Like a Fox on the Run, стр. 16

The first time he’d laid eyes on it, he knew he would never be the same. Every time that dude took off in his “Gus,” as they came to be affectionately called, Tiger would stop whatever he was doing and look skyward. The roar of the engines, the sleek, masculine lines as it flew over … no one would ever really know what effect that would have on a snotty-nosed, working-class kid, who dreamed of flying and living the adventures he read in his web-comics. Tiger always felt that this was the planting of the seeds for his desire to become a rocket pilot. He bought the wreck for a song, lovingly restored it (with a few, shall we say, modifications), and as they say in the movies, the rest was now ancient history.

Now, in the storage pod, instrument panel lights were flashing on and off frantically now, sensors beeping and chirping happily, as the pre-flight checks continued to run. It was as if eager anticipation was spreading though the machine, as one by one systems came online in the proper sequence. The beast was awaking from its long slumber. The hibernation was at an end.

The computer ordered the storage vault door to open. As it did, there was a loud hiss, as the vacuum seal was broken and fresh air rushed in to fill the vault. It was time. Oh, yes! It was time! The computer initiated ignition, and the truck’s throaty VectoThrusts coughed to life.

When the door was fully open, and the klaxon and yellow rotating beacons had flashed the obligatory warning to any pedestrians around it, the computer fed the destination coordinates Tiger sent from his PDC to the routing program. Once the engines had smoothed out to full idle and a course plotted, the beast was ready. The vectoring lever moved downward. Rising from its concrete pad, the Pegasus moved slowly up and out of the vault, the throttle lever feathering slightly forward. Clear of the building and its sensors indicating it was safe for takeoff, the throttle suddenly shot forward and the craft leapt skyward. Merging into the automated lane of the outbound Skyway, it streaked off toward the destination coordinates, safety sensors insuring it maintained proper distance and speed.

The beast was free once again.

***

Once he finished up at the Port, Tiger took the MagLev Express Shuttle to the Spaceport Inn. It wasn’t a four-star hotel by any stretch of the imagination. Never in its history would it have been mistaken for the Ritz-Carlton. But looking at it now, it was obvious its best days were well behind her. These days, most of the tourists laying over before a stay on the Grand Orbital or a deep space cruise stayed at the posh Starward Hotel & Resort. Most workers in the Space Trades laying over now lodged closer to VBS at facilities much more modern. But to older pilots like himself, the “Old S.I.” or simply “The Inn,” would always be a sentimental favorite.

The Inn had always been like a home away from home for him. Sure, he could stay at some of the newer, swankier hotels, but he always came back here. Even though the familiar faces got fewer and fewer with each visit and the old building was in serious need of renovations, it held many memories. He’d had a lot of laughs inside those walls, met a lot of people and made a lot of friends. He’d also met the love of his life here.

Besides, you could still get a pretty decent steak at The Cockpit Bar & Grill down in the lobby. And Thursday night was all-you-could-eat catfish and hushpuppies.

Out in front of the building, one of the original Chargers sat on display, neglected and weather-beaten. The old, forlorn hulk was a sad monument to a time when blasting off into the Great Black was still an adventure. A time when flying by the seat of your pants was a necessary skill, not an optional luxury.

Designed and built right there in Huntsville at the legendary Possum Works and named for the local college mascot, the first Chargers are now as much a part of space travel lore as the Mercury capsule, the Space Shuttle and the Apollo landers. A lot of ships of dozens of different models were used in the Great Rush, but no other ship would exemplify the spirit and determination of The Rush like the Charger did.

It had been the brainchild of bigger-than-life local legend, Dalton W. James. Rocket racer, spaceship designer, pilot advocate and entrepreneur, he was an international and interplanetary icon, but around town, most folks knew him as Cap’n Reb. The product of one of Huntsville’s oldest and most respected families, his ancestor, Confederate Major Josiah James III, had a special and somewhat unenvious place in Huntsville’s storied history. If it hadn’t been for a cruel twist of fate, he would’ve been one of Alabama’s, and maybe even the South’s, greatest heroes to come out of the war. He was fearless in battle, beloved by his men and trusted by his superiors. He also had the tragic and unfortunate distinction of being the last casualty of Lee’s Army of North Virginia. According to an oft-repeated story, Major James was overseeing the stacking of arms by the men in his regiment at Appomattox, when a still-loaded rifle accidently went off, the bullet striking the gallant James in the temple. Knocked from his horse, he was dead before he hit the ground, immediately gaining the dubious distinction of the unluckiest man of the entire war. After that, nobody ever talked much about his heroic exploits. They only remembered the poor unfortunate soul who survived four years of war, only to be killed after surrendering.

Like a ‘57 Chevy or a ‘65 Mustang, the original custom-built Chargers were something special, before demand forced Dalton to contract out mass production to the floating shipyards. Designed as a spaceplane,