UNS as REY EN

They had taken the wreck of aman and bionically /¥

created a superior being...a superman who might ‘|.|
even be the first of awhole new breed!

K The novel that

~ inspired The
’\ ),Six-Million-Dollar
 THE EYES HAVE IT

“There are different ways for an eye to be useful,”

Goldman told Steve. “We propose one of these for
you.”
“Mind identifying the we?”
“Your government.” Goldman turned to the model
of the head, “Please watch very closely, Colonel
Austin.”

Goldman placed a small suction disk gently against

the lens of the eye in the model, pressed and twisted.
Two minutes later Steve stared at a tiny, disas-
sembled camera.

“It takes its pictures with regular or infrared film. It

operates up to two-hundredths of a second, It can
handle twenty exposures per microcartridge. It would
be easier, of course, to build the entire eye as a
camera. But then we couldn't make the eyeball a
permanent installation and the eye would not move
in a normal fashion. It could be a dead giveaway.”
“A giveaway to whoP Who the hell are you, mister?”
“Somebody doing his job. Likeeae Colonel Austin.
You're still on active duty.
“AN INTRIGUING BLEND OF THE WORLD OF
THE FUTURE, INTERESTING CHARACTERS,
AND A FAST-MOVING TALE ... READERS
SHOULD FIND IT VERY REWARDING ...A
FIRST-RATE ENTERTAINMENT.”
—BESTSELLERS

“A NIFTY, FAST-MOVING NOVEL ... HIGHLY

READABLE.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“CAIDIN HAS CONSTRUCTED A FASCINATING

BLEND OF SCIENCE FICTION AND ADYVEN-
TURE.”
—THE HARTFORD COURANT
“WHILE CREATING HIS SUPERMAN, CAIDIN
ALSO HAS CREATED A SUPER NOVEL. ...
CAIDIN IS A TOP-NOTCH WRITER.”
—RICHMOND NEWS-LEADER

“CAIDIN WRITES SO WELL AND WITH SUCH

AUTHORITY THAT THIS BOOK IS ALL TOO
BELIEVABLE.”
—NEWSDAY

“AN ENGROSSING NOVEL.”

—THE BOOKLIST

“MR. CAIDIN INCORPORATES HIGHLY TECH-

NICAL INFORMATION INTO A STORY WITH
GREAT SKILL.”
' —LIBRARY JOURNAL
 CYBORG
Martin Caidin

DEL)
REY
A Del Rey Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS «© NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright © 1972 by Martin Caidin

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions, Published in the United States by
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New
York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of
Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number; 73-183758

ISBN 0-345-31620-7

This edition published by arrangement with

Arbor House Publishing Co., Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: August 1978

Second Printing: August 1984
Cover art by Boris Vallejo
LONELY MOUNTAIN took the first harsh whisper of naked
sun. Far beyond the ridges of the San Bernardino, the San
Gabriel, and the Shadow Mountains, the peak the Span-
iards long ago named Soledad glowed against desert morn-
ing sky. Earth’s horizon dipped lower to cast Lonely
Mountain with increasing brilliance. It was a clear sign
of blistering heat to come during the day.
Many miles distant from the stone-hard, baked desert
floor of Rogers Dry Lake, the sight of the faraway peak
brought eyes flicking to wristwatches. The events of the
morning were to be measured as a race against a wick-
edly hot sun and its enervating temperatures. Not so much -
the heat itself but its thermals wavering in the desert air
could snatch dangerously at stub wings already teetering
11
on precarious balance. The time to get things done in the
California desert was early in the morning, and that was
now.
From the floor of the dry lake, sunrise began with the
flaring upthrust of Lonely Mountain. As the men glanced
up from their work the sawtooth edges of near mountain
tanges were yielding to light. Silhouetted ramparts in deep
shadow rang brightly with the fireball impact of the sun.
Etched by early-morning dust, sunlight stabbed through
crevices as huge glowing shafts across the vast desert floor.
There was now that magic transition between dawn and day,
With the sun angle still so low, there was stark contrast;
clumps of scattered tumbleweed hid their brambled sur-
faces in the form of soft puffballs glowing along one side,
casting long shadows behind the other. Along a nearby
ridge, midget desert flowers shone in purple and yellow.
Sagebrush seemed to glow, but aboye all there rose from
the flat tableland the oldest denizens of this desert no-
where, the great cactus trees known as Joshua trees. Some
of these grotesquely crooked giants of their kind reared
fully thirty feet above the flatness at their base, frozen in
some ancient torment, and it was difficult to realize as
they accepted the morning sun that they had stood here
as long as the towering redwoods had stood farther to
the west. Against the hazy blue of dust already shrouding
the distant peaks, charged with a mild electrical glow by
the ascending disk in the sky, they set a somber mood of
stark contrast against the newcomers to this forsaken flat-
ness.
Through most of the night there had been other light
here in the Mojave. Along the western rim of the floor of
the dry lake, a blue-white incandescence showered upward.
These were brilliant floodlights and under their harsh
glare there had been created a small oasis from which
night was banished. Great generators howled and thumped
and whined through the long hours to power the lights,
and their exhausts and vapors, rising slowly, had added
to the feeling of an outpost on another world. There were
other vehicles; long trailers gleaming whitely beneath the
lights, identified in glowing signs and blinking panels of
12
their own. Several large-bodied trucks displayed thick
red crosses. Other vehicles were tracked, coated with ar-
mor and asbestos, and studded with hand grips and thick
hatches. Still others were a garish red, knobbed from
bumper to bumper with the protuberances of nozzles and
hoses; each of these could instantly be transformed into
a dragon foaming from half a dozen nozzles and spouting
flame-depressing liquid from half a dozen more. A great
crane on sixteen massive wheels stood silently by on the
perimeter of the island cluster of lights and sound and
movement. Long, yellow trucks with cylindrical bodies
and chains dragging behind to eliminate static electricity
waited patiently to move kerosene fuel into metal-en-
closed tanks. Other fueling vehicles were present; these
were painted dazzling, international orange, splashed with
warning signs, glowing beneath lights flashing the unmis-
takable signal of danger. There were sedans and station
‘wagons, some Air Force blue, others the white of the
National Aeronautics and Space Administration. On the
latter the blue insignia circle of NASA was displayed
prominently. Communications vans extended wispy and
curving helical antennas high above their bodies, And
there were, finally, several personnel trailers, long-bodied
enclosures sealed so completely from the outside, air-
conditioned and humidity-controlled so carefully that they
were literally spacecraft on wheels to sustain their internal
environment.
All these, the screaming generators and flashing lights
and trucks and cars and vans, were present to meet the
needs of two other machines, At first glance only one of
these was visible, and not until the sun rose high enough
to bathe its vast spread of wing was its true size apparent.
It hulked along the dry desert floor, a brooding monster
of many hundreds of thousands of pounds, a technological
vulture with wings sagging at their tips nearly to the
ground. It was a football field of metal shaped and angled
into its present form of wing and body and towering tail,
all of it balanced on tandem sets of tires, the far edges of
the wing tips teetering in impossibly silly fashion on stick
legs of outrigger gear.
13
 Standing close to the right wing the observer had no
view of the second machine, which was the reason for this
great assembly of machinery and more than two hundred
people. This second and smaller machine nestled closely
to the underside of the left wing, a blunt dart beneath a
great spread of metal, sandwiched in between jet engines
and long, external fuel tanks. It appeared to be a thing
intended for flight, but rather than wings it had stubby
appendages jutting from a rounded body shaped like a
bathtub. Three flaring fins marked the aft section, sharply
angled metal quivers ending a ridiculously short and
stubby metal arrow. The nose of the strange machine,
marked with black lettering that read M3F5, revealed a
shaped glassy enclosure that gave it the appearance of a
whale with a transparent snout.
Two men wearing bright-orange jump suits and white
helmets with fluorescent stripes stepped back from a final
inspection of the finned bathtub. One glanced at his watch,
then turned to study a long, white trailer bearing the
rounded NASA insignia. “About that time,” he noted.
His companion nodded, saying what they both knew.
“Any minute now.”
As if on cue a door in the trailer side opened, a man
stepped out quickly, turned about, and stood expectantly
by the steps, looking back into the trailer. He appeared
nervous, as if wishing that whatever was scheduled to
happen would do so quickly. Moments later another man
appeared in the doorway, moving with greater delibera-
tion, almost shuffling clumsily within the constraints of a
white pressure suit, his face obscured by a gold-opaque
sun visor. He might have been an astronaut stepping from
a trailer at the foot of a launch pad on Cape Kennedy;
he wore much the same garment as the men who had
voyaged to the moon. He had been one of those men, a
member of the last crew to make the voyage between
earth and its desolate satellite a quarter of a million miles
distant. His name was Steve Austin; he had been a test
pilot before his weightless traverse of vacuum and he was
now, again, a member of his former profession. No shift-
ing lunar soil awaited this journey, but still, the flight he
14
 anticipated to a height of some sixty miles above the floor
of the desert held far more danger. The path to the moon
had been well established with mathematical certainty
before he watched his planet fall away during Apollo
XVII. The machine into which he was soon to be sealed
lacked such certainty, and in its area of unknowns were
dangers unpredictable but predictably lethal. It was a sim-
ple rule of thumb. No one had ever been killed on his
way to or on his way from the moon. Every year at this
sprawling center of test flying in the California desert,
every year for the past twenty years, an average of eight
good men had been killed.
Austin stood for a moment in the doorway, looking
out past the jumble of vehicles, studying the huge winged
shape with its wicked little machine suspended beneath
the left wing. His gloved hand lifted slowly to slide the
opaque visor away from the plexiglas bubble before his
face. Then, satisfied, he nodded his head, an acceptance
within himself that it was time to move on. He had worn
this clumsy garment often enough to know its restrictions,
and he moved his left foot forward, crabbing his body
as he did so, leaning into the step in a practiced maneuver.
The man waiting at the foot of the steps reached forward
anxiously to support Austin at the elbow, for the test pilot
was encumbered with a portable air conditioner in his
left hand. Even at this early hour, being sealed within a
suit designed for survival in vacuum guaranteed imme-
diate severe perspiration without internal cooling air flow.
Steve Austin took the steps carefully, stopped for a mo-
ment as if to test the fit of his heavy garment, then moved
off steadily toward the huge airplane. Directly behind him
walked his suit technician, a cold-eyed fuss-budget con-
_ nected by swaying telephone wire to the radio headset
in Austin’s helmet.
Austin’s appearance in the trailer doorway was an un-
spoken signal for almost all activity in the area to end.
It was, of course, a story familiar to all who were there.
Austin could not move an inch into that waiting black
sky far above the earth without their coordinated efforts.
But they would remain well within the comfort of earth-
15
surface gravity, while he was the one to attack the un-
known with its inevitable dangers. So they stood, by some
unspoken signal, to watch him take his final steps before
commitment,
All but one. “Steve!” Her cry caught everyone’s atten-
tion but his own. Within the pressure helmet he heard
only the voice of the man walking behind him, but that
man grinned into his headset.
“Colonel, I think someone wants to say good-bye.”
As the girl ran to Austin’s side, her brown hair flowing
from her movement, the suit technician was lifting his
headset from about his ears. He cast a swift approving
glance over the lithe figure standing before Austin, then
handed her the headset and boom mike, Austin smiled
down at her as she fitted the equipment. It was almost
impossible not to smile at the sight of Jan Richards.
“Steve, I—I didn’t mean to, you know, interfere, but
I just had to say something before . . . before you left.”
The smile broke into a broad grin. “Say it, then.”
She glanced about self-consciously, edging closer to
him, whispering the words in the microphone, “I love you,
Steve Austin.”
He gestured with an easy laugh. “You sure must like
privacy.”
“Ts that all you’re going to say?”
She saw his head move inside the helmet, tilted slightly
to the side as if appraising her. “Same here.”
She thrust her arm about his, glanced behind her at the
suit technician eyeing them both. “Can I walk with you
to the plane?”
His gloved hand patted her arm. “Sure.” He glanced
at the suit technician. “Charlie’s already having his fit so
I guess it doesn’t matter.”
She moved as close to him as his bulky covering al-
lowed, matching his shuffling pace, the suit technician
staying immediately behind with quick, short steps. Jan
did her best to keep her words easy.
“Tr’s hard to believe this is the last one for a month,
darling.” She squeezed his arm, suddenly hating the thick
material separating them..“And starting tomorrow . . .”
16
 “Save your strength,” he told her. “You're going to
' need it.”
“Breakfast in bed, right?”
“Breakfast and lunch and dinner.”
“You'll never make it to dinner. Not when I get through
with you.”
“Got it all planned?”
She nodded. “I intend to wreck you, my love.”
“God,” he laughed, “what a way to die.”
She glanced at the flying wedge suspended beneath the
huge machine. Oh, God, I hate that thing, she thought
suddenly. I’ve been here too long and I’ve seen too many
of them . . . She refused to think deliberately of the word
die. She turned her eyes from the gleaming metal back
to the man at her side.
“Tm afraid I love you more than you deserve.” Quickly
she removed the headset and microphone and handed
them to the suit technician trying unsuccessfully to remain
at a discreet distance. If she stayed with Steve any longer
+ - . It wouldn't do to cry, for God’s sake. She hurried
away without turning back until she was far from the
metal that frightened her. When she stopped, finally, she
knew Steve would be only a figure in a white pressure
suit. She turned as a bearded man approached, and quickly
she wrapped his arm in hers. He glanced at the sudden
tears.
“Steve see that?”
She shook her head angrily. “No. Just you, you old
bastard.”
Rudy Wells patted her hand with open affection. “If it
makes you feel any better, Jan,” he said, “as his flight
surgeon I can tell you that Steve Austin is in perfect shape
for this—”
“That’s how I want him back.”
“That’s how you'll get him back,” he said confidently.
“My God, Jan, I’ve never seen you with jitters like this.
That man has walked on the moon. The moon,” he em-
phasized. “This is just a little hop around the old meadow
in comparison. You of all people should know that.”
“I know it, I know it,” she said, almost hissing the
17
words. She pointed to the blunt shape beneath the wing
of the giant plane. “But that thing is, well... Oh, dammit,
Rudy, you know what I mean.”
“I know.” He didn’t need to say any more. Not on that
subject. Time to turn to one that was safer. “Everything
set for tomorrow?”
“All set. Twelve noon at the base chapel for the mar-
Triage ceremony and time for a party afterward. A damned.
brief party,” she added.
She studied the winged machines. “Thank the Lord,”
she whispered aloud, “this is his last one.”
He looked at her with affection, “For a month, any-
way,” he said gently.
“You didn’t need to remind me,” she said. Her arm
went rigid against his. The figure in the white suit was
climbing into the swollen belly of the finned dart, They
watched in silence,

He paused for a moment, one foot still on the ladder,

the other within the cockpit of the M3F5. Paused for that
final scan of the horizon, for the telltale signs. Even at this
early hour the air, cool and still at sunrise, had changed
its temper. The hazy-bright horizon was gone. Now that
horizon had fuzzed, thermals dragging dust and vapors
from the ground, building a miragelike effect that made
the peaks and ranges appear higher and closer than they
really were. The long shadows from the Joshua trees had
diminished; soft gray had becomé intense black greatly
foreshortened on the ground with the climbing of the sun.
And there was still another sign to his practiced eyes; the
most certain of all omens that the heat of day was blister-
ing the desolate land and casting back its writhing heat.
In the distance, picked out by his keen eyesight, the black
shapes of buzzards casually riding the thermals, soaring
in wide, sweeping circles higher and higher above the
desert floor. Buzzards this early in the morning. It was
going to be a bitch with updrafts on the way back.
He half turned for a glance at Jan, standing with Doc
Wells. For a moment he thought of that splendid body and
the wonder they had found in making loye—Steve Austin
18 ;
]
cut himself short. Get your ass in the cockpit and your
head out of your ass, he snapped to himself. The fastest
way in this business to get killed, and it was by God the
fastest, was to let your mind roam instead of paying atten-
tion to what was at hand. When you drifted between earth
and moon in that delicious zero-g fall that went on day
after day, you could mess up your thinking all you wanted
to. Three guys in the cabin, and autosystems to take care
of everything but the laundry. But not in one of these
vicious little things. They had hidden reefs and all manner
of nasty surprises up there in the sky, and this chunk of
angry metal was intended to chart a safe path through
those lethal mantraps. Which meant keeping your nose
to it. He allowed himself one more extraneous thought.
The lights; the sun was up. What the hell did they need
the lights for? A quick smile; the lights went out silently,
the pressure helmet hiding the sounds of heated metal
shrinking back to normal size.
He grasped the handholds, slid into the contoured seat.
For a moment he sat quietly, not moving, allowing his
mind and his body to feel what might be wrong, You look
for the things that don’t fit. The mind has been trained
so that whatever is normal, whatever is right, snaps into
place and rings no bells, makes no clamoring warning.
What doesn’t fit, what’s slipped out of the pattern, then
jars you. No bells, no lights; it was all there, in place.
He waited a moment as a technician leaned over the side
of the cockpit, took hold of the air-conditioning hose.
Austin nodded at him, held his breath. The technician
unsnapped the hose, stabbed it into its proper receptacle
inside the cockpit to resume the cooling flow of oxygen.
Austin glanced at the gauges, gestured with his raised
thumb, The technician slid from view and another face
appeared in place of his. They began the long checklist.
Austin checked out his communications circuits with the
B-52 pilot, the drop officer, and radar control, and made
a final test of the link to the chase planes that would be
with him during part of his flight. It was all terribly fa-
tmiliar, as close to home as brushing his teeth in the morn-
ing, and yet every step was critical. It went quickly enough,
19
a mechanical, rote procedure, and then it was time for the
last man leaning almost into his lap to disappear. Austin
took the hand signal to button up, confirmed with the drop
officer in the bomber, closed and locked the, canopy.
There was now little for him to do; he would wait out the
engine start and climb to altitude, becoming progressively
more concerned with different gauges as he approached
that moment when he would be released from the mother
ship.
“Relax.” He breathed deeply, slowly. Plenty of time
later to be afraid,

She could never watch that huge damned thing moving

along the desert floor without feeling her lungs were going
to explode. She couldn’t help it. Some silly thing in the
back of her mind told her that if she held her breath
through the long, pounding run on the desert she would
be able to help the giant claw its way into the air. What-
ever the cause, she was never able to remind herself to
breathe. She waited until the thunder rolled slowly down
the long desert strip; no movement yet. The giant sat
poised, black strength and fury, the engines howling,
throwing back swirling plumes of kerosene smoke that
built into a great cloud rolling over hard and dusty sand.
Then came that bare shift in sound, the signal that brakes
had been released and metal was dragging itself ponder-
ously forward. From this distance she could not see the
tiny silver dart beneath the wing, had no view of the ter-
rible little machine her lover was strapped and sealed into,
But at such moments, as the giant rushed closer and closer,
she held her breath, sucking it deeply into her lungs, her
nails biting into her palms. This time, only one palm would
show the signs of her inner strain. Unknowing, her other
hand holding the arm of Dr. Wells, she would make HY
the victim of her gouging nails.
Jan Richards watched the monster rush toward them.
She saw the great wings flexing, the upward bend of metal
that told of lift changing the forces on the wing. She knew
the signs, had watched this same scene many times before,
20
but no matter how many times, it was always inner tor-
ment, with her breath held until she needed desperately
to breathe, and did so explosively, her heart pounding.
The takeoffs were almost the worst; only the landings
were worse, The seconds dragged on and on, and the
great machine seemed to take forever in its sluggish early
motion. But now it had speed, and she knew enough of
the world of flight to know that at such times speed was
everything. It was control and lift, it was life, and she
wished speed—Godspeed!—to the great black shape, and
then it was almost on them, malevolent in its suddenly
swooping approach. Then it was alongside, directly before
them, and she saw two things at the same moment, the
silver shape of the tiny aerospace machine, with a glimpse
of the pressure helmet within—she saw that and she saw
the nose wheel of the B-52 rise away from the desert, and
the breath rushed out of her. The nose rotated higher,
and then daylight showed between the clumsy main gear
and the desert floor. Now the thunder crashed back
against them, shaking their bodies, and she turned to bury
her head in Dr. Wells's shoulder as the stink of kerosene
washed over them. When she looked up again the black
cloud stretched high into the bright desert air, a winged
destroyer at its head. Two black minnows flashed into
view, cracking the morning wide with their own thunder.
The chase planes on their way to ride tight formation with
Steve Austin until he would outstrip them and arrow
away from the planet itself,

“Checklist complete. Over.”

Austin nodded to himself within the helmet. “Okay,”
he said. “Stand by, Roadrunner. Cleaning up the office.”
“Roger.”
Austin stuffed the checklist into its enclosure by his
tight arm, pressed on the velcro seal. One last, careful
look around the office. Everything in the cockpit was
clean. Just about that time.
“Cobra to Roadrunner,” he called the drop officer in
the bomber. “Ready for final count?”
21
 “Right, Steve. Three minutes coming up. Please call
off your tank pressures and qualify valves armed.”
They went through the final predrop checklist quickly.
As they moved down into the last sixty seconds the per-
sonal tones faded away. Crisp, no-nonsense exchanges
now, broken by a personal touch only when the man in
the wicked little M3F5 led the way.
“Cobra,” they called Steve Austin. “On my mark, one
minute.” A pause for five seconds, then: “Mark! Sixty
seconds and counting.”
“Roger, Roadrunner.” Steve Austin flicked his eyes over
the gauges, glanced again, swiftly but steadily, at every
control and lever and dial. He didn’t bother to glance to
his sides to check the position of Chase One and Two.
The big, black SR-71 jets would be sitting well to each
side, slightly higher and behind the B-52; the moment he
dropped away and lit up, they’d be on him like faithful
sharks. Until he left them behind,
seconds,”
“Okay,” he said. The bright-orange hand swept around —
the timer. At ten seconds the drop officer called it out.
At the count of zero he would—
“Drop!”
“Right on the money,” Austin said easily, feeling the
old gut-sinking feeling as he went from solid gravity to
that momentary free fall of dropping away from the giant
ship above him. There was a brief glance at the earth nine
miles below, a scan of mountains flattened out by height; —
the scratch-pen pattern of roads and a quilt of irrigated
farmland. Only the reassuring glance to orient himself.
The M3F5 dropped away at angles forty-five. He’d allow ©
himself only a drop of one mile. By then he had to have:
everything on the stove. He hit the final pressure switch
with his left hand, moved it to the throttle. Big bastard
of an engine back there. Same design they had in the
lunar module. Reliable and gutsy. He moved the throttle
forward into ignition phase. It came instantly. The invis-
ible hand threw him back against the seat. He nodded
in approval, pulled back on the stick just slightly. No need
22
to lose more altitude. Good; he’d dropped only three
thousand feet so far. The stick came back some more as
the throttle moved inexorably forward under his left hand.
Then he had full power and the thunder howled freely
behind him, riding a long flame studded with diamond
shock waves. He arrowed the nose higher and higher,
taking up a slant of seventy degrees, booming up and out
of atmosphere, and he knew everything was in the slot
and behaving when he heard the sounds of his own breath-
ing in his helmet. Other sound was far behind him now;
he felt the vibrations of controlled thunder. And he’d lost
the sky. Vanished; gone. Snap your fingers; just like that,
No more blue. Not even dark purple. Black, The black
of space. No stars yet; hell, he was still sunblinded. There
was only that velvety, impossible black.
“Cobra, this is Tracker.”
“Roger, Tracker,” he said easily.
“You're right on the money, Cobra. Smack on.”
“Okay.”
He was too busy for chatter. Not yet. He still could see
only sky. Or what had been sky. He crashed upward into
blackness. A moment for a glance to his left. His eyes
drank in the sharply curving horizon. God; that sight! He
forced himself back to the instruments. No time for sight-
seeing here.
At 280,000 feet he eased the nose down, began coming
back on power, brought her to minimum thrust. Control
with the small rocket ports in the tail section and the bow;
spatters of energy to move in vacuum. That, and the big
engine on its gimbals. Just enough to change the flight
path, as he began now, a clumsy but effective turn, a wide
Sweep above and almost beyond the planet, practicing
what other men would soon be doing when they flew the
ig Orbiters of the shuttle program back from beyond
e edge of space,
_ The fuel alarm light spattered red at his eyes. Right on
ie. Quickly he eased the throttle back full; shut her
wn evenly before she could sputter. The latter could
ble him up here like an insane cartwheel, so precari-
23
ously fine was his balance. He was prepared for anything.
No fun in being a skateboard on sheer ice going out of
control. He tensed as a great hollow bang behind him
signified clean shutdown. Good; he hit the nitrogen-pres-
sure switch to flood the tanks and dump the volatile fuel
through the lines. He was fiying now strictly on cen-
trifugal force. He could modify his attitude but it didn’t
mean a thing if he flew sideways or backwards. Until he
hit air, that is. Then he had to be in exact position—the
nose up, just so; the silver wedge positioned and balanced
in. such a way the nose and belly would act as a heat
shield to slough off the fiery touch of friction,
But for a few moments now, a precious interlude in the
midst of flight-plan demands, this mission was for him.
He topped the great parabolic arc at 328,000 feet, more
than sixty miles high, and as he brought the nose down
steeply to command the world before him, the horizon
curved sharply away on either side to remind him he was
back home where he belonged. At the edge of the world
and far beyond that. He was light-adjusted now and the
brighter stars invited him. Familiar, too; stars by which
they had navigated precisely to another world a quarter
of a million miles distant. Low over the horizon, a sliver
of promising crescent, he saw the edge of the silent rocky
globe he had once walked on. The awe returned to him,
seeped through his bones and brought the taut feeling.
The cosmos itself...
Something tugged at metal outside.
“Christ!” That damn sightseeing again. It was a drug
from which he had to tear himself free. He could get in
trouble quickly up here; the silver wedge was feeling the
first wisps of atmosphere, heating up now. The lights
were on. Time for a brief check with the ground before
he’d be in the communications blanket, the silver wedge
surrounded with a fiery sheath of stripped atoms, 3
“Cobra to Tracker. Over.”
They were sitting on the radio. “Roger, Cobra. Go
ahead.”
“Confirm start of reentry. Got the heat light on, and
the zero-zero-five-g light is also on.”
;
24
 “Roger, Cobra. We confirm start of reentry.”
He permitted himself the small Juxury. “I’m bringing
this mother home.”
Regrettably, the horizon began to flatten.

25
 Cease gH we
Ne

He HAD to imagine the silver wedge as a machine slicing

its way from orbit back into the atmosphere. That was
the whole idea of the mission, to test the equipment and
the procedures for the big Orbiters that would be flying
at the close of the decade. He lacked the speed of an
orbiting ship, but everything else was phased into his flight.
Enough to make it an acid test, anyway. Which is why
NASA wanted an experienced astronaut for the flight
program. You can’t beat the attitude of the man who’s
been there, and Steve Austin had come back into the
atmosphere once with a speed of seven miles a second.
But slamming back into air with the Apollo took less
out of you than handling this tricky little bastard. In
Apollo you flew a ballistic entry with some lift to control
27
where you’d screw your way down through atmosphere
before going to the parachutes. The lifting bodies had to
handle both assignments. Function as a spacecraft out of
atmosphere, but function as an aircraft when the air be-
came dense and nasty with decreasing height. It called
for more than simply surviving reentry. He had to fly the
thing down, work his way through great descending curves,
pick an airfield and then grease the mother back onto
unyielding ground.
A neat trick to carry off, but if it worked, all the way
from out there in vacuum, it meant the future spaceships
wouldn’t splash down into an ocean, they wouldn’t need
huge recovery forces, and they could pick home plate.
Any runway a few miles long would do. In fact, they were
really pushing him against the wall with the M3F5; the
wedge would land a good fifty miles an hour faster than
the big ships being prepared for orbital operations.
He used the small control rockets to bring up the nose,
measuring every inch of his attitude against the lighted
globe on the panel before him. Sharp lines against the
golden sphere told him degrees of attitude above or below
the horizon, and indicator lights helped him keep the
nose pointed on a line directly along that of his flight path.
Coming in with a sideways crab could demolish the ship
and incinerate it with unexpected friction. That sort of
nonsense could ruin your whole day.
The glow came before he expected to see the heat rip-
ping away from the ship. At first it was a bare hint of
pink, deepening swiftly to orange and then to fiery, bloody
ted that left nothing to the imagination. Shock waves
pounded through the metal by his feet, and Austin laughed
silently as he felt his toes curling within the pressure boots.
As if that instinctive, helpless human gesture would alle- —
viate two thousand degrees of hell should the epoxy resin _
of the shield fail anywhere! The heat would come through —
the ship like a bazooka shell and with all the explosive
results of an actual blast. But the heat shield held, as
Austin expected it to do, and the automatics held the ©
attitude right where it belonged. The ship rocked and
sometimes it shivered to hammering blows, and if he
28
_hadn’t once seen pieces and chunks of heat shield streak-
ing past the window of Apollo, he would have had the
living hell scared out of him. He was tense enough; he
would never have claimed he wasn’t always afraid, but
experience with Apollo and years of test flying managed
to keep the pucker factor down to a level he could live
with.
Then he was through the heat pulse. He breathed a
sigh of relief, for from this moment he was master. He
cut the automatics and went back to manual control;
now the stick in his right hand and the pedals beneath
his boots worked familiar flight controls, even if he lacked
even a smidgin of power. He kept the nose down, the
silver craft plunging earthward with supersonic speed. A
hell of a ride; not an ounce of thrust and he was still well
above the Mach, the machine honey smooth to his touch.
It might not be the same when he went transsonic. Some~
times the plunge back through line center, from super-
sonic down through the transition range, went smoothly,
Sometimes it didn’t.
Like right now. The wedge slid abruptly, a crazy yaw-
ing motion that came out of nowhere. No wings, really,
to lock her steady with lift, to bring a wing up or down.
No ailerons out there with which to play instinctively.
Just that triple-damned bathtub shape and the three flar-
ing fins, and somewhere, somehow, a shock wave stream-
ing off the bathtub shape hammered against one of those
fins, or locked its movable surface in a steel vise, and she
threw her nose to one side, a sickening yaw that caught
even his swift reflexes by surprise.
What had been smooth as honey became a washboard
increasing its violence with every second. He hoped the ship
would stay glued together until he dropped down to sub-
sonic speed, but for the moment it was touch and go. Behind
him he heard the three flaring fins buffeting, the forces
acting upon them sending a thrumming sound through
metal, a discordance picked up by the entire metal shape.
The harmonics went through metal and through his seat
and grated on his teeth. He couldn’t see the fins but he
knew they were twisting and flexing, and he thought of
29
 the ejection seat that could punch him away from this
suddenly savage little beast. He pushed that from his
mind; he brought his ships home unless they shredded
on him in the air. He tried to fight the controls but this
was no longer an airplane; he was a prisoner in a rounded
metal coffin giving explosive birth to shock waves that
both astounded and frightened him. From the curving
prow, bands of gray, gleaming light streamed stiffly back,
a ghostly pattern streaking to each side. Curving around
the nose, reaching up and back, were broader bands flow-
ing out and intersecting those from the sides in a ghostly,
flickering procession. They were knife-sharp, crystalline,
weird, impossible.
They were terrifying.
He knew that the shock-wave vise hammering the little
machine could dissipate, or the waves might flow together
and—No more time to think. She snapped over on her
side, the horizon straight up and down before him, and
he knew he’d lost her. She was berserk, a demon running
wild. Despite the harness strapping him in he felt the
forces hurling liquids about within his body. The wedge
spun nose over tail, the horizon cartwheeling insanely.
She spun flatly, inverted. He was mashed to one side by
the alternating g-forces as she stood on her nose and
whirled. He felt like a rag doll, the pressure oscillating,
hurling him to the edge of blackness from positive g, then.
exploding his brain in red as reverse acceleration gorged
his brain and eyes with blood. He knew his blood sloshed
back and forth, breaking small veins, distending his main
system dangerously. Instinct kept his hands working the
controls, instinct that had always brought him through
before but was worthless at this moment. How long the
hellish ride went on he couldn’t know. No sense of time.
He realized seconds were racing by, time was building—
and running away from him—because he was starting to
hyperventilate. Pure oxygen in his system. Fighting the
punishment, he was breathing in short, jerking gasps, flush-
ing the carbon dioxide from his lungs, almost on the
brink of passing out. A sudden savage blow, slamming
his head to the side of the canopy. He lapsed into a gray
30
 }

world, hazy, fighting for coherency. He was struggling to

raise his right hand back to the stick when the silver craft
broke free.
Subsonic. Shock waves behind him. He listened to his
hoarse, gasping breathing. Habit, instinct, training—blind
memory—moved his right arm and his legs. He brought
her out of a careening dive, transformed a bulletlike
plunge for the desert floor into a swooping, controlled
curve, He studied the altimeter. Thirty-two thousand. He
had room. Plenty of room, but where the hell was he?
He couldn’t see that well yet. Spots went through his
vision, through a red film hazing his eyes.
Then he heard the voice, insistent.
“Do you read, Cobra? Chase One calling Cobra, Do
you read? Come in, Cobra, come in. Do you—”
He gasped out the reply. “Chase One, uh, Cobra, ah,
here. Read you. How—”
“Have you got control, Steve?”
“That ... that’s affirmative, Chase. Better give mea...
a fix. It’s been a hairy tide.”
“Steve, we're about ten miles behind you, closing fast.
Take up a heading of two six zero. Got it? Two six zero.”
“Okay, Steve. We’re coming up on you now. You’ve
got plenty of room. The field is now about twelve miles
dead ahead.”
“Uh, Roger.” He peered ahead, trying to see through
the red film. He could barely make out the long, black
line painted on the desert floor. “Uh, Chase, I think I’ve
got it in sight. What’s the wind?”
Radar Control broke in at once. “Radar to Cobra.
Wind is fifteen knots from two two zero, gusting to twenty
knots.” i
Not good. Where the hell were the smoke flares? He
wished he could rub his eyes to clear them.
“Cobra from Chase One. Can you see the smoke?”
“Negative, Chase One. No sweat.”
“Roger, Cobra.”
A blessed moment of silence. He pegged the air speed
at two hundred forty knots, holding it steady, maintaining
his rate of descent, planning ahead for the moment when
31
he must flare, when he would bring up the nose, Damn
his eyes. He—
“Cobra from Chase Two. Please lower your gear,
Steve.”
Christ, he’d forgotten. He mumbled acknowledgment,
hit the lever. The ship rumbled as the tricycle gear banged
down in the slipstream, quieted a bit as the doors closed.
Three green lights came on before him, “Three in the
green,” he called.
Chase Two was directly to his right. “Roger, confirm
three green,” the pilot replied.
The mountains were higher on the horizon now, the
world flattening out even more on all sides. A broad band
of water shimmered to his right. He shook his head
angrily. Mirage, but enough to screw up his depth per-
ception. He forced his eyes back to the black line on the
desert floor now swelling swiftly before him. Things were
happening too fast, he was behind his procedures.
“Cobra from Radar, you are now four miles out, that
is four miles from the edge of your landing strip.”
“Okay, Radar,”
“Do not reply, Cobra,” the radar controllor intoned,
“You are above your glide path.”
He nudged the stick forward a hair. “Returning to
proper glide path, now three miles out, maintain your
speed and rate of descent.”
They were talking him in like the old GCA. Right now
Radar was a blessing.
Desert features rushed by. He glanced at the airspeed—
down to two fifty, dropping again. Even as Radar told
him he was slightly above his planned glide path he
nudged the stick forward. again. What the hell was wrong
with the trim? He nudged the trim control on the stick.
No response. Something was screwed up in the electrical
system. It would be even nastier than usual.
“You are one mile from end of runway. Slightly above
glide path, coming back to glide path nicely, You are
coming up on runway. Prepare for full visual takeover.
You are now over the edge of your landing run.”
The voice went silent. The black line stretched away
32
to infinity as the ship trembled from thermals smacking
up from the desert. Damn that crosswind; it was edging
him to the side. He corrected with rudder but the ship
felt sluggish, and he was holding hard forward pressure
on the stick, and—
“Bring her to the right, Steve.” The voice of Chase
One, His foot went down a bit harder on the rudder
pedal and he compensated with the stick. Time to bring
her around now, flatten out the glide, set her down on
the main gear.
“Watch it, Steve!” The voice roared-in his headset even
as the side drift brought one gear to touch. Too fast! The
silver machine bounced, wobbling through the air, the
speed playing off rapidly, the precarious lift bleeding
away. Without wings out there to— He felt the impact
as she rocked on the left gear, bounced again, then the
nes was coming up, and without that trim to compensate
‘or—
He stopped thinking then because he knew he’d lost
her—there wasn’t any more lift, and control sloughed
away in his fingers, and what had been a beautiful aero-
dynamic machine became a lump of metal going its own
way, and there was a sickening gut feeling as the horizon
tilted crazily and the earth came up with terrifying speed
to meet him.

He’d seen it happen before, maybe a dozen or more

times through the years, and memory shaped its own
patterns in his brain, and the warning motions were
enough to trigger the sequence of events he knew must
happen. Dr. Rudy Wells for a moment felt Jan’s nails
digging into his arm and then he felt nothing because he
was, gratefully, numb from head to foot, his mind sep-
arating from his body, throwing total concentration into
the impossible scene taking place before them. Numb
through his limbs, rooted to the desert floor, mouth open
like a fish, he knew what would happen even as the ship
went through its inevitable motions.
At that instant Steve Austin was condemned, for the
ship was now slave to inertial forces over which he had
SE
no further control. Even with an engine behind him he
would have been behind the power curve, the ship slew-
ing along with its nose so high that only a huge rocket
could have blasted him away. There was one chance left
and because he had not seen it happen already, Wells
knew that Steve Austin in his desperate attempts to save
the machine had ignored completely the ejection seat.
It could have punched him free. It could have hurled
him up high enough for a rocket slug to boom open the
parachute. It could have saved his life, but it didn’t have
the opportunity to do that, because Austin was a con-
ditioned test pilot first and last.
There was that sickening swerve of the nose, the yaw-
ing, nose-lifting motion that flashed reflected sun into the
eyes and sounded the first mental shrieks of warning.
A gear stabbed the ground, much too hard, and a stream
of dust snapped into being, trailing the still-speeding,
lurching coffin. The yawing motion and the dust trail
froze Wells’s senses where he stood; there was the mo-
mentary sensation of nails digging into his arm. Maybe
he heard the gasp from the girl clinging to him, maybe
not, but certainly he heard the noise of tearing metal.
First the one gear, then another wallowing motion; the
ship rolled drunkenly, her lift gone, taken away from
her pilot, and the other gear snapped down, hard enough
this time to crack metal and send pieces of the gear
screaming off at an angle.
There was a long, breath-sucking moment before the
next impact, a moment filled with rustling wind, the last
sighs of the machine about to destroy its pilot. Other
sound filtered through to Wells’s mind; the banshee wail
of the chase pilots overhead, and the reflex action of a
man on the ground stabbing the disaster button. In that
moment, mixing with the sound of the jets overhead,
began the strident waver of the crash siren.
She came down hard, slightly to one side, taking most
of the impact through the center line of the rounded belly.
Wells heard a bone snapping, a bone of metal structure
moving before his eyes. She caromed back into the air,
a crack showing her innards, spewing debris and liquids
34
 from pressure bottles—a growing spray of destruction.
This time the nose went higher; she twisted through her
length and came back down partially inverted, stabbing a
fin into hard desert. More dust, a bubbling torrent mixed
with metal, and the new sounds, a gnashing and tearing
roar as the ship began to disintegrate. When she hit again
she broke into huge chunks, methodically chewing herself
to pieces, and bright-orange fiame licked through the
tumbling mess as the liquid-oxygen tanks went. Wells
knew what must happen next. Hydraulic lines rupturing,
the sudden fiery lash feeding on the oily mixture, and a
growing blossom of fire that seared through her innards.
Pounding, breaking up, hurling forth a sputum of debris,
mashing what was left of the nose section, now trailing
metal, smoke, flame, dust, and other junk, the ship died.
The noise changed, a staccato growing unreal, terrifying
to hear, piercing through to his mind above the roar of
the chase jets banking hard, returning to the scene,
the pilots agonized over their helplessness. Other sound
now—sirens, thin voices from all sides, and the roar of
engines. Wells saw the crash helicopters moving in from
the side, the meat wagon and fire trucks pounding to
what had come finally to a stop nearly a mile away. The
first choppers were on the scene, big ugly Kamans, work-
ing in a team. He saw the downwash pounding flame
away from what was left of the silver machine, saw an-
other Kaman pouring foam from its nozzles at the wreck-
age. Asbestos-clad men dropped to the ground, rushed in.
But he couldn’t move. Startled, he realized Jan was
standing by his side in shock. Wells tugged to free her
grip from his arm. “Dammit, let go!” He finally pulled
free, left her sagging to her knees as he signaled to a
crash wagon moving by. They slowed enough for him
to leap onto the running board, clinging to the door as
the driver raced for the wreck.
He had a moment of lucid thought that all this was a
waste, that no man could survive what he had just wit-
nessed, that Steve must be dead. And if he’s not, thought
Wells, then he was even more unfortunate.
He was off the truck and running before it screeched
35
to a halt. The crash teams were swift and effective. Some-
one had cut open the canopy with an axe, even at that
moment was in the midst of torn metal and rising steam,
trying to get the straps free of the body. Wells didn’t
waste time asking questions. No one could know any
more than he could see with his own eyes. He moved as
close as he could to the wreckage, checked for the medi-
cal teams standing a few feet away, and found himself
wanting to do something.
Someone shouted a warning about the ejection seat;
the crash teams were trying to keep the arriving tech-
nicians back from the smoldering wreckage. If the rocket
tube in the seat went it would erupt with renewed violence,
hurling the heavy metal seat through the men milling
about the scene. To hell with that, Wells thought. He
had to get in closer, and he motioned the medical team
to move in with him. If by some miracle Steve was still
alive then he would need whatever help they could give
him immediately.
Heat washed over him. The wreckage crackled omi-
nously, but there were qualified people to worry about that.
Wells wanted to remove Steve from his shattered metal
coffin. At long last one of the asbestos-clad figures began
moving backward, the man’s legs clumsy in the foam-
sprayed twisted metal. He motioned with one arm, and
the medical team rushed forward with a lightweight
stretcher. Wells pushed even closer, wanting to call out
to the men to be careful, to take it easy, that whatever
might be alive in there could only be a perilous moment
away from death.
They lifted a smoking form from what had been a
cockpit. The pressure suit was torn and seared from
flames. Someone had had the sense to pull open the face-
plate so that air could reach Steve, if he were still breath-
ing. The body was limp, the arms and legs askew. Wells
moved over sharp wreckage and felt as if he had been
stabbed between the eyes.
Steve’s left arm was gone.
Wells rallied his shocked senses. He motioned to the
medical team to move to his side, barked instructions.
36
Moments later he secured a tourniquet outside the upper
arm of the suit. It might not do any good but it must be
done. He noticed, then, that both legs were twisted
badly, one crushed almost completely. My God, my God
. . . The words spun through his mind, but his hands
moved of their own accord, felt the face, saw the bruises
and lacerations, the unmistakable signs of a jaw broken
in several places, the signs of severe shock.
He was alive.
The rest was a blur of instinct. They moved the basket
stretcher away from the wreck. The team moved swiftly
as they worked with Wells. Plasma, right there on the
spot. Cortisone to keep the heart pumping. Oxygen
through a lightweight mask held over his nose. Gently,
gently . . . he’s bleeding there. Make sure he doesn’t
choke on his own blood... All right, now, get him into
that chopper at once. Careful, goddammit, careful . . .
As if they needed to be told. They moved the broken
form to the turbine helicopter, slid the stretcher inside.
Wells and the team were in, waving for the pilot to move
out at once, Wells clutched the side of the stretcher to
keep it from sliding as the powerful machine boomed
into the sky, already swinging toward the emergency room
at the base hospital. Wells didn’t need to tell anyone to
tadio ahead; the word had been passed and a crack medi-
cal team would be ready and waiting to do whatever was
possible for the man closer to death than to life. There
were things to do in the meantime. Learn what he could,
cut away the tough pressure suit now, plan ahead to those
moments when their hands and instruments would decide
whether or not this man would ever see another day.
The chopper banked away, turning steeply, reaching
for all possible speed. Wells had time for a brief glance
through the open door. The last he saw of the crash site
was Jan Richards, her face a white mask.

37
BA ane
i. a
 CHAPTER 3
GSESASAATASASASALASA
SASATA ASAT SITASISES
THEY WERE a hair-trigger medical team second to none
in the world. They knew who was flying, of course. Every
time a flight test went onto the schedule, the pilots were
identified on the large notification board in the emergency
medical building. Dr. Milton Ashburn, head of the emer-
gency teams, insisted on this procedure. The pilots were
identified and their medical records were copied and
placed on immediate availability. Blood type, possible
blood donors, and other vital information were thus right
there, and not somewhere else, when needed.
Every member of the medical team understood that
Colonel Steve Austin was up today in that little bastard of
a fiying abortion they called the M3F5. Hard not to know
when a man who had walked the surface of the moon
39
 would be scheduled. You got just a bit tighter, then. Just
a bit more shipshape, if that were possible. And when
the alarm stabbed their ears and jangled their nerves and
brought them bolt upright from beds, they thought of
Steve Austin. Only for the moment. They thought also
of the pilots and radar navigators in the SR-71 chase
-planes. Of the crew in the huge B-52 that would drop
Austin at 45,000 feet. Of the helicopter crews, also. It
could mean any of them, but it was important for them
to know as quickly as possible just who it might be.
Dr. Ashburn hit the medical-request switch on his
desk, In the control tower, in Radar Control, in Helicopter
Control, in every control facility active that day, the re-
quest light flashed on and off, and would stay flashing
until medical was advised. It didn’t take long. Radar Con-
trol was monitoring the chase pilots, of course, and they
had listened to the agonized cry of Steve Austin’s friend
as his voice told unbelievingly of the carnage splashing
cross the dry desert floor,
“Medical from Radar.” The speaker box on the wall in
the emergency building rasped the words.
Dr. Ashburn answered immediately. “Go ahead. Any
identification?”
“Yes, sir. It's Colonel Austin, sir, Crashed on touch-
down. Pretty bad from what I understand.”
“Details?” Ashburn said.
“Only that the ship broke up, sir.” Radar Control
hesitated. “I can patch you into the medical chopper.
They’re starting to lift from—”
“Do it,” Ashburn snapped.
He waited impatiently while the radio line went into
the central switchboard, patching him directly to the
chopper.
“Colonel Ashburn here. Rescue One, do you read?”
“Rescue One. Go ahead.”
Ashburn recognized the voice of the copilot. He knew
every member of the rescue teams personally, “Jackson,
what's the status on Colonel Austin? Keep it tight.”
“Yes, sir. It’s not good, colonel From what I saw he’s
Jost an arm, and I understand his legs are pretty ba”
40
Dr. Wells is with us. They’re giving Austin oxygen now.
He’s unconscious.”
Ashburm cut away from the patch line, punched three
digits for the control tower, told them the rescue chopper
was coming straight to the medical building, to get every-
one else the hell out of the way. He knew the Air Police
were monitoring the line, that within seconds they would
Start out for the medical building to clear the immediate
area for landing the helicopter. Ashbum glanced up,
saw several of his staff standing by. He banged the tele-
phone back to its cradle.
“Get ready in the hyperbaric chamber,” he ordered.
“Everything we need in there at once.” The men dis-
appeared with his words. He rose and walked quickly
to the corridor. Seeing several medical technicians in
the hall he ordered them to drop whatever they were
doing. “Get every door between the emergency entrance
and the hyperbaric chamber open,” he said. “Hold them
open until they bring Colonel Austin through.” He didn’t
wait for confirmation but went straight to the chamber
where his assistants would be waiting for him. He had
less than one minute to prepare himself.

Ashbum and the medical team waited inside by a sur-

gical breakaway table in the hyperbaric chamber. “Put
him on there,” Ashburn said quietly, his nerves stringy-
cold now, the emotional response dismissed as the sur-
geon’s mind took over his thinking and actions, Wells
was there to help, hands under the twisted, fiopping legs
of the unconscious pilot. They moved Steve Austin from
the stretcher to the surgical table and Ashburn stepped
forward, studying, seeking information before he moved.
Wells paused by the table, his face contorted, hands trying
to find something to do. Quickly he sketched in what had
happened, his immediate findings. Ashburn nodded. “All
tight,” he told Wells, “I'd like you to stand by, please.”
He glanced at the dust and soot caking the doctor. “Use
the room to your left to clean up.” That was all; no time
for anything else. Wells hurried to the scrub room, where
a nurse waited to assist him.
41
 The first step had already been taken in the opening
moments of the struggle to retain what little life remained
in Steve Austin. That was the decision to bring him into
the hyperbaric chamber. As Austin was placed on the
surgical table, technicians sealed a heavy steel door. Oxy-
gen poured into the sealed chamber, and the technicians
kept it at maximum flow until the air became much denser,
several times the air pressure on the other side of the
chamber. This eliminated the need to feed oxygen directly
to Austin. He was now breathing the equivalent of full
oxygen flow from a mask, but without the encumbrance to
the medical team of such equipment. With the atmosphere
so heavy, his tissues would also become saturated with
life-giving oxygen, and would remain so as long as the
hyperbaric chamber pressure was maintained. This would
be, for that period of time required for his body to sta-
bilize, the only environment Steve Austin would know.
Dr. Ashburn was determined to keep Austin unconscious
throughout this period when his life hung by a precarious
thread. It would not do for Austin to emerge from shock
into the horrors from which he might never escape.
The medical team cut with difficulty through the tough,
multiple layers of the pressure suit. With the garments
clear of the body there began the immediate steps to
assure continued survival. They almost ended before
they could begin. Rudy Wells was just returning from
the clean room when he heard from Ashburn: “He's
dead. Heart shock, at once. Move!” They did. Two doc-
tors responded instantly with an electrode against the
upper axis of the heart. Seconds later the beat was re-
sumed, stronger than before. The team kept the shock
apparatus at hand.
Another doctor cleaned out Austin’s windpipe. Because
complications of shock made it impossible to determine
immediately the respiratory-system damage, standard pro-
cedure was followed. An intubation tube was moved care-
fully down through the trachea into the lung sac to assure
continued oxygen flow and the exchange of gases within
the lungs. It would be kept there as long as was possible.
Austin had suffered the outright loss of his left arm,
42
as well as the mangling of both legs. Skin ripped away,
compound fractures, severing of blood vessels, internal
injuries. The medical team, of course, immediately
clamped all exposed vessels, but there was another reason
why Austin had not bled to death despite the terrible
mauling of his body. The answer was in the unique nature
of the forces tearing at him in the tumbling, flaming crash.
His arm and leg muscles, subjected to violent accelera-
tion forces as the lifting body broke up on the desert, also
received extreme twisting forces because of this shearing,
twisting motion. In effect, startling as it seemed, it saved
Austin from profuse bleeding. As his body took its bat-
tering, the limbs torn open and mutilated, the femoral
arteries snapped shut. It was a matter of body defenses
instantly going into play. Moreover, that action established
a time frame of lifesaving. The femoral arteries literally
self-sealed themselves, and they would remain in this
condition for some four hours after the body gave its
biological alarms. Four hours and no more, but four hours
in which his own body mechanisms assured he would not
bleed to death, and it was barely sixteen minutes between
the time of the crash and the moment when Austin was
placed on the surgical table in the hyperbaric chamber.
The exposed vessels were clamped as quickly as more
critical matters allowed them to be. But the body had
protected itself. Plasma had been used at the crash scene,
but Wells had done this more as a safety precaution than
because of fears of fatal bleeding. Major blood loss, de-
spite body and head damage, had been essentially re-
stricted to the limbs that were severed or mutilated so
badly they had to be removed. In effect, then, Steve Austin
retained nearly the fully required blood quantity of his
body because he retained the blood in the still-functioning
parts of his system.
Cortisone injection was continued to assist the heart.
A doctor inserted a catheter into the vein of Austin’s right
arm. Intravenous fluids would be kept moving through
the catheter. It was essential that fluids be kept circulating
through what remained of his body.
There were, of course, uncounted other items to which
43
the medical team attended. Some of these were considered
peripheral, such as cutting away skin hanging in flaps
and shreds. The pressure suit had provided an excellent
thermal barrier between Austin and the fire that swept
the cockpit; fortunately, at that moment, the integrity of
his environmental control system had been unbroken,
and he suffered no intake into his lungs of fire or even
extreme heat. And the suit, as it had been designed to
function, kept the flames from his body. By the time the
suit began to yield to direct fire the rescue team had
split open the canopy and doused the slumped figure inside
with fire-quenching foam. Steve Austin’s burns were
therefore minor, a factor of major importance in the
labors of the medical team to keep him alive.
There was other, critical work. A piece of metal had
snapped off somewhere in the cockpit and penetrated the
helmet visor. Penetrated it deeply enough to stab through
into Austin’s left eye and, from all preliminary studies,
deeply enough to have destroyed the optic nerves and
eye structure to such an extent that no one in the room
doubted he would be forever blind in that eye.
The list of injuries grew as the medical team moved
from the immediately critical to the attentions that had
been held aside. His jaw had been broken in several
places, Several ribs were crushed, and an angry laceration
along his left side, from the same tearing chunk of metal
that had severed his left arm, had penetrated deeply
enough to provide suspicion that several ribs were not
only fractured but reduced to dangerous and separated
pieces of bone. A skull fracture also was suspected, and
the head injury, producing fracture of both the skull and
the jaw, had broken perhaps half the teeth in his mouth.
The instruments placed tenderly on his body—the
same monitoring instruments developed originally for
medical monitoring of men in space and then adapted
to hospital use—led Dr. Ashburn to believe that there
had been some damage to the heart-valve structure, But
the heart continued beating strongly enough to allow that
examination to be held for the “second phase.”
Ashburn’s plan was to keep Steve Austin under hyper-
44
baric conditions for at least three to five days, It was
essential that this time be provided for the body to sta-
bilize, to adjust to the drastically altered conditions of
its existence.
There was the other immediate need—to be certain that
Austin remained unconscious as long as possible before
shock and unspeakable pain intruded. And also while
emergency treatment and surgery continued. For this
Ashbum used an electronic device already distributed
to most of the Air Force’s emergency wards—the electro-
sleep machine, an instrument the Russians had long used
successfully and which only recently had found wide-
spread acceptance in the United States. Electrodes were
applied to the skull while Austin remained on the surgical
table. With the connections inspected carefully, an elec-
tronic pulse was generated directly to the skull, trans-
mitting through to the brain in impulses that matched
the alpha rhythm. In effect, Austin’s body began to
resonate to the impulse, and as long as the current was
maintained he would remain within a deep sleep, oblivious
to pain. He would remain this way for days free of any
gaseous anesthesia, of barbiturates or narcotics.
It was many hours before Ashburn stepped back from
the surgical table to wipe his tired eyes. Until he could
say two vital words.
“He'll live.”
For the next several days, with full oxygen saturation
and body stabilization the two prime requisites for his
continued life during that period, the medical team would
take its X-rays and would attend to the secondary sur-
vival requirements to sustain Austin’s life. He would
remain there, in the hyperbaric chamber, until his tissues
sealed off, and body stabilization was assured.

Lieuteriant Colonel Chuck Matthews slumped in his

easy chair, holding the empty glass in his hand. He stared
yacantly across his living room, his arms and legs leaden.
It was his third drink and it wasn’t doing a bit of good.
“Another?” his wife gestured to the mixer.
Matthews sighed. “No, I guess not.” He let his arm
45
hang over the side of the chair, the glass forgotten. “It’s
not doing much good tonight.”
She nodded. “You keep seeing it, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Hard not see it.” Hard? Impossible,
From the pilot’s seat of Chase One . . . he’d see it for a
long time to come, The flash reflection of sun off metal
as the lifting body twisted and yawed with its nose too
high in the air, the plunge into desert floor, the ship
breaking up, the flame licking through .. .
“Where’s Jan?” he asked suddenly.
“With Marge,” his wife said. “She’s under heavy
sedation.”
An awkward pause followed. “Chuck, I'd like to go
to the chapel.”
He leaned back in the chair, pain screwed into his
face, his eyes closed tightly,
“If you love that man like I do... then pray that
he dies.”

46
 CHAPTER 4

Dr. Rupy WELLS glanced again at his watch. Jan Rich-

ards would bé here in a few moments. She would walk
through the door to his office in the main hospital build-
ing. Well, there wasn’t any way out of it. Steve for years
had been a special favorite of his. Now they were, and
would be, even closer.
He crossed his office and opened the slats of the
venetian blinds, staring into the rippling heat waves cov-
ering the concrete flight lines and the desert beyond. He
looked out of place in the midst of the most advanced
flight-test center in the world. A picture of thundering
jets and razored wings did not include this man. Wells
stood six feet tall, nicely thick in the shoulders, the in-
different owner of a rounded bay window that reflected
47
years of exceptional dining and staggering quantities of
Japanese beer, But in his presence you forgot such details
almost at once and your attention returned insistently to
the salt-and-pepper beard, a surprisingly thick shock of
dark hair, wrinkles about his eyes. And the eyes them-
selves. Wells was a man with a gaze so penetrating as
almost to be hypnotic. His eyes commanded attention
and with acute discomfort would often lock the gaze of
another person. They seemed constantly to move, to flick
back and forth, piercing those before him, and it could
be unsettling indeed to be a victim of Rudy Wells when
zeroing in on target.
He was either hyperactive or nearly somnolent, with
no comfortable middle ground. When hyperactive he ex-
uded energy, a bustling figure of staccato motions and
nervous gestures and his eyes almost illuminated from
within, Then, without preamble or transition, he could
become a bearded Buddha, a paradox of a doctor, chain-
smoking the cigarettes his peers adamantly condemned.
That, and the aura of knowledge about him, quickly sug-
gested that here was a mind that held far more than was
ever learned from weighty tomes or direct experience as
a doctor and a flight surgeon.
Wells had never been able to sustain a civilian prac-
tice. Oh, he had tried. After years in Japan and Korea
with the Fifth Air Force, he shed his uniform, hung the
necessary papers on his office wall in Indian Harbour
Beach in Florida, and nearly drowned under the rush of
afflictions assailing the good people of that small coastal
town. If success were to be measured by the immense
popularity he enjoyed as a general practitioner, as a mod-
ern M.D, with an old-fashioned bedside manner, then
Wells was an astonishing phenomenon in a time when the
public derided medical indifference. For Rudy Wells was
in many ways an adherent of yesteryear. His philosophy
was that while things changed and society went through
its head-bumping, the human body, and individual fears.
of a body failing itself, had changed not one iota.
Above all else, even his professional skills, Rudy Wells
discovered he had a talent recognized by a minority, re-
48
 jected almost wholly by his contemporaries. For years this
thing he had had been called the laying on of hands, a
startling intuitive sense of the ills of his patients. Startling
because he found little explanation for it. But it was there,
and it was real. Wells could learn much from a simple
verbal exchange with a patient; revealing words rolled
from them, and he gained this inner feeling of what was
wrong. Every time the sense flowed through him, his medi-
cal examination confirmed his intuitions. There had been
times when diagnosis contradicted feeling—and in the
Jong run, diagnosis had proven in error.
The explanation, he suspected, to some extent mani-
fested itself through his fingers. They were extraordinary.
His fingertips were so sensitive that they might have been
sanded down. It had proved almost impossible for him
to have clear fingerprints taken, and the necessary finger-
prints during his military career were a record of smudges
that baffled security officers, But to patients whose ills he
identified quickly, he became known as much more than
a doctor. He was a healer,
Several years passed pleasantly enough, despite calls
through all hours of the day and night, in the small
coastal town in Florida. Then Wells began to suffer from
his own form of malady until it was no longer possible to
ignore the itch for which no medicine could be prescribed.
He missed the challenge of his former role as a flight
surgeon. He missed the thunderclap of machines splitting
barriers of sound and heat, of watching pinpoints of flame
pushing their tiny silvered darts away from a planet. No
pilot himself, he had nonetheless spent many hundreds
of hours high above the earth with pilots and scientists,
Studying, charting, planning, testing. Twice he had been
forced to bail out of aircraft. Once, from a lumbering
C-124 with three engines burning. Again, when he ejected
from a jet bomber with frozen engines and equally frozen
solid controls. He had also survived a half dozen crashes,
these unusual moments all prompted by his determination
to be in the thick of testing. The pilots and aircrews knew
him to be a magnificent flight surgeon, a little nuts, and
one hell of a man,
49 mn
-
 The siren call proved finally too heady to ignore. There
was also a felt responsibility compelling his return, He
knew intimately the dangers to which the young men of
the flight test programs were subjected. There was, he
reasoned aloud with his wife, Jackie, a need for the best
men available on the ground to assure that those who
paid for flight testing with physical injury and disfigure-
ment would be given every opportunity to return as whole
as possible to the society to which they’d paid such ex-
travagant dues. Wells’s intimacy with the human body
under extreme stress, through the gamut of atmospheric
and space environments, and his ability to relate closely
to the men who flew the dangerous machines, had always
made him welcome at the test centers.
The daily ministrations to ailing housewives, whining
children, grumbling old men, frightened youngsters, and
those who knew they were dying and concealed such
imminence in loud complaints, all these, and more, at long
last piled up like the bow wave of a speeding vessel.
Phiegm and fractures, obesity and bladders, venereal dis-
eases and worms and lungs tortured by drugs and—well,
enough. He packed away his shingle and with a sense of
growing pleasure that they were, and far overdue, return-
ing home, rushed back to the sprawling flight center in
the California desert.

And now he waited for Jan Richards.

To whom he must be not a friend.
Because it was necessary to be cruel.
To avoid the greater, later cruelty.
She came into his office with more control than he had
expected. Four days had elapsed since she stood with
him to watch the savage mutilation of her fiancé,
Correction, he told himself. Of what had been her
fiancé. Don’t forget the past tense, doctor. It will help
in here with this girl.
He rose to greet her. “Jan, thank you for coming,” he
said quietly, his voice flat, almost mechanical. It would
do no harm to establish from the outset this would not
be pleasant for either one of them.
50
 He motioned her to a chair.
“How is he, Dr. Wells?”
“He’s alive, Jan.”
“Alive? Is that all...”
“That's all,” he told her. “How much do you know?”
“I know that Steve has been badly hurt. He . . . may
lose a leg, from what I understand.” Her face colored
suddenly. “But Dr. Ashburn won't say anything. He talks
around the subject, as if something unspeakable had
happened to Steve. Rudy, you know I’ve been around
this business for a long time. I’ve seen airplanes crash
before. My father was in a very bad accident. I saw what
the burns did to him. I am not a child, Rudy, and yet
you're acting like Ashburn. You have—”
“Been in an operating room with Steve Austin almost
every hour of the day for the past four days and nights,”
he said.
“I know that,” she replied, her voice suddenly subdued.
“That’s why I wanted so much to speak with you. Now,
will you please answer my questions?”
God help me. “Yes,” he said.
“Why haven’t I been allowed to see Steve?”
“He’s unconscious.”
“Something's happened, then? I mean, just now?”
He shook his head. “No. He has been unconscious
since the accident.”
“You mean he’s been in a coma all this time?”
“No, no, not that. We have kept him unconscious.
Deliberately.”
“But why, for God’s sake?”
“Because we have been afraid of the shock if he were
to regain consciousness at this time. Not only the physical
shock,” he emphasized carefully, “but also what could
happen to his mind. Steve . . .” Quickly he forced out the
words, “Steve is a triple amputee.”
She stared at him. Now, he thought, now while the
shock is on her.
“He lost his left arm in the crash, and both legs were
crushed. We had no choice but to amputate.” He rushed
si
on, not wanting to look at her. “You're going to have to
get out of here, Jan. You're going to leave him.”
“You're crazy,” she whispered.
“The man you know as Steve Austin is no longer liv-
ing,” he said in the same affected, mechanical voice. “This
is what I want you to understand, what you must under-
stand. If you leave him now, it will be just one more shock
to his system. It will mix with the rest. But if you stay
with him, what is now love and devotion and loyalty will
change as you face the everyday sameness of the horror
of what Steve—”
“Stop itl”
Not now; there was no stopping now. “If there is even
a chance that he will live, that he will—recover is hardly
the word, of course—that he will survive, your leaving
him at a later time could kill him. It could finally destroy
whatever man may come out of all this, There’s something
else you should think about.” He waited until she calmed
a bit. “Do you believe Steve would want you to be with
him now? You know the man, you must know how he
will feel.”
“You still can’t just write out your little prescription,
Rudy, and tell me to disappear. My God, how could
I do—”
He gestured impatiently. “Will you hear me out? Steve
will come to hate you. He is no longer a man as we knew
him. Oh, I know, it’s what’s inside a man, it’s fortitude
and the rest of that, and it’s all true enough, but this has
transcended anything within your experience, or his. You
will not be able to avoid pity. He will never believe, never,
that pity is not your chief motivation.”
“You're a cold, heartless bastard,” she said, grimly
quiet now.
“J wish I were,” he replied. “Are you ready for the
test?”
“The rest? I don’t—”
“I told you he is a triple amputee.” He watched her
stare at him. “He is also blind in one eye. He is a man —
with one arm, without any legs, with only one eye.” Get
it over with, doctor, he said in a scathing lash at himself.
52
 “He has a multiple fracture of the jaw and has lost most
of his teeth. We do not know, at this time, if he will regain
full articulation for speech.” Her face was getting whiter
and he forced himself on. “He has a skull fracture, and
there is every chance of pressure against the brain. At
this point we cannot tell if we can avoid complications, or
if there will be some brain damage on a permanent basis,
There was some inhalation of gases within the cockpit,
and we are still uncertain of their effect on the brain.”
He lit a cigarette “Several ribs were crushed, Not just
crushed, but broken off in pieces that have damaged his
Jungs. There appears to be injury to the heart; perhaps
the valves. It will take some time to determine exactly
what, but heart surgery appears inevitable. We're con-
cerned about injury to the spinal column. If the main
nerves are affected, he may not be able to use even his
remaining arm.”
He didn’t bother reciting the other injuries, the pelvic
fracture, his left ear mutilated, the internal bleeding they
suspected, the growing conviction there might be more
serious pressure on the brain than the first X-ray had
indicated, and—oh, Christ, why repeat it all to himself
now?
He no longer looked at Jan Richards. He couldn’t. He
looked through her. He had talked with Ashburn, they
had spoken with the nerve surgeon in Colorado, Dr.
Michael Killian, they were planning and hoping to do
something for Steve, something drastic and unprecedented,
but this was nothing to build a future on.
Wells was sure Steve Austin, if he could, would thank
Wells for doing now what he would do himself with this
girl.
Her life was to be lived, He found himself on his feet,
looking down at her. “Do you love this man?”
“Oh, God...”
“Then do the one thing he would ask you himself.
Leave him, and don’t ever come back.”
He pushed past her, through the door, walking down
the corridor like an automaton,

53 l
 CHAPTER 5

“We ARE prepared to support this project with whatever

funds may be necessary, We understand this may run to
a high figure, of course, but the implications, which I'm
sure you gentlemen understand as well as Mr. McKay,
“inomus to accept whatever cost is involved.” Oscar Gold-
representative from the Office of Special Operations,
Beant beback in his seat, one arm resting on the chair, the
other stretched forward so that his hand could toy with
theashtray in front of him. Goldman wore a dark fe

55
director of OSO, was also encouraging. McKay, who had
cut his teeth through several decades of undercover opera-
tions for the United States, was involved personally in the
decision to send Goldman with the offer of money.
Dr. Michael Killian, a distinguished surgeon and head
of the Bionics Research Laboratory in Colorado, leaned
forward to rest his weight on his elbows. “I have some
experience with Mr. McKay,” he said carefully. “He has
never been one to commit frivolously to a project of this
size. I find this both heartening and also the basis for
some suspicion.”
Oscar Goldman smiled, “I was told to expect this
teaction from you.”
“My reaction is not the issue. You are talking about
years of work, Mr. Goldman. What is involved here con-
cerns the active participation of much of my laboratory,
both the public facility, and, of course, our secret center,
You are talking about dozens of skilled doctors, engineers,
technicians, the use of at least one and perhaps two com-
puters critically needed in other areas. We can promise
you no real measure of success, and—”
“May I break in, Dr. Killian?” Goldman asked quietly.
“Perhaps I can bring things to a head. What do you esti-
mate would be the financial requirement for this program?
More specifically, as. it involves Colonel Austin.”
“Two million the first year, perhaps. After that it is
difficult to tell. I would say from a half million to twice
that much every year for some time to come.”
“Doctor, tomorrow by this time there will be placed
within your fiscal control—nonreturnable so long as this
project is under way—six million dollars.”
“I presume you are serious?”
Goldman barely shrugged. “You may confirm my or-
ders, Dr. Killian. If you place a callto Mr. McKay’s office
it will go through immediately.”
“Mr. Goldman.” They turned to Dr, Wells. “How much
involvement do you foresee by OSO?” Wells said quickly.
“Minimal, Dr. Wells. We will not interfere with the
basic construction. We will not interfere for a number of
reasons, the first of which is that we are not qualified to
56 |
 do so, and the second is that you would not tolerate
amateur meddling.”
“At what point would you become involved?” Wells
asked.
“We would like to have one of our people assigned to
the Colorado laboratories. We will provide an individual
well trained and qualified either simply to observe or,
depending upon your own feelings, to be used as an assist-
ant or in any other capacity. He will not, I repeat, not,
interfere. He will, however, maintain a meticulous record
of all that takes place. We hope he would be in a position
to have his queries responded to in order to meet our
needs. Should this person we select prove to be unaccept-
able, for whatever reasons, he—or she—will be replaced
at once and someone more suitable will be assigned to
Colorado. You people will make the final decisions re-
garding Colonel Austin.”
Goldman moved his gaze about the table, studying each
man present. “We would like to assure you, each and
every one of you, that we fully understand the unprece-
dented nature of this matter. To us, this is an investment
in an area where we hold grave responsibility. If the prom-
ise of this new—let us say development—is sustained in
your work, then several things will happen simultane-
ously.” One by one he held up his fingers. ‘‘First, we at
OSO will gain what may be an extraordinary new capa-
bility in carrying out our assigned tasks. At the same time,
this means, of course, the nation benefits to a considerable
extent. Second, you people will be provided with the
means to carry out your hopes for human research, involv-
ing as it does a total application of bionics and cyber-
netics, Third,” Goldman said, suddenly very sober, “there
is the matter of Colonel Steve Austin. The man. Every
business, his or ours, suffers its casualties, and he has been
struck down by the odds. Until now we had no special
interest in Colonel Austin. Now we have an overriding
concern with his future progress, and above all, as you
oe understand, with what he becomes. Your offices
will”
“Mr. Goldman—” They turned to Rudy Wells. “—there’s
37
the matter of Steve Austin. As you say, Mr. Goldman,
there is the matter of the man. No one has yet asked him
what he thinks about all this. It can hardly go through
without his acceptance, don’t you agree?”
“I should think,” Goldman said, “there wouldn’t be
any question on the matter one way or the other.”
“But there is,” Wells persisted. “It’s his life. He may
decide to end what’s left of it rather than to accept your
elaborate schemes for, as you put it, reconstruction. Re-
creation would be more like it. Perhaps Steve won't like
playing the role of the phoenix. I am not prepared at this
time, Mr. Goldman,” he said carefully, “to second guess
Steve Austin. Such a decision really belongs to him.”
“Do you have any idea how he will decide?”
“He is still unconscious, has been unconscious, for that
matter, ever since the crash. We are keeping him that
way,” Wells added quickly, “for reasons I’m sure are
obvious.”
Goldman had to push and he did. “Dr. Wells, do you
believe in this program, in what we propose for Steve
Austin?”
“Of course I do,” Wells replied, his surprise evident.
“There’s no question but that—”
“Will you recommend this program to Austin?”
“Yes.”
Goldman’s head almost snapped, he moved it so swiftly
to confront the other doctor. “And you, Dr. Killian? Are
you prepared to push for our proposal? Will you commend
to Austin, whenever he is conscious, that he go ahead?”
Killian nodded slowly.
They could almost see the man shifting gears. “All
right,” Goldman said briskly. “I will preface my remarks
by stating that they may offend you. My position here is
strictly as a messenger. I am a mechanic in our organiza-
tion, gentlemen. It is the policy of Mr. McKay,” and he
nodded to Dr. Killian, “and you, Doctor, know this from
your own association with this man, not ever to give you
reason to suspect we are holding back on you. Feel free —
to be insulted—” with a wry smile “—but believe that —
we are at least completely honest with you. First, Steve -
58
 Austin, Why is it this particular man we are willing to
invest so heavily in? And the investment is comparatively
minor in terms of dollars, but extraordinary in terms of
personnel, genius, and facilities.” They accepted the ob-
vious compliment in stony silence. Goldman had set the
tules for candor and they were willing to let him carry
the ball.
“There are plenty of men who have been torn up
physically as bad as Austin,’ Goldman continued, “or
even worse. You both know that. So it is not simply a man
in whom we are interested, but specifically a man so
unusual, extraordinary, in fact, as to command our atten-
tion. Dr. Wells, here, knows Steve Austin personally. He
knows him so well he has come to regard this young man
almost as a son.” Goldman flicked his eyes in the direction
of the doctor sitting like a statue, then nodded and turned
to Killian. “You, Dr. Killian, are the scientist, and Austin
means something entirely different to you. Vindication of
theory, for one. Proof of years of experiments, for an-
other. Opportunity, for a third. The opportunity to estab-
lish that physical mutilation need not be a living death
for a man. Also, as a spin-off, there will be the oppor-
tunity to expand your own research into restoring physical
movement to paraplegics.
“We all know Colonel Austin’s background. Test pilot,
astronaut, a man who’s been to the moon. But there’s
more. There’s an extraordinary rounding out of this par-
ticular individual. Physically an outstanding specimen. A
great athlete. An advanced student of the military arts.
At the same time, a man with no less than five degrees,
Steve Austin breezed through his masters and his doc-
torate.”
Goldman again glanced at Dr. Wells. “There is another
advantage, one we had not counted on,” he said slowly.
“Austin has no immediate family. His father died in
Korea; in fact, he died in a Chinese prison camp. His
mother passed away some four years ago, and he was
an only child. The closest relative is a distant cousin, and
there has been no family contact with Steve Austin for
many years. There was one potential complication in this
59
area, but it has been, well . . .” Wells’s face remained
frozen but his eyes were alive and they stabbed straight
at the OSO man. “It has been . . . resolved,” Goldman
said carefully, “We have no comment one way or the
other, being unqualified for any involvement, Our only
interest is that there is no family to create undue compli-
cations.” It was a dangerous reef and at least they were
all beyond the barrier. At least for the moment.

Dr. Killian listened in silence. He did not like Oscar

Goldman. Too damned sure of himself. Made a habit—a
career—of meddling in the affairs of others, Killian slipped
back into the reserve for which he was known in his pro-
fession. To the public at large he was a man who inspired
awe for the minor miracles he worked daily with the
human system. He even looked the part that had been
created for him by a properly impressed media. The
clichés moved around him—tall, stately, dignified, bril-
liant, genius. In truth, Killian was an extraordinarily re-
spected and distinguished figure not only in the United
States but throughout the international community as well.
He was now sixty-two years’ of age; his name had become
synonymous with daring, brilliant surgery, and he was as
much the pioneer as he was the surgeon, with his revolu-
tionary procedures and research efforts involving trans-
plants and transplanting nerve sheaths from one individual
to another. He had turned upside down the procedures
for electrical stimulation of body systems; he had returned
“dead” limbs to an astounding new life. He had brought
controlled movement to the legs of paraplegics by routing
the still-living nerves of the newly dead into the bodies of
paraplegics, by-passing the spinal-column block to per-
form what had been—until he began his new program—
medical feats considered impossible,
Now he sat in a small room on the edge of the Cali-
fornia desert, held captive by the promise of the financial
rainbow offered by this strange man from an undercover
organization in Washington, and feeling ill at ease because
of this unaccustomed role. A national recession had taken
its toll in research funds slashed by the watchdogs in Con-
60
“gress and the Air Force, which funded the lion’s share of
Killian’s work at his Colorado laboratories. And just at
the time when his research called for a larger staff, in-
creased use of computers, far more elaborate facilities.
At the doorstep of new success so great he was almost
breathless with the thought, the fiscal axe had cut him
down in midstride.
__ Killian had flown down to Edwards Air Force Base in
California in response to an insistent telephone call from
his old associate, Dr, Wells, and he had found enough
to justify that sudden flight, not the least of which was
the assurance of millions of dollars from the OSO, through
this man, Oscar Goldman. That, and the miracle they
might still perform with the shattered body of the uncon-
scious Steve Austin.
As well as this irritating monologue from Goldman.
With mounting surprise and annoyance, he listened to the
recital by Goldman of his life in a manner that had never
appeared in any newspaper or magazine.
“What has most impressed the media and the public,”
Goldman was saying, “is the sensational, such as your
success in returning sexual capability to paraplegics. If I
recall, Dr. Killian, you instituted this program through
direct electrical stimulation to the nerves of the ejaculation
nerve center, which lies approximately in the center of
the spinal column, and by experimental routing of nerves
past, or around, this ejaculation center, This success, and
the intense public interest, and, perhaps,” here Goldman
smiled, “the age of Congressmen involved in appropria-
ions, brought you some unprecedented funding to con-
‘tinue your work. In the last year, however, those funds
have been reduced drastically, and you are now, to say
‘it frankly, hard up to continue your more advanced ex-
periments, To be even more blunt about the matter,”
Goldman said with a direct stare at Dr. Killian, “you will
have to eliminate some sixty percent of the programs you
now have in their beginning stages.”
Goldman rode the issue without letup, not permitting
Killian to break in. “You are better known, doctor,” he
said, not without respect, “in Japan and the Soviet Union
61
than you are even in this country. The work you did with
the medical scientists of those two nations in limb grafts
and organ transplants is astonishing. Dobrovolskii, in
Russia, especially has the highest praise for you, and often
tefers to that period when you worked together with him
as perhaps the most productive time of his career. If I
tecall, it was Dobrovolskii, in fact, who demonstrated to
you the ability to restore sexual capability to men whose
organs had been damaged by gunfire or other forces.
This was work he had begun as a young medic during
the Second World War. And Vasilov worked with you in
optics, I believe, in performing what many people con-
sider to be near miracles in restoring sight to damaged
or diseased optical systems.”
Goldman shifted in his seat and, again, Killian and
Wells had the distinct impression he was shifting mental
gears as well, homing in more directly to the issue at hand.
“Now we come closer to home,” Goldman said quietly.
“The Air Force, because of the freedom it was enjoying
in basic research, provided you with an elaborate medical
laboratory and associated facilities just north of Colorado
Springs. That medical center is, of course, well known.
One of the reasons for its fame is that the Air Force has
gone to great trouble to publicize, especially to appropri-
ations subcommittees, the benefits accruing to the entire
nation from this military program. So your facility, your
Bionics Research Laboratory, has ridden a high crest of
financial support. Your bionics lab and, of course, your
somewhat more secret lab that is buried in the mountain
behind the public facade.
“From our point of view, gentlemen,” he said, “the
bionics laboratory and its hidden offshoot, your cyber-
netics systems, when combined with what we in OSO have
to offer in the field of subminiaturization in electronics
and related fields—”
“What your office has to offer, Mr. Goldman? You
seem to forget the Air Force’s own work in what we could
properly call microminiaturization. Or that of NASA, or
any of the technical and military services, for that matter.”
“Of course, Dr. Killian,” Goldman said. “No argument.
62
/OSO is fully aware of developments in these fields. My
point is that OSO also functions as a clearing house;
we keep tabs, shall we say, on all work done by every
other agency and organization in the country. We coop-
erate fully with them, and they with us. Through this
clearing house, you can be assured that whatever new
advance has been made, anywhere, in this country or
elsewhere, its results will be provided immediately to you.
Microminiaturization in the electronic and mechanical
fields, combined with what you have done in bionics, all
of which can be welded into a wholly new discipline
through computer systems, well, that is what this is all
about, isn’t it?
“One of the purposes of OSO, I should add, is to
eliminate the sort of charade that developed through
interagency competition over the years. I’m sure you're
aware of what has been going on when all our security
and intelligence organizations must fight for their own
piece of the appropriations pie. OSO doesn’t fit in there.
We're actually subordinate to the needs of the intelligence
community. We work for them. Being noncompetitive,
we give and receive absolute cooperation. We function as
a, well, you might call us the Switzerland of our intelli-
gence factions.”
Rudy Wells gestured to the OSO representative. “Mr.
Goldman, would you be good enough to get on with it.”
Goldman did. Office of Special Operations had some-
thing special in mind for Steve Austin. Killian was to
supervise directly, participate intimately in a program to
create out of the mutilated human wreck not only a new
man but a wholly new type of man. A new breed. A
marriage of bionics (biology applied to electronic engi-
neering systems) and cybernetics. A cybernetics organism.
Call him cyborg. The words rang through Killian’s
mind, pushed aside the humanitarian issue of whether they
could alter and modify Steve Austin’s body without his
total cooperation. But would they try? Killian admitted
to himself that he would not only accept this OSO effort
but would grab at the opportunity. And what an oppor-
tunity! Goldman was right. Steve Austin was the most
63
perfect of all candidates for the bionics laboratory in
Colorado. It was far more than a matter of a human body
to experiment on. Human bodies in every degree of dam-
age were always available for his research programs; the
people brought in in wheelchairs and basket stretchers
could receive help from the research programs beyond
anything available at the “normal centers” for amputees
and other maimed patients. Not a man or woman brought
to the Colorado laboratories had ever come through his
doors without full consent. And Killian stuck to one iron-
clad rule; at the first indication from any patient that he
might feel himself being used as a guinea pig for medical
experiments, all work, including the direct medical pro-
cedures created solely for the patient’s own benefit, was
halted at once, and reassignment of that individual was
made to another, more conventional facility.
Killian without qualification was consumed in his work,
a trait much approved by Goldman and his boss at OSO.
And he had enjoyed his life, starting his medical career
in the Second World War as a brilliant combat surgeon.
He had been a concert pianist (his long, strong fingers
were an asset), an astonishing avocation for any man,
especially one so steeped in his medical and research
work, but those who encountered the intensity of his
dedication accepted the unusual as usual. His children
were long married and scattered around the world, and
with his wife delighted to have settled down in the Colo-
rado hills, he found virtually nothing to interfere with
wholehearted dedication to his work.
He could not deny the truth. Steve Austin represented
an extraordinary opportunity. Killian was perfectly aware
that OSO hoped that as a consequence of its support
Killian would transform the one-limbed torso stump of
Steve Austin into some kind of superbeing. To be utilized
for their own rather unique requirements, of course.
Except that when that day came, were Killian to be
fully successful, then Steve Austin could make up his own
mind, and Killian would be free of involvement.
Killian glanced at Rudy Wells, then turned his atten-
tion once again to the OSO man.
64
 “Mr. Goldman, I will accept OSO under the conditions
you have presented, but my acceptance could well be
irrelevant.” He gestured to Rudy Wells. “There is the
only man, I believe, in whom Steve Austin will place
complete trust and faith, That man is Dr. Wells. It is my
opinion as a doctor, Mr. Goldman, that unless Dr. Wells
can persuade him otherwise, Steve Austin will take his
own life. And if Austin does accept Dr. Wells’s thinking,
he will come in many ways, for a period of time we can-
not yet anticipate, to depend almost wholly on Wells for
the decisions that will so drastically affect his life. So
either Dr. Wells involves himself totally, or there is no
use proceeding any further.”
Heads turned to Rudy Wells. Oscar Goldman withheld
the obvious question. He sat erect in his chair, studying
Wells, waiting.
Dr. Rudy Wells had long before made his decision
about involvement. There could be only one way to go,
But there was another decision to be made,
“There is an immediate problem,” he said. “Someone
must decide for Steve Austin. The program must begin
without his agreement. This is necessary because Steve
is in no position now, and will not be for some time to
come, to make a judgment we might consider logical, or,
perhaps, even sane. I don’t want to make this decision
for him, but I’m closest to him and I don’t want anybody
else to bear that responsibility if we . . . fail.”
Goldman spoke with great caution. “Have you decided,
Dr. Wells?”
Wells sighed and nodded. “Today is Friday. I recom-
mend that no later than Tuesday morning we transfer
Steve Austin to Colorado.” He glanced at Killian, who
nodded in confirmation.
Goldman leaned forward. “I would like to speak with
Colonel Austin. There are—”
Aaa do you propose to do this?” Wells interrupted
ly.
“Perhaps next week. The end of the week,” he added
hastily.
Wells glanced at Killian, who nodded. “Next week?”
65
Mr. Goldman, you have no idea what is involved here.
Let your education begin now. You will not be able to
speak with Colonel Austin for several months, perhaps
as long as six months, and you will speak to him only
when I so decide.”
Wells rose to his feet.
“Don’t call us, Mr. Goldman. We'll call you.”

66
 CHAPTER 6

THE SENSE of unreality was almost overpowering. Rudy

Wells stood before a thick, glass window, an oval shape
in a thick metal door. Beyond this first barrier, bathed in
the warning glow of red light, lay’ another, similar door.
The two doors, tightly sealed, formed a pressure-airlock
barrier to, the chamber beyond, the hyperbaric world
within which they had imprisoned Steve. The pressure
airlock cast its red glow into Wells’s eyes, adding to the
unreality of the sight beyond. The special overhead lights,
casting off little heat but an intense illumination, targeted
the unconscious form beneath.
He waited for the inside door to be locked by one of the
doctors inside before the airlock door would slide open.
A green light flashed; an instant later the hiss of air
67
escaping through the sliding door began. Cool air, en-
riched with oxygen, washed against Wells as he stepped
inside the chamber. He stopped, turned to his right,
pressed a flashing switch. The door through which he had
entered closed behind him and he heard the inrush of air.
He looked up at the pressure reading. One dial showed
the heavy pressure within the hyperbaric chamber, the
other, the airlock in which he stood. The two finally
matched and another green light flashed on, this one over
the entrance into the final chamber. As quickly as Wells
stepped through, the door closed to seal off the chamber.
Steve’s body lay partially exposed. The oxygen was rich
in his system. His tissues were almost sealed off by now.
The internal barriers to destruction were compensating,
rerouting, rebuilding, changing, and adapting for their un-
conscious host. Wells studied him with professional care,
noticed the even movement of the chest, the barely dis-
cernible flaring of nostrils. A metal frame held the sheet
above him but let the air bathe the naked form beneath,
and brought a slow oxygen flow against the angry, red
skin where there had been legs and an arm. Steve existed
at this moment as the terminal of wires and tubing. His
shaven skull, resting in a molded receptacle to prevent
undue movement, sprouted wires from electrodes held
against the skin, the alpha pattern coursing through his
brain, his body responding to the subconscious beat, hold-
ing him safely within whatever darkness flowed through
his mind. Whatever might be, Rudy Wells knew it could
be only infinitely better than what awaited Steve this side
of consciousness. They had kept the tubes leading through
his nostrils into the trachea. The intravenous bottle sus-
pended above his arm sustained the flow into Steve's
system.
Electrodes placed around the heart measured every
movement, every sound, every pulse and coursing moment
of that magnificent pump; measured what went on within
the body and flashed its signals to a battery of instruments.
Oscilloscopes, recording graphs, a battery of lights, even
a buzzer that would clamor its warning should the heart
falter. The same instruments on this body that Austin
68
had worn walking the desolation of the moon—they were
here again, this time sending their messages barely a few
feet instead of a quarter of a million miles. At least now
they could respond to failure, and do so instantly; they
were constantly at his side.
The doctors had performed emergency surgery. Enough
to assure his body would stabilize. Wells looked at the
battered face, the swollen lips, bruises along both sides
of the face; yet, even in this moment of studying the
mauling of that splendid man, the strength he had known
showed clearly. Wells needed no movement of his own,
needed no survey of Steve Austin, to know the other
wounds and mutilations. He closed his eyes and thought
of the work that must be performed. Work. A common
word for uncommon efforts to sustain the animal creature
so that the mind, that wondrous vessel inhabited solely
by man, might survive to continue its wonders. They
must teach Steve Austin to want to sustain the animal
that hosts the mind. Rudy Wells understood that before
Steve might win his own torturous battle for life, he must
hate the man who would guide him through the dark
shadows. Understanding that now would make it more
tolerable later, Wells told himself.
He had spoken with Ashburn of the decision to be
implemented this Tuesday. Just a few more days. The
journey to Colorado was essential. It was, in fact, critical.
Steve could recover here, might be shipped later to a
veterans’ hospital, where the most advanced prosthetics
science would be available to him, promising him the
glorious future of a broken doll that has learned to imitate
some order of coordinated movement. And that would be
it. He’d kill himself first, Wells knew. Here was a man
of two worlds, and the future had to hold more than the
posturings of a clever marionette.
Rudy Wells was prepared to give him every chance.

The research lab was known simply as The Rock, a

facility within which Killian and his brilliant associates
enjoyed the sanctuary of government support and, to some
extent, the isolation of government security. The Rock
69
had been named long before the appearance of either Dr.
Michael Killian or even the United States Air Force.
Doubtless some miner or hunter had had good reason to
curse the high sheer face, the jagged outcroppings, and
almost numbing sterility of its higher reaches. Despite
the lush timber growth along the lower flanks and the
stunningly beautiful land stretching away from the eastern
shoulder of the Rockies, it was unmistakable to the viewer.
In winter, with the world swathed in the heavy snows
expected in high Colorado land, the black face of the rock
jarred the view. No trees, and a sheer face kept it free
of a white blanket. Below that blank granite, however,
there shone glass and metal, and lights gleamed through
the night. Here nestled the twin laboratories run by Dr.
Killian, of which only one presented its face to the world
—the bionics lab, called by its occupants, The Shop. The
second lab, in which cybernetics was of paramount in-
terest, lay deeper within the mountain and officially it did
not exist,
If Steve Austin had to face horrendous months ahead,
at least there could be few more beautiful geographic
settings for it. The Rockies did not form a single line of
peaks, their own serration of jagged ramparts, but rather
a grouping of ranges, a thick cluster of mountain barriers
separating the eastern and western parts of the nation.
Pike’s Peak, abutting Colorado Springs, overshadowing
the community, was almost the height of the Matterhorn.
And forming the thick skeletal backbone were many other
peaks higher than Pike’s. The land directly east of the
mountain foothills was a gently rolling plain of a rich
green-and-yellow carpet, sliced and ravined by water
streaming violently down from the Rockies so that the
grassy realm was grooved with gullies and buttes, with
deep streams and sudden outcroppings of rock. Then,
approaching the Rockies from the east, the green carpeting
yielded to stands of rich timber.
There would be more than enough facilities to support
whatever Steve and his team of specialists would need
for the years ahead. Near the town of Colorado Spring:
itself was Peterson Field, the only major civil airport in
70
the area, convenient not only to the community, but serv-
ing the needs of the sprawling Air Force Academy, which
lay northward along the mountain’s flanks. There was also
the activity created through the presence of Fort Carson,
an Army camp that had stood as an area fixture for dec-
ades; this was served by its own airport, Butts Army Field.
Fort Carson had long been secured within a restricted area
so that when it became necessary to fly in security-labeled
materials or personnel, it was simple enough to do so ina
military aircraft that would attract no special attention
at Butts. Helicopters or Army vehicles completed the trips
to the labs.
The country sprawling around the mountains and along
the high rolling hills to the east of the Rockies carried
the colorful names affixed by trappers, hunters, and min-
ers, along with the Indians, of course: Texas Creek, Black
Forest, Cotopaxi, Shawnee, Silver Cliff, Buffalo Creek,
Shaffers Crossing . . . And the two laboratories, bionics
and cybernetics, used the code name of Slab Rock, which
became the official name of the post office.
Colorado Springs, with its plush Broadmoor Hotel, lay
about eighteen miles from where Slab Rock jutted from
its mountain. You drove north from Colorado Springs,
and then northeast, picked up a road that drifted back to
north and northwest, and then began curving up the moun-
tain foothills. There was no attempt at concealment; quite
the opposite, since the hospital design took every advan-
tage of the breathtaking scenery through huge windowed
areas. Coming down from the mountain road, which ended
at the laboratories, a side road led directly to U.S. High-
way 87, which in turn worked its way southward to the
Air Force Academy and resort ranches sprinkled through
the area. Denver lay about one hundred miles north of
Colorado Springs.
-One additional organization provided a tremendous
flow of traffic and resources when needed, especially since
it operated on both sides of its own security wall. This
was NORAD, headquarters for North American Air De-
fense Command, residing within great tunnels and caves
gouged from the deeper bowels of Cheyenne Mountain.
71
As the electronic nerve center for space tracking, detec-
tion, and surveillance systems by the United States
throughout the entire world, and as the-eommand center
for alerting the nation in the event of enemy strategic
strike, NORAD functioned as a multibillion-dollar ice-
berg. Its purpose and its location were known, deep within
the mountain, but it showed little of that face to the
world.
The bionics and cybernetics laboratories, under their
code name of Slab Rock, benefited directly from the gar-
gantuan construction task that created the complex
NORAD facility within Cheyenne Mountain. Tunneling
an entire mountain could hardly have been kept a secret,
and the thousands of engineers and construction workers
raised dust that drifted for hundreds of miles. When they
were through, assembly groups moved in, and a throng of
electronics specialists went to work to establish the intri-
cate substance of NORAD. It was, essentially, a complex
of electronic linkage to the entire world and beyond the
world, the whole of it run by banks of massive computers
to whom their human masters were essentially servants
tending their electronic oracles.
Slab Rock came into being as an offshoot of the con-
struction within Cheyenne Mountain. It was a matter of
official convenience. Construction of the NORAD center
tequired extensive laying of cable between Cheyenne
Mountain and main trunk terminals in the Denver area,
and the engineers built what were known as booster stages
along the cable lines. One such stage, on the road leading
to a substation officially identified as Slab Rock, called
for blasting deep within a mountain. Later, much later,
that same area was selected as the site for the Air Force’s
bionics laboratory to be run under the direction of Dr.
Michael Killian. As the outer shell of the hospital labora-
tory slowly assembled, the cybernetics laboratory, con-
cealed entirely within the mountain, also came into being.
Thus a normal flow of traffic, of personnel, supplies, and
equipment was carried out in completely open fashion to
the bionics lab, which functioned both as a research center
and a hospital. It required little additional effort to dis-
72
tribute further whatever was necessary for the inner,
secret laboratory after it arrived at the “outer office.”
No small measure of miracles had emerged from Kil-
lian’s bionics research. His goal was to substitute for what
nature had provided, and had then been removed, for
those who suffered amputation and severe disfigurement.
This was not simply a matter of plastic surgery or pros-
thetic limbs. That constituted the most piddling of goals
compared to what Killian and his staff sought. To Dr.
Killian, an artificial leg was a real leg. Not flesh and bone,
but intended to be fully as articulate as the original, and
capable of rendering the same flexibility provided by
nature. It had to extend far beyond a fancy stump or
appendage with flesh-colored plastiskin and hairs em-
bedded in the material. The idea was to create a replace-
ment for the original that could not be distinguished by
an observer as artificial, and this demanded a test of
movement.
The new leg had to be as good or better than the real
thing. Indeed, it must be the real thing, with the only
difference being that the replacement was fabricated rather
than created through original living tissue.
Rudy Wells would become in many ways the alter ego
of Steve Austin. For some time to come, until shock eased
from that young and impressionable mind, Wells would
have to think for Steve—function not only as an intelli-
gence center, but also supply the patterns of reason and
logic that would for some time be missing from Steve’s
thinking. Steve would need to be sustained, protected
from himself, so to speak, until shock eased and he re-
gained complete control of himself once more. Wells also
knew that the same levels of thinking might never again
be igsue In this he could only hope for the best and
work,
There were two keys to the work in which Wells would
immerse himself in the program for Steve, and both were
peripheral to medicine as that word is commonly defined.
Cybernetics was known as the science of computers or
electronic brains, but that was rather the restrictive term.
‘To the laboratories at Slab Rock, cybernetics covered a
73
wider gamut of activity. It involved the computers, of
course, meaning in the broader sense any artificial instru-
ment—a sensor that received an input, examined it, made
a decision, and initiated an action—that added to a cyber-
netics system. A device that functioned as an automatic
pilot to hold an airplane on the proper heading, course,
and altitude, and could be slaved to a radar or radio-
homing system, to follow that system through turns at a
certain time and space, and would even initiate a descent
and carry it through to a landing, utilizing pressure altim-
eters and radar altimeters, and compensate for tempera-
ture and humidity and the effects of crosswind—this was
wholly an automatic pilot that must be considered a
computer.
Or the other way around: The cybernetics laboratory
under Killian developed such systems on a scale far below
their application to the everyday world; they were more
akin to the sub- and microminiaturization techniques of
military electronics systems and those developed by the
space agency, where reliability and light weight were as
vital as the ability to perform. Understanding the nerve
patterns of the human brain enabled one to perfect arti-
ficial nerve patterns as well, which in turn gave one the
advantage of superfast artificial brains to break down in
the most exhaustive detail the nerve patterns of living
creatures. It was a mutual activity, and Killian’s utiliza-
tion of cybernetics extended in both directions—from the
large brains that could squeeze a century of tracing nerve
patterns into only a few minutes of computer operation
to the creation of small servosystems that functioned much
in the manner of living systems.
The benevolent despot who ran the bionics and cyber-
netics laboratories, Dr. Michael Killian, was preeminent
among the medical researchers in human systems. Much
of Killian’s work involved the nerve circuits of the human
body and the brain. The thousands of billions of cells that
involve message transfer and reaction throughout the body
do not necessarily follow repetitive pathways but vary
greatly, and take up strange and unexpected nerve tribu-
taries throughout the body. To analyze the potential num-
714
ber of pathways was a numerical task beyond the lifetimes
of a thousand mathematicians. But not beyond the ca-
pacity of a great computer, the macro part of the cyber-
netics laboratories that could produce within minutes an
answer that would have taken a thousand human life-
times. Thus the electronic brains functioned as superfast
detectives to trace the almost infinite number of neural
avenues within the brain and the body. The answers they
provided enabled Killian’s staff to design their man-made
counterparts.
And so the second key—bionics. It was in this area
particularly that Rudy Wells was no stranger. His own
association had evolved from a combination of research
disciplines—both basic and applied—and the rehabilita-
tion programs in which he had for years participated. In
the earlier days, when doctors and scientists were still
trying to define their new areas of research, the Air Force
explained bionics as the “science of systems that function
after the manner of, or in a manner characteristic of, or
resembling living systems.” A bionics arm, then, would
be an artificial limb that functioned much as did the
original before its loss to the owner. But in their early
research, when they were even adapting the biological
systems of beetles to create artificial indicators to judge
the speed over the ground of aircraft, they felt they were
mixing the craziest part of biology with the most outland-
ish of concepts in electronics.
The term itself, bionics, still found ready understanding
within only a limited area. Originally it was coined by
Major Jack E. Steele, who had been a research psychi-
atrist at the Aerospace Research Laboratory in Ohio, Dr.
Steele was a combination electrician, engineer, medical
doctor, psychiatrist, pilot, and a flight surgeon. He created
the word bionics as a combination of the Greek bios,
meaning life, and the suffix ics, meaning after the manner
of, or resembling. Steele taught his coworkers that the
scientific goal of bionics was to acquire specific biological
knowledge, then reduce that knowledge to mathematical
terms (again with the indispensable computers) that would
be meaningful to an engineer, who would then produce
75
 what the doctors, or the bionicists, if the term was pre-
ferred, requested. As Rudy Wells came to participate in
-the revolutionary field, bionics represented a remarkable
step forward because it adapted biology to a new dimen-
sion. Until bionics studies came about, biology was mostly
a descriptive science. It sorted and labeled the parts of
living systems. With bionics, biology advanced to an ana-
lytical science that dealt with the specifics of the chemistry
and physics involved in the biological processes.
Now Rudy Wells knew he would be reaching the cul-
mination of his several decades of work as a medical
doctor, flight surgeon, psychologist, and bionicist. It all
centered in Steve, and the experience would introduce to
Wells new dimensions of responsibility, On him would
be all the weight of physiological and psychological agony
that Steve would know. If they proved successful with
Steve, they would open new worlds to thousands of others.
Oscar Goldman had come to them from an agency dealing
internationally in deceit and secretive terror, and from
such an agency’s interest in Steve Austin there might
emerge unprecedented hope for many savaged by the
violence of accident.
God help us, Wells thought, especially Steve Austin.

16 4
 CHAPTER 7

AGIASSASATA
TATASATA ASASATAAAI IES
“I pon’r want you in the room when it happens.”
Wells studied her carefully, trying to judge the woman,
to measure her steel. “Understood, Miss Manners?”
“T understand, doctor.”
“Good.” He wanted to be absolutely certain of this
woman. Jean Manners, RN. On their arrival in Colorado,
Killian had brought her to the hyperbaric chamber per-
sonally, saying that Miss Manners was the best nurse he’d
ever known. Killian simply didn’t offer accolades. Nor did
he bother to explain that much. “I am assigning her to
you full time,” he added. “If you need anything, Rudy...”
He let it hang, then turned and left the room. Killian
would not be involved for some time with Steve. Not until
they began surgery. That disturbed Wells. He wanted the
77
program begun as quickly as possible. He had already
made up his mind to move ahead faster than anyone
expected.
She stood tall and willowy, and his appraisal took in
small but firm, high breasts, the straw-colored hair, and a
face on which freckles had run their wild course. But there
was more; much more. He shook his head. He would
make his evaluation later. He would not accept any nurse
on first meeting. Not for Steve. This was going to be a
long haul, and no matter that Killian broke his own rules
to offer her with what was, for him, a stunning recom-
mendation, That would do for the moment. He would
decide later.
Her initial conversation impressed him, She was already
fully conversant with Steve’s case. She explained it quickly;
Killian had notified her of the decision to bring Colonel
Austin to Colorado. She would be assigned to the case,
as direct aide to Doctor Wells. She had already checked
out Steve’s records, obtained the details of the crash,
received the medical records.
She knew. That went a long way with Wells. He wasted
no more time.
“Colonel Austin will have a full staff with him in the
hyperbaric chamber. I would like you to rest during the
day. Tonight, at approximately eleven o’clock, I'll bring
Steve Austin back to . . . awareness. I would like you to
be with me during the preparatory stages. We will main-
tain the hyperbaric condition for an indefinite period.
After we attend to the initial stage, I would like you in
the adjoining chamber. I assume there is a microphone
pickup in the main chamber. I want you in that adjacent
chamber. I want you to listen to everything that goes on,
to observe what you can. However, I don’t want you in
the room when it happens. It could be far worse that way.
Do you understand that?”
She said she did. It could be vital.

She was with him well before eleven that night. He

made a thorough examination of Steve, forcing from his
mind as much as it was possible to do so the personal
78
relationship. He must be both doctor and psychologist
now. Together they strapped the unconscious form to the
surgical table. Impossible to predict a physical reaction,
what might happen. Steve had that right arm. He could
move with it, apply leverage. The straps went across the
chest, his groin, the lower one just above the knees where
they had amputated. There would be an awareness of
those straps. It would help.
They adjusted the lights carefully. It wouldn’t do for the
lights to be streaming into his eyes. Better for low-keyed
lighting. A side-lighting effect would be best, would illu-
minate Well’s own face, provide a point of immediate
recognition. That was important. Comprehension could
come in fits and starts.
Wells had Jean Manners prepare a hypodermic of
paraldehyde for immediate injection if it proved necessary.
He noticed her brows arch when he specified the drug
to knock him out.
“It’s old-fashioned,” he said to her unspoken question,
“the sort of thing you use for belligerent drunks. It ap-
plies in this instance,” he said with a sudden ill-temper.
“It’s nondepressive in terms of the respiratory system.”
She nodded, placed the hypo within easy reach of his hand
should it be needed.
Then it was time. God, he needed a sedative for him-
self. She saw it, too, She hesitated at first, then decided
candor was best. He didn’t appreciate her question but he
respected her intent when she asked if she might get him
something. His response was curt, even nervous. She felt
with him, accepted his mood.
“All right, Miss Manners,” he said finally. “Time to
start.” They stopped the trickle of alcohol into his system.
They waited a while as Wells examined his patient. Finally
he nodded to Jean Manners, told her to carry out the next
step. Her hands were firm, skillful.
She administered the thyroid. Intravenous. Time again
to wait. The thyroid would burn up the alcohol. As it did,
Steve would emerge from the deep well of unconscious-
ness.
Wells glanced at the wall clock. Twenty minutes to go.
719
Wells imagined himself emerging from that sodden stupor.
Steve’s last memory was of the crash. He would remem-
ber, first of all, the yawing, sickening motions. Maybe
none of [Link]. Impossible to tell. But he would
remember that he was, or had been about to enter, into
a crash situation.
He had a brain. He would think; he would try desper-
ately to think. A skip-and-bounce process as he emerged
from his protective cocoon. Then, within the next half
hour, more cohesive thought would follow. It had to be
set up by the time when Rudy Wells must tell him. No
kick in the head, but no dragging it out.
Just about there. Wells stared at the face, waiting for
the first signs of returning awareness. The muscles moved,
twitched slightly. Any moment. He nodded to the nurse
and she left silently, taking up position in the adjacent
chamber.
He turned back to Steve.
His eye moved.

At the last moment the thought came to him. Rudy

Wells reached for Steve’s hand, held it in a firm clasp.
Steve stared at him, not yet comprehending. Wells knew
he saw with blurred vision, a matter of mental groping,
of not having the reference points of depth perception with
both eyes. The doctor moved slightly to his left, to adjust
his position so he was closer to Steve’s right ear. The left
was still swathed in bandages.
“Steve.” -
Just the name at first. It would be difficult for him to
talk at all. His jaw was wired shut. The teeth. . . so
many of them gone. Keep talking to him, give him refer-
ence points.
“Steve, it’s me. Doc. Doc Wells.”
The eye closed. A long moment of . . . pain? Something
there, something deep and with the first signs of pain
teaching him. The pain will be good. He—
Steve stared at him.
“It’s Doctor Wells, Steve.”
A sudden, cruel pressure against his hand. The eye
80
opened wider. “Steve, listen to me carefully, You're in a
hospital. A hospital. Don’t try to move. You're strapped
down in your bed. You—”
Oia
“Take it slowly, Steve. Very slowly. You can’t talk very
easily. Do you recognize me, Steve? Just nod your head if
you recognize me. That’s all. Take it very slow, just nod
your head.”
The eye closed. Wells held his breath.
The head moved, ever so slightly. Steve had closed his
eye, but his head moved. Several times Wells felt Steve’s
hand pressure increasing, then slowly decreasing.
“Listen to me carefully, Steve. It will be difficult to talk.
Can you open your eye—eyes, Steve? Look at me if you
can, fella.”
A man stared at him from the depths of his soul. The
thought processes were running faster now, joining to-
gether.
“That’s good, Steve. Can you understand me better
now?”
“Y-yuh ...1...1—”
“Slowly, slowly,” Wells said soothingly. “Don’t take it
too fast. Can you understand me better now? That’s good,
son. Take it slowly. I'll fill you in. Take a deep breath.
Try to relax. That’s better. Breathe deeply. Some more,
Good, that’s good.”
The thyroid had taken its full effect now. The eye look-
ing up at Wells was clearer, almost sharp. Lines had
returned to the face. He was experimenting, feeling. Wells
saw the tongue moving within the mouth, against the jaw,
feeling the slight space between the teeth.
“Do you understand now? Your jaw is wired. It was
broken. You can talk, but do it slowly, carefully. Do you
understand me, Steve?”
Ses". oi yes:”
“Good. Don’t try to move anything but your right arm.
Only your right arm or your head. That’s all. Take it
very slowly. You’ve been out for a long time, son. But
you're coming out of it. You’re . . What? Say that again,
Steve. Slowly, slowly.”
81
 “Where, doc? W—where are we?”
“In a hospital, Steve, in Colorado.”
“Colorado?” It came out muffled, forced through his
teeth.
“That’s right. We flew you up here yesterday from the
test center.”
“Wh—why Colorado?”
“Special facilities.” Wells took a deep breath. Time to
get into it. Dragging it too far with this man could be
worse. Give him enough to let him start drawing his own
conclusions. “We didn’t have what we needed for you at
Edwards.”
The eye widened, closed for a long moment, opened
again. Then Steve Austin found himself, and the questions
came faster and harder.
“How bad, doc?” His hand squeezed.
“Bad.”
Again he retreated, came back with his own growing
fear as he fixed his eye on Wells’s face, tried to read what
hadn’t been said with words. “Tell me.”
“Do you remember what happened, Steve?”
His brow furrowed with sudden concentration. “I...
yes, I think so, I flared...”
“That’s right. You flared right on target, but the wind
got under you. Remember? She rocked pretty badly and
you dug in a gear. You—”
“Yeah. Remember now.” The face grew vacant as he
slipped away, back in time to the moment. “Yaw .. -
that’s it. She yawed. Nose went up high and . . . and she
got away, she yawed. I remember. Nothing I could do—”
“Nothing anyone could have done without wings, Steve.”
“Yeah. Nothing. I. . . I remember her when . . . hit.
When I hit. How . . . how’s the ship?”
The test pilot coming out in front. “Sorry, Steve. ’m
afraid you totaled her.”
“Yeah.” He started to experiment. He released his grip
on Wells’s hand, lifted the hand before him, brought it
closer to his face, flexed the fingers, balled them into a
fist, flexed them again. “Looks pretty good,” he said
82
finally, forcing the words through his wired jaw with
greater strength. Wells waited for what must come next.
Strain showed on Steve’s face. “How ...come...I
can’t move .. . other arm?”
“You're strapped down.”
“Can’t move my legs, doc,”
“J know, Steve.”
He looked up at Wells. “You .. . know?”
“Yes,”
“They're . . . okay, aren’t they?”
He shook his head slowly, extended his hand. Steve
didn’t take it. His face hardened.
“Spill it.”
“Your legs were crushed, Steve.”
It took a few moments.
“Crushed?” He was bewildered. Wells knew he was
going back in time, He’d seen other ships go in, knew
what had happened to the people inside.
“You mean... can I walk, Doc?”
“I’m sorry, Steve. We had to amputate.”
For an instant Steve struggled wildly. Wells glanced to
his right, to the needle with the paraldehyde, The muted
thrashing lasted several seconds. Steve looked wildly to
his right and left, his head snapping back and forth. He
fell back from the straps, then, knowing he was helpless.
“What the hell did you let me live for!”
Wells held his silence. He was strong. He’d come back
by himself.
Suspicion grew in Steve’s eye. He tried to roll his vision
to his left arm. “My arm .. . it’s not strapped down. Where
the hell is my arm?”
“It was crushed when you hit.”
“Crushed?”
“You lost your arm before we got you out of the ship.”
“Both legs... my arm...”
“Yes, Steve. You've lost both legs and your left arm.”
He stared up at Wells, disbelieving. Again his mouth
hardened. “There’s . . . more, isn’t there?”
Wells nodded.
“Get it over with, you bastard.”
83
 Wells didn’t even feel it. “You're blind in your left eye,
Steve. A piece of metal, the same thing that took your
arm, severed the optical nerve.”
And then he gave it all to him, in a desperate rush...
internal injuries, broken ribs, pelvic injuries, possible
damage to the main heart valve, slight concussion, jaw
broken and wired shut, making speech difficult.
“T’m one arm away from being a basket case and you
let me live.”
“Steve, we brought you to a special hospital in Colorado.
The bionics laboratory. You know about it, we've talked
about it before.” Wells groped for the other man’s hand,
gripped it. “Dammit, Steve, I promise you, you'll walk,
as good as you ever did. I don’t mean just prosthetics.
It’s something entirely new. You'll walk and run and
you'll fly, as well as if not better than before. You—”
“Get away from me.”
Well, he had expected it: There wasn’t any other way.
It had to come out. Better here, now.
“Don’t come back, doc.”
Wells leaned back in his seat, wrung out. He couldn’t
leave. Not yet. There were things to do. He wondered
about the paraldehyde. Too drastic. Yet he knew Steve
would never let him do what was needed. Not now. Not
until the fire burned through his brain. He looked up,
where he knew Jean Manners would be watching him,
could hear his voice,
“Sparine,” he said. She was sharp; he knew that al-
ready. She came in moments later, walking as quietly as~
she could. But Steve heard her. He opened his eye, looked
up at her. He went white.
“Get out!”
“Quickly,” Wells said, grasping his arm. She moved as
swiftly as he hoped she might. In an instant the needle
went into his arm, the plunger moved, and the sparine
was in his system. The mild hypnotic would calm him
within seconds, start to send him back to sleep. He had
to hold Steve just long enough for that. He stayed with
him, Jean Manners watching closely until the spasms
subsided.
84
 Her voice came from a great distance to Wells. “He’s
asleep, Doctor Wells.” He released the pressure, stood on
shaky feet.
“What doctors are on duty now, Miss Manners?”
“Doctors Horowitz and Baker.”
“See if they can come here immediately.”
“Yes, doctor.”
She moved out of sight. Well, no other way now. While
he was under they must start to rebuild his strength. If
they didn’t get into surgery quickly Steve would retreat
even farther into his mind. It could be too far for him to
retum. Wells made his plans. They would keep Steve
under, at first with the sparine, then back to the electro-
sleep equipment. No question but that Steve would refuse
to eat, even if he could with that jaw wired shut. They
could get a straw through his teeth but it wasn’t enough,
because he would refuse it. They would need to get him
high protein intravenously. They would use steroids; use
the male hormone in the steroids. He thought about the
effect on protein metabolism. It would be wise to go to
tubal feedings, a tube directly into the stomach. They
could use foods of zero residue to prevent the need, for
a while, anyway, for bowel movements. He disliked hav-
ing to leave the indwelling catheter for urine disposal, but
there was no way out of that for now.
Doctors Horowitz and Baker were there within minutes,
and Wells discussed with them and Miss Manners what
had to be done in the next several hours. He planned to
meet with Dr. Killian in the morning. Whatever must be
done .. . well, time was now critical in the psychological
sense. He looked back at Steve, tossing fitfully despite the
sparine. Almost impossible to prevent even subconscious
disturbance now without either massive drugs or the elec-
trosleep machine. But the sparine would hold him for a
while.
Wells left soon afterward. He could no longer help
Steve with his presence and it would be necessary to start
the more detailed plans for immediate corrective surgery,
and, as soon as possible after that, the recovery and...
85
the rebuilding phase. Thank God Steve was as strong as
he had indicated tonight. ’

His strength nearly killed him.

Dr. Horowitz called shortly after four in the morning.
Wells was instantly awake. Jean Manners had gone off
duty at three, and Horowitz and Baker, the damned fools,
had left Steve unattended. Just for a few minutes they said,
their voices shaken when it was all over and he had per-
sonally attended to Steve.
Wells had only two or three times in his career cursed
another doctor. He did it this morning, slowly, bitterly,
with a fine cold rage. For Steve had very nearly succeeded
in his one great overwhelming desire.
He had emerged from the calming effect of the sparine.
They had not yet placed the electrodes on his head for
the electrosleep machine. Just a time span of a few min-
utes. Steve came awake, saw he was alone, somehow,
incredibly, with one arm and hand, unstrapped himself,
dragged his body from the surgical table. He fell heavily
to the hard floor, nearly battering himself unconscious
again. Somehow he hung on to his wits. Using his one
hand, hard against the floor for friction, he had dragged
himself across the floor to reach a cabinet. He smashed
the glass, grabbed anything with steel within his reach.
He had managed to wound himself in the stomach region
only superficially. But inside his mind...
Steve was never to be left alone again, not for an in-
stant, no matter what was being done, had to be done,
no matter how personal. Not until Wells could judge that
Steve’s most devout wish was something other than death.

86
 CHAPTER 8

For A long time Steve never saw her as a person. Except

in rare moments, and few of those were pleasant enough
to be willingly recalled. She was an efficient, crisp worker,
a nurse to delight her associates. Steel nerves and a bitter
history of her own had molded her to her present level of
control, and it was not something she would yield easily.
Jean Manners had a devastatingly effective smile. You
just couldn’t get through it to discover whether she was
personal with that smile or simply courteous.
They knew her inside the laboratories as a woman of
rare intelligence. She also had an understanding, an em-
pathy that established almost an electric bond between
herself and her patients.
Except for one man. She could not reach Steve Austin.
87
 At first she made certain not to attempt this contact
of feeling. It would have been both foolish and useless.
For a long time after that first night when Steve tried to kill
himself in an incredible display of courage—and it was
that—she held herself almost as a nonperson in all her
contacts with the man. Her presence mattered to Steve.
Not her; not Jean Manners, Only the nurse. There were
things to be done, and Rudy Wells had decided it was
infinitely better for Steve to become accustomed to the
sight, the sound and feel, the repeated presence, of this
one woman rather than a group of nurses or medical
attendants. Lost in himself, enduring a new kind of shock
with the continual, incessant realization of what had hap-
pened to him, Steve never truly saw Jean Manners but
was in some remote fashion simply aware of her presence.
She was a shadow moving barely within the limits of his
restricted awareness. During those moments in between
the almost weekly surgery, she tried to reach down to
him, to offer her hand even as a faceless guide. When he
responded it was wholly instinctive, as if the subconscious
“found it necessary to link with human warmness what the
conscious had rejected.
And then, as he moved away from the numbing same~-
ness of repeated excursions into the stupor of drugs and
the electrosleep machine, as the surgery to restore his
internal systems passed, he could not prevent himself from
examining what he had become. Whatever Jean found in
him before, this was worse; he no longer showed even
the bitterness she was so familiar with. He had become
utterly indifferent. He could not fight the surgery being
conducted on his person. So be it; he went along because
there was no way for him to resist. But Jean Manners and
Rudy Wells feared most of all that at the first opportunity,
when he had regained strength and his wits, Steve would
do whatever was necessary to end his life. _
The months passed, and he became her life, day in and
day out, with relief for her from the caring for him only
when he was in electrosleep or beneath drugs. Those
periods of relief were her rare moments of trying to find
herself again, for the world had four walls, close about
88
‘her, and in their center lay the maimed body of Steve
Austin.
Who finally broke throngh his own indifference. It was
the first, long-awaited sign, the opening wedge in forcing
himself back into life. It could hardly have been more
personal for Steve, more impersonal for her.
“Get out of here. I'll do that myself.”
The sound of his voice caught her completely by sur-
prise. Her hands stayed where they were, at his groin.
She looked up, startled. He had never spoken to her be-
fore, not a good morning or go to hell or anything. Not for
nearly four months, As he emerged from each session in
surgery, numbed and withdrawn, she had resumed the
care of his body in the personal as well as the medical
sense. For months he had used the catheter for urination.
Irritation to the sensitive skin was of course impossible
to avoid and now at the moment she was exercising par-
ticular care in removing the device.
“You can let it the hell go,” he said angrily.
She took a deep breath. “As you like, colonel,” she said
smoothly.
“And Ill do it myself from now on,” he went on with
the same tone. “I’m old enough to go to the bathroom.”
“Tf you won’t take offense, Colonel Austin,” she said,
her voice deliberately calm, “that hasn’t been the case for
the past several months.”
He dropped his head back to the pillow. “You the one?”
“Yes.7
“Just you?”
She nodded. “No one else. Dr. Wells’s orders.”
He watched her. My God, it’s . . . it’s like an explosion
inside him, she thought. Like someone threw a switch
and he’s back to life. He cares. He actually cares again...
“TI wondered about that,” he said. “Somehow it doesn’t
seem so bad now.”
“J don’t understand, sir.”
“Don’t ever call me ‘sir.’ Ever, understand? That’s past
history.”
“Do you prefer ‘colonel’?”
“I have a name. Use it.”
89
 “Delighted to. First or last?”
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time,
which was most likely true, she judged. I’ve been only
background all this time. He raised himself up on his
elbow, grunting with the effort. For a moment he squeezed
his eye shut tightly, fighting the sudden dizziness. Then he
opened it again.
“You didn’t try to help me just then,” he said.
“You didn’t want me to.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I guess you're right.” He rested on
the elbow, awkward, trying to find his balance points.
“Am I that goddamned clumsy?”
“No, St—” She shook her head. “I still don’t—”
“Steve will do fine.” He glanced at himself where he
was still exposed to her. “A first-name basis seems to be
in order. What’s yours?”
“Jean. Jean Manners.”
“Jean all right?”
“Yes. It will do fine.”
“You've been, uh, taking care of me, everything?”
“Yes.” She wanted to say more, tell him it was her duty
as a nurse, but she held back the words. Why say what he
must certainly know?
His face was going white slowly. “I’m weaker thanI...
thought... whew. Dizzy. Wow, that came on quick.”
She was by his head immediately, cradling it in her
hand, pressing him firmly down with the other. “Please.
Lie back. It will take a while.” His head sank down
against the pillow.
He stared at the ceiling as she finished carefully but
quickly and moved the aluminum frame over his hips,
drew the sheet to his chest.
“Thanks.”
He chewed on his lower lip. The surgery to his jaw had
been a marvel. Thin white lines were the only marks of
the special wiring and braces they had needed. A month
ago Dr. Wells had ordered dental work. He felt false teeth
as vital to Steve’s attitude as it was to his system for chew-
ing. There was no evidence that the jaw had been smashed
and most of the teeth on one side broken free, Killian
90
decided for plastic surgery as a concurrent activity and it
had paid off well.
His hair had grown back sufficiently to give him the
crewcut he’d always worn, and a single dark patch replaced
the heavy bandages that had obscured not only his left
eye but nearly half his face. Along the side of his cheek
there were still the thin white lines of scar tissue but these
were leaving slowly. Within a few months they would be
gone entirely. He—
“This bed raise up?”
“No. But we can take care of that if you like.”
“I... I think so,” he said.
“Water?” He nodded, and she brought him a glass with
a straw. “Take that thing out of there.” He struggled to a
sitting position, half crouched, using his leg stumps as
balance counterpoints. He managed the glass in his hand,
drinking slowly, closing his eye as if this was the first time
in months he had actually tasted liquid. He gasped sud-
denly for air, extended the glass to her.
“What about food?”
“Most of the time you refused to eat,” she told him.
“Your intake has been largely intravenous, and also some
direct tubal feeding. That’s introducing the food directly
to—”
“You the one who’s bathed me?”
She nodded.
He laughed without humor. “Closer than a damned
wife, aren’t you?”
bpHi
“J don’t believe it,” he said suddenly, “but I'm damned
if I’m not hungry.”
She moved cautiously. “Anything in particular?”
“Uh, yes. It’s crazy. Steak. Steak and orange juice.
Fresh orange juice. I suddenly feel as if I could drink
gallons of it.”
“It’s been a Tong time,” she said.
“Uh, yeah. Just how long, by the way? I mean, since
they brought me here.”
“Four months.”
“Four mo—!”
91
 She sat with him in silence as he digested the loss of
time.
“Let me ask you something else,” he said, breaking
slowly from his reflections. “This bed. You said I can
get something that will let me sit up?”
“Of course. Power bed’s the answer. Just about any
position you want.” She glanced at the flat sheets where
his legs would have been, then up at him, “There’s no
use pretending anything, is there?”
“Christ, they’re gone, aren’t they? What’s there to pre-
tend? Then there’s something else I'll need. Some way of
my being able to do things for myself.” His expression
was fierce as he concentrated. “From now on, if you
please, I'd like to go to the crapper by myself. I'll need an
overhead brace bar of some kind. Leverage, that’s the
answer.” He bared his teeth in a mock smile. “Simian
leverage. Have to do with one arm. Tricky but I think I
can hack it.” He ignored her for the moment, moved his
tight hand about the stump of his left arm. “Not too
sensitive. Surprised at that,” he murmured, as much to
himself as to her. He looked up suddenly. “Can you get
me a large drawing pad and some pencils?”
“You need rest.”
“ve been dead for four goddamned months!” he
shouted suddenly. “As long as I’m still alive, quit fighting
me, for Christ’s sake and get me what I need, or get the
hell away from me completely.”
He closed his eye, lost to her. “I'll get it for you, Just
as soon as I get someone in here to relieve me.”
He reacted slowly to her words, to the sudden catch in
her throat. “Relieve you?”
“Yes. I—T’ll get Miss Norris. Kathy Norris. She’s a
nurse, but she’s been working on .. . your case as a lab
technician, She’s—”
“Why the hell do you need someone to relieve you?”
He made a sweeping gesture to take in the stumps of his
legs and his arm. “Do you think I’m planning on going
anywhere?”
“No, it’s not that. I—”
92
 She couldn’t hold it down. “It’s not a game,” she said,
far more sharply than she intended. “Orders.”
“From who?”
“Doctor Wells.”
“Doc—” He was honestly perplexed now, his expres-
sion showing the pained confusion. “But why would doc
. ..” He let it trail off, almost completely exhausted,
staring up at her.
“You want me to be honest with you,” she said. He
nodded, his face vacant. “We did that . . . some time ago
. . . Tight after Doctor Wells first brought you out of it.
You tried to kill yourself, Steve.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He stared off at the ceiling, into space. His voice came
from far away. “Do what you have to,” he said. And she
knew he was lost to them again.
Kathy Norris was there a few minutes later. By then
Steve was fast asleep. “Watch him closely,” Jean told the
other woman. “Don’t leave his side for a second, under-
stand?”
Kathy looked at her in surprise, held her question.
“Of course,” she said.

Rudy Wells found her in the nurses’ lounge, face buried

in her hands. z
“Just like that,” she said, the disbelief still evident. “For
months he’s had his mind turned off, shutting us all out,
and now, my God, now he’s shouting and giving orders
and . . . it’s too much, Rudy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to
go on like this, but he’s been dead all these months, and
now he’s alive and demanding and wanting, and he’s plan-
ning on how to make things better for himself, and it just
doesn’t seem possible, does it? I mean, well, do you know
what he’s doing right now? This minute? This same man
who’s been so withdrawn he’s been the same as uncon-
scious . . . he’s got Kathy holding a drawing board for him,
and he’s making engineering drawings. He’s—”
For the next hour Wells questioned her, grateful it was
Jean in the room when he snapped out of his withdrawal
and plunged back into living. There could have been no
93
other way for Steve Austin to have made the return jour-
ney. There was still danger, however. Steve would soar
to new heights of promise and adaptation, and then there
would come, inevitably, the plunge to black, when he
would become so morose with the realization of his shat-
tered body that self-destruction could again become a
serious danger. It was imperative, then, that he begin the
next phase of Steve’s rebirth. Sit with him, spend hour
after hour with him, fill his waking moments with a com-
plete backward journey into the last four months, let him
know every detail of what had happened, and from the
near impossibility of medical miracles they had already
performed, there could be created a belief that more
miracles lay within their grasp. That was the key. Steve
was starting to ride high now; he would stay that way for
a while. But when he realized the surgery that lay ahead,
the crippling, enervating tests, when he was made aware
of the pain, the heartbreak, the experimental nature of
things, the specter of one failure after the other—they
would be pioneering—well, he might go either way.
Everything depended on Steve’s accepting what lay
ahead as a challenge. If he succeeded, he would become a
man, a being far beyond the wildest reach of his imagi-
nation. ...
“Tell me about the drawings he’s making,” he said to
Jean Manners.
She looked up. “It’s a frame,” she began. “Oh, I’m not
an engineer, Doctor Wells, but I get the general idea.”
He told her that would be fine. He would get the details
later; right now he wanted to know how it came about.
She explained his reaction when she had been remov-
ing the catheter. “Was there any direct sexual response?”
Wells asked.
She looked at him in surprise. “No. Nothing I could
detect,” she said uncomfortably.
“Jean, no wife could be closer to that man than you are
tight now.”
“That’s almost exactly what he said.”
He nodded. “Steve at this moment is impotent,” he told
her. “Nothing physical. For Steve: Austin, at least right
94
now, masculinity is linked irretrievably with his limbs. His
arms and legs, Jean, were the key to his flying, to going
to the moon, to his athletic prowess, and they highlighted
his appeal to women. I expect it to get better until there
will be a shocking realization of what I’ve just passed
over lightly. At that point Steve will be absolutely con-
vinced that no woman will ever want him, and impotency
will become just as absolute. From there on it’s an uphill
battle all over again.”
“That certainly will be a challenge to some people,”
Jean said.
“Oh?”
“Not me,” she said quickly. “Kathy. Her feelings are
obvious.”
“Well, Kathy is a beautiful girl, and—”
“Kathy is stacked, Dr, Wells.”
“What about his reaction?”
“He looks right through her. She isn’t even there.”

95
 CHAPTER 9

Rupy WELLs watched, fascinated, as the man in the bed

demonstrated, without the attempt to prove anything, the
marvelous flexibility of the human being. Technicians in
the bionics machine shop had followed Steve’s engineering
drawings to the letter, and among the items he requested
was a modification of the wheeled hospital bed-table that
can be placed across a bed directly before the patient.
Steve's table was that, and a great deal more. From left to
right it featured a series of vises and clamps to give him
the gripping or clasping ability now denied to him through
the loss of his left arm and hand. At the moment he was
preparing a cigar, which he had clamped in a rubber grip.
He sliced off the end of the cigar with a razorblade, then
removed the wrapper with his right hand. He gripped the
97
cigar in his teeth, lit up with a butane lighter, and blew
a cloud of blue smoke in the direction of the doctor.
“Brandy?”
Rudy Wells nodded, but made no offer to help. Steve
reached to his left by crossing his arm over his body—
he refused to keep his supplies and equipment entirely to
his right—to withdraw a bottle from a cabinet. The bottle
went into a clamp and he withdrew the cork, placed two
glasses on the table, and poured. Wells held up his glass
in a silent toast, sipped, and returned the glass to the table
by his side.
“All right,” Steve said behind another smoke cloud, “I
guess school’s on.”
“If you feel up to it.”
“Up yours, doc. No games, You know you're anxious
to fill me in so you can pitch your next program to me.”
“Worked it out that well, have you?”
Steve’s one eye held his gaze. “How many years do we
know each other?”
Wells shrugged. “You had just gotten your wings the
first time we met.”
“Uh huh, And you were there holding my hand when
I went through flight-test school, and—hey, you know
the story. So I know when and how you fidget, and it’s
time to get on with it.”
“The liver is as good an example as any,” Wells be-
gan, “to get it through your thick head that you’ve en-
joyed a succession of miracles. Almost as if you were
meant to survive the—”
“Can the sermon, Rudy,” Steve interrupted, more seri-
ous than his expression indicated.
Wells gestured lightly to dismiss what he had started.
“The miracle, then, is that you suffered no more damage
than you did. You know what happened to you. There’s
grim evidence of that. But internally you went to the wall.
You had some liver damage. I want you to understand
that. Just some. To the very limit that we could do some-
thing about it. I say the limit because had it been any
more severe we would have had little hope of bringing
you through. The organ is simply too complex for us even
98
to understand its makeup or function as well as we would
like to. It handles something like five thousand body
functions. No way for us to take over what nature started.
Not permanently. But we did take over for a while. It
cost us an excellent chimpanzee—”
“A what?” The cigar stopped midway to Steve’s teeth.
“A chimpanzee. You owe your life to the animal.”
“Are you crazy?”
“We kept you alive for two days, about forty-three
hours, while we used a chimp’s liver to fill in for yours.
Process we call perfusion. We anesthetized the animal and
removed his liver, and placed it in a special glass con-
tainer. Then we made a series of connections between
your body and the liver. We needed three of these. They’re
cannulas, We attached and inserted them into the vessels
of the chimpanzee’s liver, and then we connected the
whole shebang to you.
“Actually, the liver has marvelous powers of recupera-
tion. Almost regeneration, in fact. If, that is, it can have
its workload removed for a while. This really is what we
did. We took the load off you and your body had the
chance to take care of itself. The liver virtually carried
on its own regenerative program. We—”
“How the hell did I live through the liver of a chimp?”
“After the system was set up,” Wells said a bit more
slowly, “and the tubes were ready, we connected the tubes
to an artery and a vein in your arm. Your blood was kept
pumping by your heart, although we gave it some assist-
ance. It was pumped into a glass reservoir. There we
added anticoagulant heparin, and the blood then went to
the liver of the animal, There nature took over, doing
whatever it does to purify your blood, to rid it of unde-
sirable elements. It went from the chimpanzee’s liver to
another reservoir, where the heparin was neutralized, and
from there back into your arm and through your system
again.”
“You kept this up for two days?”
“Two days.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“No sermons, remember?”
99
 Steve studied Wells carefully. “Don’t I recall you saying
something about a heart operation?”
“Not quite that,” Wells said. “We talked about a heart-
valve operation. Not the same thing.”
Wells seemed to withdraw into himself.
“There was something else, wasn’t there?” Steve pressed
the doctor.
“Yes, I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you.”
“Rudy, you can be goddamned exasperating, do you
know that? Of all the stupid times to play coy, I—”
“It was back at Edwards,” the doctor broke in. “It’s
what I meant when I said you seemed, well, destined to
survive all this. Your heart failed on the emergency table.”
He paused, then said, “You were dead, Steve. There’s no
other way to say it.”
“For how long, doc?”
“Seconds, No more than that. We anticipated it and
we were ready. We shot a jolt of electricity through you.
If we hadn’t .. .”
“Tt might have been better if you hadn’t.”
“T wish you’d knock off that crap, to put it bluntly.”
“Sorry about that,” Steve said, unconcerned with the
doctor’s mood. “But there was more. I mean, right here
in the labs, wasn’t there?”
“There was. When the ship broke up around you, a lot
of things became unglued,” Wells said. “A piece of metal
—we don’t know what it was—ripped open your rib cage
and punctured the area around the heart.”
Steve waited in silence for Wells to continue.
“The mitral valve sustained damage. We didn’t know
how bad it was until we had you up here, It became pro-
gressively worse, in fact. You had barely enough pumping
energy to keep up a proper blood flow. To get things back
to normal, Steve, we had to replace a part of the cardiac
system.”
“Replace? Another chimp?” He waved the cigar at the
doctor. “Qr did some other animal, maybe a giraffe or
something, get creamed this time?”
“We wanted a human donor but it didn’t work out that
100
way. There was no opportunity to set up a transplant. We
went to an artificial replacement.”
“Tm all ears.”
“The first thing is to reassure you that your heart is as
sound as ever.”
“Hooray for our side.”
Wells ignored it. “We—Dr. Killian, that is; I only as-
sisted—performed open-heart surgery. We decided on
using a Hufnagel disk valve as a replacement for your own
damaged valve.”
“You mean the damned thing is inside me now?”
“Tt is, and it does a better job than the original.”
“What the devil is it?”
“Tt’s made up of a ring of metal rimmed with Teflon,
and in the center, within a metal cage, it’s got a white
silastic disk that floats around. It’s—”
“Silastic?”
“That’s silicone rubber. It’s fastened by sutures. We
placed the valve within the left ventricle of your heart.
Like I said, it works as well if not better than the original.”
“Jesus.”
Wells laughed at the other man’s expression. “We shut
down your heart during that operation, by the way. Used
what we call the pump. It’s a heart-lung machine. It sub-
stituted the pumping action while we took your heart out
of the system. I’m sure you know the basic routine. We
wired you up—”
“Wired up what was left of me, you mean.”
Wells paused, Steve was suddenly on a downslide, his
mood altering rapidly, moving into depression, No way
out of it, Wells told himself. He went on quickly. “We
wired you to monitor the vital functions. Oscilloscopes—
it’s all familiar to you from the astronaut program. Then
we inserted a tube at the hip into the main artery and
used this to return the blood to your body from the heart-
lung machine. The pump. You still with me?”
Steve had been gazing vacantly into the distance. “Yeah,
doc. Don’t quit now. I’m all ears for the next thrilling
chapter.”
“We cut open your chest and—”
101
 “That should have been easy. Plenty of holes there
already, right?”
“We spread several ribs to—I'd better interrupt myself
here and tell you we took care of your rib cage at the
same time. You now have five vitallium ribs. Special kind
of metal. Better than the original . . .
“We placed two tubes through your heart wall to collect
the blood delivered from the main veins of the heart,
which was then carried to a blood-oxygenating chamber.
Here it picked up oxygen and was pumped through a
rather complicated channel system back into your body.
Now, when we removed all the blood from your heart, we
opened it, removed the damaged valve, and replaced it
with the artificial—”
“Maybe I ought to change my name to Steve Hufnagel.”
“__valve, closed the heart, and sewed you up.”
“Very decent of you.”
“Then we restored circulation. Only one bad moment.
Some fibrillation. Quick electrical shock to—”
“The old ticker must have been used to that by then,
right?”
“It wasn’t unexpected, Steve,” Wells said patiently.
“As far as your heart is concerned, you’re as strong and
healthy as you ever were.”
“Boom, boom, boom.”
Wells didn’t respond. Steve toyed with the cigar, brushed
off the ashes carefully, lit up again. “You said Killian did
the operation?”
“Killian and seven other doctors.”
“Tm flattered.”
“He’s the very best.”
“Three loud cheers for—”
“And your attitude stinks.”
“Maybe I justdon’t like being a freak with your shiny
new Hufnagel—
“No one considers you a freak because of a mechanical
heart valve, for God’s sake!”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because,” Wells told him quietly, “Michael Killian,
to name just this one surgeon, has performed this same
102
heart operation on nearly a thousand people. Before you
showed up. If you're a freak, you’ve got a great deal of
company.”
It wasn’t nearly that easy when they got down to the
matter of two legs and an arm. Wells tried to stress the
body adjusting to new balances, new tolerances. Steve’s
expression promised a difficult period.
“Few people realize the adult male has more than two
hundred bones in his body,” Wells said. “In childhood
the number is something over three hundred. These fuse
together, become the basis for larger bone networks. And
despite common belief to the contrary, there’s less fragility
with increasing age. Of course there’s no identical pattern.
Like everything else in life it’s a matter of variables.
When—”
“Doc, if you don’t mind, just what has all this to do
with me?”
“Bear with me a bit longer. It will fit. I was saying that
the bone structure follows a basically similar pattern in
the adult male. When the bones don’t fuse, for example,
you can end up with an extra rib. Out of every twenty
people you’ve met in your life, Steve, at least one of them
has an extra rib. This simply reflects on the great flexibility
in body construction. Actually, it’s one out of every twenty
men, because with women it’s one in sixty. Why, we don’t
know. Maybe God is apologizing to us for Adam’s loss.
“Now, getting closer to home,” Wells continued, “is the
specialized bone structure, and medicine’s ability, through
bionics, the cybernetics systems, electronics, prosthetics,
plastics, all these put together, to duplicate ‘and in some
cases to improve on the original.
“You lost bones, Steve. You lost your legs and an arm.
You had other ‘bones damaged. All right. It happened.
No way of undoing it. But the human bones were designed
by nature to do more than to articulate or function simply
as a framework from which to hang the rest of you and
create a skintight container for the liquids in your body.
Nature designed your bones to act as a buffer, a shield,
for your vital organs.
103
 “And by and large they did their job. The flat plates
of your skull, for example, took a terrific pounding. Some
pieces were chipped out, and we’ve already replaced them.
Then—”
Steve looked at him coldly. “That’s a new one on me,”
he said slowly. “Got any more surprises?”
“Yes, I do. We’ve been using vitallium as a bone re-
placement for more than twenty years. We didn’t experi-
ment with you. There are more than a hundred thousand
people in this country alone with vitallium now perma-
nently a part of their bone structure, and—”
“Everybody just clanking right along?”
Wells leaned forward, looked directly at Steve. “Self-
pity? You're certainly entitled to it, but it’s not very
useful. Still—”
“You go to hell.”
“More than likely. Steve, what I’m trying to do is to
establish the groundwork for what comes next. For exam-
ple, Steve, your spine was—is—curved. No more and no
less curved than it was before we did some repair work.
To anyone who flies as a test pilot and pulls the positive
g-forces you know so well, anything even a bit out of
variance with the spine is of utmost concern. For a while
your spine was straight. Think about the spine, what it
really means to the body. The thick cables of nerves and
muscles and tendons, the architectural bridges, the whole
of the incredible structure. Then think of it as being
straight instead of its curvature.”
Steve’s expression was wary. “No one ever said any-
thing about that,” he said slowly. “What happened?”
“T’ve been trying to make the point that the body adapts,
changes and conforms. Your spine, and that of every hu-
man child born, is straight at birth. It curves only with
growth. And it adapts to modification, whether that altera-
tion is natural or artificial. We did work on your spine;
it was necessary. We added elements of vitallium and
cerosium, but we went only far enough to return the spine
to its shape before your accident. You'll never know it
from the way it acts or feels, and if I hadn’t told you
about it now, you might never have known what we did.
104
Again, Steve, the point is adaptation of the body. All this
will have relevance when I get to more specifics about
you.” Wells turned to the intercom. “Miss Norris? Could
you bring some coffee to Colonel Austin’s room? Yes, the
works. Thank you.”
When a side door opened and Kathy Norris came in
with a tray holding a coffee pot, a creamer, sugar, and
cups, Rudy Wells couldn’t help breaking off his thoughts
about Steve to look at the lovely woman who had just
entered. Jean Manners was right. Kathy was stacked.
A classic body: Great legs, slim waist, firm, proportional
breasts. Wells turned to Steve, who was merely looking
at him. Steve hadn’t reacted in the slightest to the pres-
ence of this beautiful girl. Except to motion to her to
place the coffee on the table that crossed his bed. Wells
noticed also that Kathy crossed the room into the adja-
cent laboratory, making certain to leave the door open,
Good, he thought. Let her learn as much as possible.
It would take a benumbed man not to see her reaction
to Steve. Which was Steve’s condition at the moment.
He drank slowly from his cup. One eye peered at Wells
over the rim.
“Steve, what you do with the opportunities we'll give
you is entirely in your own hands—”
A stump of an arm moved above Steve’s shoulder. “If
you don’t mind, Dr. Wells. Singular, please, Let’s be
accurate,”
pe, Wells insisted. “It’s not attached yet. That's

“Tt still makes it one hand. A prosthesis does not a

hand make.”
Wells shook his head, slowly, firmly. “Hands,” he said.
“Plural. I've seen it, You haven’t, But you’re going to.”

The sessions went on for hours. They broke for dinner,

Wells leaving for home, He hoped Kathy Norris would
share the time with Steve. Not even Steve could be indif-
ferent to her for long. But when he returned, Kathy was
gone, and Steve made no mention of her being in his room
during Wells’s break for dinner. The doctor handed him
105
a long cigar. “Jamaican,” Wells said as Steve sniffed the
tobacco. “If you behave, I might even be talked out of
a box of them.”
Steve lit up, leaning back against the angled bed. “Okay,
get on with it. It’s obvious you can hardly wait.”
Wells leaned forward. “Pay attention. We’re going to
crawl inside you a bit. Specifically, your left hip bone.”
“I'm all ears.” He brought his hand around to the left
side of his face. “Ear and a half, anyway.”
Wells ignored it. “In some ways, Steve, you are already
an artificial person. In some ways, and your pelvis is one
of them.” That woke him up, thought Wells. “You took
some damage to your left hip, where the upper part of
the femur joins the pelvis. We had to go in there. It’s
the joint between the hip and thigh, a ball-and-socket
joint. The cartilage was damaged. In future years, if we
hadn’t taken the corrective measures now, you would
have ended up with excruciating pain. Think of it as a
latent and unavoidable stiffness of movement. So we re-
placed some of the cartilage with molded cerosium, a form
of ceramic. Matched the cartilage and cerosium. Not too
easy, because natural cartilage is as smooth as glass, and
it's made free from friction by applying synovial fluid
to the flexible parts of the joint. That’s your internal
lubrication system working. All we needed to add was
the cerosium. If I didn’t tell you about it now you would
never know we were in there, patching and adding pieces.
There was no damage to the femur itself, by the way, and
you can be thankful for that.”
“Tm overjoyed.”
“You should be. The femur, as I’m sure you know, is
built like a hollow cylinder. You’re an engineer, Steve.
You can appreciate a design that’s cross-hatched inter-
nally. It can take two tons of pressure per square inch,
even more at times, because the hatch lines within the
bone will actually shift depending upon external pressure.
The bone is alive. Not many people realize that, With
everything we can do in here,” he gestured to include both
the bionics and cybernetics laboratories, “we haven’t found
a way to improve on the thigh bone. In your case, fortu-
106
nately, we needed to repair only certain elements of the
ball in the socket.”
“Jesus, doc, you sure got a bedside manner about you.
You make me feel like a goddamned Oldsmobile.”
“All set for the next thrilling chapter?”
“Shoot.”
“Five of your ribs were crushed.” He studied Steve, the
blank look the other man gave him.
“They knitted, I assume,” Steve said slowly.
“No.” Wells shook his head. “They were literally
crushed. Splintered. Bits and pieces, Steve. But they did
what they were supposed to do by keeping you alive.
The thorax, your rib cage, collapsed where the ribs them-
selves failed, but they functioned long enough as a cage,
a barrier, to protect the organs inside—the heart, lungs,
liver, spleen. You took some damage there, as you know,
but not enough to write you off.”
“You said the ribs didn’t knit? Then what .. .”
“We built you new ribs of vitallium and joined them
with artificial tendons. Your metal ribs are as flexible as
the originals and considerably stronger, and almost im-
possible to break. They'll bend more than double before
they give way. We used what we call memory vitallium
by giving them a magnetic memory so that after bending,
or other movement, they always return to their original
curvature. In. the front of your body we used silastic, a
form of silicone rubber, to join the ribs to the breastbone.”
Steve took this in silence. Rudy Wells didn’t feel that
it was the time to tell Steve Austin his new ribs had more
than magnetic memory. They were also embedded with
extremely fine wire and could function as part of an
electrical system through an external power source. His
utewere an excellent radio antenna, But that would come
iter,

They spent several days in this fashion, Rudy Wells

reinforcing his explanations with X-rays, detailed pho-
tography from the operating room, films showing the spe-
cial materials of vitallium, silastic, and cerosium in their
development and undergoing stress tests. Wells wanted
107
Steve to have as extensive a working knowledge as pos-
sible of the alterations already performed upon and within
his body. The hope was that as he went more deeply into
the details Steve Austin would come to accept, as naturally
as he accepted the electrodes he had worn as an astronaut,
the modifications to his own system. Wells wanted them
to be common to Steve’s sense of his own body. Samples
of the materials they’d used to modify his skeletal and
internal systems were left with him, tossed about casually
on a worktable with samples of bones and tissues, pre-
served in large jars. It became “a bit ghoulish,” as Steve
said one morning to the doctor, but the deep association
had been planted for the future.
Steve learned of repairs—his own term now after pick-
ing it up from constant usage by Rudy Wells—to his skull.
Wells had Jean Manners discuss the various operations
with Steve, feeling that she would be a welcome change.
The nurse went into exhaustive detail about Steve's cra-
nium, explaining its function as a powerful defense for
the brain—armor plate made up in eight sections.
“That must have been some crackup,” Jean observed,
studying the films with Steve of the lifting plane’s last
moments. They had watched the scene a dozen times and
were now running it once more in slow motion, with the
exaggeratedly deliberate breakup of the machine,
“Must have been.” He shook his head. As the accident
unfolded once more, Jean explained that his skull repairs
had been made not with metal or ceramics, but with
human bone fitted surgically into place. “Then,” she said
briskly, “over the cranium bone went a thin layer of
silastic to act as an extra buffer. It also works as a cush-
ioning element beneath the skin, where it’s been heavily
repaired and grafted, along the top of the head.” A mani-
cured finger tapped the side of his skull. “Like, right
there,” she told him.
“How are you so sure?”
“T was the OR nurse.”
“You mean... you were there the whole time?”
“Why not? If I could take care of your body functions
108
for months, what’s wrong with taking a look inside your
head?”
Wells hoped the association with Jean Manners would
have another important effect—help Steve to recognize
this woman’s acceptance of him as a man. Kathy Norris
had her part to play, too.
If only Steve would pay more attention to her...
They tried to assure Steve that the loss of his limbs had
not affected the pumping and circulatory system. The nor-
mal body—in healthy shape, as nature created it—has
some sixty thousand miles of tubes moving outward from
the heart. Most amputees feel that anything substantially
interfering with this mass circulatory system will be disas-
trous. Every day the adult heart pumps ten pints of blood
through a thousand complete circuits. “That’s about six
thousand quarts of blood every twenty-four hours,” Wells
explained. “It’s changed with you, of course. But instead
of the circulatory system being all screwed up, as you
seem to believe, your system is to a great extent simplified.
Just the opposite of what you believe. Thousands of miles
of ducts in both directions have been eliminated. Your
blood requirements have been reduced. But your heart
still has the same pumping capabilities as before. In effect,
under stress this will raise your blood pressure, as your
body needs it. It also improves oxygenation in the brain,
where you need it most under stress and, something even
closer to home for you, it makes you more resistant to
acceleration. Your g-tolerance has actually improved in-
stead of being reduced. I’m not suggesting you be grateful.
But at-least you might as well know the few plusses along
with the minuses.”
Wells went on, explaining that Steve’s fist-sized heart,
no more than a pound of muscle, was able to increase its
Output to eight times normal, to twelve gallons every min-
ute. “And if the demand persists,” he said, “the heart
chambers enlarge and it can actually double its size to
increase blood flow. But essentially all this is to increase
many times the oxygen saturation of your system. So in
effect you are now somewhat superior in circulation, pres-
109
ie and oxygen saturation than you were before the
crash.”
Wells flicked the lights in the room back to bright after
projecting a film on system circulation. “Steve, it’s not
always easy to remember just how extraordinary your
body is. And in your particular case we have not been
fighting nature. We’ve worked with it. That’s our purpose
here in these labs. When you lost your three limbs you
lost, of course, thousands of miles of capillaries. And yet
everything still works perfectly where circulation is con-
cerned, and without our help. The body reroutes, changes
currents, adapts its systems of valves in order to com-
pensate for its new conditions. Your system shifted what-
ever was necessary to a new—well—call it the new net-
work of traffic. Everything works perfectly. We’re not
guessing about this, Steve. No one is doing any handhold-
ing. We know. You have been studied more intensively
than any human being I know of, with every instrument
and device known to science.
“Including,” he added with a wry smile, “an old-fash-
ioned faith healer.”

She brought the tray to his bed, then sat at his side.
“Do you mind if I stay here a while, Steve?”
He studied her expression. She watched him in return.
She bent low over him, fussed with him. He ignored it all.
“No, I don’t mind,” She settled herself in the chair,
waiting, making certain she didn’t stare while he ate. She
wanted to stare. She wanted him to stare. “There’s some-
thing I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said in the abrupt
manner they’d all become accustomed to. Could he finally
be—?
“Of course,” she said, leaning forward.
“You do the lab work on my case, right? Okay, then.
Doc Wells was talking about something I don’t under-
stand, and I thought I’d bring it up while I had it in
mind.” She nodded, trying not to show her disappoint-
ment. To hell with her lab work . . . “Rudy,” Steve con-
tinued, “said something about millions of blood cells dying
110
all the time in the body. Is that true? I mean, is this
normal?”
Well, she thought, if you can’t beat ’em . . . “Sounds
‘crazy, doesn’t it?” She laughed lightly to hide the disap-
pointment. “But it’s true.”
“Millions of cells?”
“Let me think a moment. Gotta remember the books.”
She looked up. “Okay, the recall is working. It’s millions,
all right.” She nodded vigorously. “In fact, it’s about eight
‘million blood cells that die every second.”
| “Bight mil—” He stared. “Every second?”
“Know what it works out to? Every single week some-
‘thing like five trillion blood cells die in the body. “It’s
‘sort of spread out. The distribution, I mean.” She was
‘rattling off numbers and details as if Wells had suddenly
inhabited her mind. “Most of the work goes on in the
bone marrow, the lymph glands, and lymphoid tissues.
These are all shoved into your intestines, tonsils, spleen,
and the thymus. In your case, despite the, well, the—”
“Dammit, Kathy, it adds up to two legs and an arm.
For God’s sake, this is no time to get uptight.”
“I’m not the one who’s uptight, Colonel Austin.”
He couldn’t believe the outburst, the way she suddenly
turned away from him. He started to reach out his hand,
drew it back.
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Dammit, look at me.”
She turned and he was stunned by the sight of tears.
“You want your numbers? All right, I'll give them to
you. You have twenty-five trillion red corpuscles in the
bloodstream and you've got thirty-five billion white blood
cells and nearly two trillion platelets, and everything is
always dying and being reborn all the time, and your
heart pumps like mad, but the only thing wrong with it
is that it’s colder than hell!”
For the first time, as she ran out of the room, he no-
ticed she had a well-rounded ass. Now why the hell, he
wondered to himself, did I think about that now?

111
 “You wanted to talk to me, Steve?”
He nodded, working the small control stick on the right
arm of the wheelchair, gliding into Wells’s office. He spun
the chair about and slammed the door in the face of
Wells’s secretary. “Damn biddy,” Steve muttered.
Rudy Wells looked at him with sudden concern. “Any-
thing wrong?”
Steve motioned him to relax. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just
that I’ve been noticing things, that’s all.”
“What sort of things?”
“It’s not important. Crazy broads,” he muttered. Wells
made a mental note to check with Jean Manners and
Kathy Norris as soon as Steve left.
“I want to discuss my eye. Or rather, the eye I don’t
have any more.”
“All right, Steve.”
‘Don’t patronize me with that syrupy voice, you belly-
thumping old bastard. I know your routine by heart.”
“Shot down in flames,” Wells said. “Okay, let’s have it.”
“Tell me straight out, Rudy. Can I get back my vision?”
“No. We can never hope to replace the eye you lost. We
can’t even begin to try. Despite how far we’ve come, in
so many areas, at this stage of the game the eye remains
far beyond us. It’s so incredibly complex. The male adult
eye is normally about an inch in diameter, in the shape
of a complex sphere. It’s extraordinarily well protected,
and—”
“But it wasn’t in my case. Why not?”
“You took the equivalent of a spear thrown into your
face,” was the immediate answer. “The nerve endings of
the retina lie at the back of the eye, where they're insu-
lated within a deep, bony socket. Except for diaphragm
openings for protection against severe glare, this system
is the way the eye protects itself. The metal—most likely
a piece of the canopy—tore through the soft part of the
eye, slammed into the bony socket and crushed the nerves
there. We’re helpless to restore your sight, Steve.” |
“No favorite theories?” |
“No theory, Pm afraid. Your eyes contain something
on the order of a hundred million neurons, which are
112 > j
layered in the retina at the back of the eye. What happens
back there we still classify as a miracle—”
“You keep using that damn word. Why?”
“Because with all we know, we can’t tell you how it all
works. We simply don’t know. We know that the light
from the front of your eye focuses at the retina. But how
do the neurons in the retina convert light waves into elec-
trical signals? We haven’t any real idea. We know they
send an electronic-signal interpretation of a light wave to
the brain. There, again by some unknown process, the
signal gets translated into what the brain accepts as a
visual image. We know about the cones that define colors
and the rods that aid in seeing in dim or scarce light, and
we can tell what the eye does and the process it follows,
but not why. No one can explain how the rods of the eye
can pick up light as faint as a trillionth of a watt.
“There’s nothing we can do to replace that vision. Oh,
we can build microwave receptors, or infrared sensors
and all sorts of wonderful things, but we cannot give you
vision where you lost your eye. Of course, you still have
superb vision in your right eye. Twenty-fifteen, in fact,
and you'll learn quickly to compensate for the depth
perception you miss so much at this point.”
“That’s a crock and you know it,” Steve said with sud-
den heat. “There’s a world of difference between depth
pereepane for the ground, and what a man needs to
Yo Bracing
Wells kept his voice gentle, “Steve, I’d like to make a
promise to you. If you'll work with me, with Dr. Killian,
I can promise you something.” He paused, the spacing
of his words deliberate. “In six months you can fly again.”
On Steve’s face a mixture of desire to believe, and bitter
disbelief. Then he slumped again. “Only a son of a bitch
would make a statement like that,” he said at last.
“Then consider me a son of a bitch. But if you want to,
you can fly in just about six months from now.”

113
 : Hsia
Biuths eh
NRA RR ANTS
 CHAPTER 10

“HE’S UNDER.”
Dr. Killian nodded. He studied the oscilloscopes and
glanced back to Dr. Wells. “Under, but not really out.
Look at the wave. The subconscious is working overtime.”
Wells studied the glowing scope. “He’s got a lot to think
about.”
“We all do,” Killian said.
“I wonder if that was a wise decision, Michael.”
“Taking him into the cryogenic chamber?”
“Yes. It seemed to upset him, seeing pieces of himself
laid out like so many parts of an automobile.”
“Tt had the shock effect we wanted.”
“You playing psychologist this morning?”
“Don’t we always?” Killian glanced at the unconscious
115
form of Steve Austin. “The next several months are going
to be trying—for him, for all of us, Austin will spend
much of his time reflecting on what’s happening to him.
There’s no- way he can avoid chewing over the fact that
foreign objects now hold him together. You were abso-
lutely correct in making certain he understood what had
been done to him. Now he knows we’re patching him
together with himself. That will go deep. It was the right
move. It will help.”
Rudy Wells looked down at Steve’s face. A muscle in
the right cheek twitched. “I hope so,” he said. “He’ll need
all the help he can get.”

Never heard anything like that before. The way he

brought it up. Didn’t understand. Whole thing’s impos-
sible. Dream, that’s all. One more nightmare on top of
another. Christ. Too much to hope for. Gotta face it.
All there is to it. Face it, Stevie, old boy. No legs. Both
of them right above the knees, They're playing God. No
other way to do what they're talking about, right? Hey,
God, you listening? Ol Doc Wells is all mixed up. Thinks
he’s you. You listening up there? You better listen. Doc
Wells is gonna push you right out of your job. Him and
the other one, Killian. They both think they're you...
He drifted, formless, no legs or arms or even a body,
only oné eye, a cyclopean view of everything and nothing,
an infinite spiral winding downward. Voices came to him,
and faces materialized from a space different from any-
thing he’d known, even on the trip to the moon. He saw
the face of his friend and doctor; and Rudy Wells’s voice
drifted down the spiral after him, circling him until it
hovered before him, held him prisoner until Wells’s face
could catch up to them both, and the face and the voice
joined, and the scene came to him again...

“You lost both legs. Fact.”

Steve looked at him from the bed. The strict diet of —
medicinal liquids for a week had him on the thin edge. He
didn’t need nonsense cooked in philosophical crap. It was
116
all rather grotesque. He didn’t answer. One hardly needs
conversation with a gargoyle, he decided.
“Now, then,” Wells continued, “a question. How long
should the legs of a man be?”
“You've flipped, Doc. You’re hypoxic. Better have
Jean bring some oxygen.”
Wells shook his head. “A long time ago, Steve, some-
one gave the only real answer to that question. His name
was Abraham Lincoln. He said the legs of a man should
be long enough to reach the ground.” Steve would be
unconscious for two weeks to a month. No way to tell yet.
Better to get as much said now as possible. Killian was
right, Give him the answers before the questions clog his
mind.
Steve wouldn’t reply.
“You can’t shut me out that completely, Steve. I won’t
be able to talk with you for several weeks. You know that
already. I—”
“That will be a relief.”
Wells sighed. “Look, Steve, can’t you understand this
has nothing to do with prosthetics? They’re artificial, cer-
tainly, But prosthetics is as much vanity as it is utility, and
these will be living limbs. We—” .
“What the hell are you going to do? Graft someone
else’s legs onto me, for God’s sake? What are you waiting
for? Some poor bastard to die so you can cut off his legs
and rush them here to stick onto me? Rudy, will you go
away and leave me the hell alone? Stick the needle in
my arm and put me out so I won't have to take this shit
any more.”
Patience, Wells ordered to himself.
“Steve, a bionics limb has the type of feedback that you
will be able to sense. Not sensations as you know them.
But you will feel certain things. We’re not copying nature;
we're going to duplicate the processes and you'll have full,
and I mean full, mobility. You'll be able to—”
“Dance? How about that, Doc? Think I can make it
with the now generation? Looka him go, folks, old Bionics
Bob to the center of the floor! Looka how he—”
117
 “Goddam you, Austin, I didn’t push you into that cock-
pit!”
Instantly Wells was sorry. He was here to ease the way
for Steve, and instead he lost control over the bitter words
of a man who—
“I owe you an apology for that,” he said stiffly, “but this
isn’t a social exchange. If you and I are going to discuss
this as equals, instead of as a doctor, and a patient who’s
afraid to face reality—”
“Screw you.”
“then we might as well know how it really is. Your
body’s been torn up but your psyche is undamaged. A bit
twisted, I admit. Maybe more than a bit, and sometimes
deliberately savage. But still undamaged, and undaunted.
You can be quite a son of a bitch, you know.”
For the first time in days there appeared the trace, the
barest trace, of a smile on Steve's lips. “Touché, Doctor,”
he said quietly.

They had prepared for weeks for this moment. For

weeks they refined, checked, and adjusted for the thou-
sandth time. They knew every line, every nerve, every
sinew, muscle, tendon, bone, every feature and detail of
his legs. They had built—no, that wasn’t the word for it.
They had created, lovingly, with infinite attention to detail,
a bionics and electronics duplicate of what had been the
legs of Steve Austin. Elaborate medical records were avail-
able on this man since as a test pilot and an astronaut he
had undergone exhaustive medical tests and their results
had been recorded. Every detail, down to the electrical
resistance of his system, the salinity of his liquids, the
thickness of his muscle and nerve fibers, all these things
were known, and now they added to that knowledge
through the extraordinary examinations and tests of their
own.
For weeks they had prepared the man. They anesthe-
tized his leg stumps so that they could get in there, remove
the skin that had stabilized. They had to by-pass, to cut,
to reroute the tubes and the systems through which his
body fiuids coursed. This they did, sometimes using his
118
own body units they had saved in supercold storage since
the crash on the California desert; and where revasculari-
zation was not possible, they used plastic and cerosium
and Dacron and silastic and whatever else was necessary.
Several times it was necessary to measure the electrical
currents, the feeble but life-supplied charges that flashed
through the body, that ran from the brain down through
the thick cabling of the spinal column to his extremities.
During such times, Steve Austin slipped into the deep
unconsciousness of the electrosleep machine and was gone
from the world, either suspended in timeless space or
burdened with the dreams that suffused his subconscious.
And while he was gone, Dr. Killian and his staff were
exposing the critical elements of the legs. They were open-
ing nerves and tendons and preparing bone. They were on
the brink of a new world of the human and bionics, of
joining living flesh and bone to electronics and steel and
vitallium and plastic and tiny, powerful units of nuclear
enegry.
When finally they were ready for the ultimate moment,
the joining of the two worlds through the person of Steve
Austin, he was placed even deeper into his unconscious
state. For there would be pain now, where there had been
none for many months. Where the body had stabilized, they
must destabilize. They must open the cables and wires
of the human body that carry messages of awareness and
pressure and feel, and, of necessity, pain. That was the
price. Steve would not have been capable of withstanding
the surges of energy, the spasms of twitching, jerking, the
convulsions as these elements of his body came alive.
Human and human-made were brought together, con-
nected, spliced, wired, sealed. Raw flesh was treated and
joined with what was not flesh so that the two might func-
tion together as the human entity had performed before
the limbs were mutilated and severed.
As he slept, he came back to life. As he swam deep in
blackness, electrical probes were applied to his system.
His body twisted, his body snapped, as the men attending
him worked with feverish anticipation and brooding con-
cern. As he slept they applied pressure to the soles of his
119
bionics feet, and side pressures, twisting forces. They
measured the flow of electrical energy from his brain down
through the intricate nerve networks, They studied with
their sensitive instruments how the feeble electric charge
was received at the junction of human and artificial. It
was there that what was being transmitted through a living
system which had grown now was sensed and picked up
by a living system that had been fabricated. The signal
was terribly weak, but whisper-sensitive instruments in
the bionics limbs picked up the electrical ghosts. The
instant the instruments detected the incoming signals they
flashed on the word for the signals to be amplified one
thousand-fold. The boosted signal went down to intricate,
articulated joints that could bend, twist, and flex. A need
for power was flashed through the system. Small motors
spinning with nuclear energy received the signal, and in
their response sent greater energy into the joints. It was
the same signal that the legs Steve had been born with
received and by which they functioned. The legs moved.
The limbs flexed, bent, twisted, articulated. As he slept,
his limbs came to life. Then the tests were done.
Nothing more could happen now until the raw connec-
tions had time to heal. There could be no movement until
fusion became fact; until nature and man’s products joined
as one. They blocked off the flow of energy to the limbs.
They kept him unconscious. When he awakened he would
not be the same man. He would still be missing an arm,
still be blind in one eye. But he would no longer be a
man without legs. How useful those legs would be was
unknown. The doctors had done their best. The bionicists
and technicians and scientists had done their best.
The rest would be up to the man. All the others could
do now was to wait.

“Jean, you'll have to be with him almost constantly.”

“T understand.”
“Of course, you'll need standby help. The technical
group will always have somebody here twenty-four hours
a day. They'll be monitoring the instruments.”
120
 She nodded. “Will they have to work directly with him?
I mean, with—”
“With his body?” Wells shook his head. “No, not unless
something goes wrong.” He made a sour face. He was
dog-tired, beaten physically, as were the others. “And that
would be a full emergency. No, they won’t have to touch
him.”
“I feel better about that.”
He looked at her, Like the others, she was nervous,
overtired.
“It’s a feeling, doctor. He needs some privacy, for God’s
sake. I’ve got to attend to his needs, and for his sake I'd
rather not do that with a bunch of gawking spectators,”
she said.
“They’re hardly that, Jean. You’ve got the right feel-
ing,” he said. “Who did you pick for your relief?”
“] thought there’d be no question about that.”
“Kathy?”
“Who else? She won’t let anyone else near him, except
me.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow we'll start to bring him out of
it. Only partially, however. We don’t want his system
coming full tilt into his rebuilding. The shock could be so
severe it might undo everything we’ve accomplished.”
“Kathy says it would be a super short-circuit.”

He saw it again. A simultaneous look. From the cockpit

and from the eye of the camera, the zoom lens slamming
in tight so he could see every detail, see himself in the
cockpit, He could hear it as well. The scream of metal
and that gutting cry of flame out on the California desert.
A finale at over two hundred miles an hour, with metal
churning—and himself right in the middle, Thirty-two
years come to its sky-tearing, earth-thudding blossom on
a hard desert floor. . .
He was the youngest astronaut to walk on the moon.
They had great plans for him. He would be one of nine
men to spend up to two months aboard Skylab II, the
big space station orbiting the earth at three hundred miles.
While the station flight was being readied he went back
( 121
to test flying. What better program than the wicked lifting
bodies preceding the flights of the Orbiters for the shuttle
program? Because that put him right in the lead group to
go back into space in the late seventies and the early
eighties. He’d be younger then, and with far more experi-
ence, than was Al Shepard when he touched down on the
moon’s dusty surface in Apollo XIV.
People looked for something different in Steve Austin.
Something different from what they found in the other
astronauts. They looked for it and they were disappointed,
because what they discovered was only more of the same.
Individualistic as he might be and was, Steve Austin was
still outwardly a product of the mold from which test
pilots and astronauts were formed. You didn’t earn your
qualifications by straying from the hard line of training
and necessary experience. If you were that eager to catch
the public eye in being artistically different, then you
could kiss the moon good-bye, and fast. Deke Slayton,
who ran the astronaut office, was interested only in the
mission and the best men to fly the mission, and your ass
was on the way out when you didn’t tack to the winds
required by the astronaut office. The difference that mat-
tered was being a little bit faster, smarter, and better than
the best.
One of the keys to success was keeping your individu-
ality concealed from the public. The astronauts were
different, one from the other. The seats available to the
moon and the Skylab were limited and they fought each
other like wildcats and pulled every trick in the book—
honest and less so—to shove some other guy out of the
way so that they could slap ass into the seat they wanted.
That was the name of the game. But to the world you
showed the same bland expression. Those were the rules.
If you took the records of fifty men who qualified both
as test pilots and astronauts you would find an astonishing
sameness of the breed. Individually every man would be
different, and their variations at times were wide gulfs
of personality and typecasting. But not in their profes-
sional traits. Their health was excellent (it had to be) and
their physical coordination and capabilities no less so
122
 (they had to be). They had the basic social amenities.
It’s just as easy to pick a man who pleases you as it is a
snarling lone wolf when both men are essentially of the
same caliber. Screwing up socially under the eyes of the
news media could get you bounced from a moon ride.
Tt wasn’t worth being a character—even if you were one.
Among themselves, where it couldn’t hurt, Steve Aus-
tin’s fellow astronauts considered him close to a genius.
Predictably, Steve had earned his masters in aerodynamics
and astronautical engineering, but raised eyebrows with a
third masters in history. The eyebrows went higher when
one considered the time he had to spend away from his
intellectual pursuits to manage his levels of skill in the
physical activities he favored. He was a star athlete in
most sports, but found his greatest challenge, and satis-
faction, on the mat—wrestling, judo, and aikido were his
favorites. He had applied himself with such energy to these
that his trophies included black belts in both judo and
aikido. Aikido especially taught control over mind as
much as discipline of body. To steel his body with the
fluid motions and speed of aikido, he also took up boxing
and fencing and rounded things out with acrobatics.
He came to test flying and the astronaut corps along
a unique route. Rather than the Air Force, he had selected
the Army so that he could become skilled in both fixed-
wing and helicopter flight. He flew a gunship in Vietnam,
sickened himself with the bloody carnage worked by the
hellish firepower of his cannon and rockets, and almost
welcomed the burst of machine-gun fire out of a jungle
thicket that shattered his rotors and sent the gunship
whirling crazily into the trees. Steve had himself the
million-dollar wound. Three broken ribs and assorted lac-
erations that would heal without problem bought his ticket
back to the States.
He transferred to the Air Force, breezed through the
cadet programs, and slipped into the heady stuff of flying
along the edge of the world. Special training, overseas
duty, pressure, and good luck carried him into the cockpit
of the SR-71, a great razorlike black beast that cruised
at two thousand miles an hour twenty miles above the
123
earth—on the edge of it; high enough to see the world
curving away its horizons to right and left. The black
spaces beyond were seductive, and he slipped into the last
selection as a member of the backup crew for Apollo
XVII. Lucky break in more ways than one. The lunar-
module pilot broke his arm two weeks before liftoff, and
Steve Austin was shifted from backup to prime crew and
became one of the two of the last men to walk the feather-
weight gravity of the moon,
There was a question about his returning. But the moon
was being abandoned by his country, and until the United
States was ready with nuclear engines and a whacking big
budget to start the first permanent lunar base, there wasn’t
any use holding your breath. You could get awfully blue
in the face in ten or more years. The concept of manned
flight to Mars tugged at him, but the red planet lay a good
many budgets and national priorities away. Still, men would
be returning to space and he knew he must one day be
in the environment he had found so much to his liking, so
completely natural; the incredible weightlessness, the surg-
ing marvel of seeing the glowing planet as a dazzling
jewel suspended in velvet black. Well, flight testing the
lifting bodies was the best answer, and he went after the
toughest assignments in the program because that was the
only way for him. He slid along the edges of space once
more in the vicious aerodynamic bathtubs that skittered
like fidgety waterbugs on a shifting lake of thin atmos-
phere. It was rough. It was the best chance of punching
his ticket for the big ride back into vacuum.
There was the “other” Steve Austin. The man the
public recognized as a past combat pilot, a test pilot, the
youngest of the astronauts, a man who’d been on the
moon, who stood six feet, one inch tall, with eyes deep
blue; a lean, muscled frame, almost rangy; a laugh filled
with warmth; and an animal attraction about him.
His bachelor status brought much conversation and
considerable plotting by large numbers of leggy, busty,
anticipating women. Not bad; not bad at all. Even the
barracudas zeroing in weren’t bad; cool sheets may have
124
been their hunting grounds, but Steve was adept in that
territory and elusive beyond the bedroom door.
Until he returned to the flight test center in the Cali-
fornia desert. The moon was now behind him. He had
proved a good deal to himself. Now was time for a differ-
ent perspective.
Jan Richards came into that perspective, and ready as
he was, the fall was fast and marvelous.
_ And then . . . that terrible fiery stalk blossoming across
the desert. It came back to him again, that shifting veil
of memory, and through the unwinking eye of bloody
flame he heard his name being called. A deep booming
‘summons, far off, rushing closer and closer to him. Steve,
Steve, Steve...

The faces swam in a blur before him. He blinked his

eye, tried to focus. One face moved, a sickening reel to
the side. He closed his eye, forced the world to stop spin-
ning. Try to think, he ordered himself. C’mon, let's get
with it...
“Tt’s me, Steve. Rudy Wells.” He recognized the voice.
Something to hang onto, That'll be better. He opened his
eye again, waited for the blurs to dissolve and melt into
one another, There. Good old Doc Wells. Clear now. And
who... sure, Dr. Killian. Steve turned his head to the
left. Something gold there. Hair. Jean, looking down at
him.
“Take it slow, Steve.” Doc’s voice, calm enough. He
looked again at the faces. What... He voiced his thoughts.
“What is this? A wake?”
Doe smiled. “No, Steve. Anything but. Can you remem-
ber what’s been happening?”
He tried. It was like slogging through mud but he was
getting there. Sure. The long preparations, then going into
that deep, deep sleep.
“Yeah,” he said weakly, “I remember. Nothing differ-
ent. Just you and me having one of our fireside chats.” He
was amazed. Weak; damn, he felt weak.
“Strange,” he murmured.
Wells leaned closer to him, “What was that, Steve?”
125
 Strange thing, Doc.” He groped for the words. “I—I feel
heavy. Crazy, isn’t it?” He held the words back for a
while, trying to think.
“Heavy, Steve? That is strange. What do you mean
by that?”
“Don’t know ... . Like I said, crazy feeling. Heavy. I
mean heavier than before . . . before sleep. . .”
His face went white, as if they could see the blood
draining away. Killian signaled a doctor who stood by
for any emergency. Steve saw none of this, saw only Rudy
Wells’s face.
“What's the matter, Steve?”
He was completely white now, his body rigid. His arm
came up, grabbed Wells’s wrist.
“Doc!”
The sweat poured from his forehead. Jean Manners
started forward with a cloth to wipe it away. Dr. Killian
motioned her to stay back.
“Doc, I—”
“What is it, Steve?”
“My God... Doc...
“MY Aes fection MUN ey

126
 CHAPTER 11

“Mr. GoLDMAN, you are forcing me to repeat myself,”

“I apologize, Dr. Killian. You said that the major
surgery has been accomplished?”
“That was in my report. Yes.”
“What stage is Colonel Austin in? I mean right now.”
Dr. Killian consulted notes on his desk. “It is what
Dr, Wells calls orientation. Their relationship is remark-
able. The legs and the arm have been attached, as you
know. We have already gone through a series of adjust-
ments. Electrical feedback, servomotor trim, as we call
it. There have been difficulties in the interface of the two
limbs, the natural and the bionics, None of these was
unexpected. We have not yet applied the full pressure on
the joining interface. That comes soon. What we are doing
127
now, what Dr. Wells is doing, I should say, is going over
detailed transparent models of different systems. With
Colonel Austin, of course. We have prepared full working
models, assemblies and subassemblies, Dr. Wells feels it
is imperative for Austin to understand every last element
of his bionics. reconstruction, and this understanding is
expected to assist his control.”
“I agree with him,” Goldman said.
“I’m sure he will be pleased to hear that.”
“[’m just as sure Dr. Wells doesn’t much give a damn
whether or not I agree,” Goldman said. “How are these
sessions set up? Between the colonel and Dr, Wells, I
mean,”
“They meet in Colonel Austin’s room. It’s really a
large chamber with movable walls. All the equipment we
need is therefore within easy reach.”
“Anyone else with Dr. Wells?”
“Miss Manners, of course. And Miss Norris is often
there,”
“She’s the lab technician, isn’t she?”
“She is also an RN, Mr. Goldman.”
“Yes, sir. I was aware of that. She’s also’ much taken
with the colonel, isn’t she?”
“You seem to have your sources of information, Mr,
Goldman.” !
“Doctor, as you know, Smythe is our representative.
He needed to go no further than listening to conversation
in the dining room to know that. I assure you we have
no spy ring in your hospital here. As I explained before,
Dr. Killian, we will not interfere. But I would like to sit
in on several of these sessions—I presume they’re pre-
liminary to the actual walking. tests?—s0 that I can get |
feel for how things are going.”
“You are not a member of the staff and that is intedl
ference, What if a question is directed to you?”
Goldman smiled. “Then I will answer it, Dr. Killiai
Between us—and I would like this to go no further
yourself or Dr. Wells—I have my masters in electroni
and computer systems.”
128
 Killian nodded. “You are rather an unusual man, Mr.
Goldman.”
“Yes, Dr. Killian. I am.”

They were surrounded by transparent models of human

systems—torsos, limbs, the head, and brain. Different
models for nerve networks, alive with flashing lights rep-
resenting in slow motion the path of electrical currents.
Others indicated muscle fiber, tendons, sinews, bones.
Still others were two and three times normal life size to
emphasize particular areas of the body, the switching
points, articulated joints, points of flexibility and where
extra loads were born. The walls were hung with charts
and diagrams. There were individual models of knee and
wrist joints, ankles and elbows, all several times life size,
all intended to bring out certain specific areas and methods
of operation.
There was another group of limbs. These differed from
the representations of the human anatomy. These were
the bionics systems, and they too were broken down into
separate units and enlarged. Where there were diagram-
matic representations for the human limbs, the bionics
units seemed to be from the guidance systems of missiles
or the electronic innards of spacecraft destined for distant
planets. Working models of sensors, wire connections,
solenoids, amplification systems, cables and pulleys; they
were all there, the bionics equivalents to their prede~-
cessor limb.
The models, working systems, charts, diagrams, and
stacks of manuals and schematics were placed in a wide
semicircle around the long, wide room, which had been
expanded to its present size by removing ceiling-to-floor
partitions. In the center of the room was Steve Austin
in his special bed. There was a difference in his appear-
ance, The man who had lost both legs and his left arm
now showed the full limbs of a normal person. A dark
patch still covered his left eye, and his hair remained
cropped almost to the point of a shaven skull. Otherwise
there seemed little resemblance between this man and the
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same Steve Austin who had been here months before,
with only a single limb to his body.
Several tables had been placed about the bed, and be-
hind these sat or stood a dozen men. Dr. Rudy Wells was
one. Oscar Goldman, introduced as an electronics spe-
cialist in sensing systems, was another, The others were
specialists in bionics systems, stress equipment, mechan-
ical drives. They were all members of the team that had
spent months working together in the attempt to make
[Link] jump into the future. The man about whom
they stood would be the measure of their success or fail-
ure. Moments earlier the room had been dark, the assem-
bled group watching an animated film following the
passage of electrical signals through a human system into
a bionics system. It had been a film intended to show one
man what he had become.
“All right,” Wells was saying, “let’s consider this a
working review. Question-and-answer time if necessary.
Set?” Steve acknowledged with a curt nod. He had become
unusually quiet, not so much withdrawn as deeply in-
volved in his own thoughts, as if he were working over-
time to assimilate the staggering changes to his system
that one day might be commonplace, but which at this
moment were unprecedented.
“We could have replaced your arm with a human graft,
could have effected nerve and other connections, regained
circulation, Aside from the rejection factor, of course, but
that’s really the least of it. The point is that we would
remain within far more unknowns than are presented by
the bionics systems. At this point, to add this on to the
other factors, whatever we could do would be partial. I
said we could have restored circulation, but not full circu-
lation, The arm has thousands of tubal connections be-
yond our capacity to handle. We can’t match millions of
years of evolution. We're talking about billions of living
cells, an extraordinarily complex venous and arterial net-
work, capillary action, of interfacing tendons and bones,
of assuring red blood cell manufacture, of natural articu-
lation and sensitivity of arm and hand hairs for kinesthetic
sensing, of temperature measuring devices nature pre-
130
pares for all parts of the body. We would have ‘had to
assure the proper functioning of thousands of intricate
nerve sensors in the fingertips, of the ability to perspire
or to close off pores as internal and external conditions
allow. Success would have been partial. Dr. Killian and
his staff are extraordinary, They are not supermen.”
Wells pushed aside a thick manual before him. He was
nearly exhausted; the mental strain had been far worse on
him than the others, and he had found little time for
sleep or physical rest in recent days. But it was essential
that he get these points down to Steve before the next
several days, which would be the most critical hours in
his “rebirth.”
“At the same time, when we consider everything we’ve
discussed for the past several weeks, Steve, it is vital to
remember you are an adult human being with the most
extraordinary computer ever known—your brain. You
have, also, the values of experience, and logical paths to
pursue based on that experience. All these factors, every-
thing we have talked about,” Wells gestured to include
the paraphernalia piled about the room, “combine to make
possible a living limb created by artificial means.” He
pointed to the left arm that had not been there six weeks
ago.
“That limb will not do all the things which your own
arm could do, It will never be able to match the extraor-
dinary flexibility given you by nature. At the same time,
because of our advances in bionics, because of your intel-
ligence and experience, because of adaptability, it provides
enormous compensations, In some ways it can be a su-
perior limb, Let’s try an example.”
He paused long enough to drain cold coffee from a cup
before him, then went on. “For example. Let’s say you
study a flat, white-paneled sheet with several dark objects
placed on that sheet. Let’s look at what nature has en-
abled you to do, when you decide to do it.”
He looked at Steve, who nodded slowly.
“The light falling on that sheet is absorbed or reflected
in the pattern formed by the objects. This reflection is
what your optical system detects. Your eye is both a
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biological sensor and an electrochemical transducer. The
system generates a barrage of nerve impulses through
the optical network, passing it into a specific area of your
brain.”
Steve gestured to interrupt and Wells waited. “How is
this message, the nerve impulses, passed on?”
Wells turned to a man at his left, an electronics-systems
expert. Steve had come to know Art Fanier well in the
past several months. Fanier knew Steve even better. He
had-created the nerve networks for his bionics limbs. “Art,
you want to handle that?”
Fanier spread out his hands, palms up. “We don’t
know, Steve. No one really knows. We all know that the
system works, but we can’t tell you how.”
“We can follow the process all the way through the
system, but its specifics still elude us,” Wells said, and
motioned to a technician. “Let me have the optical system
chart, Harry. Here, Steve, you can see how the pattern
works. When the message arrives at its destination, the
brain cells immediately trigger a feedback. New nerve
impulses go out, here,” he tapped the chart with a pointer,
“and they direct your eye muscles to focus on the pattern
of objects placed on the sheet before you.”
“How does the brain trigger the feedback?”
“That’s the part that we don’t know,” Art Fanier broke
in. “We've measured the electrical output, the pathways
followed, the speed of signals, But how all these messages
go back and forth is still a mystery.”
“Okay,” Wells said, “‘we’re at that point where your
eye muscles have been told to focus on the objects. We
now have a secondary feedback, a constant feedback
system that now triggers the computer part of your brain
to carry out an immediate search of your memory banks.
Do you recognize this pattern you’re studying? Is it fa-
miliar to you? If it’s not familiar, can you correlate it with
some other experience? Can you determine what it is?
“The feedback that continues throughout all this ac-
tivity is electrical. You have now determined what you're
seeing. It is not familiar. But there’s enough associative
memory here for you to figure out what it is. By now you
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have studied, researched, computed and decided. What
has been an incredible, complicated, coordinated effort is
to you but a single instant thought.
“Now,” Wells said, tapping the chart, “it’s time for
your brain to shift into another gear. Do you want to pick
up one of those objects for closer study? This triggers a
vast chain reaction within your brain, which in itself
directs a flurry of orders and institutes a vast system of
electrical impulses through your nerve system. You com-
mit. You make the decision to Pick up one of those inter-
esting objects.”
Steve waited in silence. “This is where we get into the
ball game, Steve,” Art Fanier said. “Until this time your
own system has done everything. But yours is no longer
the same system we all have. You lost that, and we've
brought it back to you, we hope, in a new way.” Fanier
looked troubled. “If things work out, if the theories are
true...”
“We'll find out soon enough, Art,” Steve told him. He
didn’t like the sudden turn of conversation. He would be
activated, which was a hell of a word to use about a
human, and yet it was the only word that applied. He’d be
activated and they'd find out if theory would work. He
turned. to Wells who was waiting to continue.
“Tt’s decision time,” said the doctor. “The brain sends
out a new wave of signals. This is the implementation
of your decision. The electrical signals flash down a tre-
mendous splay of nerve networks.” The pointer in Wells’s
hand moved along the body pathways on the chart. “All
this time, of course, you’re burning energy to produce
electricity—this is the electrochemical process—and the
electricity is causing muscles to react on command. By
teact, well, perhaps I should use the term, selectively con-
tract. The muscles in your forearm tighten. This in turn
stretches and contracts the tendons of your wrist and
your fingers. Your fingers send back their own messages—
this is the steady feedback operating—relating to sensi-
tivity and the grasping pressure necessary for you to over-
come gravity, the mass of the object, by lifting that object.”
The pointer dropped on the table. Wells rubbed his
133
forehead. “As you pick up the object the signals rush back
and forth. You bend your arm, twist your wrist, bring the
object closer to you, change your optical focus, relate
what you see and feel to past memories and new impres-
sions, and all this time you’re storing away data in new
memory banks.”
Wells paused again, motioning to an assistant for a
fresh pot of coffee. “We can’t duplicate this system. We
wouldn’t even try. But what we can do, what we have
done, in fact, is to use this science of bionics. We’ve
teduced to mathematical symbols the events we just dis-
cussed. The engineers converted those symbols into tools
and they produced the bionics limbs. But it’s much more
than building an arm or a leg that looks like the original.
Everyone in this project has worked on the miniaturiza-
tion level and below. A few years ago all of this would
have been impossible. What these people have done under
Dr. Killian,” Wells gestured to take in the group in the
room, “is to carry out a many-faceted process, It’s a mat-
ter of connection, fusing—fusing is the best word I can
think of, really—the bionics system with the same ele-
ments that existed where your arm was amputated. This
is the real key to everything, Steve. When you look at an
object, and decide to pick up that object, the signals that
leave your brain must transfer to the bionics limb as if it
were your own.”
Steve glanced to his left where the bionics limb—the
living arm, they called it—was strapped to his side, waiting
to be tested. He heard Wells’s voice as if from a distance.
“The processes must duplicate what went on before. The
operations of your optical system, brain input and output,
sensory signals, feedback . . . they must all work as if
there had never been any gross alteration to the limb.”
Wells had a new chart brought to the table and started
using the pointer again. “Let’s follow this routing, Steve.
Your brain sends down its signal in the form of electrical
impulses, These travel through the nerve network of your
body. While your arm remained a stump . . .” Wells
paused, decided against any niceties, and went on, “the
signals terminated where the limb was severed. But now
134
the wires in your bionics limb are connected directly—
fused, as I said—with those of the stump. They have
literally become a single unit. And the elements of the
bionics limb have been programmed to respond in direct
proportion to the electrical signal that is sent out by your
brain. They are also programmed to respond in the same
manner as did your entire arm. This is the computer as-
pect of the bionics system. It’s basically the same system
for man or machine.”
“A good analogy, Steve,” Art Fanier said, “would be
the power-control system of an aircraft. The brain sends
out a signal for a right turn. Your right arm and leg move
the proper controls. When you move the controls you
send a signal to a system that detects what you want, and
moves the controls through hydraulic boost. So long as
your hands and feet are on those controls you're a bionics
system, with feedback and the rest of it.” Fanier glanced
at Dr. Wells.
“It’s a good comparison,” Wells said. “When you think
to pick up an object, what happened before with your
original arm is repeated. The electrical impulses gener-
ated by your brain command everything. The electrical
current—call it voltage or resistance or anything that fits—
works the same way. The artificial muscles—Art, let me
have that model there, please. The muscles, which in this
case are silastic and vitallium pulleys, then contract, twist,
and tighten. Everything your own arm did. You can even
sense with your fingertips.” Wells tapped the model fingers.
“Your arm, your new fingers, have vibratory sensors.
They detect pressure; they send the pressure signals back
to the brain, precisely as before. The feedback system is
the same. We can’t quite match the flexibility of wrist and
forearm and fingers that nature gave you, but where you
lose you also gain.
“Your arm should have—and we'll find out soon
enough now—on the order of ten times the gripping and
handling strength you once had. The same applies, of
course, for your fingers. Objects you could never dent with
your natural fingers before, well, now you should be able
to crush them like an eggshell. Your brain, Steve, will
135
carry through every function with which you're familiar,
except pain.”
He paused, an instinctive reflex. How could he forget
what Steve had said when he regained consciousness after
the long weeks while his new limbs fused to his body?
My feet hurt...
He looked up to see a bemused smile on Steve’s face.
“I had some thoughts about that,” Steve said.
“Some people call it psychological carry-over,” Wells
told him. They had discussed it before.
“I know,” Steve said. “It’s a familiar syndrome. Man
loses his legs, he still feels pain. His brain is really lying
to him. You can also call it psychological compensation,
A way for the ego to refuse reality. But that’s not what
happened to me, is it?” It was more statement than
question.
“No,” Wells said. “We're in an unknown area here.
One can argue the very existence of pain. It doesn’t exist,
if you take one particular viewpoint. Pain is simply a sur-
vival message, instinctive protection signals transmitted
with tremendous energy from the brain.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Rudy.”
Their audience remained absolutely silent. To the bi-
onics and cybernetics teams the exchange was critical.
Steve Austin at this moment was the only true cybernetics
organism living. Cyborg, they called him in the labora-
tories. And whatever his reaction, it was a measure, suc-
cessful or otherwise, of their theories and labors. What-
ever they heard in this room from this man, whatever he
did in the following weeks and months and, they hoped,
years, was the beginning of that new science of theirs
come to life.
“Tt is not, as you say,” Wells mildly protested, “bullshit
to me. It is an area open to question. Subjectively, pain
is real. So long as the nerve endings are functional there
can be pain. When the nerve endings are blocked, physical
damage results but there is no signal sent to the brain.
Instinctive protection no longer exists. In your case you
now have nerve endings of some sort. Whether or not the
136
brain will accept the signals as they did before is open to
question.”
Steve said no more, waiting for him to go on to the legs.
Wells looked at Steve.
“The legs are simpler than the arm. The articulation is
less complicated. The knee itself has minor sideways artic-
ulation. Fore-and-aft movement is mechanically simple.”
The pointer moyed along the chart. “The ankle fits in the
same category. The fore-and-aft articulation is much the
same. Both elements, of course, have some sideways
motion, but this is restricted by the limitations built into
freedom of the ball-socket, or hinge, joints. In terms of
opting for greater strength, we restricted the artificial ten-
dons to provide the limited elasticity needed for, as an
example, rounding through a running turn.”
Steve gestured impatiently. “Let’s get to the power
amplification, Rudy.”
Wells nodded, shifted to new charts. “All right. The
energy for articulation—the electrical impulse sent along
the nerve network by brain command—isn’t great enough
to cause the bionics limb to react through muscle contrac-
tion and movement. The voltage is far too low, and we
can’t avoid the fact that we’re working with different sys-
tems. Different materials, in fact. The body provides elec-
trochemical reaction throughout the entire system. That's
impossible with the bionics elements. :
“So we compensate for this.” He held up a model of a
leg section. “What the electrical impulse originating from
the brain must do, then, is to trigger another energy source
within the bionics limb. In this case we provide additional
energy. The best way to do this is not through solenoids,
which could result in a staccato or jerking movement, but
through the latest advances in electrical motors. Art?”
Fanier moved closer to Steve and held up a metal cyl-
inder barely an inch long by a half inch in diameter. “This
came directly from the stabilization system of a military-
reconnaissance satellite TV system, intended for long life.
Necessary to maintain a specific attitude over the earth’s
surface for the cameras. There’s nothing else in the world
like it. Once it’s brought to speed, it spins at better than
137
thirty thousand revs per minute. The sealed environment
is as close to being free of friction as you can get. Of
course, we've got to be able to sustain the inertia of spin
and we use a plutonium isotope, but with something less
than the half-life of ninety years. The cardiac pacemakers
that have been used for a couple of years now use the
longer-lived isotope. We needed to alter the system and,
well, you can break down the details later if you want,
Steve, but the main point is that we have this tremendous
frictionless spin. There’s enough inertia in this system to
provide immediate translation of the energy to what we
need to move. In your case, the bionics limb. I mean, this
provides energy for articulating whatever part of the limb
is involved.”
Fanier moved the small motor housing into a breakaway
model of the bionics arm that was now a part of Steve’s
body. “This has a pressure-sensing system, of course.
When the message is received to grasp or to pick up an
object, the motors apply energy to the pulley system of
the arm. This makes rigid certain areas of the limb, ap-
plies pressure to the fingers—”
“How?”
“Well, the amount of pressure is decided by the elec-
trical impulses that originate from the brain. These are
fed the pressure from the sensory pads in the fingertips—
the pressure is converted to an electrical signal, the inten-
sity of which varies with the situation—and we have a
constant feedback. The result of this feedback is exactly
the same as with a natural arm. It’s translated into energy
demand, energy supply, and motion.
“This means,” Fanier said, “that the body itself isn’t
being called upon to provide the constant energy. It
couldn’t do it. We could implant dissimilar metals in
tissues of your body that contain salt water and the metals
would function as batteries. A lifetime source, I guess you
could call it, since the body provides a natural source of
fresh electrolyte. But the body produces only about one-
half volt, and even the simplest instruments implanted in
the body, such as the pacemakers, need at least one and
a half to two volts. But the nuclear sources change every-
138
thing. With these power sources, Steve, a man can run—
a steady, pacing run—just so long as he remains conscious
and his other body systems are working. If his heart and
circulation and brain and respiration are working, a man
could run for days and nights. His legs are—your legs—
are motivated simply through the miniscule electrical
charges of the brain’s impulses. But the key, the driving
energy, comes from these internal power systems, Internal
to the bionics limb, I mean. It’s . . . it’s really incredible.”

He came to with his heart pounding, the perspiration

streaming down the sides of his face. What a dream. . .
Something almost psychedelic. He saw a figure silhouetted
against a horizon, The foreground absolutely dark, above
the horizon line a gleaming, pale orange, intensely bright
glow, and that running figure stark against the orange.
The figure was running, a methodical pounding beat,
breathing deeply and evenly. Tremendous breath con-
rol saan
“You've been having a nightmare,” Jean said quickly,
to bring him back to the moment. “You're strapped down,
Steve. You must have been trying to turn and you had
this nightmare.”
He sank back in the pillow, nodding. It was cold,
soaked from his sweat. He was already back into the
dream.
Nightmare? Or wish fulfillment? He didn’t know. If
the legs worked. He laughed at himself. If the legs worked
as advertised . . . the key to long-distance running is breath
control. Enriching and keeping the system saturated with
as much oxygen as possible. What had Rudy Wells told
him? “Your legs won’t be consuming chemicals, electricity,
or oxygen. Your blood flow is reduced because the cir-
cuitry has been so drastically altered. Where you need
oxygen now you'll get it, far more than you ever had.
There isn’t even any way for us to guess what your en-
durance will be. You’ll be a superior man, a super normal
man. You may even be the start of a whole new breed...”
They'd find out.
Starting in the morning.
139
 He didn’t know whether he wanted that morning ever
to come. The thought of failure, after all these months,
would be too much to take. He—
He told himself to shut up. Sleep came quickly.

140
 CHAPTER 12

“How aBour under the arms?”

Steve Austin lifted his arms, flexing the biceps, straining
against the nylon webbing that passed beneath the arm-
pits. He strained forward, bunching his back muscles, then
leaned from side to side.
“Tt’s okay,” he said curtly. “Let’s get on with the rest
of it.”
“Take it slow,” Rudy Wells told him. “We've waited
a long time for—”
Steve was almost snarling. “Drop it,” he snapped. “Let's
just get it going.”
Wells didn’t reply. Instead he walked about Steve as
he hung suspended in the harness, a close replica of the
Parachute harness with which Steve had been familiar
141
for years. Wells stepped back several paces for a final
examination of the harness and suspension rig. Steve was
not only familiar with the webbing straps that encased his
body, but he was experienced with the suspension rig.
In his astronaut training he had used a variation of this
same equipment to test his balance and walking capabili-
ties under the one-sixth gravity of the moon. It would
help; there was nothing here that was strange to him.
Wells glanced about the former gymnasium, converted
to the testing center for Steve. He had cleared the room of
all but a few people—himself, Dr. Killian, Art Fanier,
Jean Manners, and two technicians. More than that would
change a working team to an audience of gawkers. Be-
sides, they had concealed cameras to record every mo-
ment. Steve’s bionics limbs as well as his own body were
loaded with strain gauges and instruments. They would
have a complete record of temperatures, pressures, strains
in every bending, twisting, pulling motion. It would all
be recorded for later study and the beginning of the test
profiles for the first cybernetic organism. The parachute
harness and suspension rig went up a ball-socket travelway
that followed the path on the floor that Steve would follow.
“Art, we're ready,” he said to Fanier. The technician
nodded, looked at Steve.
“Start at thirty percent,” Fanier said.
“Right.”
Fanier worked the controls and the harness lowered.
Steve stood with his legs slightly apart, braced for the
best possible support. The harness lowered until the gauges
showed thirty percent of Steve’s weight resting on his legs.
Wells watched him like a hawk, saw the perspiration
beading on his face. He glanced at the medical console.
Heartbeat, respiration, the other signs. All way above
normal, as expected. Jean would monitor the console so
that he could keep his attention on the man,
Steve rocked slightly and Wells felt a moment of panic
as he saw the slight teetering. It was a false alarm. Steve
was swiftly altering his own mood, once again becoming
the test pilot, checking out his equipment, regarding every-
thing with the finely trained senses and feel of the engineer.
142
No one said a word or made a sound as Steve stood,
stifflegged, regaining balance, swiftly learning certain key
sensations denied to him now for so many months, He
leaned forward again, letting the harness take up the
strain, then twisted from left to right, and back again the
other way. He nodded to himself, judging, testing, ignor-
ing them all. Wells felt a tremendous satisfaction and a
sense of relief. At this moment Steve was the equivalent
of a man back in the cockpit, the test pilot on his own.
“Give me fifty percent.”
Fanier was startled. “Too soon, Steve. The schedule
calls for an hour at thirty and—”
“Fifty!” He leaned forward in the harness, twisted
about, glared at the other man. “Now, Art, damn you,
now.”
Fanier licked his lips, uncertain. He turned to Killian,
who exchanged glances with Rudy Wells. Wells nodded
and Killian moved his hand. “Fifty,” he said.
Fanier moved the controls. The harness lowered. Steve
now had half his body weight on the legs. He stopped his
twisting motion, taking in the feel. He was searching now,
getting the sensations down pat, learning quickly the vices
he might find, the differences he felt now that clashed with
memory. Wells waited for him to move the legs. But not
yet. Steve knew what he was doing, was going by instinct
and experience combined.
Steve looked to his left and slightly down. Silence. They
watched the muscles bunch inside his jaw.
The left arm moved. It went forward, then came up.
But he could do that with the stump. It was something
else that—
The arm bent at the elbow. Steve watched the limb
with hypnotic fascination. It came down again. He rested
for a moment, brought the arm forward and slightly
across his body to his right. He bent the arm again at the
elbow, added a twisting motion, continued the arm move-
ment. He brought his hand—his new hand—to several
inches from his face. His eye stared. Slowly the fingers
closed into a fist. He held it that way, opened the fingers,
spread them stiff and wide, closed and opened them again.
143
He turned his hand through twisting motions. The arm
went up, then backward. Abruptly he stopped, the arm
straight at his side. Suddenly he snapped out the arm,
straight out to his side, the fingers extended stiffly. Then
back, forward. The arm went up, slowly, until it extended
above him, as far as the harness would permit. He looked
up and grasped the webbing. The fingers closed into a
tight grip. He began to add pressure.
“Steve! Don’t! You’re not ready yet!” Fanier’s voice.
Wells started forward, checked himself. Leave him alone,
he told himself. It’s his life. He’s got to gamble.
It didn’t matter, anyway. Steve wasn’t listening. He
wouldn’t have heard a bomb going off next to him. His
concentration was total.
The fingers closed tighter. They watched, hypnotized,
as Steve’s bionics arm brought his weight away from his
feet. Then, slowly, Steve lifted himself completely from
the floor. His body turned slightly, swaying, as he kept
the grip.
“The gauges,” he called to Fanier. “What do the gauges
show?”
“You're more than a hundred percent over the test cri-
teria,” Fanier told him.
“To hell with the criteria, give me the reading on the
arm,”
Fanier looked nervously at the others, saw Wells urging
him on. “You're . . . only thirty percent.”
There was a sudden shift of tone in Steve’s voice. “Tell
me again,” he said, half shouting, disbelieving.
“Thirty percent.”
“Tt turns out,” Steve grunted with sudden effort, “you're
a pretty smart son of a bitch, after all.” Fingers knotted
about the nylon, Steve pulled himself up even more, a
slow and deliberate movement until his face was even
with his hand. There was a flash of a smile and he lowered
himself, still slowly and with control, back to the fioor
until the harness released half his weight again to his feet.
He stood quietly, breathing deeply, the need for oxygen
more psychological than physical. He forced himself to
relax, and Wells, studying every move, was grateful for
144
the superb self-control of this man. He had thrown away
their test schedule, substituting his own, but it was still
one of rigid self-discipline.
“Doc?”
“Right here, Steve.”
“Water, please.”
Wells brought the glass to him. A good sign. The way
Steve was perspiring, they’d need salt tablets soon. He
held out the glass, instinctively extending it toward Steve’s
Tight arm.
Steve grinned at him. “Wrong hand, Doc.”
“You sure?”
“Hell, can’t you see me fiying?” Steve laughed. He
reached out for the glass, closed the fingers of his left
hand. A sudden crack went through the room. Steve stared
at the liquid splashing away from his hand, the glass hit-
ting the floor.
“How about that shit?” he said to no one in particular.
One of the assistants hurried forward with a towel.
Wells took it, wiped away the water, picked pieces of
glass from Steve. “That’s what I meant,” he said finally.
“Tt will take some time to fineness of control.”
“You should have told me.”
“T did tell you.”
“But not loud enough,” Steve laughed. Wells was
thrilled by the spirit in his voice. It had been a very long
time.
“Get me some metal glasses next time,” Steve said.
“Then we'll go to plastic.” He used his right hand to hold
the glass now brought to him, and handed it to Wells.
“Hang in there, Doc,” he told Wells. “You look awfully
worried.”
“Take it slow, Steve,” Wells cautioned him.
“You ever hear that new saying they got, Doc? Some-
thing about today being the first day of the rest of your
life? It’s time to walk.”

It wasn’t as easy as he thought. The electrical patterns

stayed almost precisely where predicted. But this was
much more than a matter of simply assuring that the
145
equipment would function. They were sure of themselves
in that area. It was biological feedback that held uncer-
tainties. How would the body receive the feedback from
the bionics limb? That was the big question mark. The
built-in safeguards, the flexibilities of the electrochemical
systems of the body, couldn’t be duplicated wholly in the
bionics equipment. This was the major unknown. But
Steve had been going into the unknown for a long time.
He motioned for the others to step back, to give him
room. And again, as he had done before, he slipped away
from them into that special chamber of his mind where he
became the expert technician, the engineer.
He stood with his bionics feet spaced well apart, one
slightly farther forward than the other. They watched,
fascinated, as he brought his hands to his hips, braced
them, and began the movements that—Wells realized
suddenly—he had been planning all this time. First he
bent forward from the waist. His body jerked suddenly
as the weight shifted and the knees tried to adjust for the
change in mass. He pulled himself back quickly, weaving,
fighting for balance. Then, forward again, back; forward
and back a dozen times. Next he began to bend backward,
tilting his head and shoulders behind him slightly. A ro-
tating motion followed, with his hands bracing him, the
half-weight of his body in the harness greatly reducing
unexpected shift and balance changes. He turned and
twisted with slightly greater speed than before, motions
fluid in their start, sometimes becoming erratic, exhibiting
a sudden snapping movement, as he fought to carry his
returning balance down through the legs. Finally he
stopped, looked straight ahead.
Sart?”
“Right here, Steve.”
“Take the pressure off.”
“Tt’s already at fifty percent.”
“I know that. Take it down all the way.”
“It’s coming down,” Fanier called to Steve.
Silence again. Steve stood rock still, feeling the pres-
sures. He kept his feet planted solidly to the floor and
began moving the right knee. Slowly, bending it back and
146
forth. Then, more carefully now, to the right and to the
left. Again he stood still, reviewing in his mind the sensa-
tions. He repeated the motions with his right knee.
“There’s some pain,” he said finally, not turning around,
knowing they would hear him and that the instruments
would pick up every word. “It appears to be at the junc-
ture of my leg and the plastiskin. I think you'd better
take a look.”
He stood patiently as Killian and Wells examined the
area where they had grafted the artificial skin to his own
living tissue. Steve wore shorts so that the juncture re-
mained exposed for such examination, and also for the
cameras. Killian’s fingers kneaded the skin. “Feeling?”
he asked Steve.
“Finger pressure.”

“Where was the pain before?”

“Along the back. Where the skin would bunch with full
bending.”
Killian| probed. “Nothing shows,” he said finally. “That’s
a good sign.” He half turned, “Miss Manners, was there
any anomaly in the readings at that time?”
She scanned the readouts, nodded. “Yes, Doctor, it
appeared to be a current surge.”
Killian went to the monitoring console, Wells at his
side. He returned several minutes later.
“Tt appears,” he said carefully, “to be in the electrical
flow. You are picking up a mild shock in your leg. Not
the bionics limb, Steve. Something is feeding back out of
control and giving you electrical shock,”
Steve nodded. “That shouldn’t take much of a fix.”
“No, but we will have to study the correlations, It will
take some time.”
“Still got to try to walk.”
“That would be foolish now,” Killian argued. “It could
become much more severe.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He did. Violently. He leaned forward slightly, lifted
his left leg, poised the limb above the floor, feeling the
147
sensations, then brought it down very slowly, easing pres-
sure onto the limb, It held.
The right foot came up, a leg seeming to move in snow,
the movement deliberately exaggerated. The knee hinged,
and Steve brought the leg forward and down, going for
the same careful contact with the floor.
“That's one,” he said through clenched teeth.
They could hardly breathe. He went through a dozen
steps the same way, a miracle before their eyes, the joining
of man and machine into a single living system. He walked
twenty feet, then thirty.
“Doctor!” Jean Manners, calling to Wells. He burried
to her side, saw the needle oscillating wildly.
“Steve! Hold it! Don’t—
Too late. A sudden spasm of electricity slashed through
the left leg. The limb snapped straight out, the knee lock-
ing, the signals mixing wildly. Steve spun sideways, his
body helpless from the sudden upthrusting of the leg.
Then he went limp, sagging in the harness.
“He’s unconscious,” Killian said. “Fanier, fifty percent.
At once. Take the pressure from him.”
The harness lifted slightly. Moments later they strapped
him to a stretcher, started back for his room.

148
 CHAPTER 13

“You’RE EXPECTING too much too quickly,” Wells said

for the tenth time that same morning. “You're pushing
too hard. It’s understandable, I admit, but—”
“But what?” Steve interrupted him. “The arm is coming
along fine, isn’t it? Then what the hell’s the matter with
the legs? Why can’t they work out that feedback prob-
lem?”
“They are solving the problems,” Wells said patiently.
“They’re not doing it fast enough to suit you, that’s all.
You’re forgetting the experimental nature of all this. But
even more, you're forgetting just how much progress you
have made.”
“Damned little.”
“That's unfair and untrue. Look at your performance
149
on the treadmill yesterday. You ran the equivalent of five
miles. Perfect pacing. Your entire system worked like a
charm. You did five miles and—”
“And then fell on my ass because that damned feed-
back went haywire again. I was like a clumsy kid who—”
“You are a clumsy kid. Can’t you understand that?
Biologically, that happens to be the fact. Oh, for God’s
sake, Steve, you know the score. Physiologically, much of
your body is that of an adult child. Your system is learn-
ing things all over again at superspeed. But it’s still con-
fused. The problem isn’t in the bionics limbs. It’s in your
own nerve network. If it was a matter of modifying the
limbs, we could do that. You’re an engineer; you under-
stand remote sensing, But the controls don’t exist in the
bionics systems, and your body has got to build up its
own memory banks of the new data feeds. That’s what
takes time.” Wells gestured with barely controlled anger
of his own. “You've been off the harness now for three
weeks. We didn’t think that would be possible yet for
another month. Can’t you consider just how fast you have
come along?”
Steve looked at him. “Are you patronizing me, Doc?”
“No, you son of a bitch, I am not.”
“Well, you damn well are acting like it!” In a sudden
burst of rage he swept the table clean of all objects; ash-
trays, manuals, coffee cups went crashing to the floor.
“J just wish to hell,” he grated, “we could stop all this
damned testing and testing . . . it’s driving me up a wall,
Rudy. All those people hovering around like moths and
Fm the damned candle. I am damned sick of it!” He
curled his fingérs into fists and his left hand slammed
against the table.
Wood splintered as his fist crashed through the top.
For an instant the table remained where it was, then
collapsed with a bang against the floor. There was shocked
silence as they stared at one another.
“Oh, hell. I didn’t mean to do that, Doc.”
Wells rose to his feet. “I know,” he said finally. He
forced a smile to his face. “Feel better?”
150
 “Not really,” Steve said. “But I would like to try the
maze again. How about it?”
Wells shrugged. “It’s your ass you fall on. Do you know
you’ve got bruises there that have bruises?”
Steve rubbed his buttocks. “Don’t I ever. C’mon, Doc,
nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth.”
The test room showed the signs of progress. The sus-
pension harness was gone. Steve insisted on taking his
bruises as payment for progress, and the room had been
modified to his requests. Much of it was now a specially
designed maze with winding pathways, steps, undulating
surfaces, chairs, and ladders, artificial pathways with gravel
and rocks, all to test the legs under a wide variety of
conditions,
Rudy Wells took a chair high above the running area
for a clear field of vision as Steve went through his paces.
For more than an hour he hammered through the ob-
stacles, his body working flawlessly, the bionics limbs no
less so. Then the erratic pattern began. It came only
in moments, but it threw him off stride. Steve ran and
dodged with deft agility when, suddenly, rounding through
a sharp turn, he stumbled and fell headlong to the surface.
Wells started forward to assist the fallen man, thought
better of the instinctive move. He gripped the chair with
his hand, waiting. Steve lay in a heap, his right fist beating
slowly against the floor in barely controlled anger. Mo-
ments later he rolled about and moved to a sitting position,
looking up at Wells. Technicians in the testing chamber,
always present, took their cue from Wells and made no
move to interfere.
“Rudy, it’s got to be the potential,” Steve said angrily.
He struggled to his feet, working his left leg carefully.
“Look at this thing,” he complained. “It’s like you said.
The signals go into the leg,” his hand slammed with a
wallop against the bionics limb, “but they’re all messed
up coming back. I can almost feel it happening.”
Wells kept his silence. Steve was groping. He turned
suddenly, started moving at a trot, working his way
through the course. Several times he stumbled, fought for
and regained his balance. Steve wasn’t aware of what was
151
becoming clear to Wells and the others. The legs were
improving, and rapidly. He could punish the bionics limbs
now for more than an hour without difficulty. It was as if
a time block existed for operation without fault. At that
time his system began to tire, as would any man’s, and a
flow of erratic nerve messages was the result. According
to their own calculations, in several weeks Steve would
be through the worst of it, and his endurance would be
measured not by the feedback of signals through the bion-
ics limbs and his own system, but by his own ability to
endure. The bionics limbs would have nothing to do with
it. They were dealing with a superb athlete who knew
better than any of them the extent to which he might
abuse his own body.
Their superb athlete, unfortunately, also suffered a
hair-trigger temper, considerably aggravated at this point
by his frustrations. During one run through the testing
maze, Steve was pressing hard ahead with fifty pounds
strapped to his back. The bionics limbs did not fail but
Steve, operating now under an altered center of gravity,
stubbed a toe and sprawled helplessly. He clambered to
his feet with an expression of anger and disgust and let
fly with a well-aimed kick at the rock that had caused his
tumble.
The rock took off like a rifle bullet, tore through a
plate-glass viewing window, scattering observers in all
directions, went on to penetrate a wall, and came to a stop
in the next wall beyond. A sheepish, slightly stunned
Steve Austin balanced himself on one foot, lowered his
body carefully to the floor, and stared ruefully at the
mangled end of his right “toe.” The toes were crushed
inward, and the sudden heat of compression had fused
the material.
Rudy Wells sat down beside him and they watched
Art Fanier leaping obstacles through the maze to reach
their side in his own record time. “How,” Fanier asked,
pointing at the battered foot, “does it feel?”
Steve looked up. “You’re kidding.”
“Hell, no, I’m not kidding. How does it feel?”
152
 “Tt’s not my leg, dammit. You guys built this thing
here in your candy factory.”
Fanier shook his head. “You’re wrong,” he insisted.
“Tt ig your leg. And you'd better start thinking about it
that way, because you sure can’t keep on doing that.”
Steve glanced up at Rudy. “Maybe Art’s got something
there. It does feel sort of strange, at that.”
Wells raised an eyebrow. “Well, it does, dammit,” Steve
said,
“How? Any pain?”
“Not pain. It’s more like a tingling sensation. It doesn’t
hurt, but it’s annoying. If 1 look away from the foot, it
reminds me something’s wrong. It feels like that, anyway.”
“You mean that?” Fanier asked.
“Yeah.” Steve looked at the other man. “What the hell
is the matter with you?”
Fanier pointed again to the leg. “What you just said...
we had theories about it, but this, well, I mean. . . it’s
more than I eyer really hoped for. It’s compensation,” he
said with near awe in his voice. “Compensation beyond
any level we ever thought possible.” A rising tone of
excitement came into his voice. “Do you know what this
means? Good God, the two systems, the bionics and the
physiological, are proving their total compatibility. And
I mean total.” He rubbed his hands briskly together. “The
body, Steve . . . it can’t provide a pain sensation because
you haven’t those types of nerve endings any more, so
it’s compensating. It’s substituting a new feeling, a new
sensation as a warning. It’s a pain indicator without pain!”
Fanier gestured to Wells. “We've got to get him back in
the lab, check out the readings. If I understand what’s
going on here, the end is in sight.”
Steve’s arm shot out like a piston, grabbed Fanier’s
wrist. He had a scowl on his face. “Explain that.”
Fanier squirmed. “Hey . . . you're hurting . . .” His
face had gone white.
“Steve!” Wells shouted. “You’re going to break his
arm. Let go, man!”
Steve withdrew his hand. “Oh, hell,” he said softly,
his words almost a moan, “I’m sorry, Art. I didn’t know
153
...” Tt had been his left arm. The bionics limb. Steve
stared at it as if he were seeing it for the first time.
“No... no sweat,” Art Fanier gasped. “What I meant,
Steve, was that compensation on this order means another
month, maybe two and no problems anymore . . . I—”
He was white. He turned to Wells. “Doc . . . I think it’s
broken.” He cradled the arm against the other.
Steve stared at him, his own face white,

“Just when everything is going so beautifully with the

project. too.” Art Fanier used his left hand in a clumsy
effort to handle his coffee cup. He spilled some, put it
back to the table. “The bionics part is more than we could
have hoped for. What’s gone wrong with Steve?”
Wells looked at Fanier and the others in the room.
“He thinks he’s becoming a Frankenstein. You can’t
argue him out of it. We know it’s not true. He doesn’t.”
Wells rose to his feet. “We'll just have to see who has
the last word.”

“You may feel cosmetics is hardly the word for what

you have in mind, but it is as necessary as the other
surgery that has been performed. Yes, cosmetic surgery
is as vital to—”
“Shut up and get on with it.” Steve made no attempt
to disguise his impatience with the fluttering, talkative
man.
Arold Dupre was his name and he was the walking
revival of Ichabod Crane, a gaunt, spare giant who bent
strangely at all angles through his knobby frame.
“He operates a rather special kind of beauty parlor,”
Wells said with a laugh. “No advertising, and the price is
right. He’s an expert. Not a surgeon, of course, but he
might as well be one,”
“Where’s he from?” Steve growled.
“CIA.”
“What?”
“That's right. They think he’s the best in the business.
And it is important.”
When Dupre got down to business, even Steve was
154
impressed, “They made a mistake with your new arm
and your left leg,” Dupre announced without preamble,
managing to astonish everyone in the room. Steve, Rudy
Wells and Art Fanier stared at one another and turned
their attention back to the knobby figure. “Notice,” Dupre
said imperiously. “The left arm is now of the same dimen-
sions as the right. That does not occur as a natural growth,
so? This man is right-handed. So his right biceps, his fore-
arm, his wrist, would all be better developed than his left.
But the, ah, replacement? Aha, the replacement matches
the dimensions of the right arm.” He grasped Steve's
wrist suddenly in bony fingers. Astonished, Steve offered
no resistance. “See here? The mark of a fighter pilot.
Even if I did not know of Colonel Austin this is clear to
me. The musculature, eh? See? Where he has spent years
gripping a control stick. Fighter pilots have this charac-
teristic,”
Steve pulled his arm free. “How the hell do you know
all this?You hardly seem the type, I mean, you—”
“Tut, tut, Colonel,” Dupre said, “you of all people
should not make assumptions. Perhaps you should have
looked at my wrist.”
They did, and Steve saw what had missed him before.
The right wrist of Dupre was more heavily developed.
“Are you telling me,” Steve said in open disbelief, “that
you—”
“Thunderbolts, Fifteenth Air Force. Four thousand
hours, single-engine fighters, Colonel. I also shot down
eight German fighters.”
Steve sat in silence through the rest. “I imagine you
had some difficulty becoming accustomed to your legs,
so?” Dupre swept on. “Obvious. The weight is the same,
approximately, I imagine, as your own legs. But the mass
balance? All wrong. That changes the inertia, so? The
body mixes up the signals. It takes time to adapt. No, no,
Colonel Austin, no need to-answer. I am familiar with
such problems.” They stared at the gaunt figure who had
just stated in a few words what had escaped them all.
Fanier’s mouth was open in disbelief.
“But,” Dupre shrugged, “other factors, right? Here,
155
see where the flesh joins the plastiskin. We need a perma-
nent dye. More hairs, Oh, yes, much more hairs, If the
skin is exposed to the sun, the skin will darken, but not
the plastiskin. We will create some scars along the limb.
It will cover the junction, right? And the hairs will make
pigmentation differences more difficult to see. Yes, it must
have water resistance. Salinity must be considered. We
can also supply you with a dye, a lotion, that will closely
match any change. It will function for both legs and the
arm. Now, are we ready for the tests?”
Steve was frozen, baked, and immersed for hours at a
time while Dupre fussed about him like an old maid. The
specialist recommended injections to darken the skin, were
that necessary, and Steve wondered at such attention to
matching the plastiskin with his own, But finally Dupre
ended his sessions.
“What now?” he demanded of Rudy Wells.
“Your eye,” the doctor told him. “You're getting to
look too much like Moshe Dayan. Time we changed that.”
“A glass eye? I might as well—”
“No, not a glass eye. Something better. Tomorrow
morning. You'll see.”

Steve felt uncomfortable in his presence. The man with

the balding head waited patiently in the optical chamber,
wearing a white tunic, standing behind a wide table clut-
tered with plastic models of skulls and eyeballs. He ex-
tended his hand as Steve entered with Wells and Jean
Manners.
“Oscar Goldman,” he said to Steve. “My pleasure,
Colonel Austin,”
Steve shook hands cautiously. “Did you say Doctor
Goldman?” Steve asked.
“No. Not doctor.” He nodded to Wells. “That’s his
department. I’m a specialist in ceramics and plastics. Also,
some familiarity with electronics.” He gestured to a leather
chair. “Would you sit there, please?”
“Maybe I should have explained more, Steve,” Wells
told him. “Mr. Goldman is a specialist in his, well, his
field. He’ll help you decide on types of equipment.”
156
 Still suspicious, Steve took the seat. Centered in the
table, directly before him, was an exact replica of his own
head. Only this model was of lucite, plastic, and other
materials, was transparent, and came apart in sections.
There were also oversized sections of the eye, the socket,
and the optical system. Steve studied the display, turned
to Goldman.
“My business extends somewhat beyond the cosmetic,”
Goldman said abruptly. “We both know your vision can-
not be restored. There are different methods, however, for
a replacement eye to function. It can be glass or plastic,
and it simply fills the socket. Its effect as a cosmetic is
illusory, for the eye does not move with the eye muscles.
The so-called vacant stare straight ahead is its fault.”
Steve did not make a sound, and Goldman paused long
enough to pick up a large eyeball. “This is what we pro-
pose for you,” he continued, “The weight, the weight
distribution, match your eye. Color is the same, but this
has added properties. We have developed a refractory
ceramic that not only matches the cornea of your right
eye, but will shift color depending upon light intensity and
angle. More than that, it contains light-sensitive materials
that will enlarge and decrease corneal size, again matching
your right eye. The pupils will approximate one another
as they change. Dr. Wells, here, and Dr. Killian will ex-
plain to you how the eye will be placed in your socket
so that it moves when you alter your point of visual refer-
ence. As your right eye moves up or down or to the side
this eye will do the same.” He placed the model back on
the table.
“Let’s me do everything but see, won’t it?” Steve picked
up the model, studied it more closely.
“No one can replace the eye. Not yet. The Russians
are doing amazing things with transplants but even they
haven’t gone that far yet. Only God can give you back
your sight. My office can provide, however, a certain
insight.”
“Get to it.”
“There are different ways for an eye to be useful,”
Goldman told Steve. “We propose one of these for you.”
157
 “Mind identifying the ‘we’?”
“Your government.” Goldman turned to the model of
the head. “Here is what we have in mind. Please watch
very closely, Colonel Austin.”
Goldman leaned forward with a small suction disk in
his hand. He placed it gently against the lens of the eye
in the model head, pressed in, and then twisted the disk
to the left. Steve watched intently as the lens turned, and
Goldman carefully withdrew a cylindrical tube from the
eye. He placed it on the table beneath a huge magnifying
glass and bright light, motioning for Steve to come closer
to him. Goldman’s fingers worked deftly as he brought a
tweezers into view beneath the glass. Two minutes later
Steve stared at a tiny, disassembled camera,
Goldman took the chair across the table. “It takes its
pictures with regular or infrared film. It operates up to
two-hundredths of a second. Anything over four feet is
automatic infinity focusing, and light-sensitive cells handle
exposure readings. You're familiar with Tri-X film? This
will operate with twice the speed on the ASA rating. It
can handle twenty exposures per microcartridge. It’s not
perfect,” Goldman said, the first personal tone in his voice,
“but it really is rather effective. It would be easier, of
course, to build the entire eye as a camera. But then we
couldn’t make the eyeball a permanent installation—or
Dr, Killian couldn’t—and the eye would not move in a
normal fashion and, except to an expert, be indistinguish-
able from a normal eye. It could be a dead giveaway.”
Steve glanced from Goldman to Wells and back to the
strange man across the table. “A giveaway to who?”
“T can’t say.”
“Who the hell are you, mister?”
“Somebody doing his job. Like you, Colonel Austin.
You're still on active duty.”

158
 CHAPTER 14

2) CICNESENGS

SHE stoop on the edge of the board, a superb body, bikini

covering a minimum of flesh. She stepped back two paces,
went forward and up, came down neatly on the edge of
the board and into the air. A perfect swan and her arms
came together for her to cut the water like a knife. She
went the length of the pool underwater, searching him
out at the far end where he was testing scuba gear. They
broke the surface together, Kathy tossed her streaming
hair away from her face and smiled at him. “Get rid of
that junk and I'll race you to the other side of the pool,”
she said.
He studied her for a moment. Then the interest faded
from his expression. “Maybe later,” he told her. “Too
busy now.”
159
 “Even for a short race?” she pressed. “Loser gets a
whack on the ass.”
“T said no,” he told her, more sharply than he intended.
She stood motionless, beads of water glistening on her
skin. Suddenly she shook her head, spun away from him,
and swam to the opposite side of the pool, where she
took the ladder quickly and left. Silence filled the pool
for several moments.
Fanier took in the scene, then walked to where Steve
stood quietly in the water. “Okay for test number three,”
Fanier told him. “You ready for four?”
Steve turned slowly, as if he still held an image of the
beautiful girl in his mind. “Yeah,” he said, looking up
at the technician, his eyes resting briefly on the plaster
cast. “‘Let’s get with it.” He disappeared beneath the water.

“Everyone here?”
Art Fanier nodded to Dr. Killian. “Yes, sir. Mr. Gold-
man was the last one in. We’re all ready.”
Killian took the seat next to Rudy Wells. Jean Manners
was next to him. The chairs around the oval conference
table all faced to the far end of the room where a motion-
picture screen waited to come to life.
“We'll keep this as tight as we can,” Wells started.
“Steve Austin, as you all know, at this time is undergoing
performance tests so we can establish the parameters of
his physical abilities. Those tests will be finished either
late tonight or by noon tomorrow. At this moment, in
fact, Steve is in the Sangre de Cristo area. The sand dunes,
to be specific, testing his ability to work through that
sort of terrain, and especially so under low-oxygen condi-
tions. The terrain elevation there exceeds nine thousand
feet, so it constitutes a rather severe test. From what I
understand, and this is from a radio report late this after-
noon, he has left his competitors far behind.”
He gestured to an aide and the room lights darkened.
“We have edited the film records to bring all of you the
highlights of the tests. We'll start with the short track
events.” The projector came on and they saw Steve and
several athletes poised at the start of a hundred-yard-dash
160
competition. Wells waited until the men flashed through
the race, and there was a stirring in the room as they saw
two men beat the man with the powerful bionics limbs,
“From these tests we were able to remind Steve that a
dash run is determined not only by experience and skill,
but also oxygen saturation. In the first runs Steve lost
regularly. Two days later—as you will see now—there
was no longer any competition. Oxygen control, experi-
ence in handling his altered body mass and changing cen-
ter of gravity . . . all these were now controlled by him.”
He paused again as they watched Steve almost launch
himself from the starting board and continue pulling away
until he hit the tape. “In that last run, Steve broke both
the world and the Olympic records.”
Wells hesitated; the film continued and a chalk board
showed the words, “Endurance Runs.” A telephoto lens
shot of Steve in the far distance appeared; at the bottom
right corner of the film was a timer. They watched Steve
running in perfect form, his legs kicking up dust as he
ground up distance, getting larger and larger, the fore-
shortening effect of the camera bringing out every detail.
“Notice the timer in the lower right,” Wells told his au-
dience. “Steve has been running for four hours at this
point. Four hours,” he repeated, finding it unnecessary
to say more as Steve came closer and closer to the camera,
finally passing the lens. The camera swung about to follow
him and they watched the same nearly flawless grace of
movement as Steve moved away from their point of view.
“We ended this test, which was more for pacing and en-
durance than it was for speed, after six hours, As an
indication of what he was able to do, for the entire six
hours he averaged a mile in five point three minutes for
the entire run,” Wells said.
“He was fully wired, of course?” Goldman asked Wells.
“We have excellent telemetry. His heartbeat remained
steady throughout, and only slightly over normal. If we
had not observed the tests personally and had these films
for corroboration, we would be hard put to believe the
biomedical recordings.”
For the next hour they studied films that depicted an
161
exhaustive variety of grueling performances. They watched
Steve racing with tremendous power and agility through
obstacle courses. Approaching high walls he ignored knot-
ted 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 com-
pete any more.”
The scene shifted to a lake, and they watched an out-
board cruiser moving steadily toward the camera. To its
tight 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, ex-
panded 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.”
“T didn’t know about this,’ Goldman said.
“One of our surprises,” Dr. Killian answered. “Within
162 Es
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
tuming inside Goldman’s head.
The OSO man tured 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 them-
selves looking at a parachute training tower. “We con-
sider 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 him-
self 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.
163
“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, per-
spiring 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 surround-
ings 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 repro-
duces almost perfectly the conditions of flying without
reference to a visual horizon. This calls for excellent coor-
dination, 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 flick-
ered and they studied Steve in the trainer, sealed from the
164
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 attend-
ants 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.”
“Yd 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 any-
one necessary to his testing.”
“Yes, testing,” Goldman agreed, “but there’s no per-
sonal 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 con-
duct. But you seem to be pressing more than usual. Why?”
165
 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?”
“T would be foolish to lie, wouldn't I?” Goldman said
bluntly. “Of course we do. But those plans, and they are
most specific, areworthless withoutthe cooperation, with-
out 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 comer and sulk. Dammit, I hate
to say that, but it’s true. What’s gone wrong with him?”
He tumed 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 tumed to Jean Manners. “Next to Dr. “Wells,
you are closer to him than any other person. Can you help
=
“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 Norris.”
“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 whea it comes to women . . .” She shook her head.
Goldman tured 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
ejection because of his half-man and half-machine con-
dition that he doesn’t dare expose himself to the possibility
166
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 belieye, 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 arrange-
ments.”
“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.”

167
 CHAPTER 15

G OK TO)

“WHEREVER DID you dig her up?” Major Marv Throne-

berry leaned far to the side of his chair, following as long
as possible the departing view of Kathy Norris.
“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
169
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 tem-
porary duty orders for Colonel Steve Austin, USAF, to
report to the 433rd Fighter Squadron for “refresher train-
ing” 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?”
170
 Steve tapped his fingers against the attaché case he had
brought with him. “The physical is in here. Given per-
sonally 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 exaspera-
tion. “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 fiy 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?”
“T don’t really know, Steve. But I guess I should know.”
“TI guess you should. You're the one who’s going to
turn me loose up there.”
Throneberry waited.
“J lost a couple of things in the desert, Marv. My left
arm, for starters.”
The pilot stared at him.
“Both legs.”
171
 “Steve—”
“Tm 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—”
“T’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.”
“T 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?”
“Tm 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, Mary.” 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 begin-
ning to end. Catch up on things.”
Throneberry nodded, grateful to concentrate on busi-
ness. “You've got some time in the F-4, don’t you?”
172
 “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, cast-

ing strong, black shadows across the flight line. Throne-
berry 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 Norris
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.”
Steve booted her out to the runway, swung the nose
around, and locked the brakes. Clearance came a few
moments later. Steve eased the throttles forward. Marv
Throneberry’s fingers itched to grasp the stick but he
held back as thunder boomed behind them.
“Mary,” Steve’s voice came through his helmet, “you
still think I can fly?”
_ “Let’s find out, old buddy.”
He heard Steve laugh for the first time since he ar-
tived. “Okay, let’s see if this bear still has it.” The brakes
173
came off and Steve pushed the throttles into full after-
burner. The sudden explosion of power kicked her free
and the Phantom bellowed and rushed forward. Three
thousand feet did it, and the nose wheel came up, and
then she was off the runway and into the air. Steve hit the
gear and it banged solidly into place with the doors slap-
ping tight with them. The nose came higher as Steve let
her run, the power throwing them steeply into the sky.
A wing rocked sharply and Throneberry almost grabbed
the stick. Instead, he kept his hands in his lap and spoke
quietly. “You’re fighting her, Steve. Ease off the pressure.
She'll behave.”
He breathed easier when the motions slowed down.
Steve was feeling her out. Departure control cleared them
to angels forty over the bombing range and the sky was
all theirs. Steve leveled her off, played with her for a
while, and little by little, becoming as one with the
machine, forgetting he was strapped into a cockpit, he
started to wear the airplane. The master’s touch was there
and he pointed the nose up, away from the sun, and
rolled her viciously until the speed fell off, and he brought
her up and over on her back, a mighty, soaring loop
through the sky. Coming over on top, he was barely over
stall, but he made her hang and he played power and
gravity as though they were strings on the end of his
fingers, tickling the brute forces out there as she fell
through, the nose coming down just where he wanted
it, the power easing off. It was with real regret that Marv
Throneberry, who hadn’t once touched the controls, finally
had to remind Steve that the fuel warning light was on
and it was time to go home.
“Tt’s time to land,” Steve told him. “I’m home now.”
And Marv couldn’t argue with him because it was all
very true. And he wasn’t surprised when they taxied back
to the flight line and he saw the girl standing there, wait-
ing for them, as if she hadn’t moved at all the whole time
they were gone, and somehow he believed that to be true.
He raised his visor as Steve parked the Phantom, and he
looked at the girl again, and was sure he saw tears on her
face.
174
 She locked the door behind her. Steve turned in sur-
prise as Kathy gestured toward the magnum of cham-
pagne in an ice bucket on the dresser.
“There’s no question any more, is there?”
He thought of the sky and the fighter beneath his finger-
tips. “No.”
“Then champagne is in order.”
“J—I don’t know.”
“I watched you today, Steve. J know.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I watched a man come back to himself. Back where
he belonged.”
“Tl open the champagne.”
He had his back to her, opening the bottle. He filled
the two glasses on the dresser, He heard her voice behind
him.
“Steve.”
“Right there.” He turned, holding a glass in each hand.
“I want you to make love to me, Steve. Now.”
He stared at her. “Kathy, I—”
“For God’s sake, shut up.”
Before he knew what was happening they were to-
gether, and she was crying.
It had been a long time, but he was really home now.

They stayed at Davis-Monthan three more days and

then it was time to return to Colorado. Kathy talked him
into canceling their airline tickets and renting a car. It
would be a beautiful drive back through the desert and
the mountains.
At dusk they were looking for a motel. Traffic moved
slowly ahead of them, winding carefully down a narrow
mountain road, following a yellow schoolbus filled with
children returning from a picnic. They were three cars
behind the bus, and when it happened it came in agonizing
slow motion. It sounded like a mild pop when the front
‘Tight tire of the bus gave out. For a moment it seemed
as if the driver would be able to hold the suddenly careen-
ing vehicle. It swerved right, then wildly to the left, but
‘there was oncoming traffic and the driver had no choice
175
but to pull again to the right. There he lost control, the
front right wheel edging along slippery gravel, and the
bus tilted. They could hear the thin screams from the
open windows as the front end slid, dragging everything
with it, and then it was rolling over, crashing through the
brush along the steep slope, sliding and banging before
it came to a stop against a tree. They were holding their
breath, Steve slamming on the brakes of their car, when
the flash soared out from the trees and they heard the
dull, booming sound of the fuel tank igniting.
Steve slammed to a stop and in almost the same motion
was out of the car and hurling himself down the slope,
being able to see by the licking flames, urged on by the
cries of screaming children, They had the emergency
doors open, and shrieking children, cut and bloody, were
struggling out and up the hill. But there were others
pinned inside, tormented by the spreading flames,’ and
Steve dimly remembered kicking in a window as the
screams grew more shrill. The wreckage had folded over;
metal trapped the children inside, and he went crazy as
he pulled and tore at metal, hurling it aside, grabbing
at bodies either limp or writhing in pain. He passed chil-
dren through the shattered window, other hands grasped
them, took them away from the flames, and then they
were all out.
There came one last cry and he went back into the
wreckage, pulling at seats, feeling metal grate against him.
The flames reached at him but he found more metal and
he was using his left arm as a club, flailing away at the
imprisoning seat; metal gave, he wrenched it clear, jerked
the child free and stumbled through the smoke. They
were safe, the child in his arms. He looked down at the
little girl, placed her on her feet, and watched as her
eyes widened, her hand pointed, and she screamed.
He looked to where she was pointing and saw a ghastly
skeleton of metal and wires showing where the plastiskin
had ripped free. The child’s screams went on, driving into
his brain, and as others approached, he turned and ran
up the slope, his legs pistoning him along, gouging clumps
of dirt and rocks free as he made the road. He rushed to
176
the car, where Kathy waited. She moved impulsively to
his side when she saw him holding the arm close to his*
body, covering it with the other. “You drive,” he said,
climbing into the right front seat.
“What ... what happened? Are you all right?” Words
she couldn’t hold back.
“Just drive, dammit!” he shouted.
He refused to let her stop at a motel, demanding she
drive all the way through, stopping only for gas. He had
a jacket over him now, hiding the arm. He told her what
had happened, how the child had screamed, the look of
horror on her face when she saw what she thought was
a living skeleton. And then he sat cold and silent, a
monster in his own mind, running from the shrieking,
frightened youngster.

“All right, Steve, even my patience has run out. I’m

not even going to talk about Kathy. You once had a girl
who couldn’t take what happened to you and she blew
town. Now you've got a girl who’s in love with you and
you’re so damned wrapped up in misery and self-pity
you can’t recognize the greatest thing that’s ever hap-
pened to you.” Wells gestured angrily to cut off the
shouted interruption he knew was coming. “I’m not
through, goddammit,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Kathy is your business, not mine. What I care about is
the project, and that means I care about you. But I’ve
had it, right up to here.” He drew his finger across his
forehead. “That far. Okay, Colonel. You're quitting? Well,
so the hell am I.”
Steve was shocked at the outburst from a man who'd
been transformed into a total stranger. The stranger
wasn’t quite through, as he discovered. “You can walk
out of here any time you want to,” Wells said, now more
in control of himself. “I'm through killing my own life
because of you. There are plenty of veterans’ hospitals
that can take care of you. They can fit you out with the
best prosthetics limbs made anywhere in the world. You’ve
seen them on other men. You can wear them like anyone
else. And it'll be exactly what you want, right? You'll be
177
free of this whole rotten place you’ve been complaining
about. You won’t be tied down to us any more; you won’t
be a freak, a Frankenstein. You'll be just another guy
fate crapped on who has to make his way the best he
can. There’ll be thousands like you, Steve. No more
miracles. No more special case. You can lose yourself
in the army of legless and armless men.
“We can’t work with you like this, not knowing from
one day to the next whether you're going to wake up
spitting mad and refusing to cooperate, or whatever. It’s
impossible. This project needs more than your body. It
needs your absolute cooperation, your willingness, your
drive, to make it all work.”
He turned and faced away from his friend. “You can
pick the rehabilitation center you want. Anywhere in the
country. You won’t be able to retain the bionics limbs but
that doesn’t matter since you hate them so much, So it’s
finis. You will, however, get the best that medical science
provides to our combat veterans. And I guess that what’s
good enough for a man who’s won the Medal of Honor
should do for you.”
A long silence followed. Wells pushed himself into the
chair behind his desk.
Finally Steve spoke through the office gloom. “You
through?”
“No,” Wells said wearily. “But what’s the use? You’ve
made up your mind. Besides, if I kept talking I might hurt
your feelings. Well, I wouldn’t want to do that. At least
you'll make Jackie a happy woman again. I haven’t been
a husband to her for months.”
“Spill the rest of it.”
“Don’t tell me what the hell to do, Colonel. That’s be-
hind us now.”
‘Td still . . . I still want to hear the rest of it.”
“Why? Let it drop. It’s all over.”
“T’ve never heard you like this, Rudy.”
“You never will again. All right, you really want to
hear it?”
“No. But maybe I should.”
Wells dragged himself away from his seat and walked
178
 to where Steve stood in shadow, his left arm covered by
a long-sleeved shirt. “A few days ago, mister, you saved
the life of several children. They would have died. Burned
to death if you hadn’t been there. That means you’ve paid
your debt to society—in every way. We here in this center
represent that society and we no longer have a claim on
you. You’re home free. No obligations. But I'll tell you,
personally, because we’ve known each other for so many
years, that I am damned, damned disappointed in you.
What's happened to you can never be undone. It’s hap-
pened. Period. But I never thought I’'d see you go under
in self-pity.
“You better remember something, Steve. Nobody here
ever forced you into an airplane. I told you this once
before and maybe I should have said it more often. You
volunteered. You went into test fiying fully aware that
these things do happen. So the shitty hand was dealt. But
then you were given a miracle in this place, in the bionics
program, and it doesn’t seem to matter at all to you. So,
we'll find someone else who'll grab at this opportunity.
There are more people torn up, busted, burned, and
tipped in this country than you could imagine. We’ve
got a whole war full of them and we won’t be wanting
for volunteers. It’s a shame we have to lose your particular
qualifications, but we'll muddle our way through. We'll
make out. And like I said, starting in the morning you
can pick the VA hospital of your choice.”
Steve rolled up his sleeve, extended the skeletal arm
toward Wells. “You wouldn’t be saying a word of this
if you had seen the face of that child. If you’d heard her
screaming at...”
Wells shrugged. “I know what happened. Children
scream when they see people who’ve been burned. When
they see compound fractures. Or lepers. Or a whole
variety of people mutilated in different ways. So a child
who was upset, terrified by fire, in shock, who was going
to burn to death if you hadn’t saved her, screamed when
she saw your arm. She was screaming before, she got
another shock, she screamed some more. I’m not im-
pressed. I’m disappointed that you could be so blind.”
179
 “Me? How can—”
Rudy Wells hammered the point. “You were in a burn-
ing bus and you went through flames and you never felt
pain. It didn’t stop you. You saved lives, quite a few _of
them. You're blind to the fact that you have an arm
that can be repaired and made as good as the bionics
limb it was before. What an incredible thing life has given
you. We can fix the arm without pain, without removing
anything from your body. We could fix it even if you’d
crushed it beyond all possible use, and make it even
better than it is now. If you weren’t so wrapped up in
your damned private misery you'd understand you're
being offered a third chance, where most men never get
more than one.”
Wells moved toward the door, praying silently to him-
self. “I’ve talked myself out. Dr, Killian will attend to
your transfer. There’s no need for us to see each other
again.” He was almost through the door when it happened.
“Doc.”
Hoping, keeping his face a mask, Wells turned. He
didn’t trust himself to speak.
“You said something about a third chance.”
“Past tense.”
Steve hesitated. Finally: “I'd like to have it.”
“Why?”
“I can’t argue with what you've said here tonight.”
“Isn’t it a little late for that?”
Steve’s voice was calm. “I hope not.”
“You broke something off inside Kathy.”
“T know that.”
“You did it to me, too.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“If we forget what was said in here tonight, Steve, it’s
got to be all the way.”
“Tt will be. My word.”
“All right. I'll talk with you in the morning.” He
turned again to leave, but was stopped once more.
“Doc, do you know where she is? I—I’d like to see her.” —
“God's truth, Steve, I don’t know.”
“All right. 1...” He reached his limit. “Good night.”
180
 “Good night,” Wells said, and walked down the corri-
dor. When he arrived home, Jackie watched in silence as
he went to the telephone and dialed a number directly
to Washington, D.C,
The phone rang five times before a sleepy voice
answered,
“Oscar? Wake up. Rudy Wells here. In Colorado. Yes,
yes. You can call Jackson McKay. Tell him Steve is
ready.”

181
 CHAPTER 16

SASATASTATASA
a SATOSISA SASISA SATISIIAIA IAI
HE LOOKED nothing like the man one expected to find
directing the subtly concealed activities of the Office of
Special Operations. Jackson McKay presided over his
office from a huge leather swivel chair, a brooding Buddha
of huge physical bulk, sustained by a diet of excellent food
and quantities of dark beer. The man enjoyed life, was
mmitted to its luxuries, but his bulk belied his excellent
hysical conditioning. Those who knew him well under-
itood the relationship between Jackson McKay and the
jumo wrestlers of Japan; they were great and heavy
en with astonishing agility, layered with fat beneath
hich were coiled muscles of extraordinary strength.
If McKay well concealed his robust health and strength
eneath his gross appearance, he performed as well in
183
disguising a mind of extraordinary strength and precision.
Extending over nearly thirty years of intelligence and
espionage work, McKay’s record included several dozen
men dispatched at his hands; he had worked with British
Intelligence and Interpol and dealt intimately with the
security agencies of perhaps a dozen governments through-
out the world. He was also a veteran of the military-
security groups of his own country, had been an early
member of the wartime OSS and its CIA successor, His
penetrating knowledge of international intrigue, and the
techniques required to survive in those roily waters, made
him a natural selection as the first director of OSO. He
was a master of the art of innovation, of introducing the
wholly unexpected into his operations, and of keeping
the opposition off balance.
He was the man responsible for funding the project
they knew as Steve Austin. To Jackson McKay, Steve
was not a man but an implement, a device, a weapon.
A force, to be applied when and where it would exert
the greatest possible effect in the shortest possible time.
McKay enjoyed no status as a scientist, but he was a
connoisseur of its handiwork, having, during several wars,
used “gadgets” both to assure the demise of the enemy
and his own survival. Imagination, McKay devoutly be-
lieved, was the single greatest weapon one might possess.
OSO maintained a training camp in the hills of West
Virginia, where it developed a force of special agents
with the derring-do of Ghurka soldiers. Results were good
but casualties high, and when one studied the score sheets,
smacked of inefficiency. Something better was needed,
and something better loomed with breathtaking promise
in the form of the secret bionics and cybernetics labora-
tories resting on the flanks of the Rockies in Colorado.
McKay had always envisioned a superagent, but more
than a foot soldier, an artillery man, or any combat vet-—
eran was needed. McKay wanted the very best and heg:
bided his time.
Steve Austin was his reward.
Today was delivery time. Precisely at ten A.M. Goldman

ts
came into his outer office with Steve Austin and Dr. Wells. -
“Send them right in,” McKay told his secretary. He
heaved himself from his seat to greet them. McKay was
delighted. Something seemed on fire inside Austin.
He glanced to the side of his desk, A green light
glowed. Good. The team for Project Aquila was gathered
in the next room. They could wait for a while. His gravelly
voice banged through the room. It was upsetting and it
was supposed to be.
“Sit down, sit down,” McKay told them. “Colonel
Austin?” The other man turned a hard face to him.
“Colonel, how much do you know of this organization?”
“Next to nothing.”
“Any conclusions on your own?”
Steve’s face remained frozen. “This is silly, McKay,”
Austin told him. “You didn’t bring me all the way here,
or—” he gestured to Rudy Wells, “this man either, to
play guessing games. So let’s stop cocking around and
get to it.”
McKay’s smile was less forced than Steve expected.
“Very good. Better, in fact, than I expected.”
“Stop patronizing me,” Steve told him. “One question,
though. Did your outfit foot the bill for the program?”
“You mean the project we call Steve Austin?”
“Thanks for the answer,” Steve said. “And at the same
time, I appreciate the confidence you’ve expressed.” He
looked up and smiled humorlessly. “I don’t mean con-
fidence in me,” he went on. “The confidence you have
in your own decisions is what I mean. And since you’ve
paid out all that good money, McKay, why don’t you
start putting it to work and tell me why I’m here.”
“You're here because we plan certain operations for
which your special talents are necessary. In many ways
they are critical.”
“Indispensable is more like it.”
“You seem sure of that, Colonel.”
Steve leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be here
otherwise. And I'd like to get one more thing very clear
among us.” He glanced at both McKay and an attentive
Oscar Goldman. “I am not personally grateful to any one
of you for being here. I know something about the opera-
185
tion of outfits such as you represent. There’s no room in
it for personal gratitude. You have a job to do. It’s serious,
in many ways it’s dirty, in some ways it stinks, but,” he
shrugged, “having worn the blue suit for a long time and
having exchanged unfriendly volleys between myself and
other people doing their best to kill me, I understand and
even appreciate what you do, Not in terms of personal
commitment, I want you to understand. That’s just a
professional opinion,
“You will receive my absolute cooperation. I assure you
of that. But I am also a guinea pig in this. My personal
involvement is with myself. To make everything clear, 1
don’t much give a shit for your operation. I’m willing to
go along as part of the great experiment. I just want you
to understand that I don’t owe you a thing.”
“Fair enough, Colonel Austin.” And suddenly McKay
was also all business. “For the record, you will retain
your Air Force rank as colonel with appropriate pay and
expenses. Your orders will read that you are on detached
duty to the Office of Special Operations for the purpose
of testing various types of avionics equipment. However,
you will have no further contact with the Pentagon or
any other authority, except this office or the facilities in
Colorado and, outside of Dr. Wells here, you will never
discuss your assignments with anyone beyond a specific
list of names which will be provided for you. In the event
of my absence when certain crucial decisions must be
made, Oscar Goldman will function in my capacity and
with full authority.
“The operation we have in mind, Colonel, appears to
be tailored to your unique qualifications, We ate carrying
out this mission for the Defense Department. More spe-
cifically, a combined request from Air Force and Navy.
I want to make something clear. This is not an under-
cover assignment as that phrase is so often misused. It
will be a field assignment, rather unprecedented. You are
an excellent swimmer. You were an excellent swimmer
before your accident. I would like this on a personal
basis, Colonel, since I have been informed you have also
spent much time in underwater work. I find that surpris-
186
ing, considering how little time has been available from
your duties as an astronaut and test pilot.”
“Obviously you have my records,” Steve said. “If I
would add anything to what you know, it would be that
I managed the underwater program for weightless tests
at the Marshall center in Alabama. We developed equip-
ment for the Skylab station there, and I logged a few
hundred hours underwater. Comparison of weightlessness
in the water and zero-g states, that sort of thing.”
“That fills in what I needed,” McKay said, openly
pleased. “It will save time for this operation we have in
mind, and time is not in our favor. One more point,
Colonel. I said this would not be an undercover operation.
We wouldn’t dare turn you loose in that business. Despite
your unusual advantages in many ways you wouldn’t last
twenty-four hours against the pros. You will need know-
how, language nuances, certain expertise and techniques.”
McKay watched Austin’s face.
“Underwater operation,” Steve said slowly. “Different
from what you may have done before. Got to be or you
could use any really good UDT men. So you're talking
about endurance and a situation one man or a dozen can’t
fill. No time for the special training you were talking
about, so it’s pretty much a one-man operation. And
you're not expecting me to get involved with direct con-
tact.” He looked up. “How many pushups before I
qualify?”
In answer, McKay gestured to the door by his left.
“The team for Project Aquila is waiting for us in there.
You will be given a full briefing on the assignment. After
that we would like to run a test here—”
“What kind?” Steve broke in.
“Hand-to-hand combat,” McKay said. “I said before,
we do not expect personal contact on this assignment. It
may, however, take place, There is no other way to
evaluate your ability to protect yourself, to escape certain
situations, until we see what you can do, After that, we
can better plan your equipment.”
“Tt sounds as if you have quite a party planned for me.”
187
 “We do,” McKay confirmed. “You will not be playing
with amateurs.”
“We expect you to be here two days,” McKay went on.
“Then you will return with Dr. Wells and Mr. Goldman
to Colorado, where the necessary modifications will be
carried out to your—to your person. I don’t wish to seem
callous but—”
“But you are,” Steve told him. “Don’t sweat it, McKay.”
McKay nodded, dropped the subject. “You will be in
Colorado several days, which is what Oscar tells me will
be the time required for the alterations we have in mind.
After that, back here for final, specific training for the
Operation, and then we commit.”
“I can hardly wait,” Steve said quietly,

No one could walk directly into an OSO briefing room.

You walked through a door, closed it behind you, and
discovered you were in a trap. Steve knew without asking
that the doors were steel-lined beneath the wood, worked
by electronic locks. He glanced at Oscar Goldman, who
nodded without saying a word. Wells was more interested
in OSO’s gimmickry. “Ultraviolet and electronic scan?”
he asked. Goldman nodded again, started to reply when
a loudspeaker came to life. “State your name, please.
Colonel Austin first.” Steve felt foolish but did as the in-
visible voice requested, followed by Wells and Goldman.
“Voice ID,” Goldman explained. “Your characteristics
are already on computer file. Better than carrying a badge.”
As he spoke the second door opened and Goldman ush-
ered them into the conference room. It was much as Steve
expected. He’d been in and out of conference and briefing
rooms for years, and this one had all the earmarks of a
major combat-operations planning center. Large wall
maps and charts, reference manuals, stacks of photo-
graphs, projectors of all types, the long, center table and
chairs. There was one immediate difference. At the center
table stood two men. Another half a dozen men and
women were seated at a second table against the far wall,
members of the Aquila team. They would remain silent
unless needed to answer questions in their respective
188
specialties. Goldman introduced them to the two men
at the table. The first was Marty Schiller, whose huge,
calloused hand engulfed Steve’s own. The pressure was
firm, controlled, and a toothy grin appeared on his face.
Schiller had skin that gave the impression of torn sand-
paper—weathered, leathery, crinkled. He was rawboned,
large and rangy, a man of endurance and strength, a UDT
man with pararescue and other paramilitary experience.
The second was Dick Carpentier, a swarthy fellow who
looked as if the five o’clock shadow on his face could
never be removed. He was especially impressed by Steve’s
credentials as an astronaut who had walked on the moon.
Goldman took a seat and motioned for the others to do
the same. The room darkened and a projection screen
brightened with a detailed topographic chart of a coast-
line. “The area you see is part of the northeastern coast
of South America,” Schiller announced in the darkened
room. “The references are six degrees north and fifty-four
degrees west, or approximately along the Surinam border,
which is Netherlands Guiana, and to its east, French
Guiana. The river delta is the mouth of the Maroni, which
serves as the border.” The map snapped out and a detailed
color photograph appeared in its place. “This oblique
view, taken by an aircraft flying due south toward the
shore line, gives some indication of the hills along the
shore. As you move southward you get into the steeper
hills and rather deep valleys of the Guiana Highlands,
which constitute the northern border area of Brazil. You
won't, however, be concerned with that.” Again the screen
flickered, and the still photograph gave way to the point
of view of a pilot flying at no more than a hundred feet
‘above the water. “Again,” explained Marty Schiller, “ap-
proach is due south, altitude approximately one hundred
feet, speed about six hundred knots. Please pay attention
to the number of boats that will appear in a moment.”
Steve watched in silence as the photo aircraft continued
lits rush over the water. A boat appeared to the left of the
‘screen, and then another, and within seconds, at that
‘speed, he had several dozen vessels in sight. “Most of
‘these ships are fishing vessels, yet there are not any
189
worthwhile fishing grounds in the area.” The coast line
appeared as a faint smudge on the horizon, rushed toward
them with dizzying speed. The hills focused clearly and
Steve saw excellent harbors, steep hills jutting from the
water to form deep bays and anchorages. A flash of orange
appeared suddenly, then another, and the screen seemed
to be burning up along the shore line. The film stopped.
“Take a good look, Colonel. What’s your guess?”
Steve stared at the screen. “Back it up thirty seconds,”
he told Schiller. The screen went dark, came to light again
thirty seconds earlier in the film. Steve waited until the
flashes appeared again along the horizon, “Hold it,” he
said. The screen stopped and he looked at the single frame
held on the screen.
“There’s no mistaking that,” Steve said. “Antiaircraft.”
“Right,” Schiller said. “As we can see more clearly
now,” and as he finished his words the film rolled again.
The flashes were more brilliant and glowing balls drifted
toward the camera. More flashes; Steve watched a battery
of small rockets erupt away from his point of view. The
tockets swept ahead in a spreading fan.
“ECM?” he asked.
Schiller confirmed it. “Right. Electronic countermeasure
decoys.” A moment later the shore line vanished and they
were looking at clouds. They remained for perhaps twenty
seconds, and then brilliant blue sky appeared as the cam-
era plane ripped its way for altitude. “What type?” Steve
asked Schiller. “A-5, modified Vigilante. Three engines.”
Navy reconnaissance. Steve knew the ship. The screen
went dark and the lights came on again.
“To the west of where this film was shot,” Schiller went
on, “is the river city of Nieuw Amsterdam. A bit further
west is the Surinam capitol of Paramaribo. We can still get
people into the capital, but anything east of there is sealed
off completely.” The map came onto the screen again and
arrows picked out the points mentioned by Schiller. “To
the east, just across the French Guiana border, is the
riverport town of Mana. It, too, is closed off completely.
You'll have the opportunity to go over these charts in
more detail. What you will really want to study, however,
190
are the films of one major river channel, the Maroni.”
_ Schiller paused, nodded to his associate. “Ricardo?”
French and Spanish, Steve thought. But Cuban, or
what? Just the touch of that accent. Carpentier leaned
forward, his muscular forearms on the table, his hands
toying with a pencil.
_ “We have clear evidence,” he began, speaking slowly
and carefully, “that the Russians have moved a group
of submarines into a secret new base in the area you have
just watched on this film. They are of two types, Colonel.
The first is their SSBN-Y class, which compares to the
category of the Navy’s Ethan Allen. It is every bit as
good as our latest submarines that carry sixteen Poseidon
missiles. It has somewhat more power, and it accommo-
dates sixteen Sawfly ballistic missiles with a range of per-
haps twenty-two hundred miles. The second type is their
SSN-V, or Victor, class, which is an attack submarine
without missiles. Those are used to trail our own missile
submarines, for obvious reasons.
| “Now the submarines themselves are not our concern.
The Navy is paid to worry about such things. It is the base
that has our attention, and it is the base that has brought
you here. We are almost certain this base is deep water.
To handle the number of submarines we believe to be
involved, it must include a major facility that is above
piewater line, but that is concealed completely from us.
We believe Castro elements are involved but we cannot
be sure. It does not really matter. Only the base and what
it contains are important, and our evidence adds up to a
leep underwater facility, perhaps a mountain hollowed
yut naturally or even artificially, in an area of jungle coast
ine about which we know less than we would like. It
ippears that the submarine approaches also are through
leep water. We have not been able to get close enough
ith our own submarines, or even with aircraft, to get
ent photography and soundings.” Carpentier shrugged.
‘They cover themselves very well.”
“That antiaircraft fire,” Steve said. “How do they get
way with shooting at us? I would think there would be
© repercussions from that.”
191
 “Not really,” Schiller added. “They have declared the
area a training base. They’ve posted it for international
charts. A restricted area. Testing or training or what-
have-you.”
“Including some pretty heavy AA,” Steve said.
“Very heavy,” Schiller confirmed. “Latest stuff from
Czechoslovakia. Radar controlled. As good as anything
we have. Makes it rough getting in there.”
“That Vigilante seemed to make out pretty good,” Steve
observed. Schiller nodded. “That he did. Two others
didn’t.”
“Also,” Carpentier said, “we are in the anomalous
position of technically being trespassers to prove a larger
international illegality. The Surinam government is coop-
erating fully with the Russians. They are a poor people.
The Russians, from what we understand, have made some
very large gifts to the right people. Since they do have
local cooperation they break no laws. There is the argu-
ment that the Russians are violating certain agreements
of the Organization of American States. The OAS does
not agree, and one wonders if some additional gifts have
also found their way to the right people.”
“We must prove that there has been such violation, as
well as a violation of the historic Monroe Doctrine,”
Schiller added.
“It is a dangerous situation,” Carpentier said. “You
see, they use this base for supplies and crew changes.
It lets them establish a deepwater nuclear patrol in a
southeastern perimeter to the United States. One of the
ways they cover themselves, besides the area being marked
off for training, is with an oil-exploration program. On
the surface it is sponsored by cooperative funds from
Russia. This means they have a valid reason for their
presence. An open presence. They bring in boats, floating
derricks—”
“TI didn’t see those in the films,” Steve interrupted.
“They weren’t in the shots you saw,” Schiller told him.
“They were brought in afterward. You'll see them in
high-altitude recce film.” He nodded to his partner.
“They have derricks, all sorts of surface and hydro-
192
 graphic activity going on,” Carpentier explained. “They
have also brought in a great deal of oil.”
“Brought it in?” Steve showed his surprise.
Carpentier nodded. “In the shallower waters near the
shore line and along the river they release quantities of
oil at different temperatures. The infrared patterns we
use for tracking are then made worthless. We also believe
they use iron filings, well magnetized, mixed in with the
oil. This makes our magnetic anomaly detectors work
very poorly.”
“The White House completely agrees with our evalua-
tion, as does Defense’s military intelligence,” Schiller said.
“They consider this base to be evidence of Russian du-
plicity, violating the agreement that came out of the so-
called Cuban crisis. Now we’ve got far worse on our hands.
We just can’t bull our way in there because we'd be inter-
fering with the sovereignty of Surinam and French Guiana,
and God knows what else, and we could precipitate all
sorts of crises.”
“Tt is all much worse,” said Carpentier, picking up the
theme, “because now the Russians, they have the missiles,
right, but they also have perhaps fifteen to twenty Y-class
submarines, each with sixteen missiles, and they are never
in one place long enough for us to—”
“What about the Victor-class boats?” Steve asked.
“Perhaps a dozen,” said Schiller. “Fast, maybe forty
knots submerged. They’re playing cat-and-mouse games
with our subs. They’re out in such numbers we know
they’ve got to be resupplied. The Navy covers everything
out at sea, so we know they’re not resupplying at sea.
It’s all coming out of that base.”
“And where does this leave us?” Steve asked.
“Like I said,” Schiller said, “we need objective, con-
vincing proof. Photographs. Pictures that leave no doubt,
pictures that let our people walk into the meetings of the
OAS and literally slap them down on the table. Same thing
with the United Nations. We need the kind of proof that
lets us act swiftly and decisively, that gives the White
House the edge in telling the Russians to get the hell out—
or else, and not appear arbitrary and provocative. We
193 ,
must demonstrate with this proof that our interests are
also the interests of the international community—espe-
cially as represented in this hemisphere by the OAS. That’s
a speech and I apologize.” Schiller shrugged. “What it
comes down to is we’ve got to get inside that base and
get some pictures.”
“And,” added Carpentier, “get them out again.”
“Who,” asked Steve, “is ‘them’?”
Schiller looked at him.
“You are, Colonel.”

194
 CHAPTER 17
0
GSAS SASASAAS SATASASIIASAA SASAAS
RICARDO HELPED him to polish his Spanish in case he
might be forced ashore and need to get out on foot. They
made three-dimensional models, courtesy of the cartog-
raphy people, of the coastal area for him to study. He
went to the mat, literally, with Ricardo for some karate,
took his considerable lumps, and then found what he
could do with his remarkably powerful limbs in hand-to-
hand encounters. McKay watched it all, delighted with
the tight, fine edge Steve was obviously developing. There
was more than one way to program a man.
Then came the special adaptations for the mission.
They equipped him with new knee joints that reduced
friction by nearly ninety percent and in which the heat
tise was negligible after the equivalent of some four hours
195
of steady swimming. Next was an immersion test, in which
they lowered the water temperature to what could be
expected below the surface of the ocean off the Surinam
coast. Steve wore a special insulating swimming garment
to keep his body warm in the ocean. Wire hookups, laced
in a back-and-forth pattern through the suit, drew energy
through one of the small nuclear-isotope generators. The
same reduction in friction and lowered operating tem-
perature that characterized his new knee joints were built
into his feet, so that he had better fore-and-aft ankle
movement. The bottom half of his feet now contained a
sliding compartment. Steve could release a safety catch
and a folded web of woven metal slid forward through
an opening just behind his toes. The folded web hinged
back and was locked in place, and the fins then opened
to full size so that he was “wearing” swim fins that greatly
increased his speed and maneuverability either on or be-
neath the surface of the water. If he needed to leave the
water and move across land, he had only to unhinge the
fins, snap the webs closed, bend the unit forward, and
slide it back into his foot.
The capacity of the oxygen cylinder inside Steve’s left
thigh, just above the knee of the bionics limb, was supple-
mented by a unit strapped to his body that could provide
another thirty minutes of oxygen. The installation was
repeated on his right.
He was given a camera, but in case he lost it, a minia-
ture camera was inserted in the false eye. To activate the
camera, Steve pressed against the side of his head, where
a trip switch was embedded beneath the plastiskin that
had been built around his once-shattered eye socket. This
teleased the shutter mechanism. To take a picture he
merely blinked his eye. The muscles still worked. His eye-
camera had a capacity of twenty exposures. -
If the way back from the underwater approach to the
submarine pen were blocked, he could try to swim north
or even south along the coast and they’d find him through
a homing transmitter. But they also equipped him with
weapons in case he had to fight his way overland through
196
jungle and swamp—when the transmitter might not pick
him up and he’d be entirely on his own.
His left hand, the bionics hand, was modified so that
the outer side was provided with a bottom layer of silastic,
over which went a strip of steel, extending from the wrist
down to the end of the fifth finger. Plastiskin camou-
flaged steel. The outer covering of the hand when clenched
into a fist received the same treatment. Properly braced
he could punch his way through heavy wood or light
metal. The middle finger gave him a weapon with reach
beyond his body. Fanier’s technicians disconnected and
removed the finger and replaced it with a digit built to
Schiller’s specifications. When he extended the finger
straight out and snapped a presslock, the curving cylinder
that formed the finger became rigid. Once he rigidified the
finger it became the barrel of a needle dart gun. It acti-
vated with a small CO, cartridge and a revolving chamber
that contained a swift-acting poison. The darts were de-
signed to penetrate skin, dissolve with impact, and spread
the poison into the system to take its effect within six
seconds.
Getting information back was the primary purpose of
the operation, even if they couldn’t get Steve and the
photos back. A miniature wire recorder powered with two
mercury-cell batteries was inserted into Steve's right leg.
He could tape up to ten minutes through a small micro-
phone extractable from the limb. He would have to be
back on the surface for this action. When he completed
taping his message he could twist a control on the micro-
phone to rewind the wire. Then, using the radio trans-
mitter built into his right leg, he could burst-transmit the
recorded message. It was a system that had been in use
for years aboard scientific satellites—compressing long
periods of data into a single-burst message sent out in only
minutes. In the case of Steve’s recording equipment, ten
minutes could be burst-transmitted in fifteen seconds.
There would be no great trouble picking up the trans-
mission. The network of’military communications satel-
lites meant that there would always be two or three of
those birds in position. If there were a problem in trans-
197
mission power, the Air Force would have a U-2 or an
RB-57B overhead at seventy thousand feet. One way or
another they hoped to pick up whatever Steve sent.
They had required nearly a week for the modifications,
for other equipment to be installed within his bionics
system, for the equipment to be checked out and tested.

Now Dr. Wells stood before Jackson McKay’s desk,

ignoring for the moment the gestured invitation to be
seated. To McKay’s left, Oscar Goldman stood by his own
leather chair. “Where are they now?” Wells asked.
McKay pressed a button on the left side of his desk
and the room darkened. A wall screen leaped into glowing
life with a clear map representation of the northeast coast
of South America. “This is a replica of the chart being
used at this moment in our situation room,” McKay said.
“The latest reported positions of Soviet vessels, surface
and underseas, are shown there, and,” he pointed with a
desk ruler, “there. Of course there’s a time lag in such
reports. We gather these by satellite reconnaissance and
aircraft reconnaissance. Now, over here,” he pressed an-
other button and a glowing line snaked its way across the
map, “is the intended course of our force. But they are
doing everything possible to avoid being tracked and they
are very good at their business.
“Somewhere in this area, the submarine with Austin
will ease to the surface. There will, of course, be consid-
erable distraction through the entire area. That distraction
will lead the Russians to assume, as we would, that some
infiltration attempt will be made or is under way. A two-
man torpedo sub will work its way into the defense zone,
where it will be tracked by the Russians, and the two men
aboard the sub will be killed—Im sorry; the two men
who will be ‘lost’ at sea died accidentally in the twenty-
four-hour period before the task force left port. A plane
crash, in fact. We expect the Russians will be convinced
when they find the bodies of two Americans and will not
spend time looking for Steve.”
“The truth is you’re a cold bastard, McKay. But I sup-
pose you have to be in your line of work.” Wells sighed
198
and leaned his head back against the chair. “I really don’t
mean to be this antagonistic, it’s just that Steve...”
“We understand,” McKay told him.
“Do you? Really understand? In every respect, no mat-
ter what has happened to him, what’s been done to him,
Steve-remains a man. An extraordinary man, superior,
marvelously flexible, but still very much and in many ways,
a vulnerable human being. If his skull is crushed, despite
the additional protection he now has, he will die like any
other person. If his heart is pierced, the puncture will be
just as fatal as for any other human being. If he bleeds
excessively, he will die. He can freeze, burn, drown, suffo-
cate. He feels pain, even though he can withstand more
pain, and still function, than before. He’s been in so many
ways transformed into even more of an extraordinary
individual than he was before, he’s indeed superior, but
by no means superhuman.”
Marty Schiller joined them. “We’ve received the coded
signal through the comsat net,” he said quietly. “The
Russians picked up the two bodies on the decoy sub. That
means Steve is on his way.”

199
 CHAPTER 18

GSASATASSSASASATASA
SISA TOSSA
THE EXPLOSIONS came to them as distant, muffled booms,
tolling coughs of sound from miles away. Steve Austin
stood on the small platform of the submarine deck, listen-
ing to the sighing thunder, trying to hear details above
the sound of water off metal. A light breeze came from
the west. He ignored the rumbling sounds, the explosions
brought on by the decoy maneuvering to draw attention
away from them. Ricardo Carpentier tugged at his arm.
“They're almost ready,” he told Steve. “Okay,” Steve
replied, and turned to watch the mixed Navy and OSO
crew at work,
The nuclear submarine was a modification unlisted in
any public document. A teardrop in shape, with twin
nuclear turbines, it could do fifty knots a thousand feet
201
beneath the surface. It carried eight torpedo tubes forward
and four aft. It was designed as a killer sub, but it had
been modified for special operations such as the mission
now under way. The sub rolled uncomfortably on the
surface, a strange wallowing motion that reminded every-
one she wasn’t designed for stability anywhere except
down deep. Steve ignored the motion and concentrated
on the men working just forward of his position. A large
hatchway had opened, and dim red lights showed the men
moving two dull forms through the water in the open
compartment. Steve glanced along the deck and noticed
gray shadows, men with automatic weapons at the ready.
He knew there were more at the stern. Above and behind
him a sweep radar kept watch on the sea lost in darkness.
Nothing within miles. It wouldn’t stay that way for too
long. ‘
They were fourteen miles off the Surinam coast. Far
enough to avoid immediate attention, yet the distance
would not overly complicate what he had to do. He turned
his attention back to the compartment. Several swimmers
were moving the larger forms away from the submarine,
and Steve saw that the securing lines were still in place
before activation. A voice called from the water, “They’re
teady.”
Steve turned to Ricardo. Another man held a shaded
red lamp in position for Ricardo to make a last-moment
visual check of his equipment. Ricardo went expertly over
the scuba gear, the cameras, infrared equipment. He had
performed this same inspection a hundred times before,
was still edgy about the final examination. He nodded his
head slowly and slapped his hand lightly against Steve’s
arm. “It is time,” he said. Steve reached out and squeezed
Ricardo’s shoulder. They had become friends. Ricardo
and another man helped Steve slip into the water. The
fold-snap flippers were already in place, and Steve eased
his way to the first-of the two dark shapes rolling in the
sea, still tethered to the sub.
These would be his way in and, they hoped, his ride
back to the submarine.
They were Able and Baker, two most unusual por-
202
poises. Dark-bodied, with wavy streaks of white along
heir flanks, their snouts glistening, eyes gleaming in the
bare, red light from the submarine, they were strangely
ifeless at this. moment, rolling without any attempt to
tabilize themselves. And they would remain so until Steve
ought them both to life. Able and Baker were ingenious
reations of the Naval Office of Scientific Research. At
any distance over a dozen feet it would take another por-
poise to distinguish them from the real thing. Once they
were activated they moved through the sea with precisely
the same motions as the living animals.
The naval scientists had labored for years to produce
these mechanical electronic simulations. Flexmetal con-
struction guaranteed a full articulation. They moved
ough the sea with their flukes duplicating the motions
of the animals, Their flippers were fully articulated, and
the long bodies themselves showed an outer skin that
ippled in response to internal movement. Animals kept
in huge artificial bays had been studied, and every move-
ment registered was fed into a computer until the com-
mater produced a mathematical readout of the engineering
struction necessary to prepare the artificial equivalent
of the animal. That meant artificial duplication of bio-
logical material, and it also meant developing a computer
that would fit within the artificial porpoise and that would
perform two tasks: assuring normal movement of the crea-
ture on the surface or within the sea, and, providing for
input of new command material. The onboard computer
had been developed originally for the Gemini spacecraft
program, and modified to fit the needs of the porpoise
effort. Directional control, or so-called position control,
emerged from an old missile program that had been up-
graded drastically through the years. It had begun with
the original SM-64A Navaho ramjet missile of the Air
Force when it was urgent to come up with an inertial-guid-
ance mechanism. The Navaho had to cruise at two thou-
sand miles an hour for five thousand miles, and then plunge
with accuracy into its presented target. Along came the
ballistic missile to shove the Navaho into a museum, but
mot its inertial-guidance system. That went into the bal-
203
listic-missile submarines of the Navy and into other long-
range vessels and aircraft. As components were reduced
in size, what had been the size of a large valise now went
into a container the size of a softball. It was micro-
miniaturization at its best, and with such manner of pack-
aging, the porpoises became a reality. There was one final
key—power. It came from the compact nuclear gener-
ators—dense, almost massive containers that ran for only
two weeks before burning out, in order to deliver high
power during that period. So the porpoises were born with
their constant-energy source, their marvelous articulation
and shape and movement. The outer skin did more than
duplicate the visual appearance of the animal. It bounced
along the exact wave length the reflections by radar from
the real animal. The two porpoises in the water with Steve
had functional blowholes and were programmed to emit
the same high-pitched, sonarlike cries as do the real
animals.
Steve eased his way to the first machine, code-named
Able, slipped into a body harness that packaged him neatly
within the porpoise, and placed his hands within reach of
manual override controls, He was now within a complete
miniature submarine that possessed the distinct advantage
of being almost indistinguishable from a living creature.
When moving along the surface, Steve would be able to
see some distance ahead during darkness, thanks to an
infrared scope powered by the single-point nuclear gen-
erator. If he went beneath the surface he would draw from
the oxygen supplies of the porpoise, rather than draining
his own limited supply that was packaged onto the harness
he wore. If he believed himself free of surveillance, he
could activate floodlights under the water or even use a
limited-range sonar that would provide him with an
underseas path through otherwise-invisible obstacles. Two-
way radio equipment had been fitted into the construction
framework. He had automatic transmitters to be activated
in an emergency. In the belly of the machine was an array
of smail, silent-running, torpedo-like projectiles, carrying
not explosives but a variety of devices to be used for
204
diverting attention away from him if he should be under
pursuit.
“He studied the small control panel, the instruments
glowing, feeding from the nuclear generator on standby.
He flicked the control to bring the power flow to full on,
depressed the inertial-guidance and display system. A cir-
cular glowscope brightened, and Steve studied a gridmap
with glowing reference points. The coast line showed
clearly, with indentations of rivers. A slowly pulsating
light indicated his own position, and a second light, this
one blue instead of orange, showed him the relative posi-
tion of Baker, the fully robot porpoise. The computer,
tied in with the inertial-guidance system, would always
show him precisely where he would be in relation to the
coast line and the particular bay he sought. Later, if he
were still with Able—he smiled to himself, realizing he
had already come to think of the machine as a living
creature—he would be able to pick up a bearing and
position reference of the submarine and go full speed to
be picked up.
He turned to a second control panel, much simpler than
the array for Able. This was his remote control for Baker,
which had no provision for a passenger, internally or
otherwise. Instead, the accompanying porpoise was an
arsenal of electronic and ordnance equipment. Steve could
guide Baker by working the small control stick inside
Able, but he preferred to be free of such distraction,
especially when he would be closer to the base. While
Baker was on automatic, it would remain within a general
distance of Able. Not a fixed distance at all, but a com-
puter-directed variation resembling the actions of two
porpoises at sea, moving closer and then a greater distance
away, slipping beneath the surface and then sliding along
the top with the dorsal fin exposed. Unless Steve hit the
“command” switch to take over direct control, Baker
yon maintain its fluctuating formation position with
le.
One final performance was built into the two machines.
Each was designed to “die,” when necessary, with a per-
formance that would match a real animal in its death
205
throes. If the porpoises were attacked and struck by gun-
fire to such an extent that no one expected them to sur-
vive, they—at least Baker—must “die” with fully appro-
priate movement and sounds, And as a last resort, should
there be the danger of the Russians or anyone else, for
that matter, being able to capture one of the marvelous
creatures, after a specified time interval the porpoise would
destroy itself. The nuclear generator was programmed to
overextend itself and to release its energy in a violent
spray of heat, consuming the generator and the entire
porpoise as well. Should damage be excessive, the gen-
erator would “blow” in three minutes. Not much time,
Steve thought, but just enough.
He completed his checkout of both porpoises. Time to
move out. For a while his movement would be straightfor-
ward. Get as close to the base as possible before encoun-
tering the defenses. He flicked switches to place the con-
trols on auto, punched a position two miles from the
harbor to the sub base as the destination, and felt the
fluke behind him vibrate as it moved the porpoise forward.
He had a sudden moment when this whole thing seemed
crazy, impossible. Here he was, inside this creature, mov-
ing through the sea, the same man who'd ridden a skit-
tering angular metal bug through vacuum to the surface
of a world that had never even known the first drop of
water.

A direct course would have helped. With a speed of six

knots along the surface he could have recovered the dis-
tance to the submarine base in just a little more than two
hours. But following a straight line would have been a
dead giveaway that the porpoises were phonies, and so
the computer was programmed to follow an erratic course,
much as porpoises might have done. The Surinam coast
had taken heavy rains for several days and there was a
heavy water flow from rivers and streams into the ocean.
This added to the current against which Able and Baker
fought, a side current that required constant correction
from the computer. It presented no operational difficulties,
but it messed up the time allocated just to reaching the
206
 coast, and reduced drastically the hours of darkness on
which they had planned.
There was nothing to do but ride it out. The wind
quickened and Steve found himself taking jarring bounces
from wave action. It would be an awful time to become
seasick. He activated the porpoise’s oxygen system and
that helped somewhat to offset the wave action, as well
as the peculiar pitching motion of the porpoise through
the movement of the fluke. He concentrated on the infra-
ted scope, hoping it would reveal any vessel at sea. Noth-
ing. He remained within his strange world, a modern
Jonah in the belly of a small mechanical whale, watching
the glowing pips of Able and Baker crawling across the
surface of the gridmap.
He didn’t need the map or the glowing points of light to
tell him when he was within reach of the opposition. They
announced their presence, still distant, through deep, pul-
sating waves of pressure that pounded through the sea
and trembled through the structure of Able—random ex-
plosions about which he’d been briefed. Patrol boats
moved lazily in crisscross patterns, trailing explosive
charges that boomed and thudded through the ocean.
The sounds reaching him were like those of a distant
squall line, an intermittent barrage that set off its charges
without pattern, that could catch you unawares by its
very randomness.
Strangely enough, the explosions were a lure to sharks.
It had taken a long’ time to understand the grim reality
of this truth, but the lesson had been learned during and
after the great sea battles of the Second World War. The
thundering blasts that raced through the sea, the finned
marauders seemed to learn, meant fresh meat in the ocean,
and the sharks would congregate by the hundreds in re-
‘Sponse to the booming sounds. The Russians, and what-
ever locals worked with them, added to the shark presence
by chumming the water with fresh meat and blood. It had
meant hairy moments for men trying to swim into the
base on their own, or even riding atop the two-man tor-
pedo subs. But what had: been an obstacle before could
now be turned into an advantage. If the porpoises were
} 207
sighted by their dorsal fins as these cut the water, they
would fail to attract any particular attention. If the sharks
sighted them they might consider them to be porpoises or,
failing to pick up a familiar scent, the sharks might be-
come overcurious. It could go either way, the sharks
becoming a problem, or their very presence assuring
Steve’s continued anonymity in the water.
Three thousand yards out from shore, as indicated by
the glowing pips on the gridmap, the chumming was so
extensive the sharks had long since passed any period of
feeding frenzy, when they went mad with bloodlust and
would strike after anything that moved. No need to. They
had more food than necessary, and they swam about in
lazy groups, idly curious and content to snap when they
desired at the food drifting down from the boats.
The distance to shore was just over two thousand yards
when Steve decided to go deeper. Long hours had passed
and the sun was already over the horizon behind him. By
now he could see what was going on along the surface.
Men in patrol boats, bored with the long hours of cruising
—and touchy about being tested by their superiors with
incessant mock attempts to penetrate the base during the
night hours—had taken to shooting at anything they saw
moving, Not with the intent of firing at an enemy, but for
the sheer relief of the action. The sharks ignored their
fellows struck with gunfire, but Steve could hardly afford
such indifference. The slow-moving fins of the two por-
poises were too promising a target. Time to go down.
He eased forward gently on the small control stick
jutting upward from the panel, felt the slapping action of
waves easing off. Several feet beneath the surface, he
found visibility better than hoped for, the morning light
slanting deep into the water. He had been told to expect
a deep channel through which the Russian boats moved
in and out of the sub base but to avoid, as long as possible,
any movement within or over what would obviously be
kept under careful study. The gridmap outlined the chan-
nel, and Steve maneuvered, now down to four knots, over
the ocean bottom to the north of the channel. He kept
up the wandering motion, always working closer to the
208
shore line. Several times huge sharks drifted nearby, mov-
ing casually, eyeing Able and Baker, making no unusual
moves.
_ The explosions pounded with greater force through the
water. No longer were they distant muffled thunder. Now
Be blasts came as overpressure he could feel with his own
body, jarring motions that rocked Able and blurred the
instruments in front of him. He was able to see and to
hear the patrol boats cruising the surface. Once a mess of
bloody meat drifted at an’ angle before his path, sliding
with a scraping sound along the artificial porpoise skin. A
huge white shark followed close behind, drifted to the
side and stared directly at him. Steve worked the controls
to thrash the fluke and the shark slid away.
One thousand yards. The water temperature was going
up. During a period of perhaps thirty seconds he could
feel the sudden temperature rise through his special suit.
He knew what was happening even as the view blurred.
Oil, a greasy layer oozing down from the surface, hotter
than the water.
He cursed the oil as it left a thin film across the optical
system of Able, seriously reducing his vision from the
porpoise. Nothing to do about it now except continue in
straight a line as possible, compensating for the current
ty down from the north, to his right, working to-
ward the entrance to the underground passage. Easier
said than done. The current this close to the shore, fed
by water pouring down to the sea by the rivers and
streams, rocked the porpoise. Visibility worsened as he
continued through layers of oil.

ondered if holding it in the same position so many hours

as bringing it on. That, he realized, and the energy drain.
le barely drifted over the bottom and reached into a
compartment for high-energy food bars and water. He
onsidered several pills he carried for a jolt of energy,
ided against the drugs at this time. It could be many
209
hours before he would be able to come back this way, and
getting the backlash from the amphetamines could do him
more harm than good, He ate slowly, drinking through a
tube from the storage compartment of Able. Within min-
utes he felt better and—
Something smacked against the side of Able. Steve went
rigid, tensed himself to unplug from the porpoise and go
to his own breathing system and get out. The porpoise
rocked again, and he heard a harsh scraping sound. It was
one of several cables mooring the bogus floating oil der-
ticks to the bottom. His attention had wandered. He had
drifted instead of maintaining position over the bottom.
He moved the stick forward, throwing more energy to the
fiuke. Able swerved sharply as a fin caught against the
cable. Then he was free, moving away from the cables.
Two hundred yards, perhaps less. The gridmap wasn’t
that accurate where such close range was involved. He’d
have to play it now as best he could, commit to the deeper
channel used by the subs. That had its own disadvantages.
The explosions now thundered all around him. Close
enough for the overpressures to hurt. Several blows shoved
Able hard to the side, made his ears ring. He hoped
they couldn’t keep this up all the time. The pressure waves
would work their way along the subchannel, clear through
the underground river passage right into the base. It must
have some thing to do, he realized, with the bogus attack
during the night. The Russians had already stopped twelve
men trying to infiltrate the base. Two more last night.
They’d be edgy. Maybe not, he argued with himself. They
might figure they’d mopped up pretty good. He cut short
his self-debate, concentrating on what he would do next.
Vision this close was lousy, a combination of oil and muck
carried down by the rivers,
He checked his breathing gear. A regenerative system
that created no telltale bubbles rising to the surface. He
was glad the UDT, the underwater demolition teams, had
used these for years, worked out the bugs from the system.
But you played advantage against disadvantage. You
couldn’t go that deep with the regenerative system. It
could raise hell with your lungs. He might have to get
210 : j
away from the porpoise, he realized. That need might
come with shocking suddenness. Play it by the numbers,
he told himself. While he had the time he checked out
the camera, switched to his own breathing system. No
more horsing around, he instructed himself.
His head ached from the explosions. Long hours locked
within the porpoise, breathing tank air. He worked his
way to the left, edging south, letting the current carry Able
while he went another dozen feet down. Make it more
difficult to be seen from the surface. He hoped.
The muck from the shore mixing with oil was destroy-
ing his hopes of decent visibility. He toyed with the idea
of using the sonar. It would be a considerable gamble.
The Russian defenses would be on the alert for such a
move. There was no way to disguise the signals, even the
weak pulses from Able, if he had to use the equipment.
But if things kept up this way he wouldn’t have much
choice. The optical system for Able at best left something
to be desired, and this was far from best. He shook his
head. That last explosion . . . they must have dropped a
whole sequence of charges. Not one blast, but a staccato
rumbling that slammed into the porpoise and threw him
wildly against the harness. Like someone setting off a
string of bombs. The pressure waves rolled and tumbled
as they slammed into him, allowing no surcease between
impacts. He breathed deeply, slowly. Danger here of hy-
perventilating if he started rapid breathing. Could knock
him out easily. He shook his head again to clear the ring-
ing sounds. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. The
going was getting dangerously slower and slower.
He increased the power slightly. A shaft of sunlight
speared through heavy growth before him. He could slip
beneath the billowing, swaying mass. Might be able to
use the sonar then. If the men in the patrol boats had
seen the porpoises, they might confuse the chattering,
high-pitched squeal for real animals. It would be hard to
tell the difference. His own sonar signal would be buried
within the peculiar acoustics of the mammals. A real
porpoise chattered away with an astonishing four high-
frequency impulses per second, a cacophony of bleats,
211
whistling cries, sonar clicks, quacks, and even the sound
of squawking you expected to hear only from a seagull.
He eased beneath the heavy plant growth. Barely in
time. Churning sounds grew louder. A boat overhead,
moving closer to him. He wondered about the second por-
poise, Baker. He’d forgotten for the moment that it was
closer to the surface. Too close! They were on to some-
thing. He wished he could see, but the water was oily, and
the screws from overhead were messing things up badly.
Sunlight twisted and danced from the seething water over-
head, mixing with oil and muck, and he knew he couldn’t
hack this much longer. He froze when he heard new
sounds. Unmistakable. Automatic weapons and . . . he
listened carefully. The screws’ were pounding heavier now.
A series of explosions. One blow after the other. Cannon
shells. Had to be. But what—?
A red light flashed on the control panel. Baker . . . the
second porpoise. The light told him what had happened.
The porpoise was taking hits. Its systems .were being
chewed to ribbons. Steve hit the controls for Baker, throw-
ing full power to the reactor, ordering a reversal of course.
He hoped they were still close enough for the. sonic signal
to be picked up. All that acoustic interference could
drown the signal. He’d know soon enough. If it worked,
Baker would be moving away from him, the fluke thrash-
ing the water. He heard another sound above the booming
explosions and boat screws. A shrill chattering at full
power. Baker . . . no question now that the porpoise was
finished. It was going into its preprogrammed death throes.
If the systems worked, a red chemical would be pouring
out from the porpoise as it thrashed about wildly. Steve
hoped the controls would operate long enough for Baker
to lead its pursuers away from the immediate vicinity.
He’d never have a better chance. The sea was almost
boiling with sound. His own sonar should work, being
limited to immediate range. He switched on the system,
watched the scope glow with reflections of the passageway
ahead. He moved the control stick forward, almost reck-
less now with the urge to move, to cover as much distance
as possible during the tumult overhead. The porpoise
212 j
cleaved its way through water and suddenly things went
completely dark. Inside the tunnel now. Staying as close
to the bottom as he could remain and still keep moving,
he continued away from the uproar. When the blast came
he was ready for it—the reactor in Baker, letting go as
planned, sending out a violent pressure wave. It was far
enough away not to hurt, but more than strong enough
to cover his movement. They should be milling about on
the surface, wondering what had happened. They were
pursuing an animal and the animal had exploded. If the
breaks stayed with him it would take them some time to
figure things out, even longer to start looking for another
phony porpoise, or something else.
The current began to fade. The sonar scope showed
the sides of the underground channel broadening swiftly.
He must be inside. He stayed close to the bottom, barely
moving, trying to figure out what he might expect when
he eased his way toward the surface. The sonar swept
thirty degrees to each side and he had an impression of
walls far to each side of his position. That meant there’d
be no curving passage. Just the underground channel into
a huge cave. He needed to know how far back it went.
He moved forward slowly, the thundering sounds now
muted, far behind him. The scope picked up something
new. No mistaking the shapes he saw glowing before him.
Long, symmetrical. Subs. To his right, a line of them.
The hulls of the Russian boats. Seven, then . . . at least
a dozen moored along the right side of the cave. Could
be more. Should he move beneath the subs, using them
for cover, or move to the opposite side of the cave, where
‘there might be some growth along the bottom he could
use for cover? The right decision could keep him alive.
The wrong one could put him directly into the jaws of
the defenses.
Whoever was running the defense system solved the
problem for him. He squinted with the sudden pain of a
shattering alarm signal. It pulsated through the water,
hammering brutally at him. Far ahead of him lights began
to stab through the water. Moving directly toward him.
Trapped.
213
 ‘ AR hen
WE Sas
 CHAPTER 19

GSESTASASTASASASTASASASASATASASASOSISASOSASAS
Move.
No time to think. Do it instinctively, as he had planned
it, as Carpentier and Schiller had rehearsed him for three
days and nights. When the time came to abandon the por-
poise there could be no waste motion.
His hand banged against a switch cover, snapped it
away, pushed a toggle switch full forward. In the same
motion he was out of the harness, shoving hard with both
hands, making sure not to catch the thick cylinders
Strapped to his body against the structural rails of the
porpoise. He had exactly ten seconds to free himself from
the machine, ten seconds to get away from the fluke. He
eased away carefully, kicking with his legs and swimming
hard to get to the side, Not a moment too soon as the
i 215
fluke seemed to go mad. At the count of ten seconds the
nuclear generator went to maximum power. This close to
Able, Steve heard the shrill whine of released energy as
the fluke thrashed about, almost exploding the porpoise
away from him. Steve went for the bottom, then struck
out away from the bright lights that glowed through the
water from the sub base, heading for the darker side of
the cavern, where he hoped he could find weeds or some
other growth. Behind and above him the porpoise went
through several bizarre turns, then struck out in an erratic,
weaving path. The thrashing sounds mixed with distant
explosions and the churning of screws as patrol boats
headed in the direction of the sudden turmoil in the water.
There’d be more soon, and Steve knew Able was doing its
last work in covering his presence. He heard the high-
pitched squeal stabbing the water, then hissing sounds
barely audible to his ears. These were small, gas-actuated
cylinders fanning away from Able to create their own
disturbance, emitting the same squealing noise, Anyone
listening with hydrophones or studying a sonar scope
would be confused, would judge that a school of porpoises
had penetrated the cavern and then gone berserk. The
cylinders shot through the water, hissing and squealing in
wide, random patterns. Whatever sea life present in the
area would be rushing about as well. It could be his
chance. He swam with frantic energy, using only his feet,
groping with his hands in front of him, starting up toward
the surface now, hoping he could take advantage of the
bright floodlights he was able to detect as he moved
upward. The sound of screws was louder now. More
ominous was the fact that he heard so many of them.
Something brushed his hand and he twisted violently to
the side, reaching for a knife at his belt. In the same
moment he knew he was moving within tall plant growth
from the bottom. He slid gratefully into its midst, eased
his body to the vertical and moved the flippers slowly to
work to the surface. The higher he went the more he saw
of the lights, rippling reflections of blue-white floodlights
in spattering glows. Then he was immediately beneath
the surface, the lights splashing from the oily water. He
216
—
made certain nothing moved near him. The close-fitting,
flat rubber over his head wouldn’t reflect light but there
was always the danger of the mask throwing back a
teflection. No other way to go; he had to commit.
He broke the water silently, without a splash. He tried
to accustom his eyes to the dazzling glare of lights several
hundred feet away. A new barrage of sound above the
surface came to him. Generators, engines, the sounds of
men shouting, calling to one another. Bursts of gunfire...
of course; Able, still tearing through the water, showing
itself with a glistening hump and fin, calling attention to
its presence. More firing. Automatic weapons, the flat
crackling sound of clips being emptied. Above the thun-
dering roars he heard the sharp whine of bullets ricochet-
ing from the water.
He treaded water effortlessly, making sure to keep only
the upper part of his head above the surface, turning
slowly. The lights were no longer directly in his eyes and
he could see more clearly now. The base was larger than
he’d been told. He raised his eyesight and saw rock glisten-
ing wetly overhead, reflecting the blue-white floods. Wet
rock . . . of course; condensation would be an almost
constant process here. Machinery would be throwing off
exhaust fumes, but with the mask over his face he smelled
nothing of the cavern. The roar of engines and continuing
bursts of gunfire drowned out any machinery from the
base itself. Far to his right he saw what he had come to
confirm on film. A line of dark shapes in the water, against
a gangway of some sort built along the rock walls. He
reached for the camera fastened to his waistbelt. His hand
groped beneath the water. The camera was gone, lost
somewhere when he was getting out of the porpoise. Well,
that’s why they sent along a self-contained camera, he
told himself. He scanned the surface again, studying the
position of the patrol boats. They were all about, milling,
searchlights sweeping the water and—
A fast-moving cone of light sent him under. A dazzling
glow swept immediately overhead. They were searching
everywhere. He waited several seconds, came up again
slowly, prepared to move underneath once more. But the
217
light was gone, flashing along the walls far to his left. He
reached up with his right hand, crossing across his chest,
feeling for the trip switch embedded beneath the plastiskin.
He pushed hard against the side of his head, near the
socket, feeling the switch move. He turned to the end of
the line of submarines, concentrated, blinked his eyes.
One. He repeated the movement. “Take two of every-
thing,” Goldman had advised. He moved his head to the
left, taking two more pictures. Then a view of the dock
across the cavern. Maybe too far away to have it come
out with any detail, but the photo people could worry
about that. He took two shots of the boats in the water,
dove for his life when a searchlight beam moved his way,
came up once more. The boat was turning away, close
enough for him to see the men on deck crouching down,
holding their arms before their eyes.
Crouching down . . . arms before their eyes . . . What
was—?
In that instant he became blind.
Instantly, reflex governing his actions, his hands pushed
him beneath the surface. He wanted to cry out from the
sudden agony in his right eye. He instinctively brought up
his hand, trying to hold the eye, and discovered he was
pawing ineffectively at the face mask. He drew in deep
breaths, fighting the pain. For a long moment he fought
vertigo, the waves of dizziness destroying all sense of bal-
ance. Stay still, he warned himself. Just hang on, don’t
move your head. Let it all settle down . . . Vertigo could
make him helpless here. If he were left with no sense of
up or down or right or left . . . nausea rippled his stomach
and he fought down the bile that threatened to erupt from
his throat. It wouldn’t do to throw up into the mask.
He breathed deeply, evenly, trying to think, and then he
knew what had happened. He opened his eye, saw streaks
and spatterings of red. No vision yet, but it was coming
back. Whorls and cartwheels of light as his eye struggled
to readapt.
They had one smart somebody protecting this place, a
man who knew how to put himself in the mind of some-
one who would be trying to get in, for photographs or
218
ven to bring in explosive charges. You figure the intrud-
rs are going to be good; they’ve been trying for a long
ime. Fourteen men you know of have been lost. So you
igure they’re going to come in again, and there’s every
hance they'll send in underwater demolition teams. Maybe
jou won't see them, you won’t have a chance to get to
hem before they tear up the place. Well, men must see
n order to do their job. He had his warning and had been
low in reacting. The men on the patrol boat crouching
lown, covering their eyes. Because a flare bomb was about
o go off, and whoever was looking at it when it detonated
vould be temporarily blinded.
He felt an alarm clamoring in the back of his head.
de needed to think. He could see better now, but it was
aking all his concentration. The signs were unmistakable
ut he couldn’t put the pieces together. He blinked rapidly,
ealized he was wiping out the rest of the tiny film car-
ridge. He had enough. What he had come for. But unless
1¢ put himself into high gear he’d never get out. He stared
vith his right eye. Better than he expected. Normal vision
vas almost back, and—
He went cold with the realization of what was happen-
ng, what had happened.
The explosions had stopped.
It was a dead giveaway. Think . . . figure there are UDT
nen inside the cavern. They set off the flare bomb. Maybe
wo or three or four. He couldn’t tell, of course, after that
irst eye-stabbing agony. There could have been a dozen
nore, fired in rapid succession after he went back under-
water. Then what? If they figure there are men caught
mnawares with the flare bombs, they also know they have
hem off balance. What next? They send their own men
nto the water after them. They send them after what
hey expect will be half-blinded, groping swimmers in the
water.
The weeds had saved him. Now he could see the lights
inderwater, knew the lights had swimmers behind them,
Swimmers who would be armed. Spearguns, most likely.
Knives for the close work. Looking for him.
He stayed in the growth, pushed himself lower, went
219
as far as he could get until he felt the flippers on his feet
brush against bottom. He’d have to do something. The
people looking for him had all the time in the world. He
didn’t. His clock moved with the flow of oxygen into his
lungs, and he had perhaps an hour left in the tanks. Time
was on their side. They could wait him out, He knew
they’d have detectors ready to pick up any propulsion
sound. Anything that used a screw or a hydrojet to move.
They had men swimming around so they couldn’t detect
him through instruments. They’d have to find him directly,
With the lights. Man to man.
That should have tipped the odds in his favor. Maybe
not, despite his tremendous speed. He didn’t know how
many swimmers they had in the search. They'd be keeping
a close watch where the cave narrowed down to the under-
water passage. And the boats beyond that, outside on the
surface. Waiting. A hell of a gauntlet to run. But now that
he knew what was happening, at least he could make his
move. And whatever it would be, hanging around while
he sucked away his oxygen wasn’t the answer. He hated
to do it, but he’d have to surface again. Get his bearing
and—No, he told: himself sharply. You’re against the wall.
You saw where, how it curves coming into the cavern.
He argued with himself. Stay along the wall. Work yout
way back that way. No one can get to you from one side.
You can see them coming by their lights. ...
It was the only sane way. He moved deeper into the
weeds until he touched rock. Difficult to see. The wall was
to his right. Okay. That’s an established reference. He
turned his head to the left. Lights. Many of them, moving
through the water. Men behind the lights, moving in sweep
pattern. He brought his watch closer to the faceplate. The
dial glowed. Forty-five minutes of air left. Better to risk
everything than be assured of getting creamed because he
ran out of air and had to surface.
He started moving, his legs working in a slow, powerful
beat that gave him good forward speed with the least
possible disturbance of the water around him. It was
rougher than he expected. He had to judge his distance
by the shimmering pools of light to his left. Not good
220
enough; the lights were moving, and he had no idea which
sources paralleled movement, which moved away or closer
to his own changing position. If he could see the wall to
his right, the sloping, roughly shaped rock, it would help
tremendously. But he couldn’t. Several times he thudded
into an outcropping of rock, stunning himself. Without
the wetsuit he would have torn his shoulder. As it was he
felt the material rip. A repetition of the scraping blow
would flay open the skin.
It took nearly fifteen minutes of precious oxygen to
reach the tunnel. Here he brought himself to almost a
drifting movement. He felt the current, the different tem-
perature of the water. More than that he saw the glow of
lights ahead of him. Lights within the tunnel, lights above
on the surface. To hell with those. The men underneath,
at his level, were the danger. He started forward, stopped
again. He was making a mistake and it came to him with
absolute certainty. He was watching the lights, knew there
would be men behind them. What about the others who
might be lying on the bottom, looking up, waiting to see
a form moving by them? That’s when they'll move...
The knife was in his hand. Wait. You may get in a worse
tangle. He extended the middle finger of his bionics hand
and snapped the presslock.
No more time to waste. The knife was back in his
right hand, his left arm extended slightly before him as
he maneuvered with his legs only, He went to the bottom,
moving steadily, looking not for the lights but for shadows.
He saw the first man almost at once. He was treading
water, holding his position against the outflowing current,
a speargun in his hand. Steve stayed low until he was
directly beneath the other man, and when he came up it
was with a savage thrust with his legs, his right arm ex-
tended ahead of him. The knife went in low in the belly,
and Steve kept thrusting with his legs. He thought fleet-
ingly of taking the speargun, but it was tethered to the
other man’s wrist and there was a thrashing paroxysm
going on there. Steve curled his body, went for the bottom
again, moved off to the side. As he expected, someone
221
saw the sudden movement, came in to examine what was
happening.
Steve kept moving over the bottom, trying not to attract
attention. Lights were turning his way, Always try for
surprise . . . Ricardo had told him that over and over, and
the words came back forcefully now. He had speed. Con-
siderable speed.
He threw all his strength into his legs, felt them hammer
the water behind him. In moments he was moving with
great speed. They saw the form rushing through the water.
instinctively the men before him started moving to the
side. Spearguns are for men, not whatever this was, mov-
ing at this speed. No one fired. He strained, driving as
hard as he could, watched the lights sliding by. And forgot
there might be others waiting on the bottom. Time enough
for one man to see him coming. Steve saw the burst of
compressed air, knew a spear knifed toward him. He
arched his body, saw the spear race by, much too close.
The man was right behind with a knife, moving the blade
in a wide slashing motion. Steve doubled over, his own
knife ready, ripped through an air hose. He didn’t stop
to see what was happening but kicked furiously again,
into the tunnel. They had him spotted now. Something
clamped onto his left leg. He didn’t exactly feel the grip,
knew what had happened more by the sudden dragging
effect. He kicked violently, felt something soft yielding.
The drag was gone.
A form clamped itself about his neck and a hand
gripped his right wrist. Steve couldn’t use the knife. He
felt a hand tearing at his own hoses, He brought up his
left hand. Something created pressure, then yielded slightly.
He knew he was against skin. The bionics thumb pressed
hard against the bottom of the extended middle finger.
Compressed air rammed a frangible dart through the
finger, directly into the skin. It took longer than he ex-
pected as he fought to free himself. The poison took
effect with explosive reaction. Something thrashed wildly
behind him, fell away.
Too late. Another form loomed in front of him, a knife
sweeping unerringly toward his hoses, He sucked in air,
222 > .
ield his breath, knew he’d lost his tanks. He didn’t fight
t. He hit the snap release on his chest, slipped away from
he harness.
He pushed the tanks away. Oxygen bubbled in a hissing
stream as the tanks wobbled through the water. Steve
jrove as hard as he could, straight ahead, where he could
see light now. He swam fifty or sixty feet, went for the
90ttom, his lungs straining.
That’s it . . . they know you've lost the tanks. They’ve
zot you. They’re convinced of it. You’ve got to come to
he surface. They'll be waiting for you. He looked behind
lim. Sure enough, the lights were all ascending. This was
lis chance. They knew he couldn’t go far. He’d have to
surface to breathe. He moved by feel. The plug in his
eft thigh; there. He pressed in, felt the plug yield, pushed
t aside. He knew he was running out of air. . . . His head
sounded, but he had the mouthgrip out. He extended the
jexhose, jammed the mouthpiece between his teeth,
slamped hard, sucked in air. He felt his head clearing.
Move.
He measured his strength, a fast, driving motion but
with a sure rhythm to it. They were searching behind him
or the man who'd lost his air tanks and must come to the
surface. He could see now as he approached the open
nouth of the tunnel. The current was stronger, helping
1im. Screws pounded overhead; they must have radioed
o the boats for help in the search. But the boats were
yver him and they were moving behind him. Arms folded
yack along his sides, he rushed straight ahead, his legs
lailing like pistons, moving him with steady speed through
he water. He was much lighter now without the tanks and
vith less drag. He put more energy into his swimming.
dis only chance was open water. If he had to, he could
est there for a moment. Certainly not here where he could
ye trapped. He was out now, the shore line fading away
0 each side, He went deeper, his ears hurting. No other
vay. He drove his legs, pistoning.
He decided against an erratic course. He couldn’t chance
t, but he also couldn’t move continuously in a straight
ine. He swam steadily, straining, hoping he was moving
223
in a curving line away from the entrance to the tunnel.
He suddenly realized something was different. No explo-
sions, That couldn’t last long. When they didn’t find a
swimmer back in the tunnel, or a dead body .. . any
minute now.
Shadows rippling before him. Again the mooring cables
from one of the decoy oil rigs. Decoy. It wouldn’t be
occupied. He made for the cable, followed it to the sur-
face, got beneath the rig over him. He had to take the
chance no one would be looking here. He felt dizzy,
realized at the same moment he was exhausting himself.
He was running out of air. Had he really been on the
cylinder from his left thigh for nearly thirty minutes?
It had to be. Then this must be one of the rigs more
distant from the shore.
He came up slowly, lost in the shadows. He spit out
the mouthpiece, sucked in long draughts of air. He clung
to the cable to conserve his strength, to regain his wind.
He studied the sea about him. Patrol boats were moving
out from the shore under full throttle, already starting to
fan outward in a wide search pattern. A storm had moved
in during the late night hours and he saw heavy rain-
showers in the distance. That might be to his advantage,
He turned slowly to scan the distant surface. Even better.
Dark buildups against a gray sky; if the cumulus got heavy
enough...
He reached into the waistbelt, withdrew a sealed pack-
age. High-energy rations. He needed them now. He couldn’t
get caught by those boats. There was another danger, he
realized. It was daylight now. Rain or not, they might
bring helicopters into use.
Something else he needed to do. He could almost feel
his body drawing energy from the rations. He reached
down to his right leg, slid open a panel in the calf and
withdrew a cylindrical container. He held in his hand a
marvel of microminiaturization; in the one package w:
the wire recorder, antenna, buoy, and radio transmitter.
He separated the components, glancing every few m
ments at the boats moving away from the shore line. None
made any particular move in his direction, Not yet, any-
224
vay. He switched on the recorder, spoke clearly and
lowly into the microphone. He pulled the wire connection
tee, let the microphone sink below him, then twisted
he top of the recorder. He pressed a red button, and
1 small CO, bottle inflated a plastic buoy. An antenna
reeled and he released the unit. It floated away from
lim. In sixty seconds his message would be burst-trans-
nitted. He hoped one of the high-flying planes or a com-
nunications satellite would pick up his message about his
ondition, which would be repeated every five minutes,
fhe battery would last two hours, after which a small
harge of acid would eat through its container and punc-
ure the buoy, allowing the unit to sink from sight forever.
His strength had returned to him with the rest and the
ations, Well, he’d done his best. Time to execute for
imself and get the hell out of there.
Something else. The homing transmitter. The sub would
ye waiting to pick him up but they had to know he was
ree of the base and in open water. Of course, when the
ane or a comsat, or both, picked up the automatic
ransmissions from the floating buoy, they’d know he had
nade it in, and back out. But they had to get a better fix
m him to do something about it. He knew the sub would
patrolling on a bearing of zero seven zero degrees
rom the underwater tunnel, But could he maintain that
ind of course? Impossible if he had to elude pursuers.
ind if he had the chance to get into the heavy rainshow-
rs now moving through the area, well, to hell with the
earing. He had greater safety in concealment than simply
lugging away in a straight line. His best chance was to
tart out and keep going. If the buoy kept the transmitter
oing long enough he knew the sub would be looking for
im. And if his friends in the patrol boats got too close,
yell, they'd be perfect sonar and radar homing targets
or the sub.
He slipped away from the cables, trying to keep the
ummy oil rig between himself and the boats. Almost at
1¢ same moment he heard the explosions beginning again.
hey were taking no chances, The impossible could have
appened and the man they sought had made it safely
225
from the underground passageway. Or maybe there was
more than one man. Better, from their viewpoint, to waste
a few explosive charges.
He could make good time on the surface. He began
swimming with a powerful, steady stroke. He still hac
that second oxygen cylinder in his right thigh, but he hatec
the thought of having to use it. Far ahead of him, maybe
a mile or two, a cloud was dumping a wall of rain into th
ocean. That was for him, he decided, accepting the risk
of detection. He knew the sharks were still about but they
hadn’t been aggressive before and he counted on then
still ignoring his presence.
The sharks ignored him, but not the Russians. Gunfir
mixed with the booming explosions as they fired at any
thing that moved. Swimming steadily, he turned to scat
the sea behind him and saw two boats, their prows ou
of the water, their wakes foaming behind, making hig]
speed in his direction. At this distance they couldn’t tel
who or what he was, but they were angry and frustrate
and they weren’t taking any chances.
He felt the first light touch of rain, the windblown edgi
of the heavy rainshower ahead of him. Lightning flashes
between the ocean and the cloud. It could mean a thun
dering downpour within which he could disappear fron
sight. Jf he could make it. He put everything into hi
swimming, cutting the water like one of the sharks in thi
area, The rain was getting heavier and his hopes begat
to rise. He struck out even harder than before, and—
The horizon twisted crazily, and he knew he was tum
bling through the air even before he heard the shatterinj
crack of the exploding shell. He slopped crazily back int
the water, hidden from sight for the moment by the spr:
all around him. He gasped for air, swimming wildly at
sharp angle from the line he’d been following. Suckin
in air, he kicked his way beneath the surface, then turne
sharply again, his legs pistoning him ahead with grea
speed. He knew they'd figure on his changing his directiof
but they couldn’t expect his speed, and that could gi
him an advantage. Each second counted now. Visibi
was lowering steadily as he neared the rainshower.
226
tayed just under the surface, hammering ahead. He had
o come up, his lungs threatening to burst. He gulped in
‘ir, then dove as explosions rattled the air and a line of
eysers moved rapidly in his direction. They were throw-
ng it all at him. Again he changed direction, and finally
tarted using his head.
The oxygen line. For God’s sake, get on the oxygen
ind stay under, stay deep. They won’t expect that. He
rifted, doubled over, fighting to get the plug from his
ight thigh, to get the mouthpiece gripped between his
eeth. There; done. But he’d lost his bearings. The boats
younded the water with their screws; he was confused.
de saw the shore line through heavy rain, turned and
tarted down again. A sledgehammer smashed into him,
jurst the mouthpiece from his teeth. He grasped for it,
amped it again in his mouth. If he could get ten or fifteen
ood minutes of swimming he thought he could get away
rom them. He felt pressure waves pulsing through the
ea, They were probably tossing hand grenades from the
oats. Bad enough, but they had to be closer to knock
im out for good. He stayed as deep as he could, the
ressure driving icepicks into his ears.
The minutes dragged by as he pumped his legs with
he steady piston movement. The boats were farther be-
ind now, circling, covering the area where they figured
man could swim underwater. No one could gxpect what
vas happening and he knew he was outdistancing them as
hey milled about. But he couldn’t keep this up forever.
Nhere was the sub?
He eased toward the surface and was surprised to find
imself moving in a curving line. Something was wrong.
. . He felt a strange tingling in his right leg. In his leg.
Te slowed just below the surface. Enough light to see.
Yo wonder his course had become erratic.
His leg was mangled, plastiskin hanging in shreds, the
alloys within showing a naked metal skeleton of a
2. That last explosion . . . something had torn into the
g. He didn’t need the plastiskin to protect his wiring
stem, it was thoroughly sealed. But a piece of metal
flayed wires open and the sea water was now playing
227
hell. The leg was twisted, bent at a crazy angle, useless
to him. He turned again, grateful for the rain, using his
left leg as a fluke to keep him moving. He went to the
surface. Not enough air left in the cylinder to matter, He’d
have to keep going, pace himself, swim this way for hours
if necessary, hope the sub would find him.
Then the sky exploded. A shattering roar overhead,
coming from the open sea...

They had picked up the explosions. Sonar pinpointed

the blasts that nearly finished Steve. A KC-135 tanker
was orbiting above the clouds at twenty thousand feet,
two F-4C fighters in formation, picking up fuel from the
tanker to stay on station. The sub moved toward Steve
but its commander felt he might not get there in time. He
played another card, spoke directly with the pilot in the
lead fighter. “Red Fox from Gray One, you read?”
“Go ahead, Gray One.”
“Are you homing our position, Red Fox?”
“Roger that, Gray One. We’re locked on.”
“We'd like you people to come around to the east of
us, home on us, and make a low pass on a heading of
two nine zero. We’d like that as low as you can handle
it in the soup. Over.”
“Roger, Gray One. We can take it down by radar to
about three hundred feet. Do you wish immediate execu-
tion?”
“Affirmative, Red Fox. Execute immediately. And we'd
like all the noise you people can put out with these things.”
“Okay, Navy. Hang on to your hats. We'll be coming
through in the Mach. Starting down now.”
The two fighters plunged toward the sea, pulling out
by radar altimeters, dropping to just below three hundred
feet over the water. As they came out of their dives the
pilots went into full afterburner, sending a howling ro:
of thunder downward, accelerating the fighters past super
sonic speed. Double shock waves ripped across the patr
boats with all the sound and fury of bombs going off
nearby. It was at least enough to stop the pursuit.
Steve found himself nearly hysterical as the shock wav
228
sounded over him. Still, he managed to recognize the
wept-wing shapes overhead, realize what was happening.
Relief also shuddered through his body and he moved
wly through the water, waiting. Not for long. The sen-
itive sonar had him dead center, and the sub was easing
ff its speed before he even saw the hull looming through
he heavy rain,
Ricardo was in the rubber raft that reached him mo-
nents later to drag him from the water.
The crew pulled in the line swiftly, bringing the raft to
he side of the hull. Steve looked up to see a white-faced
ailor staring at the twisted, mangled leg. He exchanged
lances with Ricardo as the sailor, instinctively, crossed
uimself at the sight.

229
 CHAPTER 20

“Tr’s EVERYTHING we wanted. That, and more,” Gold-

an was saying to McKay about the four glossy photo-
aphs spread on McKay’s desk. “The radio transmission
as picked up by the plane we had orbiting the area, and
en, we've got Austin’s own report.” He shook his head
admiration. “He’s got an incredible memory for detail,
ckson.”
McKay studied the photographs, nodding slowly. No
estion but that Austin had carried out his tough assign-
ent, had provided the hard evidence needed to make
e OAS take action and force the Russians to back down
id get out. Fine, mission accomplished, but it was only
e prelude. Now that Steve had proved himself in a pre-
231
liminary, he was ready for a main event. And the time
was now.
“Oscar,” McKay said. “How long to repair the leg?”
“Tt’s up to Killian and the others.”
“Two weeks?”
“You're pushing pretty hard, aren’t you? What’s the
big sweat?”
McKay swung his chair about, pulled a drawer from
the desk, and rested his feet. “Afsir,” he said.
“Afsir?” Goldman repeated. The desert. North Af-
Tica...
“It’s heated up,” McKay told him.
“That hot? I mean, to use Austin so soon?”
“They need him yesterday,” McKay said.

Jean Manners couldn’t wait. She threw her arms around

his neck and hugged him tightly, tears on her cheeks, “I
really didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, kissing
him. He tried to move, clumsy on the crutch, until she
drew back and studied him at arm’s length, smiling. “I
understand you’ve had enough swimming for a while.”
“Enough,” he agreed with a laugh. “Got my old stall
ready for me?”
“Ready.” She turned to walk by his side, “I’d like just
to sit with you for a while, Steve. You know, catch up
on things.” She glanced at him. “Maybe even hold hands
for a while.”
He smiled at her. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
“Got a fresh pot of coffee up.”
“Great.”
She studied his walk. “You're all tensed up, Steve,”
she said. “The crutch. You're pulling muscles. You're
going to be all knotted up soon,”
He nodded. “Can’t help it. I’m forbidden to use a
wheelchair.”
“Who would—?”
“Private joke.”
“JT might even be talked into giving a certain party an
expert rubdown.”
“Look, Jean. I—”
232
 “Shut up, Steve. Please. Just for once shut up and let
someone do something for you and enjoy it. I promise I
won't attack you.” A promise, she thought, but hardly
a preference.

More than twenty-five men scattered throughout the

Fort Carson obstacle course couldn’t stop Steve Austin.
They were tough veteran combat troopers. His leg had
been repaired in a matter of days, and it seemed he was
even faster and stronger now than before.
Watching him, Marty Schiller thought of a place known
as Afsir. “He’s ready,” Schiller said to Carpentier.
Carpentier looked at him. “ I hope so,” he said, finally.
“Surinam was a piece of cake compared to Afsir.”

Dr. Killian looked up from the long charts he had been

studying for the past several hours. He had gone over
every line, every bend and squiggle and mark with pains-
taking care. He had compared the recorder charts with
instrument readouts, with biomedical records. His staff
had been on the grill through every moment. Earlier in
the day he had put the records back on the long table,
walked from the room straight to where Steve was under-
going electrical flow tests. Killian hadn’t said a word, had
exchanged no more than a brief nod with Steve. He
watched the tests, suddenly straightened, nodded again
to Austin and returned to the charts. Then, finally, Killian
pushed away the papers.
“Get me Goldman,” he said to Art Fanier. The OSO
man was there in ten minutes, and Killian, who despite
his aversion to all security people had grown rather fond
of the sophisticated agent, greeted him with surprising
warmth.
“Goldman, good to see you.” When Goldman received
this with a startled glance, Killian smiled and gestured at
the papers to his side. “It’s all there,” Killian said. “You're
prepared to send him out as soon as possible.” It was
more a statement than a question.
“The moment you tell us he’s ready,” said the OSO
man, “we'd like him in the home office.”
233
 “For how long?”
“Two weeks, maybe less. It depends, Decor on whether
we can complete his briefings and special training here
or... where he’s going.”
“Which is where?”
“T’m not free to say, Dr. Killian.”
“Nonsense. You are planning to send him to North
Africa,” Killian said, “Something about desert work. That
much is obvious. You are also planning to have him fly
again. Relax, Goldman. I’m hardly about to sell your
precious secrets, But I want you to get something clear
in your mind. We are cooperating with your office. So if
you let us know where he’s going, it’s likely we can better
prepare him for what you have in mind for him. Now, do
you have a list of the modifications this assignment will
require?”
Goldman tapped his pocket. “I have it with me, Dr.
Killian.”
“And the equipment?”
“Tt’s here.”
“Very good, You’re getting more efficient, I see. Now,
how much time do we have?”
“We'd like to do it in three days, sir.”
“Let me see the list.” Goldman handed it to the doctor,
who scanned it quickly. “Is all this really necessary?”
“Tt is, Dr. Killian,” Goldman said. “It’s a rough job.
And we'd like to have him back.”

She wore tight-fitting khaki shorts and halter. Her deep-

brown legs carried her with a lithe movement that cap-
tured his eye. Her deep hue was a result of exposure to a
burning sun. He stood absolutely still, watching her leave
the room, and despite her back to him he couldn’t shake
the angular beauty of her face, the high cheekbones and
startling red lips, the short, raven hair. She was incredibly
alive. Energy seemed to coil within her like an electrical
charge building for explosive release.
Marty Schiller had brought her into the room. Steve
was finishing his familiarization tests with automatic weap-
ms, firing a stubby submachine gun with a forty-round
234
clip. He held the weapon in a firm but free grip, holding
down the trigger and rotating the barrel slightly for a
spreading field of fire. The chattering roar of the gun was
deafening in the enclosed space, and for several moments
he couldn’t make out Schiller’s words, Finally he turned
from Schiller to the girl standing perhaps twenty feet away.
Marty Schiller motioned her forward. “This is Tamara
Zigon,” he said. “Tamara, Colonel Steve Austin.” She
extended her hand and he took it gently, startled by the
cool touch of her skin,
“Tt is my pleasure, Colonel,” she told him, a slight but
definite accent catching his attention. She glanced at the
targets at the other end of the firing room, “May I make
a suggestion, Colonel?” Her teeth showed brilliant white
against her deeply tanned features. He nodded, not know-
ing what she meant. She walked past him, picked up the
submachine gun, turned to the range officer. “A full clip,
please.” That man glanced at Schiller, who nodded. She
slapped the clip into place, threw a round into the cham-
ber, kept the barrel pointing at the targets as she turned
to Steve. “This particular weapon, Colonel, is a Czecho-
slovakian improvement on a piece developed for partisan
work. Originally it was Russian. You will find it fires
better, there is an angular motion to the recoil, if you hold
it with the clip horizontal to the ground, like this, rather
than the way you held it.” She turned sharply, dropped
to one knee, and fired off the clip in short, stuttering
bursts. Three targets were cut almost in two. She cleared
the gun, handed it to the range officer. “I will see you
later,” she said, and walked from the firing room,
Steve stared until she was gone, then turned to Schiller.
“Who the hell,” he said firmly, “is that?”
“Tamara?” Schiller looked at him closely. “She’s your
partner,” he said.
“My what?”
“On your new assignment. You and Tamara. Starting
the day after tomorrow.”
“But she’s—”
_ “A girl. I know,” Schiller said. “She is also a captain in
235
the Israeli army, and one of their best secret agents.” He
clapped Steve on the shoulder, “C’mon, we need a final
session with Fanier. I'll tell you all about her on the plane
tomorrow.”

236
 CHAPTER 21
ESGSASASASAIASASTASA
SATASAA SSSAIS
He EYED the ugly beast carefully, and the big, humped
animal swung its long neck about, a matted stovepipe
with a lumpy head and snickering, drooling lips on the
end. The stovepipe extended suddenly and big yellow
teeth clicked barely an inch from his arm as Steve leaped
nimbly out of the way. He glared at the camel as it
shivered its matted hide to shake off a horde of buzzing
insects. “Tamara, I’m warning you,” he said to the girl
standing at his side, convulsed with laughter, “if this
monster tries that again, I’ll—” He let the threat hang
as he and the camel exchanged malevolent stares.
“What will you do? You cannot even ride him. Here
is a man who has been to the moon and he cannot even
237
ride a camel! Any little Arab boy can do what you
cannot!”
“Til ride him, just as soon as I figure how to climb
up—”
“Use the saddle, my hero.” She moved to the side.
“You call that thing,” he said with a gesture of con-
tempt, “a saddle? That’s a piece of wood with some wool
over it, for God's sake. And what about the stirrups?
Where—?”
“That’s a Tuareg saddle. Didn’t they ever teach you
anything useful? And a real saddle for a camel doesn’t
have stirrups.”
“Why not?”
“I told you before. You use your toes to ride a camel.
Get rid of your sandals,” she ordered. He glared at her,
did as she told him. “Now, surely you can remember what
else to do.”
He turned back tothe grotesque thing, determined to
show the camel who was boss. She’d told him, all right.
He’d watched the others do it and now he’d show this
splay-footed’ nightmare—Tamara ran past him, brought
the camel to the ground with its legs crossed crazily be-
neath the body. The animal lifted its head with mild
curiosity. “Come on, now,” Tamara urged him.
Steve grabbed the reins from her. He put his left foot
on the left knee of the camel and quickly swung his right
leg across the back of the saddle. Tamara stepped back as
Steve wriggled his body to seat himself more comfortably,
an impossible goal with the Tuareg saddle. He pulled on
the reins. “All right, you miserable dromedary, let’s go,”
he growled. And forgot, of course, that the riding camel
doesn’t follow the habits of other animals in climbing to
its feet. The camel stays on its knees and heaves its rear
end up first. Steve’s butt slammed into the seat and his
body pitched forward. He clung to the cross at the front
of the saddle, trying for balance and then felt himself
moving backward as the front end of the camel lurched
upward. Swaying wildly, Steve tried to find a place to
secure his feet, now flapping out from each side of the
animal. He remembered what Tamara had shown him and
238
swung his left foot upward to the camel’s neck. The trick
was to secure the skin of the neck between the big and
the second toe, clamp the toes tightly, and use the hold for
balancing on the neck ridge. He congratulated himself on
his success, and then wondered what the hell to do with
the other foot. He had no time to find out. He moved
his foot along the neck for better leverage, but to a camel
this means “move out,” and the beast lurched forward.
Ten feet above the ground, Steve found the horizon sway-
ing and bucking. He clamped harder with his toes, and
discovered immediately that the digits of a bionics foot
require careful control, His toes came together with the
clamping bite of a pair of pliers, the camel let out a scream
of outrage and took off with a wild lunge. Steve went up
in the air and came down again as the saddle lifted to meet
him with breath-shaking impact. The camel turned in a
circle, its head twisting as it tried to bite Steve, who was
already in midair, connected to the camel only by the
pincers of his toes. The beast jerked to a halt and fell
to its knees. Steve flew over the saddle to hit the ground
with a crash. The camel stood again on all fours and eyed
him disdainfully.
Steve walked away, looking neither left nor right.
He slammed the door shut, stripped off his clothes, and
moved quickly into the shower.
“Give me the soap and turn around. I will do your
back for you.” She stood just behind him. He had no need
to turn around to know she was naked in the shower with
him, Without a word he handed her the soap, felt her take
it, then her hands scrubbing his back, working at his
broad shoulders.
He stood quietly as she worked her strong fingers into
his muscles. When she was through she held out the soap
to him, still standing behind him. “Leave the water run-
ning,” she said. “I will shower as soon as you are out.”
He didn’t reply, but moved under the spray, turning
it to the highest temperature he could endure, Finally he
had enough, moved from the shower stall to pick up his
towel. “It’s all yours,” he called to her. She moved past
239
him into the shower and he heard a gasp as the hot water
hit her body. “Tell me next time when you intend to
scald me.” He didn’t answer as he went into the bedroom,
drying himself vigorously. He sat on the edge of the bed,
not bothering to dress, taking the moment to think. He
felt the heat stirring, and angrily drew on his shorts and
trousers.
He had never known a woman remotely like Tamara,
and he’d never known a week like the days that had just
passed. She had him wildly off balance and he didn’t know
how to cope with her or this, to say the least, remarkable
situation: sharing a house, a small bungalow, really, on
the edge of a secret airfield in the midst of desert hills.
This living together, sleeping in beds close to one another,
Tamara casually naked but never flaunting or provoking
him.
They had flown from Colorado to the complex of OSO
buildings, the group assembling for his briefings and train-
ing. This time Jackson McKay and Oscar Goldman got
down to cases immediately. They considered Steve Austin
a full member of the OSO team, eliminating his previous
special and, to him, irritating status. At OSO he would
work, as before, with Marty Schiller and Ricardo Car-
pentier. There were also some new faces.
Tamara Zigon, for one. And a short man with a tre-
mendous, barrel chest, muscled from head to toe, head
set directly atop his shoulders with no discernible neck in
between. Walid Howrani was a Jew from Turkey who had
vowed to return to his native land only behind a gun.
No one explained to Steve the reason for the fierce hatred,
nor did he ask, His interest in Howrani was appropriately
restricted to the role he would play in Steve’s new assign-
ment. Howrani had spent much time in the Arab countries
as a trader. He knew the languages and the customs and
above all he had an uncanny memory for the land, its
terrain, and characteristic landmarks, Especially the land
between the Nile River and the Red Sea, between Oena
on the Nile and the port town of Quseir to the east on
the shorts of the Red Sea. Howrani had personally trav-
240
eled this area several times, and his knowledge would be
combined with aerial reconnaissance photography.
There was also Major Mietek Chuen, a startling con-
trast to the thick mass of Howrani. Sandy-haired, with
deep blue eyes and a slim and neatly muscled body,
Mietek Chuen turned out to be much more than just
another fellow pilot. In the war of six days in 1967,
Chuen had led the first wave of French-built Mirage
fighters into Egypt. Before the fourth day ended, with the
Arab air forces battered, Mietek Chuen had personally
shot twelve MiG-21 fighters out of the air. He was Israel’s
leading jet ace, and he had added another six kills since
then in the brief disputes over the Suez Canal area.
Jackson McKay assembled them for the first full brief-
ing. Steve noted that McKay would direct the briefings; a
measure of the importance OSO placed on this operation.
“You'll get to know the face of Afsir as well as your
own.” McKay stood before a large wall map of the eastern
half of Egypt. He turned and ran a pointer along the map
to follow a curving dotted line. “Afsir is a bastard off-
spring of political convenience,” he continued. “It’s really
not a country at all. Actually it’s a territory the Egyptians
carved out of their own land and arbitrarily declared a
political entity to be regarded as an independent sovereign
state within the muddled customs and conventions of inter-
national law. The Russians and their allies, including, of
course, Egypt, immediately gave it recognition—although
their diplomatic representation was on the minor consular
level. Militarily, it was something else. Afsir, as it’s called,
begins here,” the pointer touched at the Egyptian coast
line of the Red Sea, just to the north of the port town of
Hurghada. “They picked a good point,” McKay acknowl-
edged. “As you can see, just to the west of Hurghada is
the peak Gebel Shayib Al Banat, with a height of over
seven thousand feet. They’ve got radar plastered all over
the sides of that mountain, as well as along the peaks
Tunning down to the shore of the Red Sea.” The pointer
moved south until it stopped at twenty-five degrees north
and thirty-five degrees east. “You'll notice the so-called
boundary of Afsir is directly south of Elath, the Israeli
241
port on the north end of the Gulf of Aqaba. Now, the
interior border runs slightly west northwest from here’”—
the pointer traced the dotted line as McKay continued—
“until we reach Isna on the Nile River. It follows the Nile
northward to Qena, then works its way roughly northeast
until we're back at a point just north of Hurghada.”
McKay dropped the pointer on his desk and resumed his
seat.
“Except for the area bordering the Nile, it’s rough
country, mostly mountains, arid and relatively hostile to
life. But it’s perfect for what the Russians and the Egyp-
tians have wanted for a long time.” McKay paused, then
went on. “It amounts to a kept state, an outlaw country,
where the Russians can, by invitation, move in their latest
weapons for checkout and training without being exposed
to the threat from the Israelis farther to the north, as well
as the international community favorable to the United
States, over directly provocative military operations in a
tinder box such as Egypt. It’s a thin deception, and fools
hardly anybody, really, but it’s a sop to world opinion—
which the Russians do care about more and more these
days. The so-called government of Afsir is serving them
in much the same way Franco served the Nazis in 1939,
when they used a whole country to test weapons and
tactics before World War Two. Same idea, updated, is all.
There’s also been heat from elements of the Egyptian
government who feel the Russians are crowding them,
treating them like a kept state. They don’t mind the
Soviets pouring in billions of dollars worth of ordnance,
but they’re annoyed when the Russians insist on operat-
ing the equipment the Egyptians only manage to foul up.”
“Typical of them,” muttered Howrani, who held Egyp-
tians in disdain.
McKay ignored the comment. “The point is the Rus-
sians have been given their own little enclave from which
to operate. They figured, of course, that by establishing
the sovereignty of Afsir it would keep the Israelis out,
while they could test their latest equipment from a modern
airstrip they put up in the valley—here.” McKay turned
and tapped the map with his finger. “That’s almost due
242
west of Quseir. High hills. Treacherous country, but it’s
got a twelve-thousand-foot strip. Which is infested, I
should add, with antiaircraft, missile, and extensive ground
fortifications. The guards are Arab, by the way. Sadat
wouldn’t give everything away.”
McKay toyed with a-letter opener. “The single most
important reason for the airstrip in Afsir and Afsir’s make-
shift international status is for the Russians to test their
new MiG-27 fighter. Are you familiar with it?”
Steve shook his head slowly. “No, I know about the
MiG-23, their Mach Three hardware. But I never heard
of the ’27.”
“Not surprising, it’s still that new. As you well know,
the Russians tried out their MiG-21 against us in Vietnam.
On paper its performance is considerably better than the
F-105 and slightly superior to the F-4, but they consist-
ently come out second best in combat. No need for me to
detail what you already know from your own experience.
But just for the record, the Israelis, led by men such as
Major Chuen, here, also managed to do in the MiG-21
fighters while flying the Mirage.”
Steve looked at Chuen and nodded. “I know. They
taught all of us something.” The major made no comment,
“Tsrael’s pilots in the F-4,” McKay continued, “have
also managed to clobber the MiG-21 in almost every
battle that’s taken place, The Russian fighter is faster, has
some other advantages, but the combination of excellent
pilots and air discipline—again, I know I’m saying what
you know, but I need to set the stage for this carefully—
has kept the Israelis on top. Until now, that is,” he added.
“To get right to the point, Colonel Austin,” Major
Chuen said in a clipped, almost British accent, “the
MiG-27 has wiped out our advantage. And to be blunt
about the matter, we are very worried about the situation.
We have managed to destroy no more than one of the
new Russian machines. One of our pilots fired his entire
complement of missiles—four Sidewinders, to be exact.
One of them managed to contact the MiG, and the air-
plane exploded. Unfortunately it went down over the Red
Sea and we have not had the opportunity to recover the
243
wreckage. That way, we had hoped we might learn some-
thing about the machine.”
“But what’s it got?” Steve asked. “No matter what
they’ve come up with, Major, it doesn’t add up to sixteen
for one.”
“Nevertheless, we have been unable to destroy more
than one MiG-27 while losing sixteen of the F-4 fighters.”
“What's the speed?”
Chuen startled him with the answer. “The Russian air-
plane can do better than Mach Two—” he hesitated, then
went on, “—at sea level. At altitude our radar has tracked
it at better than Mach Three Point Four.”
“That’s over twenty-four hundred miles an hour,” Steve
murmured.
“Precisely.” Chuen looked grim. “We cannot touch the
airplane in speed. Or climb, for that matter. Its speed is
great enough, especially its acceleration, to render our
missile attacks almost worthless.” Chuen moved his shoul-
der in a shrug. “Of course, we have tried to get in close
where we might use the cannon of the F-4. But every
time we try, well, the acceleration. The MiG leaves us
flat.”
“From what the Israelis have told us, the MiG-27 is
far ahead of our new F-15 fighter, and that ship won’t go
into operational service for another two or three years,”
McKay broke in. “Hell of a note; we’re building what we
hope is the best air superiority fighter in the world and it
will be obsolete before it rolls off the production line.”
“There’s another problem,” Chuen added. “The Rus-
sians have not flown this new machine over any territory
we control. Not even over the Sinai Peninsula. They are
staying strictly over the area bordering the Red Sea. They
seem eager to test the airplane, but are taking every pre-
caution that we do not get our hands on one.”
“The Pentagon thinks it has some of the answers,”
McKay said. “Obviously they've got a remarkable engine
in that thing. They may also be using something new in
the way of fuel. We don’t know. Major Chuen, and some
of the Israeli intelligence people, believe they’ve equipped
their new fighter with advanced electronics gear. Some-
244
how they seem to have known each time the Israeli fighters
have been behind them.”
“That’s hardly new,” Steve said quickly. “We were
using tail-warning radar back in World War Two.”
“That’s not the real point,” McKay argued, “Whatever
the Russians have, it not only provides adequate warning
for their-fighter to accelerate out of harm’s way, it’s also
screwing up the ability of the air-launched missiles to
track and home onto their targets.”
Major Chuen nodded his agreement.
“The Pentagon is in a panic,” McKay said. “Not just
because of what this airplane can do but because of what
it represents. If they've really made that much of an
advance in power, or fuel, the electronics systems, or
whatever, it means the Air Force can’t be assured of air
superiority in limited-action situations in the future. It
also means they might adapt this whole new package to
a low-level supersonic bomber that could change, over-
night, the concept of the Russians coming in against the
United States with manned aircraft. As you know, some
people feel our fighter defenses leave a lot to be desired.
“We've been working with Israeli intelligence and we've
come up with a plan, A combined operations. It revolves
around two people.”
Steve knew the answer.
“You, Steve—and Miss Zigon.”
Steve glanced at Tamara. Her face stayed impassive.
He turned back to McKay. “All right,” he said, “let’s
ear it.”
“After your briefings and last-minute training by the
Israelis,” McKay said, “there will be a provocation of
Israel by the powers-that-be in Afsir.
“Since they were nice enough to establish this new
‘independent state’ of Afsir,” McKay continued, “diplo-
matic inhibitions are minimal. We have never recognized
any Afsir government, so as far as we're concerned it
doesn’t exist. It’s the Egyptians, who insist it is a sov-
ereign land, and the Russians and their bloc have gone
along with the sham of diplomatic recognition. In effect,
as far as diplomatic relationships are concerned, Afsir
245
has become a convenient no man’s land—but that now
cuts two ways.
“As I said, the powers-that-be in Afsir will provoke the
Israeli government. We’ve been trying to decide what
would be best. The Israelis agree we should arrange for
the Russians to shoot down—hopefully with surface-to-
air missiles—several Israeli planes.”
Steve couldn’t help staring at McKay. “Arrange to have
some Israeli planes shot down?” McKay nodded. “What
about the pilots?” Steve said.
“There won’t be any,” McKay said. “We're shipping
the Israelis a number of Ryan Firebee jet drones. Before
they leave the States they’ll be modified externally. They'll
look like F-4 fighters. They won’t be, but the Russians
and the Egyptians won’t know that. The drones, repre-
senting manned aircraft, will be released from a mother
ship at high altitude, and will be directed toward Afsir.
Russian radar will pick them up while they’re still far out.
The moment they get well within range of their SAM
missiles, and still hold their course, the Russians will let
go with everything they have. They’re touchy about over-
flights, especially where Afsir is concerned.”
Steve nodded. “Neat. The SAM’s can’t miss under those
conditions.”
“Right,” McKay said; “no electronic countermeasures
of any sort. A guaranteed loss of two unarmed Israeli
reconnaissance planes while they're still well short of the
Afsir border. Provocation. Unforgivable. Attacking un-
armed, helpless aircraft. The Israelis will protest. There'll
be no question but that some response is in order.” He
nodded to the Israeli officer.
Major Mietek Chuen didn’t waste his words. “We con-
sidered, naturally, a combined operation strike, Going in
with large helicopters so that we might pick up one of
these airplanes and just haul it back to Israel. But a num-
ber of things decided us against such action. The distance
is too great for helicopters to carry that heavy a load.
Also, the defenses in Afsir truly are formidable. We doubt
that we could mount that much heavy covering fire for our
helicopter people to get away with it. They would like to
246
ry, of course. Ever since they picked up an entire Russian
radar system and all its missiles and brought them back
o Israel, they are all for going in with their machines and
stealing everything that they can unbolt or dismantle.”
“I remember the operation,” Steve said. “It was a
peautiful job.”
“Thank you. You will have the opportunity to meet
some of these people and tell them yourself. They are
ilso quite anxious to meet you. They would like to know
f the moon can truly be more desolate than some of our
own land.” He smiled. “You will see that for yourself, as
well.”
Again Steve held back from questions. Better to hear
hese people out, to look for the problems while they
spoke, and then come back with what he might need to
ask, Major Chuen turned to Jackson McKay. “I must
apologize,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to interfere
with your briefing.”
“No apologies necessary, Major. It is your show, after
all.” McKay turned to Steve. “A good point to make
lear, Colonel. We’re going along for the ride, so to speak.
We'll support the Israeli forces, covertly, of course, but
we will support them. Also, we’ve made a deal to replace
whatever F-4 aircraft have been lost or will be lost against
his MiG-27.” He nodded to the Israeli officer. “Major?”
Chuen gave Steve his full attention. “You already know
hat you and Tamara,” he glanced at the girl, “Captain
Zigon, will function as a team. Her knowledge of the coun-
ty, especially with the help of Walid, is vital. She also
snows every language and dialect spoken there. Including
Russian.” He paused, then suddenly and unexpectedly
hrew a barrage of questions at Steve in Russian. To his
leasure Steve’s answers were immediate and comfortably
within the language. He had spent nearly two years sharp-
ening his control of the language by working with Rus-
ian cosmonauts and scientists on a cooperative effort for
pace-station activities. “You would pass inspection of
veryone, except perhaps a suspicious Russian,” Chuen
aid. “I am very pleased,
“You and Tamara, starting tomorrow,” Chuen con-
247
tinued, “must know each other as well as—” he hesi-
tated, “as well as sister and brother. You must be able
to speak with one another fluently in the Russian lan-
guage. You must know each other well enough so as no’
to be surprised by personality or other reasons, wher
such surprise could be to your disadvantage. During thi:
time we will carry out an intensive training program ir
Russian equipment. There is an airfield in the Nege\
Desert that will be your base of operations. An isolatec
and extremely well-guarded airfield, by the way. There
you will be able to fly a MiG-21 in the pattern—we don’
see any need for more than that—to acquaint yoursel
with cockpit and other procedures of a Russian fighte
machine.”
Steve had a hollow feeling in his stomach.
“We have obtained some photography, although the
quality is rather poor, of the MiG-27, We believe th
cockpit layout will be essentially the same as the MiG-21
because it is the Russian practice to standardize as muck
as possible between their different aircraft models. Easie1
that way for their own pilots to make the transition from
one to the other. This will help greatly in your case, anc
since as a test pilot you have flown many different types
of aircraft, you should have no difficulty in understanding
the controls and the switches of a MiG-27.”
Steve’s unease was building.
“Walid Howrani will assist you, and Tamara, in learning
details of the area,” Chuen said, as if discussing a Sunday
outing. “He will have relief models of the area involved
This is strictly as an emergency backup, of course. Then.
you will be equipped, I understand in your own appar-
ently remarkable way, with special weapons. This is im-
portant. Outside of a hand weapon, a sidearm, you will
not be able to carry anything visible. Your people wil
be with you at the Negev airbase to attend to that matter.”
Steve glanced at McKay. “Art Fanier, Doctor ols
some others,” McKay said casually.
“This will help meet any unforeseen situations,” Chuen
continued, as Steve was now all but convinced of exactly
what they had in mind. “Women electronics Fooanlis’
248
are not at all uncommon in Egypt,” said Chuen. “Tamara,
as I mentioned—”
“Major Chuen.”
The Israeli pilot waited.
“J think you’d better knock it off and tell me what you
have in mind.”
Chuen showed honest surprise. “Why, I thought you
already knew. We're going to send you and Tamara into
the Russian base in Afsir to steal one of the MiG-27
fighters.”

They flew to Israel, then moved by helicopter along a

circuitous route to the secret airfield he knew only as
Scorpion, deep in the Negev, surrounded by hills that
bristled with Israeli gun positions and seasoned combat
troops. He worked day and night until he was exhausted
from the hours, the heat, the dry air, the relentless bar-
rage of questions they threw at him and the answers they
demanded. A man showed up one day in a Russian uni-
form. Shaul Arkham shouted in Russian at Steve, de-
manded immediate answers about insignia, rank, equip-
ment, the heavily guarded base, where the living and
working areas were; he was unnerving. He would appear
without warning, disappear as quickly, show up in a
different uniform, come at Steve with questions wholly
unrelated to the subject he had previously introduced.
When he heard Tamara and Steve talking with one an-
other, in his presence, in any language except Russian,
he cursed them both. It was effective.
Rudy Wells, Art Fanier, and two other bionics tech-
nicians from the Colorado laboratories set up a miniature
bionics and modification center for Steve. Fanier worried
and fussed over Steve like a mother whose child is about
to start on his first trip away from home, and with his
concern he fitted Steve with a variety of weapons con-
cealed within his bionics limbs that just might save his
hide, and thereby, his partner’s. Major Chuen—and Tam-
ara as well—insisted that Steve be tested for his ability
in hand-to-hand combat. It wasn’t as simple as he’d
thought; Israeli commandos skilled in Arab fighting caught
249
him by surprise the first few days. When he reached the
point where he was no longer a stranger to their particular
styles, he became too dangerous to continue the training.
Rudy Wells and the airbase medical staff had their hands
full with a steady flow of dazed and disbelieving com-
mandos suffering an assortment of injuries from tom
muscles to broken bones.
All this went well, as did the flying in the MiG-21, a
beautiful machine that Steve fiew through dangerously
wild maneuvers at low altitude near the airfield. He found
himself hammering the fighter to the very edge of its
performance, and Tamara’s place in the rear seat of the
intercepter seemed only to goad him to more severe
punishment. It was far worse for her as he wracked the
MiG about in punishing high-g maneuvers that weighed
her down and drained the blood from her head. She
gasped for air, bore stoically his seeming rage in the air-
plane. Her only comment was that she hoped he would
wait to kill himself until after their mission was ended.

Tamara.
He could cope with everything but this woman.
From the moment they arrived at the Scorpion base
they had lived together, The situation unnerved him. The
first time they were alone, when she stripped in the bed-
room in front of him and he stared at her supple body,
unable to resist looking at her breasts and her flat stomach,
her swelling mound, she returned his stare, eyes level,
her expression unclouded. “I will shower first,” she said,
and walked from the room. He sat in a daze on the edge
of his bed until she returned, where she looked at him
with curiosity. She dried her dark hair with vigorous
movement.
He knew she was not flaunting, not teasing, but it drove
him crazy, at once aroused and frustrated him,
She sat on her bed. “Steve.”
“What is it?”
“Look at me.”
He did, turned away again.
She was still on the edge of the bed, eyeing him frankly.
250
“We are soldiers together,” she said quietly. “You and I,
Steve, very soon will be risking our lives. We will depend
upon one another to suryive. There can be no surprises
between us, nothing hidden. Do you want me to hide from
you? Here,” she gestured with her arm to take in the
cottage, “in this small place? That would be foolish. Better
to be completely free with one another.”
“Any thing you say.”
“Good,” she said, her voice light and comfortable. She
went back to drying her hair. Slowly she stopped, again
gave him her full attention. This time there was some-
thing different in her voice. “You have an erection, don’t
you, Steve?”
He didn’t believe it.
“If you are ashamed,” she said, the voice softer, “I
will not look at you.” She placed her hand on his arm.
“J am sorry,” she said suddenly. “Perhaps it is . . . your
limbs. Forgive me if I have offended you. I will go into
the other room.”
“No,” he said quickly. “You saw all that when they
were working on me.” She nodded, not speaking now.
“That didn’t bother you. I could tell that.”
“Tt did not bother me,” she said. “I have collected the
pieces of children’s bodies, Steve. Including my own baby
brother.”
He nodded, not knowing what to say.
“And please remember I have lived with our soldiers
in the field. There were times when privacy was impos-
sible. But respect is privacy. I have been like this, nude,
before the soldiers. There are times to close off one’s
mind.”
“T suppose so,” he said, still dazed.
“Besides, an erection is hardly something to be ashamed
of.” She smiled. “I am pleased. Now, hurry, or we will be
late for dinner.”
He undressed and went numbly to the shower.
It was like that the entire week when they were alone,
but they never again mentioned the subject.
The last three days were the only time he accepted the
251
relationship on her terms. There wasn’t much choice. They
were in final training.
Then they sweated out the ghost mission of two jet
drones modified to resemble Phantom reconnaissance
fighters. A Hercules transport hauled the Firebees to
30,000 feet, where they were dropped free. The drones
accelerated to supersonic speed and raced directly for
Afsir, climbing steadily to 50,000 feet. The Russians
reacted precisely as the Israelis had planned. Radar locked
onto the drones. A salvo of missiles burst upward from
the defending sites and the “Phantoms” were torn apart
in the high, thin air of the stratosphere. Within the hour
the Israeli government voiced its denunciation of the
unprovoked attack against the reconnaissance aircraft.
That was the signal they were waiting for.
The strike was on.

252
 CHAPTER 22

THEY WENT in with precise, split-second timing. The

Israelis staged their fighters and fighter-bombers from a
dozen different fields in Israel and scattered through the
eastern half of the Sinai Peninsula. No large formations
to give Russian radar the target on which they could
concentrate their defensive fire. A group of fighters flew
in darkness against the ever-ready defenses along the Suez
Canal, the pilots using terrain-following radar that guided
the planes unerringly close to the ground, lifting them
through auto-slaved controls to clear hills and other
obstacles. The pilots swept in against the formidable mis-
sile defenses, launched missiles that soared high through
the air at supersonic speed. Each missile was packed with
an electronic device that registered on probing Russian ra-
253
dar and sent back the false echo of a full-sized aircraft. N
warheads were carried, no targets were struck along th
defense line west of Cairo, But the Russians, ears ringin
to the Egyptian screams of a full-scale Israeli assault b
air, unleashed their missiles in a devastating barrage. Th
night sky over the Suez exploded into an eye-stabbin
display of powerful warheads detonating from sea lev
to 40,000 feet.
Other fighters raced over the Mediterranean Sea, swing
ing in wide, curving feints from the north toward coast
targets. No plane fired a shot against the Egyptian target:
but the desired effect was established. Egyptian and Rus
sian defense systems were saturated, Fighters were as
signed intercept missions, and within a quarter of an hou
after the first register of targets on the Russian rada
scopes the entire enemy system was in action—and pinne
down to its assigned area of responsibility.
Far to the south, to the west of the Red Sea port c
Hurghada, several Israeli formations began to join in th
air. Split-second timing was essential to the strike, an
two dozen fighter-bombers made their initial pass ju:
beyond the mountains flanking the Red Sea. Again th
decoy missiles were the first objects to be picked up o
radar, Few defensive missiles were installed in the arez
and these entirely within the sprawling Russian airbas
complex near Qena. Sending back their radar returns ¢
aircraft, the decoys did their job exactly as planned. De
fensive missiles fired in batteries, the powerful rocke
boosters blazing fiery trails in the night sky, followed b
the brilliant winking flashes of warheads exploding hig
above the earth. A second wave of decoy missiles howle
skyward, and the second defense line of Russian missile
on the ground were fired.
It would take the best of the Russian ground forces <
least ten to fifteen minutes to reload, set the guidanc
systems, track, and fire. They were not given that time
The fighter-bombers raced up along the mountain slope:
then arced over in flight and hurtled close to the groun
toward the Qena complex. Every pilot had his selecte
target to hit. The pilots followed the same procedures thé
254
iad proven so successful in the Six Day War. The pilots
hrottled back to reduce their speed, then lowered their
anding gear and flaps, and went back to full power. Mov-
ng at barely two hundred miles an hour, the airplanes
ock-steady, the pilots sat atop superb gunnery platforms.
jirst the rockets, waves of explosive warheads ripping
nto the missile sites, power plants, antiaircraft guns, fuel
lumps, warehouses, barracks, truck depots, and other
acilities. As the fighter-bombers swept in closer behind
heir devastating rocket assault they released their loads
#f bombs and napalm, their accuracy pinpointed in the
lare of fires already started. The initial wave cleaned up
he airplanes by bringing up gear and flaps, swept around
n wide, low turns and came back for devastating strafing
uns with cannon fire. Behind them came a second wave
vith full ordnance loads. It was a repetition of the classic
trikes that had destroyed the Arab air forces on the
round. This time the Israelis added several new touches.
_ The Russian aircraft were hit hard in their sandbagged
ind concrete-walled revetments. Except for a group of
| dozen fighters isolated near the far end of the runway,
vith a taxiway leading from the revetments right to the
tarting point for takeoff. Here the Israelis showed remark-
bly poor marksmanship, and the group of MiG-27 fight-
rs survived the sudden holocaust. This particular point
vas, of course, completely missed in the frenzy of contin-
ing attacks, Also missed was a single small plane that
wept in to the south of the carnage, its run low over the
round unnoticed by the battered defenders. The pilot
lew barely eight hundred feet over the local terrain, hold-
ng one hundred ten miles an hour. He held his course
arefully, flinched when four fighters thundered by to his
ight, north of his path of flight. The fighters brought the
poradic ground fire still sputtering from the airbase to
ear on their roaring strike. And held the attention of
Imost everyone on the ground as they swept northward.
Far behind them two figures tumbled from the small,
ow, slow-flying aircraft. A static line snapped taut and
lack nylon blossomed immediately above the falling
gures. Neither jumper wore an emergency chute; there
255
mou have been no time for its use had the main canopy
‘ailed.
Steve Austin and Tamara Zigon barely felt their chute:
crack open when the ground rushed up at them. The jump
like everything else this night, was timed with split-secon:
precision. They came to earth a quarter of a mile south
of a perimeter road to the airbase, rolled expertly in th
sandy ground and were on their feet at once. Steve gath
ered up his chute and ran swiftly to where Tamara waited
“Any problems?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head. “Quickly. The chutes.” He slippe«
out of his harness, unfolded a trenching shovel, immedi
ately began digging a deep hole, Tamara opened Steve’
pack, removed their uniform caps that might have beet
lost during the jump. She dropped the pack in the hol
with the chutes. Steve pushed in the shovel and used hi:
hands to fill the hole. In the soft sandy soil it would b«
difficult, he hoped, to dscover where the evidence hac
been buried.
The northern horizon pulsed with light. They took an
other moment to inspect one another. Their clothing wa
messed up and torn in several places; the uniforms showe«
signs of oil and smoke, and they each had facial bruise:
and cuts. Clear evidence of their having been in a trucl
that was strafed by one of the Israeli fighters. Evidence
they had barely escaped with their lives. The truck? I
didn’t matter. If they were in the Qena complex lon;
enough for that story to be checked out in the midst o
the thundering fires and explosions, they would be in n«
Position to go anywhere,
“Let’s go,” Tamara urged. They started walking t
the road they knew lay several miles to the north. Stev
checked his hip holster. The Russian automatic with th
stubby silencer was in place. Using the silencer was :
tisk, but as they both knew, no one would stop to in
spect their weapons unless that inspection were compellec
by much more dangerous suspicion. Everything else of
their persons, except the silencers, which could bé
twisted free and thrown away, was the genuine article
Their papers, undergarments, equipment, uniforms, wrist
256 ;
watches, all of it, was Russian, manufactured in Russia.
Even the silencers had been obtained from a Soviet se-
surity office. “If you’re in the perimeter area,” Shaul Ark-
1am told them, “use the silencers. It will let you eliminate
spposition while it is still not in direct physical contact
with you. Use your advantage until you must resort to
omethng else.” Good advice.
The road lay a dozen yards before them. Blood-red
ight glowed from the north, fires reflecting from low
louds, the flames punctuated with intermittent blasts and
jeep, booming thunder. They crouched behind a mound.
[he immediate visibility was poor but their main interest
ay in what traffic might be on the road. The idea was to
ye spotted walking along the road, not entering it from a
ield. They had, by now, oriented themselves clearly.
Relief maps, charts, reconnaissance photographs—all had
ontributed to this segment of their training. They moved
juickly. from the shallow ditch to the road. Steve bent
lown, felt it with his hand. “Asphalt,” he said. “Poor
hape. Gets beaten up by the sun pretty bad. But it's
what we were told to expect.”
They moved toward the northwest. They needed a lift,
1ot only for speed but for its effect in getting them into
he heavily guarded base complex, within the perimeter
ences and guards. Their papers were in order; their
dentification showed them to be members of an electronic-
naintenance and support organization. This gave them
airly ordinary working requirements, but it also pro-
ided them with freedom of movement throughout the
tire Qena complex.
“Better have your torch handy,” Tamara reminded
teve, speaking in Russian, “in case something comes
long the road. Better to signal them than to have us
ppear out of the dark.”
“Good idea.” He held the Russian flashlight in his
and, glancing occasionally behind them. They had walked
early a mile, their concern mounting at the absence of
raffic, when Steve heard an engine behind their position,
round a bend in the road. They stepped to the side and
teve snapped on the flashlight, moving it in a slow, wide
257
circle. Truck headlights brought their arms up to shield
their eyes. Moments later the driver flicked his lights on
to dim side-runners and coasted to a stop. He shouted
to them in a tongue Steve found incomprehensible, but
knew was Arabic. “We’re in luck,” Tamara said in an
aside. “No Russians with him.”
She shouted back, using her own flashlight to study
the truck cab. Steve saw a look of surprise on the face
of the driver as Tamara—identifying herself with her
papers and by voice as Captain Nina Tsfasman, and
Steve as Major Alexei Kazantsev—answered him rapid-
fire in his own tongue. The surprise became delight, and
he turned to his helper with a sudden tongue lashing,
sending that worthy to the rear of the truck to make room
for the two unexpected passengers. They climbed aboard,
the headlights went on again, and they were rolling down
the road at nearly fifty miles an hour. Steve took every
chance to study road features to the sides and ahead of
them, confirming his memory of the area, anticipating
specific structures or features coming up before them.
Tamara spent most of the time talking with the Arab
driver, whose pleasure at a foreign woman’s mastery of
the native tongue became almost embarrassing. Finally
Tamara turned to Steve and spoke to him in Russian.
“Our friend here, his name is Hamad, tells me our
cargo is a load of electrical supplies. Cables, solenoids,
things like that. Does this give you any ideas?”
He thought quickly. “What part of the base is he
headed for?” She turned to the driver, conversed rapidly.
“Hamad says their authorization is to go directly to the
central warehouse,” Tamara said. “But he’s worried be-
cause the warehouse may be in flames. He says the Is-
raelis are devils in the dark and can see like bats. He’s
also afraid that if the attack continues the truck may be
lost with its equipment and he will be in serious trouble.”
Steve nodded. “Smart man, Hamad. I think he’s going
to be in more trouble than he imagines.” Tamara looked
at him sharply, not replying for a moment as the truck
swerved suddenly. Hamad had just missed a large piece
of smoking wreckage lying on their side of the highway.
258
 Steve noticed that the glow in the sky was brighter, and
now he could see the flames directly, with the sky waxing
and waning in color as fires reflected from thick columns
of smoke. “Ask him,” Steve said, “how far we are from
the main gate on this road.”
She spoke quickly with the driver, turned back to Steve.
“Ten kilometers,” she said.
“That’s about six miles,” Steve said. “There’s a bridge
ahead of us, isn’t there? Goes over a wadi that’s dry at
this time of the year?”
“There is. What about it?”
Steve kept his face straight ahead, seeming to concen-
trate on the road. “Can you drive this thing?”
“Yes, of course. But why?”
“We've got to get rid of Hamad and his friend before
we cross the bridge.” He reached into his tunic pocket
for a cigarette, Egyptian, and lit up after offering one to
Hamad, who accepted with repeated sharp bows of his
head. “If we take the truck in ourselves, we can work
our way closer to the planes. Otherwise, we could end
up miles away from where we want to be, and no way
to get where we want.”
There was mild protest in her voice. “But how do we
explain their absence?”
“We were strafed and they ran for their lives. It’s
our best chance, Tam—Nina.”
She sighed. “You are right, of course.” He could feel
her body hardening next to him. “How?” she asked.
“Tell him to stop just the other side of the bridge. Be
sure you know where he has the papers for the truck,
though.”
“All right.”
“When he stops I want you to lean forward, Bend
down as much as you can and—” A dull booming ex-
plosion that showered the air with fiery debris to their
Tight interrupted him for a moment. They could hear
Hamad cursing all Israelis. “When you bend down, turn
off the ignition. If the road is on an incline, the gears
may hold it. Otherwise you'll have to find the brake.”
“I know where it is. I have driven several of these
. 259
machines before.” He thought of the thousands of cap-
tured vehicles from the Six Day War.
“All right. Pll be leaning over you right after we stop.
Just don’t move for a few moments. Then I'll have to
get the other one in the back.”
“What will you do?”
“Never mind. There’s the bridge up ahead. Better tell
him now.” Tamara turned to the driver, speaking rapidly
and gesturing. Hamad shook his head, his protests clear
to Steve even through the language barrier. Tamara’s
voice sharpened, and abruptly she changed from the
woman he knew to a hard-nosed female Soviet officer,
her tone even in Arabic unmistakable. Hamad’s eyes
widened, and finally he nodded agreement. They were
across the bridge and slowing. No traffic ahead of them;
Steve bent to look through the right hand mirror. No
lights behind. The truck stopped.
“Now,” Steve said quietly, and Tamara bent down and
leaned forward, reaching for the ignition key. The driver
looked with surprise at her and Steve said his name
sharply. “Hamad!” The Arab looked up, facing Steve
directly, and his left hand, the fist closed in a steel bludg-
eon, whipped forward. Tamara heard a sickening, wet
smack and the form beside her slumped, the front of the
skull caved in. Steve was immediately out of the cab,
moving to the back of the truck. He banged on the side
of the vehicle and the second Arab leaned out. Steve
held the fingers of his bionics hand extended and stiffened,
and his hand slashed down, the metal edge striking the
Arab expertly on the side of the neck. He fell from the
truck with a broken neck, dead before he hit the ground.
Steve checked the road again. Nothing in sight. Quickly
he dragged the body from behind the truck to the side
of the bridge, tossed the corpse down to the darkness
and the rocks below. He ran to the truck cab, heaved
the bleeding Hamad from the vehicle. “He’s still alive,”
Tamara said tonelessly.
“We can’t take a chance on his surviving. If he talks . . .”
He let the words hang.
“I know,” Tamara said. “Do it quickly.”
260
 The bionics arm flashed up and back down again, and
Hamad was also dead of a broken neck. He followed the
first body and Steve returned to the truck. “You drive,”
he told Tamara.
Ten minutes later they approached the first roadblock.
“Tf Shaul knew what he was talking about,” Steve said
quietly, “there should be one Russian sergeant and a few
Arab guards. Let’s hope he’s right. Got the papers?”
Tamara nodded. “I think I'd better do the talking. Act
as though you’ve been hurt.”
Steve slumped in his seat, clasping his left shoulder,
his face in a grimace of pain. The Russian sergeant
snapped to attention when he saw the rank of the two
officers in the cab. Tamara extended the authorization
papers for the truck, and before the sergeant could ex-
press suspicion about officers rather than Arabs driving,
Tamara launched a tirade about cowardly Egyptians who
tan off into the desert at the first sight of Jews in the air.
“T need to get the major to an aid station,” she added.
“Be good enough to hurry.” A searchlight passed quickly
across Steve’s face and vanished. He heard the sergeant
bellowing orders at the Arab guards and the gate swung
open. They went through with the sergeant standing stiffly
at attention and saluting.
“Now what?” Tamara inquired.
“This road continues about two miles,” he said. “Then
it forks left and right. The right road goes to the ware-
house area. But I don’t think we'll be expected there
tonight.” They looked at a sea of flames in the distance.
Huge clouds of smoke boiled skyward, and glowing coals
Spattered the air like countless angry fireflies. “If we turn
left at the fork,” Steve continued, “we can work our way
to the airfield.”
Tamara nodded. They saw men walking alongside the
toad, many of them dazed, helping the injured. Ambu-
lances screamed by, rushing in the opposite direction.
“Headed for Qena,” Steve remarked. He looked again
at the flames. “They did a good job. It looks like they—”
_He paused, straining to define shapes silhouetted against
) 261
the horizon. “Can you make those out?” he asked,
pointing.
For a moment she seemed surprised with his difficulty,
then remembered the man with her had but one eye.
“I think they must be the missile batteries. What’s left
of them, anyway.” Steve began to make out more details.
Tamara was right. The missile sites had been torn up
badly. High-explosive bombs and then napalm to cover
everything with great searing sheets of fire. Twisted wreck-
age showed the radar installations. Again it was a follow-
up of proven success from the 1967 war. Knock out the
radar and the computers and you’ve blinded the missiles,
More vehicles passed, and they saw more Russians
now mixed in with the Arabs. Ahead of them the road
forked, and Tamara turned on the left signal light. Sev-
eral Russians with submachine guns at the ready stood
by the road, studying all approaching vehicles. One man
stepped out into the road and signaled them to stop.
Tamara glanced at Steve who had loosened his holster
flap. He nodded for her to follow instructions. She felt
the fiap of her own holster loosened, and Steve moving
the weapon to be certain it would be ready for her instant
use.
The Russian guard saluted. “Your papers, please.”
Tamara extended the papers taken from Hamad.
“This truck is to go to the warehouse, Captain,” the
guard told her.
“There is no more warehouse,” she said caustically.
She pointed behind her. “Take a look, Sergeant. Our
orders were changed verbally by Colonel Popovich. We
were told to deliver this cargo to the airfield without
delay.” She glanced at the fires only a few hundred yards
off. “Of course, this is not our job, Major Kazantsev,”
she nodded at Steve, “and I are electronics specialists. I
imagine,” she added drily, “we will be busy with repairs
for some time.”
“Where is your driver?”
“Where do all Arabs go when the Jews come?” Tamara
said angrily.
“Into the desert as fast as they can run,” the guard
262
replied, sharing her open contempt. He still held the
papers. “I will need the password, Captain.”
Don’t hesitate, Tamara, Steve pleaded silently. What-
ever you do, don’t hesitate...
“I have no idea what the password is,” Tamara said
haughtily. “We have just arrived from the port of Quseir
with these parts. How could we know the password?”
The soldier stiffened. “I cannot let you through without
the password, Captain.”
“That is out of my hands. Do you have a telephone in
your vehicle?” She pointed to the truck at the side of the
toad, “If so, call Colonel Popovich at once in the com-
mand post and get your authorization from him, But
whatever you do, Sergeant, I would advise you not to
hold us up much longer. I imagine this material is needed
rather badly right now.”
The guard glanced again at the papers in his hand and
hesitated. “The telephone lines are dead.”
“That is your problem. Stop acting like an Arab. Make
a decision, Sergeant. I don’t care what it is. We do not
intend to remain in this truck all night. I do not mind if
the responsibility for failing to deliver these supplies is
yours. We are tired, and I don’t care much anyway for
doing anything to help these filthy people, They stink like
goats.”
A responsive chord had been struck. The guard thrust
the papers back at her, waved them through and held
his salute rigidly as they drove away.
“Very good,” Steve said.
Tamara let out an explosive sigh. “We can’t keep doing
that for too much longer, The closer we get to the planes
the tighter will be their security.” She negotiated a steep
turn, concentrating for the moment on her driving, and
he looked ahead of them. “There it is,” he said. “The
airstrip.”
For the first time since he’d known Tamara he heard
her curse. “What’s wrong?” he asked. In answer she
flicked the headlights to bright. Far ahead of them the
lights reflected from a high cyclone-type wire fence,
" 263
 “Oh, Jesus,” Steve said softly, “Shaul never told us a
thing about that.”
She nodded. “What happens now?”
“Slow down,” he told her. He scanned the road as far
ahead as he could. “We'll either have to stay on this road
until we get to a main gate, and then try to bluff our
way through—”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, I know how their security
system works, They won’t suspect us of anything yer, But
someone will order us off at the gate and one of the people
authorized to be on the field will take the truck.”
“Which leaves us on the outside.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“We'll have to find some other way. A guard gate
somewhere along the line. Something like that.”
“I think we must find a dark place, Steve, and try to
get across the fence. They have no lights on. We may
be able to get to one of the planes at the edge of the
field. We will have to kill the guards, but—”
“Ahead of us,” he gestured. “See there? There’s a hill
and the road turns. If we can find a spot around that hill
it could be perfect for us. We'll park the truck alongside
the fence and—”
“Tt may be electrified,”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Not right now. The generator
station was one of the primary targets,” he reminded her.
“Tt takes a lot of juice to keep—”
A jeep with a flashing red light approached from the
other direction, a Russian soldier waving at them to stop.
“Do it,” Steve told her. He withdrew the pistol from its
holster and kept it at the ready as Tamara slowed. The
Russian called to them, excitement in his voice.
“Captain!” he shouted above the engines. “Are you
armed?” 5
Tamara hesitated and Steve nudged her. “Yes, Sergeant.
What’s wrong?”
“We have reports that the Jews may be sending para-
troopers,” the soldier called back. “There were some Arabs
to the south of here who reported parachutes.”
Tamara went rigid but kept her voice unchanged. “The
264
rabs are always seeing paratroopers,” she said sar-
stically, “Usually under their bed. Any excuse to hold
3 to protect them.”
The soldier agreed and shrugged. “But one never knows.
lease be alert, Captain.” He waved and the jeep sped
way.
“Close,” Steve breathed softly. Tamara rested her head
1 a moment against the wheel. “One could build up a
ase of nerves like this,” she said after a while.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
They drove around the turn, He was right. The hill
lielded them from the glow of fires still burning in all
rections. “Against the fence, quickly,” he urged. She
it off the road to the fence, killed the lights, her hands
ght on the wheel. “Now what?”
He ran to the back of the truck, withdrew a length of
ible, and tossed it against the fence. It fell to the ground
armlessly, “It’s not hot, anyway,” he said. “One for our
je.”
“We just can’t go over the fence and leave the truck
re,” she said. “It would be a dead giveaway.”
“We don’t need the truck.” He studied the road. “The
tch there is pretty steep. Drive the truck toward it. Can
ju get out before it goes off the road?”
“You ask that of a woman driver?” she smiled. She
imbed back into the truck cab, took off with a clashing
gears, She headed for the other side-of the road. He
w the door open and she leaped from the truck, rolling
er easily as she struck the ground. In a single flowing
otion she was on her feet and back at his side. Behind
x the truck rammed into the ditch and slowly toppled
its side, the upper wheels spinning slowly. “‘Let’s make
fast,” Steve urged.
“The fence,” she said, with sudden realization, “It’s at
ast fifteen feet with barbed wire. How—?”
“See those bushes over there? Grab as many as you
n and bring them here.” He turned to the fence, knelt
wn, and braced himself. He hooked two fingers of his
onics hand in the thick crosswire and then jerked hard.
i¢ fence ripped open across a span of three feet. He
265
tore loose another section, this time raking his han
downward. He pushed in to bend the fence out of tk
way, a form of jagged flap that cleared the way for then
He sent Tamara through the fence, went through himsel
and turned to bend the wire roughly back in place. The
stacked the bushes against the fence to conceal the tot
wire.
“Keep moving. Alongside the runway, see? That drait
age ditch. If we can get in there and stay low we cz
keep out of sight. Work our way closer to the—”
He froze as sirens wailed. They looked at one anothe
“Tt could be an all-clear signal,” he said. Tamara shoc
her head. “Look.” In the distance, near the pilots’ qua
ters, lights were coming on, bright as day. They could s
small figures moving quickly toward jeeps and truck
turning on headlights.
“Move!” he snapped. They ran for the drainage ditc!
dropped into-its concealing space.
“Goddammit, we’re like two rabbits out here. They
flush us for sure. It looks like they figure that paratroop
report was true—”
She grasped his shoulder, pushing him down. Jeey
were racing down the runway, one vehicle stopping eve
thousand feet, the men climbing out with guns at tk
teady.
“Great,” Steve said, “they’ve got dogs with them.” The
had the guns out, safety pins off. Within minutes or
jeepload was near them, and they heard the sudden frant
barking of dogs that apparently had picked up their sce
from their discovered chutes. Tamara’s gun came u
slowly. Steve knocked it down. “Don’t shoot. There’s n
possible way we can hold them off. And there’s mot
where these came from.”
She looked at him with an incredulous expression o
her face. “Are you mad? Do you know what they'll d
to us? Especially to me?” She moved her eyes suddenl
then turned-as the growling animals began to move in a
them. “I’m Jewish and I’m a woman—their favorite con
bination.”
“They don’t know what you are.”
266
 “You're a fool,” she retorted. “Do you think they have
0 intelligence? What about the attack tonight? When
lose animals are through with me,” she gestured at the
yards moving closer, “they will turn me over to the
tabs. No, thank you. I'd rather—” She screamed as a
uge dog threw himself down from the embankment. At
le same moment her gun sounded—three times. The
nimal fell, twitching and snarling at their feet. Seconds
ter, a German shepherd leaped, fangs bared. Steve re-
sted by instinct, firing from point-blank range. He stag-
sted backward as the dog, its head blown open, crashed
Zainst him.
The animals stopped as a voice roared out a command
| Russian. A searchlight blazed into the ditch. Steve
auld barely make out men behind the light, knew guns
ere trained on them.
A voice called in Russian. “Drop your weapons and
me out with your hands in the air.”
Tamara clawed her way from the ditch. began to bring
p her gun, Steve lunged at her, knocked the gun flying
om her hand. She turned a withering look on him, tried
) move forward. He remembered to use his right hand
; his fist went against her jaw.

ck 267
 CHAPTER 23

Sede Sesi65616 siedi6sieNaso Nesenesesesese

ONG
‘wo OF their Arab guards stood in a far corner of the
oom, submachine guns leveled at Steve and Tamara.
\cross from them, standing easily with his own sub-
jachine gun, was a burly Russian sergeant. There were
ur more Arabs, each loosely holding his automatic
feapon, ignoring Steve and the others, suggestively eyeing
stony-faced Tamara. She bore their innuendos with a
italistic stoicism, and a burning anger at Steve for not
lowing her to choose the option of death over the known
omsequences of capture. The Arabs she regarded as
easts of the lowest sort; she knew first hand about their
buses. She had long been a soldier in the Israeli army.
sws had been captured before by the enemy. Far better,
1¢ felt, to die quick and clean than to suffer what she
269
was certain must come: interrogation by the Russians
Then to be used by whatever Russians wanted her. I
depended on the officers involved. Some were decent
others uncaring. And ultimately to be turned over to tha
wolf pack. Israeli girls had been captured before. Thos
who were rescued and managed to survive were usually
completely out of their minds—their only means of merci
ful escape. And it happened not only to the women
Young Israeli males taken prisoner by the Arabs hac
also been subjected to perverse assaults. Uppermost ix
her mind was finding a means of killing herself... .
Steve wasn’t sure, but he supposed he had reacted in-
stinctively in deciding to surrender and hope somehoy
to find a way out rather than end it all for both of then
by resisting. He cared very much that Tamara have thai
chance—and, more surprising, he obviously now had the
same concern for himself. He’d come a long way sinc
that day when he had tried to destroy himself. For al
his unusual assets as a cyborg, he was very much a man
with an ordinary, overwhelming drive for survival.
Still, a man could bear only so much and Steve knew
he had to try something. He decided on the needle,
“You're supposed to be a man,” he said to the
Russian. “A member of the finest army in the world. A
Russian soldier. If you are a man, if these characters
don’t rule you, call them off the girl.”
No answer came immediately, but it was clear \the
Russian sergeant was embarrassed, that he had little
stomach for his Arab allies, He was a young man, free
from the horrors his elder generation had known from
the Germans. And despite what had happened througt
political command in Hungary and Czechoslovakia, and
elsewhere, Russian troops—under strict orders from their
commanders—had conducted themselves with restraint.
There was more involved, Steve realized. The Russian
sergeant was in a room with six Arabs armed as heavily
as himself. They had just taken another humiliating beat-
ing at the hands of the Israelis, and the Arabs were either
convinced, or at least wanted to believe, that these two
270
rere Jewish spies. Any depravity committed against them
yas a justifiable measure of revenge for the attack, the
esults of which were still evident in huge fires and clouds
f smoke, in wreckage, in intermittent explosions as fuel
nd warheads went off in shuddering blasts. The Arabs
ould just as easily turn, with provocation, on the Russian
s on the two prisoners. Steve would have to prod this
aan to take the risk of restraining the Arabs, who now
ere actually so close to Tamara that they were brushing
gainst her, laughing and clearly preparing to be even
1ore direct in their attentions. If he clashed with them,
might also give Steve and Tamara a remote chance for
scape.
The sergeant waited for his superiors to arrive. They
yould conduct the interrogation of the prisoners, They
right do so in this room or remove them elsewhere. High
ommand might want to get into the act, but only if the
\ussians believed the man and woman were something
ther than saboteurs dropped by parachute to finish the
9b started by the air strike. Well, to hell with that for
le moment. What mattered was the time between now
nd when the officers would show up. No doubt they’d
e heavily armed and might be accompanied by troops,
they believed the reports of paratroopers.
Again Steve turned to the sergeant, again he questioned
is courage as a Russian soldier. It began to have its
fect; not only Steve’s words but also the looks of disgust
ie Arabs gave the sergeant for even talking to Steve—
I permitting the Jew to speak without being hammered
) the floor. Slowly the Russian sergeant moved across the
90m, stood close to the Arabs and ordered them to
love away from the woman. They turned to stare at
im with open contempt. Finally the leader of the Arabs
iswered by putting his hand on Tamara’s breast. As he
ned toward the Russian, he spat on the soldier’s boots,
eve watched the sergeant. He started to speak, to goad
m further. It wasn’t necessary.
The sergeant went white. He stepped forward, and his
1ee came up into the groin of the other man. The Arab
het 271
gasped as he doubled over. He was still falling as th
Russian half turned to slam the butt end of the sub
machine gun into his face. They heard the bones snap
No one in the room moved. Then came a sharp metalli
click as the sergeant slipped the safety from his weapon
He called to the others to drag their comrade away fror
the woman. Whether they understood the language o
not there was no mistaking the fury on the sergeant’
face, and instant death in the muzzle of his weapon. Th
Arabs dragged their leader to the far wall, where the
clustered in a group.
Was this his chance? Steve ran through all the move
open to him, decided against sudden action. Only on
man of the seven in the room with them was disablec
Five murderous Arabs and a touchy, fast, capable Rus
sian on the other side of the room with a submachin
gun. The other Russians might show at any moment. H
would have to kill, disable, or hold under a gun the si
men now intently watching him—without having Tamar.
killed in the process.
The door opened. A Soviet colonel stood in the en
trance, studying the scene. Behind him were two younge
officers, likely his guard. Steve strained to see if ther
were more, but through the doorway he made out onl:
a single jeep. That made sense. With the attack havin
torn up the base, there wouldn’t. be that many men avail
able for guard processions. Most likely many of the sol
diers were also moving out from the perimeters in searcl
of other men who'd been dropped by parachute. But tha
made ten men in the room with himself and Tamara
One half-dead Arab, five very live Arabs, and the fou
Russians,
The colonel came in slowly, his men standing behin«
and to the side. The colonel pointed to the Arab double
over, a bloody mess, and asked what had happened. Hi
glanced at Steve, believing him responsible. The sergean
stood stiffly, explaining what had happened.
“Why didn’t you kill him, then?” The colonel looke:
at the Arabs, spoke angrily to them in their language
Two remained, the other four left.
272
 The colonel sat on the edge of a low table. Steve looked
around the room, They'd left the door open. The two
young officers were backed against a wall, observing. The
two Arabs remained where they were, their guns still at
the ready. The sergeant stood to the side, uninvolved now
except as a further protection for the colonel. Tamara had
sagged back against the wall, refusing to sit,
“What is your name?”
“Major Alexei Kazantsev, sir. From the 455th Elec-
tronics Support Detachment.” He gestured at Tamara.
“She is Captain Nina Tsfasman, also of the 455th. I do
not understand, sir, what this is all about.”
“We really do not have that much time to waste.” He
almost sounded regretful. “If you insist on a charade...”
He shrugged. “Either way you will not leave this’—he
paused and grimaced—“beautiful country of Afsir alive.
But you have a choice. We will put you both before a
firing squad or we will make you available to the Arabs.”
Without turning he extended his hand to the Russian
sergeant, “Papers,” he said.
They were put into his hand at once. “Everything is in
order here. A beautiful job, but then the Jews were always
superb at forgery. Now”—his voice lost all pretense—
‘I will save all of us time and, hopefully, pain. It’s pure
bad luck for you there is no Colonel Popovich anywhere
on this base. Certainly, though, a reasonable name to use
on the road guard. And the name you gave the road
guard, despite these excellent documents, does not happen
fo be on any of our records here. More bad luck, Major
Kazantsev, or whoever you are.”
He studied Steve and Tamara carefully and folded his
hands in his lap. “What are your real names and where
are you from?”
Steve didn’t answer. There wasn’t much use, really. Not
juestions like that, anyway. He’d answer those that might
buy them what he needed [Link] all. Time.
The Russian officer waited several seconds, then turned
io his two younger officers. Gloves came out of pockets.
As the two Russians slipped them on, the colonel turned
273
again to Steve. “As you must suspect, we found your
chutes south of the base. A low-altitude drop, I assume.”
Stall, Steve told himself. Don’t get him too riled too
quickly. Only need another ten minutes or so . . . “That’s
right, Colonel.”
The colonel nodded. “Good. You have found your
tongue. How many were you?”
“A small force, Colonel.”
“How many?”
“About thirty.”
“What was your purpose here?”
“That should be obvious, Colonel. The missile radar
and computers.”
“Qh? Why so obvious?”
“Surely you know we’re going to have to attack across
the Suez. Tonight proved we can handle your new missiles
without too much trouble.”
No reaction, Steve waited.
“Then why would you need to send in People on the
ground?”
“Insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“Of course. When we commit it’s got to be all the way.
We'll send in people on the ground to—Colonel, I’m not
telling you a thing you haven't figured out already. When
we go across the Suez the next time we're not stopping
until we’re in Cairo. We both know that. So it’s worth
the extra effort to be sure we knock out your computers.
Without them the missiles are useless.”
“How did you two get into this base?”
“You mean through the guards?”
The Russian nodded,
“We both seem to make mistakes—I need to learn to
dig deeper holes, and our intelligence people need a
better checking system for phony Russian names, On
your side, you could do with better internal security.”
He paused and the colonel waited, studying him carefully.
So far, so good. The clock is moving. Keep it going.
“We had a group of Arabs who work inside this bas
set up to meet us when we came down. We—”
274
 “You have names, I suppose?”
“I only knew one of them by name. Hamad. He’s a
ruck driver. He picked us up on the road south of here.
We used his papers to get through the—”
“Where are your Arab friends now?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. We weren’t [Link]
what they would do after we took over the truck.”
The colonel tapped the papers against the desk. “Where
are your explosive supplies?”
“Our what?” Keep it casual. He’s on to you...
The colonel stood, his patience gone. “You are not a
very convincing liar,” he said. “You, or part of your
group, killed the Arabs on the truck. Our dogs found
them quickly. They are good at the blood scent. Also,
you did not come here to blow up any computers or radar
or anything else, You were picked up on the airfield with
nothing on your person. The area has been searched and
you left nothing anywhere. Why are you here?”
It was time to go into his act. He asked the colonel
10 wait please before he did anything drastic, He clasped
nis hands in fear, and the Russians saw nothing unusual
n the finger-clenching movement during which Steve
wisted the middle finger of his left hand and locked the
finger rigidly in place. He worked to release a plastiskin
plug in his left wrist. When the time came he’d have to
get into there quickly. He—
The larger of the two Russian officers that had come
into the room with the colonel walked toward him, pull-
ng his gloves tighter. Behind him Steve heard the colonel’s
voice. “He hates Jews almost as much as the Arabs do,
'm afraid he’s going to enjoy this. Igor, don’t kill him,
here are still important questions to be answered.”
_ Steve looked quickly about the room, a frantic expres-
sion on his face. The sergeant had his submachine gun
‘eady. The two Arabs were more alert now, their weapons
ulso leveled in Steve’s direction. No one paid attention
© Tamara, but Steve saw the sudden alertness in her eyes.
A gloved fist smashed into his stomach, Pain ripped
hrough him and he doubled over to meet another fist
i , 275
 coming up from far below. It snapped his head back
violently, and Steve pounded against the wall behind him.
God, the sonofabitch knows how to hit! He reeled, spin-
ning about as another blow came at him. He felt blood
on his lips, and then he was taking the punches as best
he could, rolling with them, crying out with the pain. Let
the son of a bitch think he’s killing me . . . Several more
brutal punches to the head and, as he doubled over, a
swift kick to the stomach that lifted him clear off the
floor and dropped him, gasping, back to his hands and
knees. He couldn’t take much more because the Russian
could suddenly do real damage, and he also knew he was
getting into a daze where he would lash out instinctively.
He couldn’t risk that. When the move came it had to be
all the way, with precision and complete’ execution. He
cringed as the Russian moved in for more punishment.
A hand jerked him up by the collar and he felt a fist
crash into the side of his face. His vision blurred. The -
Russian was there again, and Steve clung to the other
man, asking not to be hit any more, and at the same time
managing to block many of the punches. He caught a
glimpse of Tamara, who stared at him with wonder in
- her eyes, She looked at his bleeding face, heard his pleas
for mercy, The same man who in training had been able
to handle some of the best commando fighters of Israel.
She followed every move like a hawk.
The Russian pushed him away angrily and swung a
roundhouse. Steve took it on the shoulder, infuriating the
other man. Another flurry of punches and Steve hung on,
tying him up, hanging in. He was close, his left hand —
clenching the other’s uniform, when he heard it. The —
distant sound of jet engines, and he knew they were back
for the next strike. That was to cover their escape in the —
stolen plane. This was their chance.
He closed his left thumb and forefinger against the —
Russian’s collar bone; steel-finger claws snapped the bone.
The man’s eyes bulged and he started to scream, frozen —
where he stood by the pain knifing through his system. —
The bionics leg came up into his midsection with wracking —
276
 force. Before the others in the room could move he had
the gun out of the holster from the Russian’s belt. No
one fired, could fire, because he kept the now unconscious
form of the man between himself and the others. He tossed
the gun to Tamara and in the same movement pushed the
body at the sergeant, who was already trying for an open
shot.
~ A submachine gun roared to the side; the Arabs, react-
ing in fear and surprise, firing at where Tamara had stood.
But she was already diving for the floor, cocking the gun
at the same moment, pumping bullets upward into the two
Arab guards. Steve also dove for the floor, bullets tearing
the wall above and behind him. He steadied his left hand,
thumb pressing the release in the extended finger, and the
poison darts were propelled into the sergeant. His muscles
seized as the poison hit his system. Steve was rolling over
the floor as both the colonel and the remaining officer
went for their guns.
They had no time to use them. A string of bombs
exploded outside the building, dazzling them all with
the glare of the blasts, followed by a shock wave. Enough
to throw them off stride. Tamara fired two shots into the
younger officer as the bomb explosions made him hesitate
for a moment. In that same instant Steve was across the
toom to the colonel, catching him with a savage blow
across the side of his head. Dead or unconscious, the Rus-
sian fell like a stone. Steve got to his feet, groggy from
the punches he had taken. Tamara was by his side at once,
her hand going to his bleeding face. “Steve, I—”
“Never mind that now; get those machine guns from
the others. We may need them.” Outside the sounds of the
second attack increased in violence. They could hear the
shrill roar of the jets intermingling with explosions and
the whoomp of exploding napalm. “We’ve got to get to the
runway now. The attack will last about ten more minutes
and by then we’ve got to be in one of those planes.” He
grunted with the effort of dragging the unconscious colonel
from the floor. “We'll put him in the back of the jeep.
Tell anybody stops us we're takiag him to a doctor. While
277
the shooting’s going on—we’ll explain later, Let’s go. You
drive.”
They went outside, the Russian slung over Steve’s shoul-
der. He dumped him in the back of the jeep, got into the
front right seat, made sure the submachine gun he’d
grabbed was cocked and had a shell in the chamber.
“Let’s go!” he shouted above the din. Tamara released
the clutch with a screech of gears and they took off for
the airfield.
At the gate the guards were frightened but determined
to let no one pass. Security had been tightened, despite
the clamor about them as the jets swept in low, releasing
bombs, rockets, napalm, and cannon fire. “Can’t you rec-
ognize the colonel?” Steve shouted above the noise. “He's
hurt. We've got to get him to an aid station at once.”
The guards hesitated. Steve half turned, then dove from
the jeep, firing as he moved. He heard Tamara’s weapon
chattering. He rolled again, looked up. Four guards. Dead.
He climbed back into the jeep and they were on their way
again. If no one had seen the incident, the guards would
appear to have been killed in a strafing burst from one of
the Israeli jets. All they needed was time. Just a few
minutes more.
There was a last guardpost to get through. They rushed
toward it, Steve ready to fire. No need. The small building
was gone, bodies strewn about. “Good job,” Tamara
muttered, and swung the wheel down a narrow perimeter
road toward the fighter revetments. “Tamara, when we get
there you talk to the guards, Ask for their help with the
colonel. I'll come around from the other side. And no
firing if you can help it. It’s not just the noise. If someone
sees the muzzle flash we’ve had it.”
The jeep screeched around the side of a revetment, out
of sight of the main buildings a quarter of a mile distant.
Before they came to a stop, Tamara was shouting to the
guards. They came running as Tamara explained that the
colonel had been hit. Steve stepped down from the jeep,
ran around the side, drawing no attention in his uniform.
He killed the first guard with a hammering shot to the
278
side of the skull. The second took a straight-edged blow
to the forehead that laid bare the bone beneath. Steve
turned to Tamara as the colonel stirred groggily. Tamara
stepped to his side, shoved the pistol deep into his stomach
and fired the last rounds in the clip.
“C’mon,” Steve shouted. “That third plane down, it’s
on alert. That means it'll be ready to fire up.” They ran
to the plane—and almost into the arms of two ground
crewmen. “Start the engines,” Steve called to them. “We
have orders to take off at once!”
He boosted Tamara into the rear cockpit, hit the ladder
and climbed quickly into the front seat. The crewmen
glanced at one another, then moved swiftly to the power-
cart. One didn’t question an officer at a time like this,
In the cockpit, all the training in the MiG-21 paid its
dividends. The basic cockpit arrangement of this MiG-27
paralleled its predecessor. It came back to him swiftly,
and he had the help of a checklist beneath the gunsight.
He looked for a helmet, cursed when he saw none. That
meant no communication with the ground crew. He looked
down and to his right, signaled with his hand. Moments
later he heard the powercart speed up. He went through
the starting process carefully and quickly. It seemed for-
ever for the two engines to come to life, for the gauges to
register proper fuel flow and pressure. There’d be a prob-
lem without the helmet—no oxygen mask, and he wasn’t
sure of the pressure levels of the cockpit. He could always
stay below twelve or fifteen thousand feet. No problem
with the Israeli interceptors. The pilots had been warned
not to fire on any MiG-27 that made it into the air, to
Jeaye the enemy aircraft strictly alone.
They were ready. He had the belt and shoulder straps
on, glanced in the mirror to his left. Tamara was strapped
in. He signaled her to moye her hands away from the
edge of the cockpit. The fighter had a single clamshell
canopy that would come down along a pneumatic strut
and lock into place. He ignored the ejection seats and
other equipment. No time. He turned again to the ground
crew, signalling them to remove the chocks, and—
279
 Headlights, coming fast. Those sparkling lights . . .
they’re firing at us! Oh, babe, it’s now or never... To
hell with the chocks . . . move out!
He was doing things simultaneously now. His left hand
went full forward on the twin throttles, and he hoped he
wouldn’t overload the engines with too rapid a throttle
movement. Thunder exploded behind him as the ship
rocked wildly against the chocks. Not enough! He went
full forward, past the detent and into afterburner. The
thunder was a constant explosion now as flame streaked
from the jets. His right hand hit the canopy bar and the
big plexiglas shell came down with hard authority. The
fighter lunged against the chocks. He went to emergency
power, and she rocked and pitched wildly, climbing over
the restraining chocks on raw power. Canopy lock; he hit
the bar for that as the fighter careened forward. He didn’t
bother with the runway. No time. The lights were closer
from the right. With the canopy closed, the ship acceler-
ating, he could now hear Tamara trying to get through to
him. He glanced into the mirror, saw her pointing to the
left. More vehicles. He told her to get down, low into the
cockpit, bent down himself as the jet pounded from bul-
lets hitting the tail. They’d move the fire forward. He
went down the taxiway, slamming his fist against the throt-
tles, imploring the MiG to pick up the speed he needed.
No way to take it off prematurely; he had to wait. One
jeep was on the runway, racing after them, but they had
speed now and were pulling away. At a hundred and fifty
knots he rotated, came back gently on the stick and in
the same motion hit the gear handle.
They were off. He watched the airspeed, holding her
down for a few seconds more, wanting the speed to throw
the ship high, to take her up steeply. Now. He came back
on the stick and moved it sharply to the right for a steep
climbing turn to throw off their-aim.
They almost made it away clean. They were about two
hundred feet up when someone got dead aim on them, ~
leading with his fire, and the bullets started along the top
of the nose, coming back. It was only a burst, barely
280
enough, but the plexiglas to his right began to shatter
before his eyes and he felt something hot stab into his
right arm.
That wasn’t so bad, he thought. The sudden coughing
rumble behind him was far more frightening. One of the
engines was going.

281
 CHAPTER 24

AN AIRPLANE always tells you when it’s ready to die. The

MiG beneath his hands was no exception. He lowered the
lose, trying to ease off on his need for power by climbing
way from the Qena airbase at a much shallower angle
han he'd planned. Without even thinking about what he
vas doing, he had shifted his left hand to the stick be-
ween his knees, leaving the throttles full forward. It was
| bitch of a job, flying a strange fighter at night, for the
noment flying strictly by instruments with the nose raised
ibove the horizon, That, plus his need to keep scanning
he instruments from the flight panel to the engine gauges,
vhere red warning lights flashed off and on to report some
mergency within the bowels of the big airplane. He knew
vhat was wrong without consulting the gauges, but the
283
rising temperature, fluctuating fuel pressure, and coughin
tumble that shook the entire airplane pinned it dow:
The right engine could keep running for a while with
lowered thrust. It could, but he didn’t know. All he kne
was that he must gamble on its operation for some tim
yet, and he must try to coax it along for as long as possibl
To reach the Sinai Peninsula, and Israel beyond, the
needed altitude. There were mountains between them ar
their destination. The Scorpion airbase lay some thre
hundred forty-five miles away, if he flew an absolute!
precise course (which he knew was impossible) and foun
the base in darkness in the midst of the high and dange:
ous Negev hills. The more immediate obstacles were th
mountains that rose from the west banks of the Red Se:
Tf he flew the shortest route toward the Sinai they woul
run into peaks topping seven thousand feet. No way ther
he told himself. If he flew due east he had a range of fro
three to four thousand feet. Flying to the south meat
peaks at six thousand, as well as flying away from the
destination.
There was another nasty little problem. Keeping th
engines in afterburner was absolutely necessary at tt
moment, for they were running on partial thrust from tt
tight engine and he needed everything the left engir
would provide. But that meant sucking fuel from th
tanks at a disastrous—in fact, prohibitive—rate. He ha
to cut back on the power to reduce their fuel consumptior
but he also needed that power to climb,
Another problem: His right arm felt as if a hot poke
had been stabbed into the muscle, and a hundred tin
devils were twisting the poker with agonizing effect again
the nerves. Normally he flew with his right hand, but no
it was only an extension from his body that wracked hi
with pain. No time to see what had happened, how ba
it was, how badly he might be bleeding. Not much us
in stopping bleeding if in the process you fly into a mout
tainside.
He kept the MiG in a right climbing turn, watchin
the gauges, talking to the engine to keep going, to kee
running. Ii he could get to altitude then he could not on!
284
clear the mountains but he might also fly this beast on
only one burner. It would be limping home, but what the
hell, if it made it.
The long sweeping turn to the right helped him with
his bearings—settlements and communities along the Nile
River provided a long, twisting ribbon of speckled lights.
The lights of river traffic also helped. He completed the
wide climbing turn and eased in left stick and a touch of
rudder as he came around to three hundred forty degrees.
But not too long for that because that was taking them
straight toward Cairo, and by now they must be very
nervous up there—
The airplane shuddered violently throughout its length.
Needles trembled. Instinct brought the nose down to re-
duce the power requirements. He glanced at the altimeter.
Eight thousand. More than enough to clear anything this
side of the Red Sea or the Straight of Jubal. He didn’t
dare fly any farther north; he’d be sliding into range of
defensive missiles, and the radar nets could bracket him
easily for interceptors. No doubt they’d be scrambling by
now. When the Russians in Cairo got word that one of
their precious MiG-27 fighters had been heisted by a
couple of Jews who wandered in from the desert, there
would be dedicated action to bring down the plane. He
began a sweeping turn to the right, rolling out on forty-five
degrees, to take them north of the Gebel Katherina peak
that dominated the lower Sinai at nearly nine thousand feet
above the Negev.
His world was a bank of glowing instruments, and lights
on the horizon to his left, far to the north, where Cairo
still cast a clear spray of light into the sky. But there was
other light now and he vacillated between pleasure and
disappointment. They were flying generally into the east,
and the first pink touch of dawn showed before them.
Well, it took away some of the sting. He wouldn’t need
to fly her strictly by the gauges; he could eyeball their
way now with that horizon reference. It would also make
it easier for pursuers to catch sight of him. To hell with
at; it was the least of his problems. Keeping in. the air
first, running so long as they had fuel. He didn’t know
285
\
the capacity of the tanks in the MiG, but flying at nine
thousand feet in an airplane designed for efficiency at
much greater heights was a sure way to suck the damn
tanks dry.
The MiG shuddered badly again, the instruments danc-
ing in wild vibration before his eyes, He felt no strain
flying with his left hand; the bionics limb gave him more
than enough strength. But the right arm. . . in the dim
cockpit light he saw the glistening reflection of his blood.
It wasn’t too bad, and he attempted to move his hand. It
hurt but he was able to fiex his fingers. Moments later he
was moving the entire arm, wincing from the pain but
grateful nothing had been broken or severed. He toyed
with the idea of a tourniquet, but it would be a clumsy
job at this moment, It would wait.
Again the shuddering of the machine throughout its
length, and then a low, booming thunder. The engine was
going. If the thing exploded, it could tear the entire ship
apart. He had enough altitude and—he hadn’t thought of
Tamara all this time. He looked into the small mirror, saw
her face, tense, her lips pressed tightly together. She was
taking all of this in silence, not bothering him, but know-
ing they were committed to the MiG, that they lacked
even the option of ejecting.
No chutes. Either they made it back to an Israeli field
or he’d have to put her down somewhere in the desert.
And wouldn’t that be a job in a fighter that probably
stalled out at a hundred and twenty or so? A vision of 2
silvery lifting body slamming into the flat surface of the
California desert came to him with stunning clarity, and
he shook his head to throw it off.
Another booming sound and he had no choice now but
to shut down the right engine. He studied the panel,
trimming just a hair nose-down pitch. The gauges again
followed the basic pattern of the earlier MiG fighter. He
held his breath and began flicking switches, then brought
the throttle all the way back to cut-off. There wasn’t much
yaw. This was a beautiful machine and he corrected the
slight tendency of the nose to veer with the trim.
He took the time to study their position. No charts,
286 ;
Te was doing it all by memory. They’d crossed the Ara-
yian Desert; no doubt of that, because there was the
trait of Jubal which, to his left, the north, became the
julf of Suez. Ahead and slightly to the right he barely
nade out in the morning haze the high reaches of the
ower Sinai mountains, capped by the dominating peak
ff Gebel Katherina. They moved across the water beneath
hem. Then the shore line of the Sinai Peninsula slipped
yeneath the wings and he began to have new hopes that—
A red warning light flashed at him. The fuel warning
ight. Maybe five or ten minutes left. He’d never have time
o figure out the fuel cross-feed situation, That meant
etting down now. He dropped the nose to pick up some
nore speed and eased off on the left engine throttle. Even
, minute could make a tremendous difference at this point.
de knew he must land while he still had power. That
yould give him the chance to dodge anything unexpected.
Je could maneuver with power; otherwise they’d be drop-
ing down into the desert with a lead sled on his hands
hat couldn’t get out of its own way.
He turned as much as he could in the seat. “Can you
lear me?” he shouted to Tamara. She nodded. “We're
oing down. Low on fuel.” She nodded again. “Put on the
houlder harness,” he ordered. He did the same, realizing
or the first time he’d never bothered to fasten the shoulder
traps. It was a bitch of a job and he grimaced with the
ain of slipping his right arm through the strap. But when
1ey hit . . . without those straps tight, their faces could
© slamming hard into the panels.
The red warning light was now blinking furiously at
im, and a warning buzzer sounded. There couldn’t be
lore than five minutes of fuel left. The west shore of the
inai was far behind them now; that could help. They
iced the prospect of walking out of the Sinai. Knock it
ff, he told himself. Get this thing on the ground while
BCR. 53s
The low horizon light helped, casting long shadows. He
ouldn’t slam into a gully or a rise that was being washed
ut by a bright overhead sun. Just like setting her down
n the moon. He almost laughed aloud at the image.
Re, 287
 He figured they were well up into the Plateau of Eltih
in the midst of the Sinai Peninsula. The deathlands of the
Egyptian armies . . . remember how it went? The Israeli:
slashed the roads, forced them out into the open desert
the plateau, and the depressions, and left them there. . .
He did some swift calculations, computing speed and tim:
to determine distance, and as the desert moved up to mee
them, they were beyond most of the Plateau of Eltih
moving into the huge depression beyond, That should pu
them just north, he didn’t know how far, of thirty degree:
latitude. He ran the charts through his mind. Port Sue;
lay just below thirty degrees and . . , and they were going
down into pure hell. He glanced up for a moment as the
bright morning sun faded to gray and was startled to see
low, dark cloud cover obscuring the entire sky. He though
of it barely a moment, concentrated on the rugged terrair
hurtling toward them. The flashing light and buzzer fadec
away to distant annoyances as he concentrated on wha
had to be done. Flaps down, try and drag her in with th
last remaining dregs of fuel. He’d left the gear up—i
wouldn’t do any good here; it could snap and send then
hurtling over the rough desert floor at a crazy angle tha
would end in a shattering blast of exploding fuel vapors
Full flaps, the nose high, working the best angle of attach
for the wings. Full lift, full drag, balance them out. Nov
he flew with his right hand on the stick—to hell with thé
pain; his left was on the throttle quadrant, and he knev
that at any moment she would quit on them and th
bottom drop out like a stone.
A wadi ahead of them. Like the dry river beds back ir
the Arizona desert. He knew what they were like. Seem
ingly smooth, but roughened up with grooves and dips
Still, it was the best they had, their only real chance, be
cause to each side of the wadi there were grotesque forma:
tions carved from the hard desert floor. No sand here,
hard, baked surface, and that could help. He held thi
nose off, saw the ground rushing by through his righ
peripheral vision. It screwed things up but experienc
helped, and he tried to see through the lower side of thi
canopy. The nose was high, he wanted full lift and dra
288
at the same time, playing one against the other with the
power, a delicate balance of wings rocking gently. There,
they should make it right over—
The power went without a sound. No rumble or vibra-
tion or anything. He felt it through his whole system, the
sudden sighing away of thrust to push them, and he knew
they’d had it because—
Lower than he thought. He braced himself as the flaps
scraped the ground, vibrating the airplane with a thrum-
ming sensation that went through their bodies. He had
just enough time to shout to Tamara to hang on when
the nose slammed down and they were on the deck, the
world a blur, their bodies hammered as they shot across
the desert at more than a hundred and thirty miles an
hour. Instinct kept his feet slamming against the rudder
pedals, but there wasn’t anything to respond. Wasted
reflex motion, but he tried, and then she began to slew
around. He knew pieces were tearing away but the pieces
were from the flaps and the wings and the belly tanks.
A tremendous blow jarred his body. He felt helpless as
je was thrown against the straps. A stinging sensation,
dlood. He realized he had bitten the inside of his cheek.
The noise crashed against them, a crescendo of tearing
metal. A sharp lurch came, and quiet. Shocking quiet.
His ears rang, and Tamara flashed into his mind. He
erked the canopy release and the strut extended, lifting
he plexiglas shell, bringing in the sounds of metal cooling
and the smell of oil and kerosene mixing with sand.
“Tamara!” He struggled to release himself from his
varness. Those crackling sounds . . . they could be only
metal or they might be the first warning sounds of fire.
He heard her call his name. He was free, climbing from
he seat, standing on the wing. She had a bloody right
sheek but that was all. She was simply stunned by the
rash landing. He loosened her harness, half lifted and
jragged her from the fighter to the wing, then to the
ground. He forgot the pain in his arm as he lifted her and
tumbled away from the wreck. A hundred yards off, on
he other side of a rock outcropping, he lowered her to the
ground, studying her face.
{ 289
 “How do you feel?” He didn’t know the strain showing
on his face.
“Til... be fine in a moment,” she said quietly. “As
soon as I get my breath back.” She breathed deeply sev-
eral times, closing her eyes. When she opened them she
smiled. ‘I’m fine, really, Steve.” She reached out to his
tight arm. “It looks like it’s stopped bleeding. I thought
it was broken.”
He shook his head. “Flesh wound, I guess.” He stood
up and looked around, helping her to her feet. “Where
are we?” she asked.
Around them stretched desolation. Despite its desert
conditions, much of the Sinai, like most deserts, was
formed by the channeling of water. The surface was a
wild mixture of sand, rock, and gravel, baked claylike
material, all of it convoluted along hillocks and depres-
sions. “The best I can make out,” he said, “we're slightly
north of Suez. Maybe sixty miles to the east.”
She nodded slowly, thinking. “If we continue straight
east, the Israeli border is perhaps seventy miles from
here.”
“That’s straight-line distance. You can add ten to thirty
miles for moving around this stuff. And that’s if we move
straight, which I don’t think is too likely.”
She looked around them, spoke slowly and carefully.
“This is dangerous country. We will never be able to
walk out of here to safety. As you say, it means walking
a distance of perhaps a hundred true miles. In this desert
we would never make it.”
“Those clouds will help,” he said.
“You didn’t let me finish. You could make it. With...
with your legs, you could make it before your body be-
came dehydrated.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, but he’d gotten her
message. “Are you suggesting I just take off, leaving you,
and try to save myself.”
She looked down at the ground and nodded. “What we
went for is more important.”
“Are you crazy?” He pointed to the MiG. “Look at
that twisted hunk of metal. We went to get an airplane
290
j
and bring it back to Israel. Well, we didn’t,” he said, “be-
‘ause somebody had better aim than they deserved and
yecause I never had a chance to find out enough about
he plane to know if it had other capacities even on
educed fuel to get us home. We sure used up the juice—
sven the belly tank.”
She turned to her left, studying the surface. “Is that
he tank?”
“Yeah,” he said with a sour tone.
“Strange.”
“What's strange?”
“Would a fuel tank have fins at the end?”
He shrugged. “Some of them do. Stabilization, that
ort of thing.”
She started walking. “Let’s take a closer look at that
ank.”
“What the heil’s the matter with—?” He hurried to
atch up with her. “We’re wasting time, Tamara,” he said
is he walked beside her. “We—”
His voice fell away as they neared the tank. It had been
orn loose from the MiG in the landing and sent hurtling
ver the desert floor, breaking up before it came to a stop.
de bent down, examining the inner mechanism. He
ooked up at her. “It’s not a fuel tank,” he said, She
vaited. He moved about, examining more material. “It’s
mn atom bomb, A big one.”
“We thought so,” she whispered. “Major Chuen, our
ntelligence people, we thought the Russians might be
loing this. Moving these . . . these things into Afsir.”
He rose to his feet. “Well, no more questions about it.
That,” he pointed, “is at least a one megaton warhead.
t didn’t go off because we didn’t set the release mech-
nisms.”
“You've got to get back with this information.”
“We've got to get back,” he amended. “Well, first
hings first. Move back a bit, will you?” She watched in
ascination as he found the release beneath the plastiskin
ear the outer rim of the eye socket. He pressed in, felt
t click into position. He judged the sun angle for the best
ight, and moved slowly around the remains of the MiG,
291
blinking the eye muscles for the pictures. He took a doze
shots of the wrecked bomb, went back to the MiG-2’
shot pictures of the bomb shackles, aircraft numbers, cock
pit interior, and three exteriors of the machine from di
ferent angles.
“The camera is in the left eye,” he told her. “If any
thing happens to me, remember that.”
“What are you saying?”
“For God’s sake, Tamara, if I’m dead I won’t feel
thing. It’s a ceramic. You know, plastic. You'll have t
twist a bit to tear the muscle connections at the back «
the eyeball, but—”
“Stop it!”
He was tired, irritated, touchy from the pain in his rigl
arm. Maybe he was being sadistically graphic. Still, sh
had to know. . . . “Look, you’re the one who’s alway
telling me how much blood and gore you’re used to, goc
dammit, so why should one stinking plastic eye both¢
you so much?”
When finally she had back her control, her voice we
a whip. “You are not only unfeeling,” she said, “you a1
also stupid.”
She turned and stalked off to the wreckage, climbin
into the bent wing to regain entry to the cockpit. He ra
after her. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
She looked back over her shoulder. “You are suppose
to have a fine brain. Use it. We can’t stay here foreve
They'll be tracking down this machine. I saw a first-ai
kit back there. We'll need it.”
She was right, and instinctively his eye went to the sk
above them. The clouds were thicker, sweeping across tk
heavens, and he could smell the winds already lifting du
and sand. She glanced at him. “Don’t count on rain,” sk
told him. “All we’ll get is wind.”
“Tt wasn’t the rain I was thinking of,” he said. “No sv
or stars if this keeps up.” He shrugged. “Well, we’ve gi
a compass, anyway.”
“Get in here, please. We must be on our way soon
The first-aid kit was all they found. Steve had hope
the fighter would contain at least one survival kit in d
292
7
seats, but apparently the Russians used the seat-pack
arrangement, with the kit attached to the parachute. And
here weren’t any chutes, either, which meant no canopy
ior sun protection if they had to travel for several days.
As he searched the wreckage the wind moaned louder
around the torn edges of metal. “Steve! We can’t wait any
onger.” He nodded reluctantly, climbed down, then looked
1p again. “In this stuff we'll be out of sight in no time at
ll. We can—”
“Listen!”
He froze, but only for a moment. He grabbed her by
he wrist and ran from the MiG, half dragging her behind
uim. He didn’t need to listen any longer. He knew the
ound of helicopter turbines. They had taken this long
yecause of the weather. The fast turbine choppers could
tay low. The MiG probably had an automatic crash
ocator beacon. Anyway, they were there. But they were
gassing over. They had missed their target. Of course; the
and billowing all about them. They’d find the MiG, no
wo ways about that. When they did, in a few more min-
ites, they'd be in there like sharks. In a few minutes the
vind would obliterate their tracks. If he could slow down
hat chopper...
“Tamara, stay here,” he said quickly.
Her hand grasped his wrist. “What are you going to
lo?” she asked.
“No time now. Just wait here for me, and be ready
o move out fast.”
He pulled free and became no more than a wraith in the
lowing sand. Visibility was terrible, but that was to his
dvantage. He heard the turbine chopper overhead, fol-
owing a grid search pattern. He dropped to the ground,
vaited until the sound diminished, then was on his feet
nd running to the wrecked MiG. He ducked under a
ving, pulled up his left sleeve. The plastiskin plug he had
tarted to release before, back in the Afsir camp. He
eached in with two fingers of his right hand, withdrew a
lastic cylinder, twisted it open, Two containers fell into
is hand. He tried to remember the time exactly; six sec-
nds, no more. He tried to listen above the wind for the
. 293
Russian helicopter. Still seemed far enough away. There
was a fuel tank cap recessed into the top of the left wing.
He climbed the wing, pried open the cap, held one of the
containers over the fuel tank opening, twisted it suddenly
and released it. In the same moment he hurled himself
from the wing and ran from the MiG, his legs pistoning
against the ground. He was ten yards away when a sudden
glare washed over him. Twenty yards off when the small
flare bomb he'd dropped into the tank exploded the
trapped kerosene vapors.
An explosion shattered the MiG as he dropped to the
desert floor, hugging the ground. Chunks of metal went
over his head. He waited a few more seconds and was up
again, running to where Tamara waited.
“Let’s go,” he shouted, taking hold of her wrist and
running again into the thickening sand. Behind them
flames stabbed through the billows of windblown sand.
“You're crazy!” Tamara shouted. “They’re certain to
find it now!”
“Save your breath. Sure they'll find it. They'll have just
enough time to know the ship blew up. They won’t have
enough time to see if we survived it. Not in this wind,
They'll take a fast look and be on their way home as fast
as they can go. Without ever knowing we made it a
out of that thing.”
I hope, he thought as they ran.

294
 CHAPTER 25

TAMARA DEMANDED that they stop after two hours of

plodding through the increasing wind.
She had been walking close behind Steve, using his
body as a buffer against the ceaseless howl of driving wind
and sand. Still, the protection he provided was minimal.
The air drove across the desert not with a steady flow,
but a swirl, capricious in its pattern, remorseless in its
strength. One moment she might feel relief from the wind,
but this was only because of the changing direction of air.
The next instant the wind curled around Steve’s moving
form, the pattern of dir visible in the finer sand, driven
30 that when it slammed, scorching hot and raspy, it
seemed to strike her with doubled fury. She stumbled now
against his back, her hands clutching at his clothing to
295
l \
keep herself upright. Steve turned, his back to the win
as Tamara buried her face hard against his chest.
“This is stupid,” she told him, her voice muffled throug
the cloth bands torn from their shirts and knotted acro:
their faces. “We’re making hardly any distance at all.
don’t think we've come more than three or four miles
She put her arms about him. “Steve, we must rest. Th
is madness. The wind, the heat . . . we'll wear ourselv
out before we’ve hardly started,”
He nodded, hating to agree with her. No question br
that she was right. He had removed one of his unifor
buttons, unscrewed the false cap, and had been guidir
them through the howling wind by the compass, tryit
to move steadily to the east..He knew they had waste
many steps. No way to avoid it. The wind howled steadil
not a full-blown storm, but enough to rake them with i
enervating heat and sand that was already deposit
throughout their bodies. As much as he remembered fro
his survival schools he was still no match for Tamara
hard experience in the desert. She used the knife from or
of her boots to cut their shirt bottoms into makeshift bi
excellent face masks that kept sand from clogging the
nostrils and getting into their mouths. But their eyes we:
taking a beating, and she was right about the wind.
dried them out with appalling swiftness, and he thoug!
more and more about what lay ahead of them. No wond
Tamara had brought up the subject of his leaving her 1
go on by himself. No false heroics there. She spoke as 4
Israeli soldier, a damn good one. His film had informatic
vital to her country. It had to get back so that critic:
diplomatic—and possibly military—action could be take
before the Arab-Russian coalition could pull off at lea
a gigantic piece of blackmail. Those nuclear bombs an
secret weapon emplacements in Afsir might well win fc
the Arabs what their Russian-supplied military effor
were impotent to do—the territory lost in the Six Da
War and, ultimately, the destruction of Israel itself.
He’d thought about that as they plodded along, pickin
their way carefully, faces down, Tamara staying as clos
behind his body as she could without impeding his ow
296 |
;
progress. Once this damned wind fell off, and Tamara
thought it might die down by late afternoon, he knew he
sould start out with a steady running pace that would
sat up the miles. Much faster than she could move. Okay,
Tamara was right by her lights. Not by his. He'd risk his
ife, had been doing just that, but for his own country,
for the mission, for the damned challenge it provided him
yecause of what he’d become and what he was. Something
Ise, too: Call it quixotic, old-fashioned, whatever, he
simply could not deliberately abandon Tamara to this
hellish country. Put another way, her survival was more
important than the rest of the mission. More important, he
was astonished to realize, than his own. He doubted Mr.
McKay would approve of such an unprofessional scale
of priorities, and he was ever surer the Israeli high com-
mand would censor him, but they were there and he was
here, and that was that. Maybe it was the cyborg over-
sompensating to be human. The hell with it, he’d listen to
40 more from her—or himself—about it.
’ Finally it became too difficult to speak, to be heard
aver the hollow, booming thunder of the wind and the
sonstant hiss of sand racing over the surfaces. It was even
nore difficult to walk. They had to quit, and they started
searching for a windbreak. They found it beneath the
sharp cut-off of a high slope, and Tamara and Steve sank
sratefully to the ground, their backs huddled to the wall
of the hard-packed earth.
For several minutes Tamara was content simply to rest,
© give her tortured lungs the chance to breathe without
lragging dust and sand through her throat. She leaned
igainst Steve, her head resting against his shoulder, her
yes closed as slowly she regained her breath and her
trength. Steve took the opportunity to look around them.
t must have been a wash of some kind, he realized.
Zither wind or water had sliced a deep furrow in the
und to create the sheer earthen wall and overhang
bove them, shaping it into a cupped arch that effectively
k the wind and blowing sand away from them. Seated
juietly, away from the direct, booming cry of the wind, he
card the sand as something new, making a sound sur-
297
prisingly like dry, powdered snow racing over the froze:
surface of the Arctic, To his left and right the sand arche
almost straight out from the curving edges of the nature
cupola, sand etched against what was left of the sun,
glowing half-light, yellowish in color, unreal, appropriat
for the unfriendly world outside. They were in a pocke
surrounded by fury, sand racing overhead and to eac
side of them, but reaching them only as particles sifting c
trickling down the embankment against which they wer
Testing.
If they had winds on the moon this is what it would b
like, he thought. That fine powdery surface, whipped u
and cast ahead—he remembered his own hours of slo
movement on that cindery, dusty surface. Not like th
sun-baked hell. No air, nothing to moye the dust. . .
Mars, that’s another matter. They've got the granddaddic
of all dust storms, cover the whole damned planet, lik
that one back in November of seventy-one, Winds of tw
hundred miles an hour and more. Miles high. A who!
world wrapped in dust. Dust, but there wouldn’t be muc
sound to it. Couldn’t be. That’s real dust there. Not san
Sand comes from water eroding rocks down to the siz
of grains and—
He brought himself up short. Danger there. He we
drifting, letting himself slide way down into the back «
his mind, escaping from the moment. You’ve been in th
sort of business before, he told himself, enough to kno
that if you can’t cope with reality you hide in memorie
escape. . . . He wondered why his body seemed to t
shaking, and turned to realize Tamara was prodding hin
She smiled and shook her head. “Give me your jacke
I’ve already asked you for it three times.”
He wondered at her request but slipped from the un
form tunic and handed it to her. Quickly she remove
her own tunic, opened another button to release thil
hard fishing line. She handed him the knife. “Cut a seri
of holes about an inch apart along the edge of eac
jacket,” she said. When he was through, she pulled th
fishline through the holes, knotting each one until
two tunics together formed a makeshift shelter over
298
leads and shoulders. She cuddled as close to him as she
ould move, then, suddenly startled, pulled away, still
jooded by the makeshift cape. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“Your arm, It needs attention now.” She cut away the
hirt sleeve. The blood had long before caked. She moved
er face close to the wound and made a hawking sound.
I'm trying to raise spit to wash away the blood so I can
ee beneath it.” She was already dry and her saliva greatly
educed. Nevertheless she managed to remove the covering
f dried blood. She held the first-aid kit beneath the cape,
roke the iodine and swabbed the wound. He gritted his
eeth. Then she rubbed penicillin ointment over it and
yrapped it tightly with gauze and tape.
“That thing have a mirror in it?” he asked. She searched
he kit and handed him a small mirror, three by four
aches. “We could need this, to signal a search plane—
opefully a friendly variety.” He slipped the mirror into
is shirt pocket. She put the kit on the ground next to
im and returned her body to his, slipping beneath his
rm and resting her face against his chest. For several
uinutes they were content to sit and regain some of their
trength.
“Tamara?”
“Hunh?” She was almost asleep.
“That Russian chopper. The Israelis control the Sinai.
low come they were so free and easy fiying after us?”
She shook her head, still buried close to him, now with
er arms about his body. “No one controls the Sinai,”
1e told him. “Only small parts of it. The rest is worthless,
ke where we are. We don’t occupy this area, just patrol
every now and then.”
“That means they'll be back.”
“T've been trying to tell you that. That’s why I want
ou to go on by yourself.”
“No way,” he said.
“Please. I wish you to be serious.”
“Tm listening.”
“The information about the atomic bombs.”
“Thermonukes, by the looks of them.”
“Even worse, then. Steve, that information must get
i \ 299
back. The . , . pictures. Listen to me. By tomorrow morr
ing, by noontime at the latest, I will be dried out. W
have no water; there is none here in the Sinai. I will ne
be able to walk and I do not crawl very quickly. You als
will be dehydrated. But it will affect you less than m
You are stronger. If you push on, sleeping by day, yo
possibly can make it, Steve. Please.”
“Really, Tamara, knock this off right now. The answe
is no. We move together.” He glanced up, “Besides, thos
clouds are helping more than you think. It may not rai
but the humidity level is up. We won’t be losing bod
water as fast as before. So will you shut up and get som
sleep? We're going to be moving all night.”
She stared at him, shook her head sadly and move
close to him again. He felt her breasts against the side c
his chest. Firmly against him. His arm moyed around t
hold her, to bring her tighter. She murmured quietl:
moved his hand to her breast, and fell asleep.

They awoke to a deep orange moon, low over the hor

zon. Steve was awake first, careful not to move. He lis
tened. For the sounds of engines, voices, anything. Silenc
Even the wind was gone. He glanced at his wristwatck
After midnight. They'd slept longer than he’d plannec
He called Tamara. A croak was his only sound. Startlec
he swallowed—or tried to. His tongue was swollen, hi
throat sandpaper dry. He moved his goneue about hi
mouth, feeling it raspy against his teeth, his palate. H
managed to produce some saliva, moved it from tongu
to teeth, to the sides, then to his lips. This time his voic
came through. “Tamara, Wake up.” He expected w
might happen and he held her. For a moment she shu
dered, grabbing him tight. Finally she sat up, removi
the cape from over them. Sand fell in a shower ab
their bodies.
She’d been in binds like this before, he realized.
attempt to speak. She worked her mouth slowly and c:
fully, building moisture, wetting her lips. He waited
she was through. She had a ghostly smile on her face i
she looked at him. “How do you feel?”
300
 “Lousy.”
“This is the best we will feel until we find water.” She
tretched slowly, climbed to her feet. “By tomorrow night
t this time . . .” she shrugged, as if she knew the futility
f resuming their argument. She looked about her, studied
he moon, coppery and huge, low on the horizon. “That
vill help as it climbs,” she said. “The desert refiects light
vell.” She turned to him. “I imagine you have not come
© your senses.”
“Let’s go,” he told her. He slung the improvised cape
wer his shoulder and hooked the first-aid kit to his belt.
fe checked the compass and they started out to the east.
They walked in silence, sometimes apart, sometimes
famara taking his hand without comment and matching
is stride. The free air temperature was down to... he
lidn’t know how cool it was but it helped, as did the
elative humidity. He recalled the deserts of Mexico and
\rizona at night, remembered that during his survival
raining even in the worst deserts the relative humidity
ould climb to forty or fifty percent. That would cut down
ie loss of body water. Still, he figured they’d lost any-
here from three to five percent of body water. That was
nough dehydration to make them acutely uncomfortable,
nd it was only the beginning. He brought to mind the old
lilitary trick of finding a smooth pebble to put in your
louth so you could suck on the rock and activate your
livary processes. Great, except that your body had to
ave nearly its full complement of water to begin with.
ll a pebble would do when you were dry was to rattle
round on your teeth. He remembered the salt tablets.
ame damned thing. One gram of salt helped to retain
ghty grams of water in the body, but once again you
ave to have the body water from the start, and if you
idn’t the salt could make you crazy with thirst. Leave
alone, just keep going, keep moving.
Several times he heard the distant sound of engines,
id stopped to scan the sky. Tamara’s vision was far
iperior to his own, especially at night. She saw like a fox
the desert and pointed out distant lights in the sky
hen all he detected was sound. Nothing in the air was
\ 301
coming close to them. In fact, their closest visitor was <
good twenty miles off. Not friendly, either. There wer
four of them, flying fairly low in a grid search pattern
dropping parachute flares. He and Tamara watched a:
they walked along, trying to be on the alert for anythin;
that might approach from another direction. When i
did their hopes rose and were promptly shattered, Tw«
Israeli jet fighters, Phantoms, by the sound of them, thun
dered from out of the east and raced for the enemy planes
Radar picked them up well in advance, however, and th
Russian or Egyptian planes, or whatever the hell the
were, raced for the other side of the Suez Canal. Stev
came to his senses after the Israeli fighters had disap
peared. The small flare bombs. He had one in his pocket
another four still in the left wrist container. He coul
have twisted the fuse and thrown them as high as possible
Hard to miss that at night in the desert. But he hadn’t. Th
loss of body water obviously was screwing up his thinking
He tugged at Tamara’s hand and she stumbled after him
“Come on,” he said roughly. She didn’t answer and hi
wanted to hold her in his arms when he saw the cracked
darkening lips.

At three in the morning he called a halt for anothe

rest. He needed to relieve himself; despite the desperat
need for water his body still functioned and he had t
urinate. He had the passing thought that he should wall
away from Tamara but he was too numb, and such civili
ties at this time, especially after their living together (nov
he began to understand the foresight in that arrangement)
seemed rather pointless. He turned to the side and hi
hands fumbled with the zipper.
“Don't!”
“What the hell’s wrong? I’m sorry, but the faciliti
aren’t quite what I'd ordered—”
“We can’t afford to waste any liquid.”
He looked at her with open disbelief.
“You don’t understand,” she said, forcing the wor
through a parched mouth. “Not drink. Dangerous.
302
‘rom kidneys.” The words came out slow, spaced care-
ully. “Wash out mouth, gargle. If not the tongue will
swell, impossible to swallow.” She breathed deeply and
ooked up at him. “Old trick of desert. Many Arabs...
sraelis have lived because of this.” She motioned weakly.
‘Need a container.”
She searched about frantically, then pointed to his
waist. “First-aid kit. Save ointment for burns, our lips.
Rest useless to us. Use that.”
He hesitated and her expression was one of weary
-xasperation. “Don’t be a fool. Do as I say.”
He opened the first-aid kit. It was a box that sealed
ightly, made to resist the penetration of water. That meant
t would hold liquids as well. But he still couldn’t accept
what she was saying, even though it clearly made sense.
de emptied out the box, gave her the ointment, threw
iway the rest. He hesitated once more, and she gestured
ingrily for him to get on with it. He did, and to his
istonishment, when he used the results as she directed,
he cruel parchness of his mouth and throat ebbed away.
He brought her the container for her to do the same.
she protested weakly that it was more important for him,
hat he needed his strength. He remembered what he had
elt like, the cottony swelling in his mouth, barely being
ble to swallow, “Take it, dammit,” he told her, and she
lid, repeating the process she’d taught him. Then with
im supporting her, she provided what she could for the
ontainer. He sealed it off and returned the kit to his waist.
She spoke more easily now. “Soon our bodies will dry
ip. It’s important to contain all we can. Rinse out your
a0uth and throat as often as possible. Use it freely. Other-
vise it will evaporate and do nobody any good. You can-
ot save liquid out here in the desert.”
She rubbed first-aid ointment against his lips and nos-
tls, then stood patiently as he did the same to her. He
ut away the ointment tube. “We’ve got three more hours
f night,” he said simply. There was nothing else to say.
fe held her hand firmly as they started out toward the
ast again, crossing the cruel floor of El Arish.

303
 With the first light of dawn he found a depression ir
the side of an embankment, a half cave of sorts. He
arranged her within the overhang, and suspended the
makeshift cape to provide them some measure of shad
to cut the savage heat of day. For the clouds were gon¢
and the sun stalked the desert with malevolent fury.

He awoke with some of his strength restored by th«

long rest. No time to waste. He roused her from a coma
like slumber, waited until her head cleared and she hac
her bearings about her. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice
toneless, They started out again to the east, and the whis
per of a memory taunted him. She had explained there
was no oasis near them, that farther to the east, closer tc
the Israeli border, was the first of these, and there woul
likely be military detachments there. “Bur Um Hosaira it
to the north,” she had said. “The most northern one o}
the four. Then there is Agerud, Thamilet Suweilma, anc
closest to us, if we go straight east, El Kuntilla. They ar
all in low hills.”
An oasis, That meant that before the war they had beer
occupied by the Egyptians, and that meant Egyptian mili
tary forces. It also meant, his tired brain told him, tha
when the Israelis struck westward, they would have gone
straight for the enemy encampments. At the first sign ol
a massive attack by the Jews, the Egyptians would have
fled in a wild route to cross the Sinai. He racked his brait
to recall the details of some of those pursuits. . . . Speeding
Israeli armored columns, led by spotter planes, had race¢
across the desert to cut up whatever Egyptian columns
they found, and then sped on to hunt for fresh gam
That meant...
“Were there any major battles, Tamara,” he press
her, “in this area?”
She nodded. “Between E! Arish and Gerario, the
beds,” she said slowly. “Maybe twenty-five or thirty mil
east of El Kuntilla, I remember .,. . I was a radio ©;
ator in one of the teams that went into the Sinai.”
“What happened?”
She shrugged. “We destroyed a column, Many vehick
304
 “And?”
“We sent back the prisoners with a few guards and
kept moving to the east.”
“So the battle would have been to the east of us, maybe
some ten miles from here?”
She nodded, then fell silent, exhausted. But he had at
least a goal, now. He had to find one of those columns of
wrecked vehicles. In the desert things remained intact for
years. The name Lady Be Good flashed into his mind. An
old B-24 bomber from World War II. Crashed in the
Libyan desert. The crew died, Fifteen years later someone
found the wreckage and the skeletons. But the water in
the canteens was as good as it had been the day the plane
took off on its mission,
He pulled, dragged, supported her through the night,
stumbling, sometimes falling, sometimes wandering in wide
circles. But he pounded his hand against his skull, shouted
and yelled to keep himself even partially alert. He had to
keep moving. Their only chance now was finding one of
the wrecked military columns.
The hours fell away into a staggering numbness. Sev-
eral times Tamara collapsed, finally could go no farther.
He laid her down on the desert floor, unconscious. He
balanced himself carefully, lifted her up and placed her
across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He was surprised
to discover it was far easier to walk with her as a burden
than it had been before. Now he could set his own pace,
not hobble himself with her erratic gait. He picked up
his speed, moved along in a fast walk, leaning forward,
his legs moving with the least effort he had known in many
hours. It was the movement of an automaton, He thought
of the bionics legs supporting him, carrying Tamara, legs
had once cursed. Now they were proving just how
elous they truly were. No muscles to tremble, no
ves to go slack, no tendons to pull and hobble him.
, as he moved at a steady pace, the weight of Tamara
mnie shoulders increased steadily, numbing his shoulder
cles.
The moon had slipped to just above the horizon and
le cursed the increasingly longer shadows. The desert
305
floor he walked over was a mixture of clumps of sand,
hard rock, stones, and God knew what else. Sometimes
his foot stabbed into an obstacle and he stumbled forward,
reeling as he fought for his balance, His legs propelled him
forward, tireless, pacing his steps, but the rest of him was
being drained. A man can’t walk like this without burn-
ing energy, and the body needs-its water to compensate.
He knew he had lost between ten and fifteen percent of
his normal body weight, that Tamara also suffered. She
was alive only because of her superb physical condition-
ing. He could move with the girl’s weight across his upper
body only because of the limbs that generated his move-
ment, and for the first time, hoping he might continue on
long enough to reach safety and save their lives—her
life—he was grateful that he was no longer the man he
had been before his crash in the California desert... .
A man could lose everything in one desert and find it in
another. . . . His thoughts dwelled on Tamara. He moved
by rote, by the memory of cells. He could no longer think”
rationally of their immediate position. Moving on with
Tamara, getting her to safety, dominated. He realized
that if he were the same Steve Austin who had been an
astronaut and a test pilot, he might still be alive and
crawling on his belly rather than walking with this sus-
tained pace. Most men who lose ten percent of their body
weight through dehydration die quickly. At fifteen percent,
those who are alive are crippled and raving. He raved,
all right, but he could still feel and he kept moving, and
he felt an accustomed and growing affection for the ve
things that had once made him curse himself as less than
human. His feeling for Tamara was nothing if it wasn’t
human. He thought of the little girl whose life he hi
saved in the flaming bus, and realized with a shock thai
penetrated his benumbed mind that he had been cur
of this obsession with that moment.
He had a fleeting image of Jan Richards, somebod)
from a hundred years ago in a world a million miles away.
He had the eerie sensation that no matter what happene:
this night, or in the hours to come, he was going throu:
rebirth and that a new, a different Steve Austin wi
306
emerging from the figure plodding grimly through the
Sinai. He knew, deep inside, that if he survived she must
survive, and that afterward they would somehow never
be apart.
The sun’s impact staggered him. My God, how long
have I been walking? I don’t even remember dawn, the
sun... He felt the heat baking him, already starting its
slow roasting of his exposed skin, no perspiration any-
where on his body. Not enough water left in him. But the
sun . . . he must find shelter, get into shade. The sun
could kill them both, He looked around, squinting his one
eye in the painful glare, saw nothing to conceal their
bodies from the heat mounting savagely with every mo-
ment. His tongue was swollen, protruding slightly from
his lips, and he thought of the first-aid kit with the pre-
cious liquid. Balancing himself carefully with her body
across his shoulders he removed the kit and brought it
up to his face. Dry as a bone. He threw it from him,
realized he must keep it, use it. He staggered after the kit,
bent carefully, held it before him with one hand, fumbled
for himself with the other. He was shocked to discover
that urine now dripped involuntarily, that he had no con-
trol over his bladder, that he had been dripping away the
last vestiges of body fluids during the night. For the
second time in a few minutes he tossed away the container.
He had to find shelter or Tamara would die even while
she lay across his shoulders. He stood quietly, forcing
himself to think, and rather than plod straight ahead into
the blinding sun, he turned slowly to see if—
Twisted metal.
| A long-barreled gun jutting against the sky.
| The wrecked armored column.
He went ahead, a shambling run, the adrenalin going
through his system. A few hundred yards away, up the
side of a long slope. He went up it recklessly, throwing
away his energy, clawing with his left hand at the ground
for leverage and support, holding Tamara with his right.
made the top, moved into the shadow of a shattered,
urned hulk of a weapons carrier, brought Tamara’s limp
rm painfully from his shoulders to the sand.
ne _ 307
 He staggered back, unbalanced by the sudden change in
pressure on his muscles. He stumbled into the vehicle,
hoping to find a canteen. Nothing. Then to the next. Into
a tank blazing with heat, to a jeep, another, and another,
and nothing. He sat on the ground, numb, trying to curse
and only a croaking sound coming out. The thought hit
him suddenly that he was being a fool, that he wasn’t
thinking. He lurched to a jeep standing upright, its tires
shot away. Standing upright, the engine compartment
untouched. He dropped to the ground, crawled under the
front bumper, searched for the petcock. There. Frozen in
place. He twisted, ignoring the pain. He couldn’t move it.
If he had body water left he would have shed tears in
frustration. Think, you bloody fool, his mind railed at
him. He stared at his hand, the cut fingers that had failed
him, the blood that barely oozed into sight. Use the other
hand, the left hand... .
Steel-clawed fingers closed on the petcock, ripped it
completely away. He shoved his body closer and an acrid
flow of water from the radiator splashed on his face. He
couldn’t believe the incredible sweetness of its touch. He
scrambled about, tore off his left shoe, held it under
what was now a trickle. He tried for some self-control,
dabbed water against his lips, sucked in a mouthful, and
worked it around his mouth and tongue. He managed a
few swallows, felt better, startled with his well-being. He
was thinking clearly now, and he went to a second ve-
hicle, managed a cupful of the radiator water. Holding
the precious fluid in his shoe he started back to woes
he had left Tamara,
She was gone.

308
 CHAPTER 26
Re51636565161cSoSoNENENG NENESE SONOToNOSE NENG
HE LOOKED frantically around, calling her name from his
‘swollen throat. The only answer was the sound of the
wind, the gliding sound of sand between the shattered
vehicles behind him. It was impossible . . . could they
‘have been followed by an Arab patrol? This close to
Israel? But he would have heard engines, he would have
heard something. He forced himself to think, to look
“down. Then he saw it. What had happened. He saw their
footprints, and the depression in the sand where he had
placed her, his own prints leading away, coming back.
But there was another trail, a ragged disturbance leading
away to the left, moving down the slope up which he had
carried her. He managed to hold the shoe with its pre-
ious contents balanced carefully, a dawning suspicion
309
compelling him to move as quickly as he could without
spilling a drop. Then he saw her and he understood what
had happened.
She had regained consciousness after he put her on the
ground. Somehow a final spark of clear thought. She knew
the desert, had lived with its menace most of her life. She
knew Steve could not survive with her as a burden. Re-
gaining consciousness, alone on the sand, she had seen
him off in the distance. This was her chance. She crawled
on her stomach, dragging herself down the slope by her
hands and elbows, seeking some depression in which she
might conceal herself. Anything that would hide her from
him, leave him free to move on by himself.
He found her face down in drifted sand, her hands
outstretched, clawlike, to drag her still farther. Panic
grabbed him as he thought she might have suffocated
with her face buried in the sand. He placed the shoe care-
fully by his side, knelt down to turn her over and hold
her in his arms. He stared at her. Tamara’s face had
become blackened by the terrible dehydration of her body.
Her skin had tightened her lips and gums until they pulled
back to give her a death’s head pallor. Against the darker
mask of skin her teeth had become a vivid white. He
was stunned to notice that even her nose had shrunk, her
eyelids had shriveled so badly that her eyeballs seemed
protruding, marblelike. His right hand felt the parchment
surface of what had been lovely skin. He reached to his
right, moved the shoe closer, dipped his fingers into the
water. He remembered to be careful, to touch her lips
with only drops. He tilted her head back, let water drop
from his fingers into her mouth, sucked instantly into her
body. He kept transferring water to her until the shoe was
dry. Thank God it was having its effect. Her tongue
moved and she moaned, a rasping sound.
He lowered her gently to the sand. He knew he needed
more water himself, more water for her. There was onl}
the brackish, metallic liquid he had found in the vehicles.
But there were others, and he stumbled and ran back t
the scattered remains of the convoy. He looked for
better container, jerked a gasoline can from the rear of
310 A
tank, unscrewed the cap. Bone dry. It would do. He went
from truck to jeep to tank, to every piece of metal, tearing
open radiators, searching for water. He had emptied the
radiators of at least half a dozen jeeps and trucks when
he found it. A five-gallon water can lying in the sand,
the cap sealed. He picked it up, shook it. It was perhaps
a quarter full.
He returned to where she lay on the sand, her eyes
staring vacantly. Again he knelt by her side and opened
the water can, transferring the liquid to his shoe, He con-
tinued to apply water to her mouth and tongue. Perhaps
fifteen minutes later she made her first feeble swallowing
“motions. He continued to wet her lips and drip water into
her mouth. Swallowing at this point could produce a vio-
lent reaction. As the water took its effect, he opened the
gasoline can, poured the brackish water into his other
shoe, and began rubbing the liquid against her face,
massaging firmly but gently.
Before another hour had passed she was fully con-
‘scious, though not yet coherent. He had carried her to
the side of a truck and spread the makeshift cape for
shade. He remembered that it’s always cooler several feet
above the desert floor than on the floor itself—cooler by
twenty to thirty degrees. He tied the cape to a jeep wind-
shield post and placed her carefully in the vehicle, where
he resumed his water treatment. She swallowed slowly,
with decreasing pain. He waited for the inevitable rejec-
tion. It came violently, her system rejecting the water.
Tt would be better now. She managed to keep down
another two cups,
). The continued massaging had worked wonders as her
kin softened from the water and began to soak in the
liquid, just as rawhide softens when exposed to rain.
Finally she slept, and he turned his attention to himself,
drinking slowly and deeply. He thought about the mirror
‘in his pocket and withdrew it to study himself. For a long
‘moment he remained frozen where he stood, staring at the
skull face that reflected back at him. He rubbed his face,
‘Iassaging steadily, drank again. He shook Tamara gently,
forced her to drink again, then drank another cup himself.
311
The survival school had imprinted a warning in his mind.
Never save water in the desert when your body suffers
from dehydration. Replace the water at every opportunity
you have. The cardinal law. You’re liable to lose what
you're carrying around. Have your body soak up every
available drop, But for the moment neither Tamara nor
himself could absorb more. He climbed into the jeep to
cradle her in his arms, and fell fast asleep.
He awoke stiff and cramped. The sun had dropped to
fifteen or twenty degrees above the horizon. This would
be the final night, he knew. He had already made up his
mind what had to be done. There might be pursuers. It
didn’t matter any more. Now was the time to gamble.
First, he brought water to her lips. She swallowed with
relative ease, following his movements with her eyes. Her
skin had regained some of its resiliency although she still
remained in terrible physical condition. More massaging,
more drinking for himself. The water was gone.
He went quickly to work. He had never used the hom-
ing beacon from his right foot, out of fear of detection by
the Russians or the Arabs. Now, closer to the Israeli bor-
der—how close he didn’t know; it could be anywhere
from twenty to fifty miles; they could have wandered
around in wide circles—he would risk everything. He
withdrew the emergency homer, extended the slim wire
antenna from its case and stretched it between two of
the wrecked trucks. He snapped the switch. The battery
should operate for from four to six hours, broadcasting
on 121.5 and 243 megahertz, the international distress
frequencies. It was VHF transmission, which meant its
surface range was limited, but it could be picked up in
direct line of sight for fifty miles or more by somet
in the air—if somebody were listening to either or both
frequencies.
The water had revived him, brought him unexpect
strength, but he knew it would not last much longer. He
climbed into a tank, kicked open the driver’s viewing
for better light, and used his knife to cut free whatev:
webbing harness he could find. He returned to Tam:
adjusted the harness about her. She seemed to be in sh
312
 Back to the vehicles. He tore pieces of wreckage loose,
walked a dozen yards to the side of the convoy and laid
down the metal in the form of a huge arrow that pointed
due east. At the vehicles again, a wrecking bar in his hand
taken from a truck, lugging the empty cans. He went from
one vehicle to the next, pounding holes in fuel tanks until
one can was full, With the can resting against what seemed
to be the least damaged truck, he drained oil systems until
the other can was half-filled with the sluggish fluid. He
poured the gasoline and oil over the tires and inside the
engine of the truck, stepped back a safe distance. He
temoved a flare bomb from his wrist, twisted the fuse,
and threw it against the fuel-saturated tires, He had barely
enough time to turn his eyes away from the ignition flash.
He watched the flames lick through the engine, around
the tires, and along the truck bed. The tires were what
counted. If they could be made to burn they would throw
off a tremendous pall of smoke, and that would bring
someone in a hurry. Maybe, he warned himself. Better
count only on yourself, Austin. He was already tiring from
his exertions, and he knew the water had revived him for
only a limited time. He hurried back to Tamara, helped
her to her feet.
“Tm going to carry you with these straps,” he told her.
She nodded dumbly, then shook her head and tried to
push him away, beating her fists against his chest with the
force of a child. He held her wrists, spoke quietly to her
until she subsided. He went to his knees, urging her to
climb onto his shoulders, her arms hanging forward, her
body fully supported in the webbing. Slowly he stood up,
adjusting her weight with the webbing about his own body.
‘Black smoke rolled heavily into the air, but it was too late;
‘the sun was now below the horizon, and night swept in
‘with the familiar swiftness of the desert. Someone would
‘see that smoke only if they saw it by moonlight. He
checked the compass and started walking, He was still
“muscle sore and stiff from sleeping in the jeep, from the
‘unaccustomed exertions, and he could already feel his
body ANE additional liquid.
313
 Well, there isn’t any, he told himself. And there isn’t
going to be any. So let’s see just how good you really
BlOelace
He was committed now. His heels jarred into the sandy
slope as he worked his way down from the height, stum-
bling in the sudden darkness, wishing the moon were
higher. Several times he adjusted Tamara’s weight on his
back until his shoulder muscles accepted the burden and
moved with the unexpected pressure. He had no time to
set a leisurely pace. He would keep walking until all
movement ceased in his body. Simple as that. Ten or
thirty or fifty miles, It didn’t matter. If someone picked
up the homing transmitter signal they would send heli-
copters to the scene. No question what they would find
there. Smoke pouring into the sky. The arrow on the
ground pointing along his direction of travel.
The temperature had already fallen and he was grateful
for a cool breeze. He needed that and all the help he
could get, He knew his internal systems were wearing out,
that only medical attention, rest, and vast quantities of
liquid pouring through his system would bring his body—
and Tamara’s—back to health.
He glanced at his wristwatch, He had been walking for
hours and his shoulder muscles were cramped into numb-
ness from her weight. He leaned forward, taking more of
her weight across his back. Several times, crossing a low
area strewn with rocks, he stumbled badly, once collaps-
ing to his knees, his hands outthrust to absorb the shock
of striking the ground. A sharp pain knifed through
right hand as it stabbed into a jagged rock edge. He ease
himself to his knees, gasping for breath, afraid to lower
his body all the way to the ground, aware that he wouli
never be able to force himself back to his feet. In the
light of the waxing moon he looked at his hand. He hi
gashed it badly and for a moment he wondered why there
was so little blood. His skin was leathery. No matter that
the cut was deep. The water he had absorbed was alread
mostly consumed by his expenditure of body energy,
he had taken in only a fraction of what his system«
manded, His blood had thickened. It was now slu;
314
unable to flow easily. It crawled, oozed as a thick, viscous
taass, to the surface of the deep gash, welling up slowly,
drying even as he looked. Well, at least he could cut
himself and he wouldn’t bleed to death. Blood is mostly
water and he was back again to cruel dehydration. He
pushed himself to his feet, stood quietly, taking in deep
shuddering breaths. He forced himself to think. Left foot
forward. That was all he needed. No more than that fleet-
ing thought. No forced straining of muscles, the wild effort
of moving a limb leaden with exhaustion, the muscles
cramped, the tendons taut, the arteries and veins and
capillaries sluggish and drowning in their own viscous
substance.
_ Not these legs. Just tickle "em with a little ol’ thought
and whammo! Off we go, into the wild, blue yonder...
His right leg jerked on him, a spasmodic twitch that sent
him reeling to the side.
“Whoa! You summbitch, whoa there!” He heard the
croak of his voice, brought his hand to his mouth, felt the
now shapeless tongue that rested against his teeth. He
pushed the tongue back into his mouth, forcing his teeth
closed. Wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all to have ol’ tongue
hangin’ out like that, now, would it?
He wondered why he had reeled so severely to the side.
It wasn’t the leg. He knew that. Finest you could buy in
the supermarket. Comes wrapped in plastic, right? All
shiny and neat and the ol’ motors whirring away like
crazy in there. It’s your head, Austin, he scolded himself.
O? head is fulla cotton and sand and squirrel shit, that’s
what. Gotta think. Gotta think if gonna walk. . . . Walk,
you son of a bitch, Austin, WALK!
You do it like the manual says for the new cadets. Tha’s
. Move your left foot. Now, before it stops, move the
ightfoot, and then the left, and that’s it, boys, Hup hup
ut harrup threep fourp, dress it up in those ranks, chest
get that gut in, your left, your right, your left, your
... and the long-forgotten voice of a drill sergeant
mmered at his ears, and he started out, left foot, right
, slowly starting to lean once again into his walk, and
e heard the brass of the band and the big drums booming
315
through his mind, sending out the commands, the shooting
trickles of electricity coursing through his system, electro-
chemical nerve processes becoming electrical signals ir
wires, the nuclear generators working the articulated joints.
and he marched, stumbling and lurching across the desert
hour after hour, but by God, he marched.
He got into the rhythm of it, and once started he was
like the pendulum of a clock. His subconscious seemed tc
take over, and he kept walking, moving when he should
have been dead hours before, huddled on the sand o1
amidst the rocks, but the legs, needing only that whisper-
ing urge from his brain, propelled him on and on and on.
Time fled, there was no time, and his body worked fot
him, and he knew that Tamara was a ghostly figure
strapped to his back, and he could not stop, he must not
Stop. vais -
Even then, even the massive numbness of body anc
mind could not disguise the horizon bouncing crazily uf
and down because...
Because he was running.
And how long he had been running he didn’t know
the webbing straps around Tamara cinched tightly so she
wouldn’t be hammered by his pounding, thrusting motion
and he felt her arms slapping against his chest and agains
his arms. He knew he should not be able to walk but he
was running, by God, he was running. His breath soundec
like a barking, gasping cough. No matter. The fire in his
lungs didn’t matter either.
It was storming out there now, the thunder ctathin
in the sky, roaring in his ears, and he could hear the r
beating down, hissing against the sky, hissing against the
ground, and his right leg dropped into a deep hole anc
twisted savagely and he felt or heard something rip,
itself loose from something else. It didn’t matter, the rai
he was falling face first into that wet ground, and
dry sand came up and smashed into his face.
He lay there, stunned, unbelieving. Dry... the sai
dry ... then what .. . what's that rain. . . that noi
There was no liquid for tears or spit or anything,
he choked on sand and tried to spit, but he sounded
316
a frog, coughing, and he tasted something, a blood taste.
He managed to get his arms free of the webbing straps and
crawled out from beneath the weight of Tamara’s still
form. He lifted himself up on his elbow and stared with
his one eye into the dark night above, where strange
ghost shapes danced. Now he heard again that roaring-
hissing-thunder sound. He knew what it was. Turbines.
Turbines and helicopter blades. Jet choppers. Had to be
Israeli, this close to Israel. He yelled. No sound came
from his mouth, only a spray of sand. There was still a
spark left in his mind.
_ He reached into his left wrist, where his fingers fumbled
with the spheres. He was on his knees, twisting with club-
thick fingers at the small sphere. There, he’d done it, and
with his left arm, that once-hated bionics limb, he threw it
as high as it would go.
The flare burst like a star through the dark desert night.
Again. Another sphere, twist, throw!
The dazzling light exploded silently.
' He reached for the third, but he was blinded from the
light stabbing down from above into his eye. There was
nothing left to do. He was inert, frozen, a statue of what
had been a man, a blinded statue on his knees. Which was
how the helicopter crews found him, frozen on his knees,
lednscious but his mind blanked out, his left arm extended,
and the girl unconscious in the webbing, sprawled on the
behind him.

“How are they, Doctor?”

De Rudy Wells looked up from his seat between the
spital beds at Major Mietek Chuen. “They’re going to
it,” Wells said. “The human body is a marvelous
sm. They were literally more dead than alive, but
ey re both,” he smiled, “rather splendid human beings.”
_“Incredible,” said the major.
| “Yes,” the doctor agreed, there being nothing more to
ay. One does not enlarge on a miracle.
~ Chuen shifted his feet uncomfortably, not wanting to
ntrude further. But Wells deserved to know. He could
jel Steve and Tamara later. “The films are excellent,”
317
Chuen told him. “Proof that the Russians have brought
nuclear weapons into what is, in effect, Egyptian territory.
By flying out that airplane, Steve also made it clear they
were on alert status. Israel, backed by your government,
has already warned Moscow to remove immediately every
nuclear device. There’s no question they'll comply. We
still don’t know about the special qualities of their MiG-27.
Next time...”
Wells didn’t give a damn.
He turned from the major to study first Steve’s face,
then Tamara’s. He wanted to know what had happened
out there in the desert. He suspected, though, that he
already knew what was really important.
These two had found one another,
And Steve Austin had found himself.

318
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 Austin was dead, at least he should have been.
What was left of him after the crash
wasn’t enough to make living worthwhile. But the
* government’s Office of Special Operations
thought differently. They were willing to pay any
price to make Colonel Steve Austin into
the kind of man they wanted.
And what OSO wanted, OSO got...a
wholly new kind of man, a man born of a marriage of
bionics and cybernetics. Here would be
a human being with electronically engineered
parts that functioned perfectly.
Powerfully. Incredibly.
Acyborg!
But once they had Steve Austin
together again, they told him what they had really
wanted, what they had wanted all along.
A weapon...
“ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING!”
—Theodore Sturgeon,
Galaxy Magazine

31620

70999°00295

ISBN 0-345-31b20-?