US Air Force Captain Austin Jackman sat quietly with eyes closed in the cargo hold of the military transport, visualizing in his mind the flight he was about to take with eager anticipation. The roar of the plane’s four, eight-bladed turbo prop engines were muted by his helmet, and he found the vibrations coming through the soles of his boots relaxing, even comforting. The jump light turned green, and through the headset in his helmet he heard the pilot say, “Sir, we’re in the drop zone. Uh, you’re sure you want to do this?”
“Affirmative, Lieutenant,” Jackman replied. “You can tell anyone who asks I ordered you to let me out.”
“Roger that, cap. You be careful now.”
Jackman shuffled over to where an airman stood ready to roll up the jump door. He nodded and the airman nodded back, before reaching down and forcefully pulling up the 36-inch wide rolling door. The sound of the turboprops immediately intensified, accompanied by the howl of rushing air. Exiting the aircraft, especially at this speed, he knew, was one of the most dangerous moments. If he misjudged the airflow or his orientation upon exiting, he risked a tail-strike. Hitting the tail of the airplane would of course, he knew, be fatal – either immediately or upon impact with the ground if he were unconscious. He took one last breath and casually somersaulted out the door … then spread his wings.
The first known use of a wingsuit was in the early 1900’s, invented by a French tailor, who unfortunately decided to test it himself by jumping off the Eiffel Tower, with deadly consequences. Several more daredevils attempted the feat in the succeeding years, with quite a few of them unsuccessful, meaning they died, garnering the wingsuit its reputation as a death trap. However, in the late 1990’s, the first “safer” commercial wingsuits started to become available, and the one Jackman was wearing now was a custom-modified version he redesigned himself.
He had always been known to be a bit of a daredevil, sometimes taking risks others considered unwise, including his commanding officers, and other times tip-toing on the edge of insubordination, which he had been told many times was limiting his “upward career mobility.” He was already considered a little old for a captain, having entered his 30’s, but he couldn’t bring himself to muster out. The rush he received from flying a fighter jet was just too much to give up, and for the self-admitted adrenalin junkie, it was the ultimate experience, even better than flying at 200 mph in a wingsuit.
Jackman took his bearings on a distant mountain peak, and slightly adjusted his body position to modify his angle of attack. The purpose of the wingsuit was to give the parachutist greater horizontal movement after jumping, instead of falling relatively straight down as in normal parachuting. Optimally and masterfully used, an expert wingsuit parachutist could travel in excess of 16 miles from the point of departure from the plane. He only needed to go 10 miles total, which by his calculation made his ETA less than 2 more minutes. He spent the time enjoying the feel of the wind pushing against the full mask of his visored helmet, and looked up at the pure blue sky and floating white clouds, beautifully contrasting with the sandy desert hardpan below. The only things marring the perfect surface of the desert were the large dust plumes of three desert-camouflaged Humvees racing towards his landing zone.
Jackman deftly reached left, right, then down to unzip the wings of his wingsuit, which was necessary for him to grasp the lines of his parachute above his head once deployed and run a bit upon landing. He pulled the ripcord of his chute and the sudden deceleration felt like he was being jerked upwards, though he knew that wasn’t really the case. He was falling the entire time, just abruptly much slower. Jackman pulled his steering lines perfectly and only had to take three running steps on landing, coming to a stop still on his feet. As his parachute slowly collapsed behind him, he watched at least a dozen soldiers stream out of the Humvees with M-16 rifles leveled at him, spreading out in a semi-circle yelling, “On your knees, on your knees!”
He complied and sank to his knees, raising his hands and choosing not to antagonize so many armed and clearly pumped up soldiers with guns pointed at him, as a lieutenant colonel exited the center Humvee and strode towards him.
Jackman flipped up his visor and said, “Nice of you to come pick me up, Boots. Quite the welcoming party you sent.”
A look of exasperation and annoyance flashed across Lt Colonel Richard Booten’s face as he recognized Jackman and said, “Stand down, gentlemen. This here’s Captain Jackman, our newest pilot, and world-class dumbass.”
***
“What, Captain Jackman, made you think it was a good idea to parachute onto a highly secure, top secret Air Force base, without prior authorization?” General Steve Coppler, white-haired with matching mustache, looked at Jackman from behind his government-issued desk that looked like it was made from 500 pounds of solid steel. “You could have been shot.”
Jackman stood at attention in front of the general’s desk, not having been invited to sit down, staring fixedly at the clock that hung above the general’s window behind him. The office looked like a typical military office, albeit a big one, on a typical base. Standard, drab, government-issue everything, from the chairs, to the filing cabinets, to the trashcan. Even the paintings on the wall seemed to be duplicates Jackman could swear he had seen in other offices just like this one. Lt Colonel Booten sat relaxed on a side couch, enjoying the show.
“Sir, I received orders at 1900 hours yesterday to report to you here with all speed. The only aircraft headed in this general direction within the following eight hours was the C-130 transport, which I knew would not be permitted to land as the crew do not have the appropriate security clearances. Therefore, I requested the pilot to fly just outside the base’s airspace at which point I determined I could travel the remaining distance via wingsuit. So I could arrive here … with all speed … sir,” Jackman finished lamely. It did seem a little ridiculous after saying it out loud. Sounded like a good idea at the time, though, he thought. Plus he got to try out his new wingsuit for the first time.
The general shook his head slowly. “Your reputation is certainly well-deserved, captain. I must admit you got here quickly, however unconventionally.” He paused for a moment, as if trying to decide how to continue. Finally, he waived casually at a chair and said, “Sit down, Jackman.” After Jackman sat, Coppler continued, “What do you know about Project Eos?”
Jackman remained silent for a moment, perhaps deliberating what he should or should not admit to hearing, and said, “I’ve heard rumors it’s a black project related to experimental aircraft, sir. That’s all I know.”
General Coppler looked thoughtful. “Well, if that’s all you know, then the little you know is correct. It’s blacker than black, and it relates to an experimental aircraft light years ahead of conventional technology. Instead of manual interface, it’s controlled purely through neurotechnology. You think what you want the aircraft to do, and it does it. There is no control stick, there are no gauges, no pedals. You literally will things to happen, and they happen. That is,” he paused, “if you’re compatible.”
“Compatible, sir?” Jackman looked skeptical. “How do you know if you’re compatible?”
Coppler shook his head. “We don’t know, frankly. Some pilots are more compatible with the technology than others. Some can actually take her for a flight. Others can barely make her move. We just don’t know until we try.”
The general looked directly at Jackman. “I’m not going to order you to fly this plane, captain. It’s completely up to you if you want to try. I need to warn you there is some pre-conditioning required before you can fly the plane which we have found to enhance an individual’s ability to control it, but the pre-conditioning isn’t pleasant, involving transcranial direct current stimulation to the brain.”
He paused again. “So what do you think, Jackman?”
“Sir, I’m in. If the others can handle it, I know I can.” Jackman paused a beat. “How many other pilots are there, sir?”
The general looked at him steadily, “You’re the only one, captain, the only one.”