channel before he hits the water and he already has so much speed…" No need to elaborate further. Balanced on the edge of the pool, Steve's legs shot him forward in a long, flat, hard dive. He hit the water with a hard, flat splash, and disappeared at once behind a churning explosion in the water. "His legs, of course," Wells said with a smile. "He's like a propeller. Once he gets going, well, the other men refused to compete any more."
The scene shifted to a lake, and they watched an outboard cruiser moving steadily toward the camera. To its right the water foamed steadily. "The boat is coming toward us, as you can see. That churning effect to its side is Steve Austin. He's wearing webbed fins. With those tireless legs of his, well, again you can see for yourselves." The boat and Steve rushed toward the camera lens, expanded in a sudden rush of spray, and were gone.
"There is one more water test, gentlemen. In this scene you will see a closeup of the interior left thigh, just above the knee. Notice how an access panel in the bionics limb comes loose. There, that's a good closeup, and you can see Steve extracting the oxygen tube."
"I didn't know about this," Goldman said.
"One of our surprises," Dr. Killian answered. "Within the limb we managed to leave room for a curving cylinder. It contains oxygen under very high pressure, and we have worked out the system to either constant flow or demand."
Wells glanced at Goldman who was leaning forward, his expression intent, watching Steve uncoil the thin line. He placed the grip between his teeth, closed his mouth firmly, and slipped beneath the water. "Please notice the timer," Wells said after several seconds had gone by. "We will cut the film here except for several underwater scenes." They watched Steve swimming leisurely beneath the surface and then the camera cut back to the timer.
"Twenty-five minutes," Wells announced. The rest was obvious. A man had just remained underwater, swimming, for nearly a half hour with an oxygen supply contained within his own person. Wells could almost hear the wheels turning inside Goldman's head.
The OSO man turned to Killian. "Do you have any other surprises like that one, Doctor?"
Killian toyed with a pencil. "Several, Mr. Goldman."
They waited in semidarkness as the projectionist changed the film. "We have been running a series of tests," Wells said to pick up the theme, "for resistance to shock loads." As he spoke the screen came alive and they found themselves looking at a parachute training tower. "We consider this to be one of the more revealing. Notice the figures at the top ramp of the tower. The first man to go off on the cable, which, by the way, simulates the opening shock of a parachute of a man leaving a C-130 transport at a true airspeed of one hundred twenty miles an hour, will be an instructor. We obtained full loads from his drop and chute opening, after which—you can see the first man jumping here—after which," he went on, "Steve will make the second jump. There was some concern here about the legs being able to take the deceleration." They watched Steve pause a dozen paces back, then start out at a run for the edge of the platform, where he threw himself outward. His body twisted, then pulled sharply as the static line drew taut. A moment later came the simulated chute opening, and Steve's body snapped to one side and upward. He slid down the guide cable toward the ground.
"The landing impact is the same as that for a parachute," Wells explained. "Note Steve's position. He is executing a perfect PLF, or parachute landing fall, as is prescribed." Steve's legs were together, his knees barely flexed when he struck the ground. He immediately allowed his body to bend in the direction of his fall, and crumpled perfectly to the ground, springing to his feet a moment later.
"The next jump speaks for itself," Wells said. Steve came off the tower again, went through the opening shock, but this time, instead of executing his landing fall, he hit hard on both feet and remained standing. "There was some minor damage," Wells told the others. "We hadn't prepared for such severe loads or this sort of activity. I'm pleased to say that several days after these films were taken, Steve repeated these jumps with a forty-pound backpack and still landed on, and remained on, his feet. A meticulous examination of his system indicated no injury or damage."
They watched the films of Steve in the huge climatic hangar at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. There Steve was subjected to bitter cold, down to seventy degrees below zero. Outfitted in arctic gear, he plodded for hours in the teeth of howling winds, fierce blizzards, and fought his way over icy hummocks. He was next seen in a tropical setting, the temperature at one hundred and thirty, perspiring profusely, hacking his way through thick jungle vegetation. From here he went on to desert conditions and, once again, endured the severe privations of the climatic extremes.
"It was important to associate Steve with the surroundings in which he has spent so many years," Wells explained as they waited for another reel. "You will see him in a Link trainer that simulates instrument flight, that reproduces almost perfectly the conditions of flying without reference to a visual horizon. This calls for excellent coordination, and not the least of his problems are, of course, sustaining depth perception with only one eye. But other men have managed it, including some rather outstanding fighter aces in the Second World War." The screen flickered and they studied Steve in the trainer, sealed from the outside world, "flying" as if his life depended upon his performance. For a while the coordination was sloppy and even ineffective. But only for a while. Steve's system and his mind compensated rapidly. "Within forty-five minutes," said Wells, "he was handling the instrument trainer with virtually his former skill. You will next see a test carried out in an Air Force JC-135, a modified 707 for zero-g training. Steve trained in such an aircraft before his moon flight, as you may know. We were able to achieve nearly sixty seconds of uninterrupted weightlessness for each parabolic arc of the flight path…" And there was Steve again, lifting weightlessly through the cabin with attendants watching every move.
"One would be inclined to believe," Wells continued, "that Steve was even more at home under weightlessness than he is under normal gravity."
"I'd say the same thing for his performance in the water," observed Oscar Goldman.
They met later in Killian's office. Oscar Goldman wasted no time getting into the subject. "I know you have anticipated Austin's moods. That seems to be the best word for it. But this latest phase," Goldman shook his head, "amounts to a positive withdrawal. He hardly speaks to anyone or works with them—'
"That's not true," Wells broke in. "He works with anyone necessary to his testing."
"Yes, testing," Goldman agreed, "but there's no personal relationship. Except, perhaps, with you and Miss Manners. But not with anyone else. What's causing this? We feel this is absolutely vital, Dr. Wells. If our program is to succeed then we must—"
"Mr. Goldman," Killian interrupted, "your program, I must remind you, is secondary to this project. Even you will agree with this? No, please let me finish. I know you have done everything possible not to interfere. I've told you before, and I'm pleased to repeat it now, that you have been, well, based on my experience in government, Mr. Goldman, you have been extraordinary in your conduct. But you seem to be pressing more than usual. Why?"
Goldman nodded slowly. "In my business, Dr. Killian, the weakest point in any link is never the equipment used by a man, but that man himself."
Killian studied Goldman carefully. "I gather you have specific plans for Austin?"
"I would be foolish to lie, wouldn't I?" Goldman said bluntly. "Of course we do. But those plans, and they are most specific, are worthless without the cooperation, without the desire to work fully with us, of the man. And Steve Austin right now," he said, "acts like a man who would rather go off in a corner and sulk. Dammit, I hate to say that, but it's true. What's gone wrong with him?" He turned to Rudy Wells. "I've heard your theories on this, Dr. Wells, and up to a point I agree completely. The matter of fighting his way out of a morass, and then not knowing quite what to do with himself when he wins. But even that doesn't account for this present…"
Goldman turned to Jean Manners. "Next to Dr. Wells, you are closer to him than any other person. Can you help us?"
"We've discussed it, I mean, among ourselves," she said. "I've talked about it with Dr. Wells. I've also talked about this with Kathy. That's Miss Morris."
"Yes, I know," Goldman said. "Please go on."
"It's that he doesn't feel he's a complete man. You must know that Steve believes he's impotent. Kathy is in love with him and he completely ignores her. It's not the disfigurement, any more. This used to bother him. Now he considers himself as much machine as he does man. That's all right in a masculine world, when he's with men, among men, competing or working with them. But when it comes to women…" She shook her head.
Goldman turned to Wells. "Is there a problem in the physical sense?"
"Absolutely none. And Steve is fond of that girl. Much more than anyone realizes, including himself. He's afraid of being rejected, Oscar," Wells said. "He's so afraid of rejection because of his half-man and half-machine condition that he doesn't dare expose himself to the possibility of a woman turning away from him. So he has only one person left to fight. Himself."
"Are you saying that he pities himself?"
"In a harsh and rather brutal manner, yes."
"Any suggestions?"
"Yes, get him back into the element he misses most of all. The sky. Get him back into a cockpit. Turn him loose in a jet fighter. Let him—"
"Isn't that taking an awful risk?"
"What do you want, Mr. Goldman? A psychological wreck or a whole man? Steve's entire life has been flying. He does not believe, at this point, that he will ever fly again, which is to say, be himself. Let him fly again, and he will whip this thing."
"All right," Goldman nodded. "I'll make the arrangements."
"And if what Dr. Wells says is true, and I believe it is," Jean said, "arrange for Kathy to be with him when it happens."
CHAPTER 15
"WHEREVER DID you dig her up?" Major Marv Throneberry leaned far to the side of his chair, following as long as possible the departing view of Kathy Morris.
"Will you simmer down, Marv?"
"Okay, okay." Throneberry held out his hands, palms facing Steve. "I'll behave." The smile faded from his face and he studied the other man. "Time to be serious?"
"Time," Steve nodded.
Throneberry went to the door and closed it. He came back slowly, eased into the swivel chair behind his desk, went through elaborate motions of slicing the end from a cigar and lit up. He pointed the cigar at Steve. "Um, lots of questions."
Steve nodded again. He and Marv Throneberry had flown together when they were lieutenants. Marv was now the training officer for a squadron of F-4C fighters at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. He was physically a very big man, and in the cockpit he was a very good pilot.
Under the effective urging of the Office of Special Operations in Washington, the Air Force had cut temporary duty orders for Colonel Steve Austin, USAF, to report to the 433rd Fighter Squadron for "refresher training" in the big Phantom II fighters. There had been a brief phone call to Steve at the laboratories in Colorado, clearing Throneberry with him. And before his arrival, Throneberry also had received a telephone call, from the director of training for the whole Air Force. "Give Colonel Austin whatever he wants, answer no questions from anyone, Major, and keep everybody off the colonel's back." Throneberry had looked at the telephone in his hand as if it might turn into a snake. He said "Yessir," into the phone and hung it up slowly and carefully. And now Steve was here in the room with him. He showed up with a ravishing beauty for company, and sent her packing to arrange for motel rooms and rental cars, and Marv Throneberry was beside himself to find out just what the hell was going on.
"The official word was that you got tore up pretty good at Edwards," he said carefully.
Steve smiled. "That's close," he acknowledged. "After which you disappeared. Helen and I tried to find out what happened, Steve. We heard Doc Wells was on the case."
"He still is."
"How is the old boy?"
"Big beard, big belly. Great as ever."
"How," Marv said cautiously, "is his patient?"
"Been a long time since I was in the air."
"Uh huh." Throneberry opened a folder on his desk, waved some papers at Steve. "Your orders in here. My orders too. One of which says you are not, repeat, not to be given a flight physical. Which is sort of crazy, know what I mean?"
Steve tapped his fingers against the attache case he had brought with him. "The physical is in here. Given personally by Doc Wells."
Throneberry nodded. "My orders also say all your flight gear is to be kept with mine. During your stay, no other person, including the commanding general or the flight surgeon or the flight safety officer, is to be permitted access to that room. They've got their orders too. They're on my back wanting to know what gives."
"Did you tell them?"
"Tell them what?" Throneberry showed his exasperation. "All I know is what these papers say. That," his eyes narrowed, "and that you're going to tell an old friend, strictly off the record, you understand, what the hell goes on here."
Steve walked to the window, looked out at four fighters cracking skyward in tight formation. It had been a long time since he'd done that.
"Okay, Marv. But you can't tell anyone."
"Agreed."
"Not even Helen."
"That bad?"
"You could say so."
"The grapevine said you would never fly again, Steve."
He nodded.
"They also said," Throneberry continued, "you wouldn't even walk. A lot of people said you were…" He couldn't go on, hoping Steve would help.
"A basket case?"
"Yeah, but you sure don't look like it."
"They were almost right, Marv." Steve turned to face him. "Want it all?"
"I don't really know, Steve. But I guess I should know."
"I guess you should. You're the one who's going to turn me loose up there."
Throneberry waited.
"I lost a couple of things in the desert, Marv. My left arm, for starters."
The pilot stared at him.
"Both legs."
"Steve—"
"I'm blind in my left eye."
Throneberry was chalk white. "I don't believe it."
"Broken jaw, fractured skull, ribs caved in, heart valve torn up. Some other things, but that'll do."
"Man, are you really standing there in front of me?"
Steve laughed. "You better believe it."
"But… I don't understand, Steve. Really, I—"
"I'm the first of a new breed, Marv. They're rebuilding me. It's called bionics. I'm half man and half machine, old buddy."
Throneberry took that in silence. He stared at the wall, then turned slowly to Steve. "Can you fly?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
"I can't even figure out how you can walk.'"
Steve walked to the desk, rested his hands on the top, looked directly at the other pilot. "Listen to me, Marv. I don't want to have to repeat this, so I hope the first time sinks in. I can walk, run, climb, swim, and fight better than any man you've ever known in your life. I'm also going to prove I can still fly your ass off upstairs. Now, how about the first thing tomorrow morning? Say, oh six hundred?"
"I'm numb."
"You'll get over it."
Throneberry gestured helplessly. "The girl… what's her name?"
"Kathy."
"Does she know?"
"She knows. She's part of the project. That's why she's here. Official observer. She'll take notes, that sort of thing."
"Nothing else, Steve?"
"Knock it off, Marv." The tone had changed, was cold.
"Okay, okay," he said. "What do you want to do first?"
"Flight manual tonight. I want to study it from beginning to end. Catch up on things."
Throneberry nodded, grateful to concentrate on business. "You've got some time in the F-4, don't you?"
"About twelve hundred hours. But it's been a long time."
"Okay. I'll get the manual. What next?"
"Cockpit check at six sharp. I'll have breakfast before I get here." He hesitated. "Kathy will be with me."
"Six sharp," Throneberry confirmed. "Want to have dinner with us tonight?"
"No. I… I don't think I could hack that, Marv."
His friend nodded. "Anything else, Steve?"
"Yeah. I'd like to check out my flight gear now."
"Right now?"
"Birds gotta fly, Marv."
The sun lanced in from just above the mountains, casting strong, black shadows across the flight line. Throneberry lowered his visor, saw Steve doing the same. "Ready to start," came his voice from the front cockpit of the big fighter. "Go, baby," Throneberry told him. He had the feeling he was along just for the ride. Steve went through the procedures mechanically, smoothly. He brought the two powerful engines to life, checked out all the systems, signaled for the chocks to be pulled by the ground crew. The tower cleared them to taxi, and as they eased away from the flight line with a muffled boom of thunder, Throneberry looked to his left. Kathy Morris stood there watching. Steve didn't even glance her way. He rolled the plane expertly to the end of the taxiway, ran her through her checks, switched to tower frequency. "Cobalt Six ready to go," he called. "Roger, Cobalt Six. Taxi into position and hold."
