universe. We are accustomed to four dimensions: height, width, depth, and time. The rest of these dimensions are bundled in tightly with the strings, invisible to us yet the very cornerstone of everything. It is in these coiled dimensions that we may finally learn how the universe really works.
Like Newton, the physicists pursuing string theory are pushing mathematics in new directions. Solving problems with three or four variables is tough enough for most of us – eleven variables is downright frightening. Exploring the unknown has never been easy.
In the next few decades, I am certain that several Nobel Prizes in physics and mathematics will be awarded for work tied to string theory. And once we develop a better understanding of how the universe works, the engineers will come in and begin applying this knowledge in new and innovative ways. For better or worse, discovery and exploitation go hand in hand – and that’s what Quantum is really all about.
Tom Grace
Read on for an exclusive extract of Tom Grace’s new novel Polar Quest, coming in Autumn 2010
1
Tucson, Arizona
The Ice Queen – a sexy Nordic blonde with pouty lips and ice blue eyes – gazed down at Kuhn. Her lusty smile and the mink bikini that barely contained her physical charms were warm reminders of his past. Like a Vargas pinup girl, she sat atop a globe that displayed her frozen domain: Antarctica.
Kuhn ran his hand over the aircraft’s smooth aluminum skin, paying his respects. The patches on Kuhn’s weathered aviator jacket matched those on the aircraft: US NAVY VXE -6 SQUADRON.
Beneath the side cockpit window, just above the rendered image of the Ice Queen, stenciled letters read: CDR GREGORY KUHN COMMANDING OFFICER
For almost a quarter century, Kuhn had piloted XD-10, the Ice Queen. She was a Lockheed LC-130R, a variant of the venerable C-130 Hercules transport equipped with skis mounted to her fuselage so she could land on ice.
As ungainly as she looked, the Hercules could actually fly and was designed to do one thing: lift heavy loads. Except for the cockpit, the fuselage of the Ice Queen was a cavern of empty space big enough to accommodate several large trucks. Ninety-eight feet in length, she sat low to the ground, like a cylindrical railroad car with a ramp in her tapered tail that folded down like a drawbridge. Her wings spanned 132 feet, and the Ice Queen used every inch of her lifting surface and every ounce of power from the four Allison T56 prop engines to propel her into the sky.
The Ice Queen and her sisters once formed the backbone of the VXE-6 Squadron. Since the mid-fifties, the squadron had fulfilled the mission objectives of the ongoing Operation Deep Freeze, providing logistical support to research stations in the Antarctic. It was a tough job that earned the unit the unofficial nickname Ice Pirates. VXE-6 had owned the skies over the frozen southern continent until the end of the 1999 season, when the squadron returned to its home base at Point Mugu Naval Air Station and was disestablished.
Like many veterans of VXE-6, Kuhn felt anger and a sense of loss when the squadron was phased out, its planes mothballed and its mission reassigned to a National Guard air wing. He’d flown over Antarctica for twenty- four years and had fallen in love with the icy untamed wilderness.
In the years since, the Ice Queen sat tightly wrapped in a plastic cocoon in the high desert air of Arizona. She was one of the hundreds of military and commercial aircraft that sat row upon row in the Boneyard, as the Aircraft storage and Reclamation Facility was known.
‘The old bitch looks pretty good, eh, Greg?’
Kuhn turned as Len Holland walked up.
‘Is that any way to talk about a lady?’ Kuhn asked.
Holland shook Kuhn’s hand, then looked over at the Ice Queen. ‘Hard to believe our planes have been sitting in the desert all these years.’
‘No different than the day we left them here.’ Kuhn nodded down the flight line at another LC-130R. ‘ Polar Pete came out of hibernation just fine, too. Where’s the rest of the guys?’
‘Right behind me.’
Ten men emerged from the flight operations building, all sporting aviator jackets similar to Kuhn’s. Each plane flew with a crew of six men – a pilot, a copilot, a navigator, a flight engineer, and two cargo handlers. Escorting the flight crews was a man in a button-down shirt with a bolo tie and a clipboard.
‘Commander Kuhn,’ the escort said warmly. ‘I’m Jim Evers, the manager here at ASRF.’ Evers pronounced the facility acronym ay-surf. ‘Both XD-10 and XD-11 have been checked out, and all systems are flight ready.’
Kuhn pulled a thick envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Evers. ‘Here’s our flight plan for this short hop to Waco.’
Evers pocketed the envelope. ‘Your planes are fueled, so once you finish your preflight you can get out of here.’
‘Thanks.’ As Evers walked away, Kuhn turned to the two flight crews. ‘You guys know the drill. Let’s get these old birds in the air.’
The Ice Queen and Polar Pete flew a low route across southern Texas, carefully avoiding civilian air-traffic control radar as they bypassed Waco and headed into the Gulf of Mexico. The flight crossed over the Yucatan peninsula, then turned south toward Honduras.
‘I’m picking up the beacon,’ the navigator announced. ‘Bearing two-one-five.’
Kuhn glanced out his window at the rain forest below, the thick foliage barely a hundred feet beneath the aircraft.
‘About friggin’ time,’ Kuhn said impatiently. He had wanted to land before sunset, but an unexpected head wind had increased their flight time.
Kuhn deftly turned the Ice Queen until his heading matched the one his navigator had given him. Five minutes later, he saw a gaping hole in the jungle canopy. The runway looked to be in good condition and certainly long and wide enough to handle a Hercules. Along one side of the runway, he saw a cluster of large tents, a few heavy trucks, a helicopter, and a tall pole with a windsock fluttering in the breeze.
‘X-Ray Delta One Zero to X-Ray Delta One One, over.’
‘One One, over,’ Holland replied.
‘I’m going to circle around and land. You follow me in.’
‘Lead the way, One Zero. X-Ray Delta One One out.’
Kuhn piloted the Ice Queen in a smooth arc that aimed the nose of his plane down the length of the runway. Descending, he skimmed over the treetops and then dropped into the clearing. Sunbaked earth exploded into clouds of dust when the wheels touched down, the gray plume trailing the Ice Queen down the length of the runway. Holland waited until the dust cloud settled before making his approach.
‘Just like riding a bike,’ Holland said as he brought his plane down perfectly.
Once on the ground, Holland taxied Polar Pete behind a jeep with a sign that read FOLLOW ME and was led to a space beside the Ice Queen. A man with orange-tipped wands guided the plane into position and, once there, signaled Holland to cut his engines.
As Kuhn, Holland, and their crews stepped out of the planes into the steamy heat of the Honduran jungle, five brown-skinned men trotted out from the tents. Each grabbed a length of steel pipe from a large pile and began assembling scaffolding around the aircraft.
‘Commander Kuhn.’
Kuhn turned as a tall, lanky man dressed in militarystyle khakis walked toward him. The man had thick black hair and a full beard that gave him the look of a left-wing revolutionary.
‘Summer Duroc?’ Kuhn asked.
‘Yes, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,’ Duroc said perfunctorily in Gallic-tinged English.
‘You cut this strip?’ Kuhn asked.
