Archive for November 2nd, 2009


“The Righteous Stuff” – Chapter 16

November 2, 2009

The Righteous Stuff

by Jeffrey D. Waggoner

based on characters and situations in the

“Domination of the Draka” novels written by S.M. Stirling









General Boyd walked into the cinderblock office building that housed the Pacific Aircraft offices. It was almost comfortable, although the aging air conditioners made the air a lot more humid than it ever was outside, on the desert. He smiled at the receptionist. “Alice, is Jack Ridley here?”

“Yes, sir, just one moment.” She picked up the phone, spoke quietly. “He’ll be out in just a moment, General.”

“That’s okay, Alice, I know the way.” Boyd breezed past the secretary, who was too in awe to protest. He walked back down the narrow hallway to the last door on the left, and met Ridley as he was coming out the door.

“Sit down, Jack. I’d rather speak to you here if I could.”

“Well, sure.” As Ridley backpedaled into the small office, he had to make room for Stoddard, who was right behind him. The three men shuffled around the room, already full of papers, a drafting board, and a filing cabinet. Stoddard went out into the hall and returned with another metal folding chair.

Once the dance was over, and all three were seated, Boyd handed a thin manila folder to Ridley. “Jack, I need a favor, and I’d like it to be kept quiet.”

“Whatever you need, sir.” Ridley glanced down at the folder, opened it and scanned the contents.

“Now, I know you’re not Air Force any more, Jack, and I can’t order this. Still, I think I can help you and you can help me.” He paused, while Jack finished leafing through the pages in the folder. “You know we’re eating up pilots ’way faster than we wish we did out here. People in New York are actually starting to notice. The Congress has made some inquiries, and I’m afraid some loudmouth Congressman is going to start an investigation. We lost sixteen pilots this year, out of a total of only about fifty. That’s too many good men gone, and too many planes lost as well.”

“General, you know as well as I do that you have to test prototype planes until they break. That’s how you reduce your losses in the field. You have to accept that some of us aren’t coming back. We don’t like it either, but we all know that it’s the way it is. Nobody is more careful than an old test pilot.”

Stoddard snorted. “Jack, there are no old test pilots. You’re not even forty!”

“And I plan to be older. Anyway, what does any of this have to do with this Northfield guy?”

Boyd sat back and waved at the folder in Ridley’s hand. “This young man is the most intuitive pilot our folks have ever seen. He started flying at fourteen, near as we can figure, and was flying old Stout trimotors commercially before he was out of high school­–legal or not. Lots of stuff like that happened during the war, in out-of-the-way places like that.” He shook his head. “He’s been prime test pilot for the Navy for the past six months at Pax River, wringing out all their new carrier planes.”

“A squid?” Jack, all Air Force, raised an eyebrow.

“Some of my best friends are Navy, Jack,” Stoddard reminded him.

“Went to engineering school at Patrick Henry U in Cleveland, of all places, and they only had Naval ROTC. Naval ROTC, on a lake! It was his ticket off the farm, I gather. Lots of farm boys join the Navy, for some reason.” Boyd chuckled. “Probably better than lookin’ at the ass end of a mule all day, even bein’ a squid.”

“So we get this Navy hotshot. Am I supposed to babysit him?” Ridley was starting to get annoyed at the prospects of taking care of some Admiral’s fair-haired boy.

“Nope. I’m assigning you two to the same team. I just thought you would like to know more about him, and maybe help him feel a little more at home. Us blue-suiters could give him some serious trouble, and I don’t want him getting killed trying to prove himself to you guys.” Boyd was about to go into commanding-officer mode, Ridley knew, and even if Ridley was a civilian contractor’s employee, they served at the pleasure of the Air Force. Ridley never forgot that, nor did he ever forget his Air Force training.

“Yes, sir. I’ll watch out for him. But if he’s as good as this says–and you say he is–I won’t be much use. Squid or no squid, he’s a pilot. He’ll test himself, as well as the planes.” He paused, then said thoughtfully, “But you mentioned assigning us to a team…”

“Right. You, he, Hoover, Ehricke, Stoddard here, two guys from out west. You’re the test team for the X-14 prototype. It’s time to get it out of the hangar and into the air.”

“You’re joking! The bomber…”

“Is just about ready. It should be out here in February. Before that, you get Al checked out in the X-7a. It should be ready to go for hypersonic the end of January, after the deck is tight again.” The winter rains would begin soon, and the hard desert surface they used for runways would be mud for a couple of weeks to a month. It was the closest thing to a vacation anyone ever got, here.

“Hoover and I were supposed to fly that one…”

“Hoover’s going to be checked out by the Convair boys as test pilot for the bomber. At Mach two, carrying that monster on its back, that’s the real problem–not flyin’ a plywood glider.” Boyd stood, and the others stood with him, old military reflexes kicking in. “I know Bob Hoover won’t like it, but it’s the biggest high-performance airplane in the world, and I think he’ll get over it once he sees the thing. It’s pretty impressive.”

Suddenly a tremendous boom rattled the windows and bounced the coffee cup on the file cabinet. All three men looked out the window, even though it faced away from the flight line. The sound of the fire trucks and ambulances came almost immediately.

“Take care of this one, Jack,” said Boyd. “We need all the great pilots we can get.” He sighed. “ I best get out there and see.”


“V” remake on ABC tomorrow night…

November 2, 2009

Diana from the old series

I don’t know if the new series will be any good or not. The old one started out trying to serious, with references to the Holocaust and such, but unfortunately spiraled down to camp. The new one is supposed to have great “production values,” which means they spent real dollars on CGI, but that’s not enough to keep it going. They did do one brilliant bit of casting, though:


Morena Baccarin

She was gorgeous and cool in Firefly, and was understated but showed acting talent in Heartland. She’s done a bunch of other stuff that I didn’t know about until I looked her up in IMDB. She might be the producers’ secret weapon.


“The Righteous Stuff” – Chapter 15

November 2, 2009

The Righteous Stuff

by Jeffrey D. Waggoner

based on characters and situations in the

“Domination of the Draka” novels written by S.M. Stirling








Nathaniel Stoddard sat in the air-conditioned office of the head honcho, as he liked to think of him, Major General Albert Boyd, the Director of the Flight Test Facility. The Facility had no real name, since it in many official ways didn’t really exist. Stoddard assumed they were waiting for a really important pilot to get himself killed, somebody famous, and then name the place after him.

The trouble was that nobody here was famous, he thought. Probably every world flight record was broken here every week, and nobody outside of here and maybe Langley knew anything about it. The whole place was so hush-hush it didn’t even appear on any maps. There was a huge desert area marked “US Army Proving Ground,” but even with the six long runways marked on the dry lake, this facility took up less than a tenth of the area the Army declared as off-limits.

That was fine with Stoddard. It made his job–his real job–that much easier. His cover, that was something else again. He had spent the last six weeks getting up to speed on aircraft maintenance from men who didn’t even know what kind of engines they were using here! It was likely he would be discovered, his cover blown, in a day or two. That was fine with him, too. This damnfool stunt was dreamed up by the boys in the OSS in New York, and if it didn’t work out he could go home before Christmas.

General Boyd came back into the office and sat down behind the desk. A fine former test pilot himself, Boyd was much like Stoddard in that he hated to be behind a desk all day. As he started to speak, a set of jet engines wound up outside the building, across the road on the flight line, and Boyd stopped and swiveled his chair to see out the plate glass windows.

The whole building was glass, the new trend in government office buildings. Even though the air conditioning worked reasonably well right now, the high desert of California was a true test of the skill of the engineers who designed the system for this building. In December it was comfortable. Stoddard had his doubts about August. With a little luck, he would be long gone from here by then.

The engines were screaming now, and then, a flash of a white shape between the hangars across the road. Stoddard had no idea what was taking off. It moved so fast even on the ground that he barely saw it at all.

“-9, doing speed runs out on the desert today. Testing the new afterburners. Mach two-five level, one point two on climb. Let’s see the Snakes beat that–supersonic on climb!” Boyd was obviously excited about the plane, and seemed genuinely excited about all the tests going on. “You know, Nate, this is a dream come true for someone like me, except that they won’t let me fly any more. At least, nothing that goes two point five Mach!” He leaned back and chuckled. “I hate it, and I bitch, and I get nowhere. Still, this is where it’s happening, and I’d sure hate to be anywhere else.”

“I understand, sir. It must be exciting for you. For me, it’s somewhat disconcerting. I’m sure my cover will be blown inside of forty-eight hours.” Stoddard’s horse face looked more disconsolate than usual.

It was not enough to spoil Boyd’s mood. “Cheer up, son. It could be worse. You could be in Japan.”

Stoddard had to agree with that. Japan was still a mess, recovering from political upheaval, the nuclear bombings of the war and related radiation deaths, and constant infiltration and sabotage by the Draka’s Asian spies. Even MacArthur had given up in disgust. There was word the new governor would be General Patton, and it was just possible there would need to be another bloodbath before the situation settled down.

Boyd continued, “You obviously wouldn’t work out as an engine maintenance man. I don’t even know how those engines are put together, anymore! I’m going to assign you to one of my best pilots, to be sort of his personal secretary. He’s an engineer besides, damn fine one. And he’s been flying all the really secret stuff. He may just be the first man into space, if he’s careful and lucky. His name’s Jack Ridley, and I’ve already let him know what we’re up to. You’ll like him, I think. He’s a real personable sort.”

“Thank you, sir. This might just work, if no one questions me for any length of time. Ridley might help a lot with that.”

Boyd stood, and Stoddard stood in return. They shook hands, and Boyd called to his secretary to give Stoddard directions as to where he might find Jack Ridley. Stoddard headed out of the building, turned left and walked about a half mile north to the Pacific Aircraft hangars.


Pacific Aircraft, the result of a pending merger between Bell and Consolidated Aircraft, had moved their headquarters and manufacturing plants to San Diego a couple of months before. The old Bell Aircraft facilities in upstate New York were too far from any flight test fields that were being used for any of their new designs, and California was the place to be. The complex of hangars here was used for final assembly, and for maintenance of test aircraft. There was also a low, single-story building next to the hangars made of cement block, with small windows mounted high. It didn’t look very imposing for the place where such amazing things were being done. The hangars, six of them, were painted white. The letters “PACIFIC” had recently been painted on them in red, but the paint was already peeling. Stoddard walked past the first three hangars to the white single-story building, which had a low sign out front that said “Operations.”

Inside, the air conditioners were noisy and the air was humid, remarkable in the desert. A tired-looking secretary in her late twenties looked up from her desk.

“I’m here to see Jack Ridley. General Boyd sent me.” Stoddard told the secretary. She nodded, not even speaking, picked up a phone and pressed a single button.

“He’s here.” She spoke quietly, then put the phone down and smiled at Stoddard. She still looked tired. “He’s expecting you. He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Major? I’m Jack Ridley.” Ridley came around the corner from the corridor and put out his hand. Stoddard was surprised how short Ridley was. He was about his age, and tanned leathery from the desert sun. From the briefing materials Stoddard had read, he knew that Ridley had been out here since just after the end of the war. Ace in the war, flying P-42s against Japan. Eight definite kills, two maybes. Somehow he also managed to pick up a degree in aeronautical engineering and another in mathematics. “Glad you could come while I’m still around. Gotta go to Langley for a few days, leavin’ tomorrow. Come on down to my office, and we’ll talk.” Ridley had the Oklahoma drawl of his youth, and Stoddard wouldn’t have been surprised if he exaggerated it for effect. Langley, he thought. Oh…he means the one in the tidewater country of Virginia, where they test airplanes. The other one is supposed to be secret, even from these people.

Ridley’s office was a little bigger than a closet, and had no desk, just a drafting board and mountains of paper. He apologized for the mess and swept a pile of blueprints off a chair, motioning to Stoddard to sit. There were blueprints taped to one wall, a development sequence chart to the other. At least Ridley had one of the small windows, half taken up by a wheezing window air conditioning unit. Through the window Stoddard could see the flight line, with two silver dart shapes on the concrete. They were a couple of hangars away, maybe two hundred yards; one had three technicians looking it over, with inspection hatches open. A couple of carts of equipment were sitting next to the plane. The other plane was sitting alone, without a technician within fifty yards. Security nightmare, thought Stoddard. They think no one wants to come out here and bother them, that they’re safe. “Let’s go outside, Jack,” said Stoddard suddenly. “I’d rather see what’s going on right away.”

Ridley looked surprised, but agreed. “Well, okay, if you want to. I hoped I could give you some background first…”

“Let’s do that on the way. What’s the newest plane out here?”


The two men walked past the first dart shape, the one with the technicians working on it. Ridley stopped about twenty feet away, and waved at the techs. “This is the X-7. It’s a testbed for the second-generation scramjet–that’s supersonic ramjet—the engine that Dornberger’s boys have been having so much trouble with. I flew the X-6, with the first generation scram, ten times in the past year. It eats fuel like a bandit, and still is really touchy on the controls, but we went over Mach 4 with it, consistently, flight after flight.” He shook his head. “This little beast is designed to be mostly engine, so it won’t be able to land back here unless we fly it a long ways away hung on the bomber, then drop it and shoot back to Corum.”

“It looks like it’s all engine,” Stoddard remarked as he walked around the plane.

“Practically so. The whole underbelly is a part of the engine, really. It’s really hard to maintain the supersonic airflow through the engine. I flamed the ’6 out a half a dozen times before Ehricke figured out the airflow was dropping subsonic way too early. The design of the plane won’t do it, so they had to start over. Back in the late Forties they thought they had it figured out, but it took years to get it right. The computers say this design will handle really high airflow speeds—the engine will work until the airframe melts.” He chuckled. “That’s what we like to hear. Like there’s not enough to worry about with the plane already.”

Stoddard looked thoughtful. “How do you control something that goes that fast? It seems to me that the control surfaces are too small. Not like the flaps and stuff on a regular plane.”

“At 4,000 miles an hour, it doesn’t take much to turn one of these! The X-6 over-controlled because the linkage was hydraulically-controlled. It felt like it was boosted too much, and they never did get it fixed. This thing has a “fly-by-wire” system, which means the movements of the stick just send electrical signals to the computer. It does all the work. Next, they say they can put the computer in the loop to help control the plane, smooth out all the little wiggles humans put in.” He chuckled and shook his head again. “Sure. But those wiggles helped keep me alive more than once. You gotta feel what she’s doin’, you know?”

They walked over to the second plane. This one was larger than it appeared from the office, but looked a lot like the big brother of the X-7. Ridley waved at it. “This one scares me—even me! It’s officially called the X-7a, because it really is just a bigger, two-place version of the X-7. That worries me, because you can’t just scale up an airplane design—if you could, you could grow grasshoppers the size of locomotives. This stuff”—he walked over and ran his hand over the wing—“is the most amazing material I’ve ever seen. Nobody has ever given me a good story on how it was invented. It’s sort of a cermet, you know what that is?”

Stoddard grunted. “Sort of.”

“Anyway, it’s not like any other cermet I’ve seen, and I’ve seen most of ’em. This stuff doesn’t get hot. The X-6 was the first plane to have it, and I hopped out onto the wing after flyin’ Mach four and it wasn’t even warm! Nobody knows how strong it really is, either. You can’t cut it; it’s forged somehow, into pieces exactly the right size and shape. The good thing is they can make two as cheap as one, so we have spare parts. We just don’t break any!”

“Look, Ridley, you know I’m here to deal with security issues…”

“I know, I know. And it’s just sittin’ here. You can’t tell anything by lookin’ at the plane, and you for sure can’t saw off a piece of this stuff. The extra castings are in San Diego, at the Pacific factory. I suppose you could take pictures—the design is dictated by the airflows, so if anyone had a good computer, they could probably model the same thing.”

Stoddard stopped him. “No, they can’t. Our intelligence says that the Snakes are working on the same kind of things we are. They don’t have our computer technology yet, as far as we can tell. You guys model these airframes in the computer somehow, right?”

“Sure. We have about six different airflow simulators…”

“Well, the Snakes built the biggest nuclear reactor farm in the world on the Dnieper River. We think they built a wind tunnel there, maybe they can get over 4,000 miles per hour out of it. I can’t imagine it! But they have a big military base on the Black Sea, and it would be the perfect place to do the kind of stuff you do here.” He waved his hand around. “After the war, not too many people were left there, you know. It’s a lot like here, in fact. Anyway, they could learn a lot from a few pictures here. As far as San Diego, I’ll make a few calls.”

“Good. That’s the key, really. Without this miracle stuff, we could never build these planes. We were hitting a real brick wall until last spring, when they made this breakthrough. You know, for all I know, this stuff could come from outer space!”

Stoddard let that comment pass. “So when does this one go up?”

“We’re waiting for a new plane to carry it. It’s too big for conventional bombers. The XB-60 will be ready in a month or so. It’s the only supersonic bomber we have, though I don’t know what we need one for. Curtiss­–Convair is building that baby. Lowest bidder, don’tcha know. It’s a big mother, though, ’way over-designed for carrying bombs to Snakeland. Takes too much fuel to make it there and back. I think it’s the orbital carrier, but nobody tells me much.”

“Orbital carrier?”

“Yeah, the plane that will lift the first orbital spaceplane. Miracle stuff or not, we can’t carry enough methane, or hydrogen, for that matter, for a real orbital mission. If we can get a ramjet-scramjet-rocket hybrid working, we can fly it to orbit. It just can’t take off from the ground by itself. The ‘blue sky boys’ are talking about antimatter…” He drifted off, looking at the horizon.

“Blue sky boys. Antimatter. Pulp-novel stuff?”

“Nope, not really. They say it will take a while, and a heck of a lot of energy, but it’s possible. A teaspoon would take that baby to the moon.” Ridley smiled, as he waved toward the plane. “But you need someplace to keep it. That’s the trick. Room-temperature superconductors, magnetic bottles, stuff like that. The Blue Sky Boys are working on it.”

“Who are they?” Stoddard looked puzzled now. He thought that was just a nickname, but now it sounded sort of official.

“Officially, the ‘Advanced Research Projects Agency.’ Sometimes one of them comes out here and briefs Dornberger and Ehricke. Ehricke talks too much. I can’t believe he was a very good Nazi. Anyway, they do all kinds of crazy stuff. They say they’re mapping the next twenty years in space. We had this guy in here a couple of weeks ago, a squid name of Heinlein, a Captain, real stuffed shirt looked like to me. All spit-and-polish, not like us out here. Scared holy hell out of the Germans, too. I don’t know what he told them. Ehricke was real quiet about that one.” They walked off toward the sixth hangar. Unlike the others, the hangar doors were closed.

“I’ve heard of ARPA. They’re based out of Langley, I think. A friend of mine used to work with them. He’s not able to talk about it, but he’s hinted that he had some great stories to tell.”

“I don’t doubt it. I might find out tomorrow, when I go to get briefed. I want you to see this; if there’s anything to protect around here, this is it.” Ridley took out his keys from his pocket, selected two, and unlocked both locks on the passage doors. He opened the door and flipped on the light switches inside.


The hangar was filled with a single aircraft, painted gleaming white. Stoddard let his eyes adjust for a moment. The plane barely looked like it would fly. It didn’t even have wings, not really; just small fins on the ends of a big, triangular–shaped box. The box was curved and streamlined, and looked like it was moving even while it was standing still. Instead of landing gear, the plane sat on three large support jacks. The two men walked inside the hangar and Ridley carefully locked the door behind him.

“This one we don’t want the Draka to see. It won’t ever fly, not under its own power. It’s a mockup, mostly plywood over an aluminum frame. It’ll either be the X-11 or X-14, depends on how long it takes to build.”

The plane was easily twice the length of the other test planes Stoddard had seen; maybe ninety to a hundred feet long. The mockup had no markings on it, no tail number, no nothing. It was covered in featureless white paint. It somehow made it look even larger. Stoddard figured it was almost the size of a medium–sized airliner. “Why the numbers?” he asked.

“The numbers up to eleven are taken. Twelve is some kind of unmanned missile, being tested on the California coast. It’s supposed to be smart enough to fly down the street on its own and take out a building. I’ll believe that when I see it.” Ridley turned to him and smiled. “And no self-respecting pilot would fly number 13, no way.”

“So why is the mockup out here?”

“Remember that big bomber they promised? Somehow, this thing is supposed to sit on top of the wing, which is one big triangle, okay? Then the bomber takes off and flies around, to see if it’s stable enough with the mockup on top. The computers say so, but nobody every really knows until we take it out and try it.” Ridley waved up at the ship and continued. “What makes this important to you is that it is a major jump in airframe design. The wind tunnel the Draka built is nothing compared to the computer time that went into the design of this thing. If it works, we’ll be years ahead of them. Even fuzzy pictures could save them months, if not years, of design experimentation. I’ve been griping about the security here for weeks. Hell, that’s probably why you’re assigned to me, to try to keep me happier and shut me up. The pilots don’t worry because they can’t fly it, and the brass think a couple of locks is enough. Dornberger is worried, but they just figure that’s his Nazi paranoia at work.”

Ridley headed for the door, unlocking it and shutting off the lights. “So that’s the crazy stuff. Otherwise, we just fly planes faster than anyone else, and every year, about a dozen of us or more get killed by them. Any questions?”


Apollo 17’s American Flag

November 2, 2009

Apollo 17 flag from LROThis image from the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter shows the American flag that was left on the Moon by Apollo 17, as well as the Lunar Module Descent Stage.

Americans (and some former German rocket scientists, OK, sure) did this, folks. We could do it again.

Yeah, faked. Riiight.


TRS: 100K words!

November 2, 2009

I hit the magic number of 100,000 words today! I’m in the middle of Jaeger’s flight and haven’t decided yet if he lives! Things are proceeding well. I’ll post another chapter or two soon.

I think the book will wrap up at around 110,000 words.