The Demon Drivers BOOK IV - Ch. 4: The Debriefing
The Demon Drivers BOOK IV
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Parker climbed out of Simulator Thirteen and looked around. Nearly all the members of The Suicide Squad had departed. A few stragglers still lined the railing. They stood looking down at him, exchanging comments from too far away to be heard.
Parker followed General Ramsey toward the stairs. He saw Gunner and Alex Rojas leaving through a nearby door. Just before the door closed, Gunner stopped and turned back. His eyes met Parker’s. Gunner grabbed his own throat with both hands. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
“Yep, you definitely choked.”
Parker turned around. Colby stood watching Gunner’s antics, a wry smile on his face. Sunny, Bubba and Igby walked up behind Colby, followed by Wendy, Tupper and Royd. When Parker looked back, Gunner was gone.
“Everyone, please follow me for debriefing,” said General Ramsey.
* * *
Upstairs, in the conference room, Parker pulled out a chair along with the other kids. They sat around the massive rectangular table, their helmets on the table in front of them. This time, Colby did not prop his feet upon the table.
Wendy, Royd, and Tupper sat down together on one side of the room. General Ramsey stood at the head of the table. He looked down at the five gloomy kids. A large video screen graced the wall behind him.
Parker waited anxiously. Anything would be better than this tense silence.
At last, General Ramsey said, “I’d say that was one heck of a first day.”
“How did we do, General?” Bubba asked in earnest.
“I’ll let the mission telemetry speak for itself. Doctor, if you please.”
“Certainly, General.” Dr. Seabrook tapped a wireless display on the table in front of him. The wide screen behind General Ramsey flashed to life and the overhead lights dimmed.
The monitor showed blue sky and a vast expanse of rugged high desert terrain. A Battle-suit appeared in midair. On the left side of the monitor appeared a small sub-screen, a separate point-of-view shot from inside a Battle-suit cockpit. In one corner of this sub-screen was a third feed depicting its pilot. The feed showed Parker inside Simulator Thirteen. He was looking around, making adjustments to his instruments.
“Hey, Park!” said Bubba. “Look at you in your KID Suit and helmet! You look great. Like you’re ready to kick some serious plasma.” Bubba grinned. “Doesn’t he look great, Sunny?”
“He looks like a real pilot,” Sunny replied.
“Thanks,” said Parker.
“It takes more than just good looks,” said Colby. “Believe me, I know. It takes a lot of hard work.” Colby began to sing in a high-pitched voice. “‘Hard work good, and hard work fine, but first, take care of head. I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.’” Colby stopped singing and said, “‘Boo, creepy foot doctor. Hooray, beer!’ ‘Mister Chinedu, this is the Rastafarian Leprechaun calling. I got twelve jobs, mon.’”
Colby fell silent.
“Done?” asked the General.
“I think so.”
“Good. Skip ahead, please, Doctor, to the beginning of the festivities,” said General Ramsey.
The video footage advanced at high-speed, skimming over the lightning storm and Parker’s free-fall and landing. On screen, Parker quickly took off again and hovered in midair as four other Battle-suits appeared in the sky around him. Four sub-screens appeared beneath Parker’s. They showed similar points-of-view of the other Battle-suits and the four kids inside their cockpits.
“Hey, look at me!” said Bubba. “Look at you, Sunny! You look cool.”
“She sure does,” added Igby.
“Thanks,” said Sunny. She smiled.
Parker felt that funny feeling gain. Like he wanted to be back in his apartment, alone with Sunny and Bubba, opening the bright yellow gift Sunny had brought him for his birthday.
“Let’s begin here, shall we?” said General Ramsey.
Doctor Seabrook tapped his display and the footage froze.
“Before I ask Doctor Seabrook to resume playback, I want each of you to note the mission time displayed here.” General Ramsey pointed to the lower right-hand corner of the large monitor. Large white numbers displayed time in hours, minutes, and seconds.
“Three numbers to the right of the decimal indicate the time code is how accurate?” asked General Ramsey.
“A thousandth of a second,” Sunny, Igby, and Colby answered in perfect unison.
Parker imagined this would be important when evaluating top-notch pilots competing against each other flying high-performance aircraft. But this seemed somehow less important than the grins Sunny was sharing with Igby and Colby.
“At this point,” said General Ramsey, “I instructed Doctor Seabrook to reset Mission Time to zero.” On screen, the time became all zeroes. “This is the moment you were all in the air together. Resume playback, please.”
Playback resumed and Parker suddenly felt as though he were back in Simulator Thirteen, back inside the cockpit of a real Go-Boy Battle-suit, ten thousand feet above the desert, flying with the other kids. The realism was compounded by the fact that he could now see himself from three different vantage points. He could hear his radio transmissions to the others. And he could watch and listen to the actions and radio calls of the other four kids. In a way, it was as though he were watching himself in a Go-Boy action film.
The mission resumed just as he remembered. He watched himself roll onto his back and fly slowly while instructing the others to join-up in formation. Igby joined-up and they high-fived. Then Sunny joined the formation. She looked so proud when she completed the maneuver. Everything was looking good until Bubba nearly flew into Colby, sending him tumbling end over end.
“You’ve got to admit,” Bubba said quietly to Parker, “that was pretty cool how I slammed him with my hot air.”
“You mean wake turbulence,” said Parker.
Bubba nodded acknowledgment, though Parker wasn’t sure if Bubba understood.
On screen, Colby flew hard at them like an out-of-control bowling ball, sending them in all directions just before he collided with Sunny. From there, it became pure chaos. Sunny spun toward the Earth, calling for him to help her. Igby slowly dropped out of the sky as his suit failed. Bubba and Colby fought like first graders on the playground. Parker watched himself as he went ballistic, blasting skyward like a human missile. The screen froze as the simulation came to an end.
“Lights, please,” said General Ramsey.
Dr. Seabrook tapped his display. Slowly the lights faded up. “Thoughts?” General Ramsey surveyed each of them.
No one spoke.
Bubba didn’t seem as pleased with his antics. Even Colby was subdued.
“You were right.” All heads turned to look at Parker.
“Was I?” General Ramsey asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Parker. “When you opened the simulator for me, you said, ‘That couldn’t have gone worse.’”
“You said that?” asked Sunny.
“Yes,” said General Ramsey, “I did. Let me tell all of you a story. Once upon a time, many, many, many years ago, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday. That was the day I began training for my Private Pilot’s License. I got up that morning, went with my mom down to the Department of Motor Vehicles, took the test for my driver’s license, and passed with a perfect score. After lunch, I borrowed my mom’s station wagon and drove myself to the small local airport. I was so excited. I had finally come of age to be able to get a pilot’s license. I had always wanted to fly. The license was my birthday present from my parents. My first lesson had been arranged with my Certified Flight Instructor. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. Just a gentle breeze from the south, blowing right down the runway. When I arrived at the flight school, my instructor handed me my flight bag. I was a skinny kid and the bag was so heavy I could barely lift it. He began showing me my stack of textbooks and manuals and study guides and practice exams, a plotter, even an old fashioned whiz wheel flight computer he insisted I learn how to use. I sat there, trying to listen to everything he was saying. But in my heart, all I wanted to do was get in that airplane. I could see it out on the ramp, tied down not far from the terminal. It was an old, beat-up Cessna. November Seven-Three-Eight Zulu Alpha was her call sign. She was white with red stripes and faded, worn-out red cloth seats. If you didn’t know better, you might look at her and wonder if she was still airworthy. I eventually ended up with sixty hours in that old girl. She walked me through my first takeoff, my first landing, my first solo, my first cross-country flight. I even passed my checkride in her. She never let me down. Even when I screwed up, that old airplane had the power and the grace to get me out of a jam so the examiner didn’t have to flunk me. And so I wouldn’t get myself killed. I eventually went into the service and have since flown everything from heavy transports to supersonic fighters. I’ve been in more dogfights than I care to remember and I’ve never been shot down. But through it all, I’ve never forgotten that old Cessna.
“You might be wondering why I’m telling you this. You see, my Flight Instructor made me wait until my third lesson before we went flying. I was about ready to kill him. He said I needed a foundation, a basic understanding of the airplane, before I could fly it. He proved to be a knowledgeable pilot and a pretty nice guy. But he knew nothing about the intricacies of the human heart. I spent four years working as a Certified Flight Instructor, teaching young cadets to fly the newest, fastest airplanes Uncle Sam had in his arsenal. And now I’m here, teaching The Suicide Squad how to fly. Every time we have a new recruit, before we get down to the nuts and bolts of aviation, I personally take them up in an airplane. Once we get up to altitude and I get the airplane trimmed, I tell them to get on the stick with me, so they can get a feel for her. Like twirling a woman around the dance floor, I say. Eventually, I take my hands off the controls without saying anything. After a few minutes, I casually inform them that they are flying the aircraft. The reaction is always the same: pure joy. Some of them whoop and yell. Some of them cry. Some of them don’t say anything at all. But they don’t have to. I know what they’re feeling. Because it’s the same thing I felt the first time the tires on that old Cessna lifted off the runway. It was the happiest I had ever been.
“Once the new recruit and I get back on the ground and shut down the aircraft, I let them sit in the cockpit for awhile. Then I explain why they’re here. I tell them about The Suicide Squad. I tell them it requires the ultimate sacrifice. I say, ‘If you accept the invitation, you will fly. You will watch others die. And one day, you will take off, you’ll raise the gear, light the afterburners, squeeze off a few rounds to make sure your guns are ready, and then climb into the great blue yonder, knowing you are going to die today.’ Then I say, ‘Do you accept this invitation?’ Sometimes they say ‘Yes’ right away. Usually they look around the cockpit a little before they answer. But no one has ever said ‘No.’
“Dr. Seabrook contends this is a cruel act I am imposing upon them. He feels I should tell them why they’re here before they get in an airplane and go flying. And maybe it is cruel. But I do it for a reason. I’ve explained this at length to Dr. Seabrook and I’ll explain it to the five of you: I do it because I want them to know the joy of flying. If they strap into a jet knowing they will one day use that jet as a giant missile to kill the enemy and themselves . . . there can be no joy. And even if there is, it’s tainted by the knowledge that they are going to die in that very airplane. They deserve to experience the thrill and freedom of flight. They deserve to know what it is to look at the clouds passing beneath them at night when the moon is out. It brings tears to my eyes every time I see it because it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen, all those clouds stretching out like they go on forever. That’s the same joy I want all aviators to experience. I believe every single person you saw up there today has experienced it.
“And every single person you saw up there today is prepared to die. We can’t beat the enemy through superior firepower or tactics, so we’re going to beat them with numbers. We’re gearing up for a final assault. The biggest fighting force ever assembled is being put together for one last strike. We’re going to win this thing, or we’re going to die trying. And we must never give up. The members of The Suicide Squad aren’t giving up. But they know Go-Boy Ultra is the first real advantage we’ve had against our enemy. It can save lives. We must have it back, so we can build more of them. A lot more. I don’t know how, but we will. All of their lives depend on it. All of their lives therefore depend on the five of you.
“Obviously, the Go-Boy Battle-suit is a single-pilot aircraft. I cannot take you flying. Therefore, I cannot and will not let you go flying until I am convinced you are ready. I had hoped, however, that suiting-up this morning and spending a few minutes in the real thing would give you the same feeling I had on my first flight. I had hoped a few minutes in the suit would be motivating when it came time to knuckle-down and put your noses to the grindstone and really dig in to the nuts and bolts of what flying is all about. Apparently, I was wrong. I realize this is a cliché, but I am very disappointed.”
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” asked Colby.
“Yes, Colby. It was.” The General looked at him evenly.
“Well, okay. Maybe it was,” Colby conceded.
“As one of the most important auditions of all time, I’d call it abhorrent. Sunny, I trust you are familiar with the word ‘abhorrent’?”
“Yes, General.”
“Would you please define ‘abhorrent’ for anyone not familiar with its meaning.”
“Yes, General. It means to inspire disgust and loathing.”
“To inspire disgust and loathing. That’s about right.” The General began slowly pacing in front of the video screen. “Never before in my life, in more than thirty years of aviation and dutiful service to my country, have I seen a more disgusting and loathsome display of airmanship. The International Aeronautics and Space Administration trains monkeys who are better behaved and, apparently, more capable of coherent flight than what I saw this afternoon.”
The General walked over to the video screen. He pointed to the white numbers in the right-hand corner: 4:32:067.
“Four minutes, thirty-two and sixty-seven thousandths of a second,” said the General. “That’s how long you lasted while flying in clear blue skies with no friendlies to protect and no adversaries to defeat. Less than five minutes.” He paced back and forth in front of the table. “Sunny, that was a serious spin you encountered today. I have veteran pilots who could not have broken it. But it should have been avoided. You were slow to react when Parker called for the formation to scatter.”
Sunny nodded. She looked resigned.
“Igby,” General Ramsey continued, “we hit you with a basic CPU failure. A simple cold re-boot would have restored full system power. Your flying skills have improved dramatically. But you should’ve been able to easily counter so simple a malfunction.”
Igby nodded. Clearly he agreed.
General Ramsey looked at Bubba and Colby. “And then we have you two.” He stared at them for several tense moments. Bubba and Colby even stole a glance at each other. “Mr. Black, you asked earlier if I would let you go flying today. Based on what we all witnessed a few minutes ago on the monitor, what would you do if you were me? Would you allow persons such as yourself and Mr. Max to actually pilot two of our billion-dollar, beyond Top Secret, prototype aircraft?”
Bubba opened his mouth to reply.
General Ramsey held up his hand, stopping him. “That is a rhetorical question, Bubba. That means no answer is required or expected because the answer is implied: I most definitely will not let you go flying.” General Ramsey’s voice was growing steadily louder. “Not until each and every one of you demonstrate your ability to operate the Go-Boy Battle-suit in a mature, disciplined, and, above all, safe manner.” He looked levelly at Bubba and Colby. “Do I make myself clear?”
Bubba and Colby sheepishly nodded.
“Finally, Parker, I come to you.”
Parker’s stomach lurched. General Ramsey turned slowly and faced him. Parker thought again of the barf bag Wendy had pointed out.
“Truthfully, I think the flight was proceeding nicely,” said the General.
Parker felt a glimmer of hope ignite somewhere within him.
“You countered our systems failures, you survived a direct hit from a very respectable bolt of lightning, you kept your cool when your suit shorted-out, and you survived a second unpowered free-fall. Despite the best efforts of both myself and the simulator technicians who were trying to drive you into the ground, you succeeded in making a safe landing. You exhibited not only some pretty snazzy flying but also some remarkably quick thinking. What you lack in age and real-world experience can be made up for with quick reflexes and a cool head. The last time I remember being this impressed was after Gunner disobeyed a direct order and engaged a flight of five Gakkers over Omaha. He scored five kills singlehandedly. He got a commendation by the President, followed by a thorough butt-chewing from me.”
Parker had a new respect for and fear of Gunner. He felt a sense of pride at having been compared favorably to him. Though he still found the idea of going head-to-head with Gunner to be, as General Ramsey might say, abhorrent.
“Things were going well, Parker,” General Ramsey continued.
“Thank you.”
“Right up until you had to lead. That’s when you lost control. You failed to remain in command of your flight. Aviation is tricky business. Being a pilot requires planning and preparation. And, most of all, concentration. It’s real easy to get behind the aircraft. In a cutting-edge bird like the one-zero-one, it’s even easier. Once that happens, good luck catching up. And if, heaven forbid, you find yourself in combat. . . .” General Ramsey raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head. He turned and spoke to them as a group. “You won’t last five minutes in the sky,” he thrust a finger at the white numbers displayed on the monitor behind him, “unless you have your heads screwed-on straight. Most importantly, you must learn to work together. You must help each other. And that includes you, Parker.” He looked squarely at Parker again. “As I said, you were doing well. Until you gave up. You abandoned your fellow aviators when they needed you most. And you succeeded in doing something no one has ever done before. That little ballistic stunt of yours crashed the simulator. Apparently, you exceeded the programmed altitude limits. The whole grid shut down and won’t re-start. The technicians will probably have to work all night to get it up and running again.”
Parker felt his face flush. Everyone looked at him.
“But just between us,” General Ramsey continued, “that’s their problem. Frankly, if a thirteen-year-old can wreck their precious simulator that easily, then they aren’t working hard enough for the miserable pittance the American taxpayers are paying them.”
Parker wasn’t sure how he felt about being the owner of this dubious distinction. No wonder all the other pilots had left by the time he’d climbed out of Simulator Thirteen. He was the kid who broke the whole thing.
“You have the potential to be an amazing pilot, Parker,” said General Ramsey. “But you cannot be Flight Leader unless you are willing to lead.”
“I thought I was going to be Flight Leader!” said Colby. “I’m the one with the SV show and the movie deal. I’m the face of Go-Boy!”
“You’re a face on a cereal box, Colby,” said Sunny. “You’re not a pilot. None of us are.”
Parker shot a look at Sunny. She looked solemnly back at him.
“She’s right,” said General Ramsey. “You can’t save others if you can’t even save yourselves. You’ll never be The Go-Kids unless you work together.”
“The what?” asked Bubba.
“The Go-Kids,” said Dr. Seabrook. “That’s what everyone’s been calling you. They were going to call you The Go-Boys but with Sunny part of the flight, it became The Go-Kids.”
They looked around the table at each other.
“The Go-Kids,” mused Bubba. “That’s cool.”
A quiet filled the room.
“Get some rest,” the General added. “We’ll start again tomorrow. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over what happened today, but think about what you did right and what you did wrong. You can only get better from here. Dismissed.”
General Ramsey headed for the door. Dr. Seabrook and the tuners rose and followed him, leaving Parker and the others alone.
Once the door had closed, Colby spoke. “That was a cute story about his first airplane. ‘What’s it look like up there, Johnny?’ ‘Oh, it’s a big, pretty, white plane with a red stripe and curtains in the windows and wheels, and it looks like a big Tylenol.’”
“A what?” asked Bubba,
“‘You like movies about gladiators?’”
“I sure do!” said Bubba.
Colby smiled, then turned to Parker. “So, Mr. Flight Leader, what do we do now?”
Silence.
Parker felt strange. He could not have described how he felt, exactly. Despite General Ramsey’s moving story about his own experience as an aviator, despite his forgiveness of their antics, and despite the fact that he should be energized by their new collective identity as The Go-Kids, Parker couldn’t help but feel oddly discouraged. Yet everyone sat looking to him for guidance. “As if I didn’t have enough on my mind, I have to contend with being the leader of a beyond Top Secret flight of deadly aircraft piloted by thirteen-year-olds? Talk about a plasma-sucking birthday.”
“Stop whining,” said Colby. “Your birthday was yesterday. This is today. You can sit there whining about your daddy or you can get up and do something about it. I told General Ramsey I wanted to be Flight Leader but he chose you. So deal with it.” Colby stood up quickly from the table, shoving his chair backwards and grabbing his helmet. “I’m hungry. Anyone who wants to come to the Mess Hall and join me for a chili dog and some strawberry ice cream is welcomed to.” Colby turned and walked out.
After a few moments, Igby stood and proceeded after Colby. “I hope he’s not suggesting we put the ice cream on top of the chili dogs,” Igby said to no one in particular before he disappeared through the door.
Bubba stood up. “Strawberry ice cream might be good on top. There’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a good meal and a good night’s sleep.” He disappeared through the door.
Sunny stood next and went to the door. She stopped and turned back to Parker, who sat alone at the big table. “I wouldn’t have said it as harshly as Colby, but I think he’s right.” She smiled an apologetic half-smile, turned, and walked out.
The new Flight Leader of The Go-Kids sat by himself at the table, wanting to cry. And hating himself for it.
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