//------------------------------//
// Chapter 3: New Wings 
// Story: Flying With Damaged Feathers 
// by hornethead 
//------------------------------//

Chapter 3: New Wings

Tiran felt a bump as the Longjumper settled down to the deck. As soon as it did, the crew chief began to lower the back hatch, prompting Tiran to grab his bag and make for the door. He stepped out into the fresh wind of the sea and the hot steel of the flight deck, right as two spec-ops soldiers appeared to escort him down below.
All the extra security was really getting Tiran to think. If this was just another test flight of an experimental aircraft, then what was with all the extra muscle running around for? Tiran wanted to ask the two soldiers escorting him, but their faces told him that they weren't exactly the talkative type. So he resigned himself to where ever it was they were taking him.
Once inside the level just underneath the flight deck, one of them took Tiran's bag and excused himself while the other calmly lead Tiran to one of the ready rooms, "Just in here, sir," he said, opening the door and gesturing inside. "We'll be back to show you to your quarters later."
"Thanks." Tiran managed, just before the soldier whisked himself away.
Tiran stepped into the cold briefing room, noticing the lack of chairs that pilots like him usually sat in while the squadron CO gave them a mission brief. Instead, there were just a few folding chairs and a couple of tables with some sophisticated looking computers on them. On the port bulkhead where he entered were some large displays to which the computers were hooked up to.
Just as Tiran was about to sit down, Cherovic emerged from the back office, "Tiran," she said, spotting him, "nice for you to arrive on-time for once."
"Not like I had a choice," he mumbled, remembering his special escort.
Cherovic sat down at one of the computers and typed in a passcode just as Dr. Welkin walked in, somewhat flustered, "Sorry, I was in the bathroom. Or 'the head' as you Navy types like to call it. What's in the food here any ways?"
"It's a warship, Doctor, now please come in, Tiran is here and we need to brief him."
"Oh yeah, yeah." Welkin wiped his palms on his shirt and moved over to one of the displays.
The keyboard clacked and the displays came to life, "Whenever you're ready, Doctor." Cherovic said dourly as images of the Cloudburst and its schematics came up.
"Right." Dr. Welkin turned towards Tiran, his hands clasped in front of him. "Well, Mr. Tiran, as you can see, the Cloudburst is a heavily improved upon version of the Longjumper."
"No shit, it's almost not even the same fuckin' aircraft any more."
If Welkin was taken aback at Tiran's use of expletives, he didn't show it, "Well, of course it's not the same aircraft it was before, that's why it has a whole new designation! but this baby isn't just different in how it looks, but also how it handles and in its special...abilities."
"Oh? And what are those?" Tiran leaned forward, a bit more interested.
Dr. Welkin grinned with almost savage delight, "Not only does the Cloudburst handle and maneuver better than any other aircraft before it, this aircraft has a single defining characteristic that sets it apart from every other single vehicle or mode of transportation ever developed in the history of our planet!"
Tiran was starting to get irked that the Doctor wouldn't just get straight to the point, "And that is...?"
"Mr. Tiran, are you at all acquainted with the concepts of quantum physics, quantum membranes, quantum theory, string theory or M-theory?" Dr. Welkin asked.
Tiran slumped back in his chair, instantly un-enthused, "Seriously? I'm a pilot, Doc, not a mad scientist." He turned around in his seat, aiming a pleading expression at Cherovic, but she had almost the same bored look on her face as he did.
"I know it's tedious and confounding," she said quietly, "but please bear with it."
With no other choice, Tiran turned back to the Doctor and resigned himself to his fate.
"So, here's how it goes," Dr. Welkin continued, "As what can be currently understood, the universe as a whole is constructed entirely by nearly un-observable, one dimensional lines called 'strings'. How the stings vibrate or oscillate determines what they are in our observable dimensions; energy or matter, energy being something like electricity or fire and matter being something like a rock or the material your chair is made out of.
"These strings can reside in membranes, or 'branes', that can exist in theoretically ten total dimensions. Except, certain types of strings exist independently of any of the branes and can flit from one to the other at whim. What if I told you, we have figured out a way to tap into or 'ride' these closed loop strings, effectively allowing us to travel where we want at will within the blink of an eye?"
Tiran stared at the Doctor for a long moment, then said, "I'd say this sounds a lot like magic and you're full of shit."
"This is not magic!" Dr. Welkin protested. "Granted, not much is known about how we are able to achieve this process as it was stumbled upon quite accidentally, but nevertheless, the truth stands that we have found a way."
Tiran looked back at Cherovic again, unbelievingly. "He's right, Tiran." She said.
"So what you're saying," Tiran said, once again focusing his attention on Dr. Welkin, "is that you've successfully found a way to teleport." He put almost mockingly.
"Oh, no no no," Welkin said in a hushed tone as he stepped closer to Tiran, "It's not teleportation in that definition of the word, though I guess you could put it that way in Laymen's terms. No, this is still travel from point A to point B, only you could say, we take a shortcut through other aspects of our dimensions. Theoretically, the possibilities are limitless. In fact, we estimate that with enough energy, one could cross the entire solar system in an instant with this technology. Perhaps, go even farther."
Dr. Welkin finished with a grave expression upon his face as he stepped back towards the screen. His expression soon changed as Tiran began to laugh.
"It's not funny, this is serious!" Welkin defended.
"No, no it's not that," Tiran said between giggles. "I'll fly whatever the hell you tell me to fly with what you're paying me, fancy technologic gobbledygook and all. No, what gets me is that, if what you're saying is true; instead of using it to explore space and maybe try a hand at asteroid mining or planet colonization, you've gone and weaponized it instead! I mean, look at that thing!" Tiran said, pointing at the picture of the Cloudburst on the display. "There are enough weapons stations on that thing to load it up with enough ordinance to obliterate a small city!"
Cherovic's warning tone behind him quickly brought Tiran out of his reverie, though it was soft, almost somber, "We must take care of the problems at home before we can focus on the challenges afar. This technological leap may just be what we need to turn the tide of this war and finally end it."
"Well, yes." Dr. Welkin said, a bit flustered by Tiran's outburst of logic, but quickly composing himself. "Originally, this craft was designed for use outside the atmosphere, but budget constraints became a problem..."
"Thus, the military intervention and eventual possession." Tiran finished for him.
"That's one way to put it. Now, any questions?"
"Sure," Tiran said, leaning in again, but this time with a mischievous grin. "When do we start?"


*    *    *



The next day, Tiran found himself standing in a cold room wearing a body suit made out of a strange, but not uncomfortable, material while a squad of technicians assembled what seamed like an exo-suit around him. Meanwhile, Dr. Welkin moved about like a chicken without a head, pecking at his subordinates and clucking over data screens. Not for the first time, Tiran wondered what he had gotten himself into.
"Tell me why I'm here again?" He called out to Welkin.
The Doctor responded without looking up from whatever mathematical figures he was unhappy with now, "Despite your many short comings; lack of punctuality, poor professional attitude, borderline alcoholism, etcetera: interesting genetic correlations, already impressive reflexes and reaction times heightened by the most seamless neurological integration with a near-A.I. construct ever recorded and a nearly spotless flight record. Except for that one incident, of course."
Tiran didn't understand most of what he said, but took it as a compliment.
"That aside, I meant what am I doing in this ridiculous get-up?"
Dr. Welkin walked to Tiran from the data screen and shooed away one of the technicians, "Oh, this."
"Yes, this." Tiran replied. He winced as he was prodded in a particularly uncomfortable place.
"What my subordinates are assembling onto your person is a prototype survival suit. Much more advanced than the enhanced 'G-suits' aviators currently wear. It will allow you to withstand a considerable amount of gravities, as well as; blunt force trauma, high kinetic energy impacts, extreme hot or cold temperatures, in addition to a fifteen minute reserve of oxygen and an increase in strength. However, the truly ingenious attribute is its power source. Rather than being fed from a bulky battery pack, the suit gets its energy from the heat of your body," the Doctor explained with some pride.
Tiran frowned, "Increased strength? What, like a super soldier or something?"
"Oh, heavens, no." Dr. Welkin chuckled. "At most, your strength will be increased by approximately twenty-five percent. It's a technology borrowed from the robotic exoskeletons used for loading and unloading heavy equipment, but scaled down and miniaturized. At most, it will allow you to escape from the cockpit should the canopy fail to eject in an emergency."
"Then what are these for?" Tiran asked, pointing to what were clearly hard points on the suit to attach small arms to and pissing off a technician who was attempting to affix a gauntlet over that hand.
"A standard precaution, I'm aware that pilots in the military are required to carry a sidearm of some sort should they be shot down." Welkin explained.
"Then why are there two more on my back?"
To that, Dr. Welkin didn't offer an explanation. Instead, he walked back to his data displays.
"Pay attention to the technicians, Mr. Tiran. You may have to do this on your own in the future."


*    *    *



"Ok, now look to the bottom left corner." Said a tinny voice in Tiran's helmet. Tiran complied and was rewarded with a "Good!" and a thumbs-up from the technician on the deck in front of him.
"That about does it!" The technician said. "Calibration is complete, you're good to go!"
Tiran was finally in the cockpit, and he had to admit, it was humbling. The technology involved was like nothing he'd ever seen. The entire canopy was a Heads-up Display, but it only displayed general info, like target information, flight bearing and fuel consumption, things he could also find on the many interactive digital displays scattered about the cockpit.
Even though a lot of the information was displayed on the canopy's HUD, the cockpit was still crammed with dozens of other displays and controls. Many of them were mundane; general stuff like fuel levels, engaged weapons stations, radar, telemetry from the ship, but one thing stood out. It was a singular panel on the left side of the cockpit with an inordinate amount of wires streaming out of it. The panel was pretty simplistic in its design compared with the rest of the cockpit, using toggle switches instead of a digital interface.
There were only three switches on the panel. Each was labeled, from left to right: M-DRV ON, BLNK WRM UP and BLNK INT.
The real action was on the helmet's HUD. Real time information on the status of the aircraft; damage control, weapons and armament, threat assessments, it could even link up to the freaking 25mm chin gun hidden within the fuselage an aim it wherever he looked. Technology they already had for decades, but Tiran could even walk away from the aircraft and still get information on its readiness wirelessly. It was quite a feat to put so much technology into one system.
Tiran couldn't wait to test it out in flight and that's exactly why he was in the cockpit now. He was sitting in the Cloudburst, on the flight deck, getting ready for the aircraft's inaugural take-off with a human operator.
"Quicksilver, you have green deck." the flight officer said, using Tiran's old call-sign.
Tiran spun up the reactor, and with it, the engines, relishing in the building whine and the humming vibrations he felt through his seat and arms. Once he brought the engines up to an acceptable power and thrust level, he gave a thumbs-up with one armor encased hand to the yellow-shirted director on the deck in front of the aircraft.
The director gave the 'break-down' signal to his blue shirts and they rushed to the landing gear, pulling down chains and releasing the Cloudburst from its fetters. As soon as the aircraft was clear, the director passed Tiran off to an LSE with a salute, who then began signaling tiran to throttle up and take-off.
Tentatively, Tiran began to add power. Before he had even nudged the throttle half an inch, the Cloudburst began to rise in the air. The new engines really were as powerful as he had been told. Tiran's heart rate climbed with added anticipation.
Once he was high enough, Tiran nudged the joystick in his right hand, sending him sliding out over the water off the carrier's port side.
"Clear for departure, Quicksilver. Climb to angels six and begin test run, ceiling's at twenty thousand, deck is at three, have a safe flight."
"Copy, Tower, climbing to six thousand." Tiran responded, shaking his head at his old call-sign as he added forward thrust and started to climb.
The nickname 'Quicksilver' had been given to him by his more collegiate squadron mates back in the day. At first, he thought it was a cool nickname, but that was before he found out why they called him that. It turned out that quicksilver was another name for mercury, a highly toxic metal, and also an adjective for describing something very erratic or unpredictable. Both meanings of which his fellow pilots thought fit his flying style perfectly. Highly toxic and unpredictable. That could have been the end of it, but the more Tiran voiced his displeasure over it, the more it stuck, eventually becoming his call-sign.
The aircraft quickly reached the assigned altitude, in what Tiran was sure was record time. He had to have pulled at least a few G's getting there that fast. He made a mental note to be careful about that, prototype survival suit or not.
"Angels six, ready to commence test run." Tiran said into the radio.
"Copy," came the response, "green for test flight, be safe."
Tiran switched off his mic, satisfied. "Alright, let's see what this bird can do!" he said to himself with enthusiasm.
Tiran nearly punched the throttle forward and the Cloudburst shot off like a rocket, violently slamming him into the back of his seat. If it wasn't for the snazzy new helmet, he was sure he would've been knocked out. As it was, he dialed back the thrust so he could make his first turn.
He climbed some and then snap-rolled ninety degrees to port and pulled up on the stick. Tiran was still going incredibly fast, the air speed indicator pushing past a thousand. even though he'd lowered his thrust, it was still climbing off the inertia from his initial burst. As well as the G's.
As Tiran neared the middle of his turn he could feel himself getting heavier, his arms becoming leaden with weight. he began his breathing exercises, making a strange hiccupping sound as he did. Just as his vision started to fade, servos clicked on and began to whine in his suit. The suit began to exert pressure on his legs, then lower torso, forcing the blood back into his upper body and brain.
It was painful, but it cleared his head.
Tiran pulled out of the turn and immediately felt the pressure lessen. He stopped doing his breathing exercises, but he was still gulping for air. That was intense, he thought as he glanced over at the counter in his HUD that registered the G forces. The number it recorded was 9.34.
9.34
Tiran shook his head. A pilot usually had to pull off some crazy stuff to pull that many G's, not just do a simple turn. Still, he liked it. He wanted more
Miles away, a large formation of cumulus clouds lumbered across the sky. Tiran gazed at it like a hungry wolf, noticing the complex spires and towers, valleys and mountains. He was going to cloud surf.
Tiran throttled up again and aimed for the clouds, he crossed the distance in no time. Just before he hit the fluffy white cotton walls, Tiran flared the nose and added thrust to the ventral nozzles. The Cloudburst decelerated sharply, throwing Tiran hard against his restraints.
Just as the aircraft was about to stall, he punched the throttle forward again and zipped around the cloud formation, corkscrewing up a spire before disengaging and shooting down into a valley.
Tiran jinked and rolled, dodging corners and flashing under overhangs. The Cloudburst was just as maneuverable as Welkin had said and Tiran was enjoying absolutely every minute of it. He could fly like this for hours, but he wanted to try something else.
Leveling out, Tiran pitched the nose straight up and began to add thrust.
"Quicksilver, you're nearing the ceiling." his radio squawked in warning. Tiran didn't answer. "You've just passed the ceiling, descend to a lower altitude immediately."
Tiran paid no heed to their protests. He wanted to push this aircraft, see just how high it could go. His altimeter climbed; thirty thousand, thirty-five, forty thousand...
The sky began to turn black, engines screaming behind him, the fuselage shaking and rattling. If he could just see the stars...
"Tiran, this is Cherovic! Get your ass back down here NOW or I will personally have you confined to quarters!"
Party's over. Tiran thought with heavy disappointment.
Tiran flipped the nose over and pointed it back towards the ocean. He'd have to try another time, maybe he could talk Cherovic into letting him push the envelope later. It was definitely worth a shot.
In the meantime, he would return to the ship. But he would take it slow, draw out his flight time. Then, he would land. But not before he buzzed the Tower first.

*    *    *



"What the hell did you think you were doing!?"
Tiran was back in the ready room, still in his suit, helmet resting on the table next to him. Cherovic was currently in the middle of chewing him out.
"This is groundbreakingly new technology with highly advanced propulsion systems and you handle your aircraft like you're on a pubescent joyride!?" She asked incredulously.
"Isn't that what I'm here for?" Tiran argued, "To see what it can do?"
"Yes, but not in this way!" Cherovic stomped over to the computer and began typing away at a furious pace. Tiran had really pissed her off this time.
Tiran stood up, "Listen, I'm sorry. I promise I'll take it slow from here out," he said.
"It doesn't matter." Cherovic shot back. "Your grounded as of today."
"Grounded!?"
"Exactly. As much as I wish it was because of your blatant disregard for flight plans, it's not."
"What do you mean?" Tiran asked, wondering if he was in trouble for something else.
"There was another security incident. We are returning to port."
"What!?"
This was really the worst news for Tiran. He was expecting to be out here for at least a few weeks. After having gotten back in the saddle in such a highly maneuverable aircraft, he was craving for more.
"It's not my call, Tiran." Cherovic began to explain, "We could be compromised, but we don't know for sure. The Captain is taking us back in just to be safe. Go ahead and change out of that obnoxious equipment, we'll be back at North Island in two days. Dismissed."
It was clear at this point that there was no use arguing. So with a huff, Tiran scooped up his helmet and stomped to the door, at least eager to suit off. It was starting to feel suffocating.
As he exited the room and marched down the passageway, a voice came on over the 1MC, "This is the TAO. Away, the snoopy team, away. Bridge, port side, surface contact. Away, the snoopy team, away..."