"What part of 'No' don't you understand, Marsden?" Colonel Stephen Caldwell, USAF, commander of Space Station Benjamin Franklin, had already been working up a fine head of steam before I set foot in his office that morning. Apparently there was some sort of snit-fit going on in Washington over the latest exploits of the Stingray crew and Caldwell was catching flack over it. Which made my request, respectfully though it may have been made, just one more straw piled on that there camel's back.
"The part where you tell me I can't have what I've offered half again the market price for, I think it was," I snarked back. Bad idea.
"The market price of fucking scrap metal, sure!" he roared, waving a hand to indicate the station around us. "You've got plenty of scrap aluminum and iron, Marsden, what the hell do you want with a bunch of F-14's?"
I politely refrained from pointing out that I was actually offering about five times the price of scrap metal. It was more like half again what it would cost the Navy to preserve the birds in question. Instead, I tried what I was actually doing. "It's all about the 'wave, Steve. These birds remember being fighters. Doing turns and burns, watching the skies, having fire in their bellies. New frames, even if I could get -117's, just wouldn't have that. And with what's going on out here I don't want to be standing around holding my ass when the Black Hats come for me."
His face was getting red at that. If I'd been worried Mount Caldwell was about to erupt before, I was already backing away, now. "Why don't you make like your buddies and build a bunch of X-Wings or something, then?" he demanded.
The US military's never liked the idea that there were random lunatics like us running around with more firepower than a tank platoon. On the other hand, it did bring us to the meat of my problem. "For what I want to do? Colonel, the F-14 Tomcat is the best goddamn plane on the planet." And now we segue into the old AirForce/Navy rivalry, I thought, getting ready to make my real pitch. He'd always had a soft spot for the show I was thinking about, and once I got to the right point in his rant...
"... and for that matter, why don't you use a proper Air Force frame for it? The F-15's the best fighter ever built."
"Yes, and they're still in active service. Washington would kill me if I walked off with any. The Tomcats, on the other hand, are bleaching in the Boneyard. Who would you rather take them, me, or Iranians looking for spare parts for the few that they have left?" Iranians being rather high on the President's shit-list at the moment, that ought to weigh a little in my favor.
"So just what are you making that you need F-14's for the frame, anyway?"
He was almost calm now. Damn. "This," I said, and a wave of my hand over my PDA swept a pair of files into his workstation's secure inbox. I waited the requisite few seconds while his anti-virus scanner decided if they were safe to open, and then watched his face as he looked them over. "In my opinion, the VF-1S is the, period, single best spaceborne fighter craft ever designed. And the coolest, which when we're talking Goop counts for a hell of a lot. Rei did most of the work on the design -- she's our expert on humanoid robotic systems -- but we need the basic frame to be something that knows what it's meant to be."
"Hrm," he mused, rubbing his chin as he looked over the plans. "It's a good design, alright. What do you think we'd get if we tried it with a -15, though?"
"We're not sure right now, but I'm thinking VA-6 Alpha. Decent interceptor, good ground-support airframe... make a heck of a convoy escort. If we could get Eagle airframes. Or if you wanted to do the hack yourselves."
He shook his head at that. The official Washington attitude towards Handwavium was still rather... untrusting. That was what the TSAB was all about, after all, and a reason why I'd backed them so heavily getting started up here. "Maybe, maybe," he finally said. "In the meantime..." He paused for a moment, then I heard a 'ping' as a file settled into my PDA's inbox. "Be discreet."
Which is how I, at least one Rei, and a couple of dozen Rockhounds with flight experience wound up hovering Sleipner over Tuscon, AZ, at oh-dark-hundred one fine February morning. When all Hell broke loose.
--
Sucrose Octanitrate.
Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode.
"The part where you tell me I can't have what I've offered half again the market price for, I think it was," I snarked back. Bad idea.
"The market price of fucking scrap metal, sure!" he roared, waving a hand to indicate the station around us. "You've got plenty of scrap aluminum and iron, Marsden, what the hell do you want with a bunch of F-14's?"
I politely refrained from pointing out that I was actually offering about five times the price of scrap metal. It was more like half again what it would cost the Navy to preserve the birds in question. Instead, I tried what I was actually doing. "It's all about the 'wave, Steve. These birds remember being fighters. Doing turns and burns, watching the skies, having fire in their bellies. New frames, even if I could get -117's, just wouldn't have that. And with what's going on out here I don't want to be standing around holding my ass when the Black Hats come for me."
His face was getting red at that. If I'd been worried Mount Caldwell was about to erupt before, I was already backing away, now. "Why don't you make like your buddies and build a bunch of X-Wings or something, then?" he demanded.
The US military's never liked the idea that there were random lunatics like us running around with more firepower than a tank platoon. On the other hand, it did bring us to the meat of my problem. "For what I want to do? Colonel, the F-14 Tomcat is the best goddamn plane on the planet." And now we segue into the old AirForce/Navy rivalry, I thought, getting ready to make my real pitch. He'd always had a soft spot for the show I was thinking about, and once I got to the right point in his rant...
"... and for that matter, why don't you use a proper Air Force frame for it? The F-15's the best fighter ever built."
"Yes, and they're still in active service. Washington would kill me if I walked off with any. The Tomcats, on the other hand, are bleaching in the Boneyard. Who would you rather take them, me, or Iranians looking for spare parts for the few that they have left?" Iranians being rather high on the President's shit-list at the moment, that ought to weigh a little in my favor.
"So just what are you making that you need F-14's for the frame, anyway?"
He was almost calm now. Damn. "This," I said, and a wave of my hand over my PDA swept a pair of files into his workstation's secure inbox. I waited the requisite few seconds while his anti-virus scanner decided if they were safe to open, and then watched his face as he looked them over. "In my opinion, the VF-1S is the, period, single best spaceborne fighter craft ever designed. And the coolest, which when we're talking Goop counts for a hell of a lot. Rei did most of the work on the design -- she's our expert on humanoid robotic systems -- but we need the basic frame to be something that knows what it's meant to be."
"Hrm," he mused, rubbing his chin as he looked over the plans. "It's a good design, alright. What do you think we'd get if we tried it with a -15, though?"
"We're not sure right now, but I'm thinking VA-6 Alpha. Decent interceptor, good ground-support airframe... make a heck of a convoy escort. If we could get Eagle airframes. Or if you wanted to do the hack yourselves."
He shook his head at that. The official Washington attitude towards Handwavium was still rather... untrusting. That was what the TSAB was all about, after all, and a reason why I'd backed them so heavily getting started up here. "Maybe, maybe," he finally said. "In the meantime..." He paused for a moment, then I heard a 'ping' as a file settled into my PDA's inbox. "Be discreet."
Which is how I, at least one Rei, and a couple of dozen Rockhounds with flight experience wound up hovering Sleipner over Tuscon, AZ, at oh-dark-hundred one fine February morning. When all Hell broke loose.
--
Sucrose Octanitrate.
Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode.