Chapter 3: Jericho Trumpets
On the seventh day you shall march around the city seven times, and the priests shall blow the trumpets. And when they make a long blast with the ram's horn, when you hear the sound of the trumpet, then all the people shall shout with a great shout, and the wall of the city will fall down flat, and the people shall go up, everyone straight before him.
-Joshua 6:1-27
About ten kilometres north-east of Tokyo-3, In the shadow of the sacred volcano for which it was named, stood the remains of Camp Fuji.
Once an important base for the US marine corps, it had been abandoned when all American servicemen abroad were recalled home in the wake of second impact. Very few ever made it back, most losing their lives in the initial slew of tsunamis and weather disasters, and many others having no way of getting there with the Navy decimated, leaving their country critically short of manpower for the coming conflict.
Just before the world ended, however, the base had completed an important expansion project; extending and widening the camp's 700 meter helicopter runway to allow it to host large cargo aircraft. For fifteen years, the two kilometre strip of asphalt had sat abandoned, seeing no use except by local teenagers for drag racing.
It seemed the base's vacancy was now coming to an end.
A lone figure strolled down the abandoned runway, eyeing the ground carefully and surveying the surface for any irregularity. He noted the neglected asphalt's many cracks and fissures, though these did not cause him much concern. What he looked for were any large chunks of debris that may be sucked into an intake or pop a tire, and despite the insistence of the ground crew that they had not missed anything when they cleared the runway prior to his arrival, he did not come up empty-handed.
Shaking his head, Major Bishop chucks the fist-sized piece of loose asphalt onto the grass beside runway, ensuring it was well clear before proceeding.
It was dawn on a Friday, the last day of his first week at NERV, and if all went according to plan, in a few hours he would be hurtling down this runway at the controls of an aircraft he had not flown for over half a decade.
Aside from that small detail, however, nothing was being left to chance. The silver jet sat in a temporary hangar at the northern end of the runway, a crew of mechanics going over it with a fine toothed comb to ensure nothing had been damaged during the trip from headquarters.
Despite being covered with tarps, the massive aircraft drew quite a bit of attention from the locals as it made its way down the highway on the back of its transport truck, and Bishop knew they would be crowded around the base's rusty fences as soon as they heard the massive engines roar to life. He hoped his audience wouldn't be disappointed.
The dilapidated base may have seemed an odd place to conduct flight testing, but as Takao had explained to him, it was really the only option. Tokyo-3 was crammed into an area of only about eight square kilometers, and simply had no room for an airport of any kind. The JSSDF refused to cooperate unless the weapon was placed under their full control, so none of their bases could be used, and using a civilian airport would draw unwanted attention to their activities. Either of those two options would mean travelling a considerable distance from headquarters, while camp Fuji was only a twenty minute drive away.
The Avenger needed a minimum of 1500 meters to take off with a full payload, so the abandoned airfield would be sufficient. Barely. Still, Bishop wanted to personally walk the runway to ensure it had not degraded to the point of being unsafe. Thus far he was satisfied, and looking up realized he had reached the far southern end of the asphalt strip, standing on the giant white number 02.
Pausing for a moment to breathe the crisp morning air, the Canadian took in the pristine surroundings. The abandoned base sat in the middle of a lush coniferous forest, which lent its fresh aroma to the gentle breeze blowing from the south. To the east, he could see the tops of Tokyo-3's skyscrapers; silhouetted by the rising sun as they peeked out from behind the fortress city's mountain ramparts. To the west, meanwhlie, towered mount Fuji. The top of the scared volcano had been robbed of its cap of snow by the eternal summer, but it was no less awe-inspiring for the loss.
Letting out a contented breath, Bishop could almost imagine he was a tourist out for a pleasant morning nature hike.
He was not a tourist, however. He had a job to do.
Taking a parting look at the colours of the sunrise, idly wondering if it would be his last, he turned to begin the long walk back to the north end of the runway, where his mount waited.
The long walk was some of the first time he had to himself during the hectic week, and he savoured the tranquility by continuing his stroll at a leisurely pace. The past few days had been a whirlwind of briefings, meetings and paperwork that had severely tested the Canadian's patience. NERV's physicians had poked and prodded him for what had seemed like hours, and ran every lab test in the book before pronouncing what he already knew; that he was as fit to fly as he had ever been.
In addition to reading the thick NERV orientation dossier, he had also been required to review every checklist and procedure associated with flying the Avenger, though he had committed them all to memory in training years ago, and could have easily passed an exam on them without pouring through the volumes of dry literature. As chief test pilot, as he was now titled, he was required to sign off on every bit of maintenance done on his aircraft, and refused to do so without personally inspecting the mechanics' work. He had sat through endless briefings detailing every bit of the required flight testing, and had to learn how to operate the new targeting computer and launch system for the dart. He still refused to call it by the silly nickname Takao had given it.
His first impressions of NERV's head weapons engineer had not necessarily been favourable. Certainly, he had been a professional and courteous host, but seemed to have all the spine of a jellyfish. Not that Bishop could blame him; that blonde boss of his seemed to have a mean streak a mile wide. However, he had come to respect the diminutive man greatly over the coming days. When removed from the presence of his superiors and placed in his element, the brilliant engineer and administrator shone through, and it was his skill and efficiency in running his department that allowed the testing to proceed so quickly. That, and the ever looming threat of another angel attack.
He had not been told when another of the monsters was expected to emerge from the sea, only that it was certain they would come.
Turning to look again to the south, he almost expected to see one of the giants stomping up the valley. But the morning remained calm, and so, tugging at his collar as the heat of the day began to make itself known, he continued on.
He wore service dress: a blue-grey uniform jacket and trousers over a pale blue collared shirt with a black tie, and a simple cloth wedge cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. A step down in fanciness from full dress, but still considered formal wear back home, he had nonetheless decided on it as his everyday attire at NERV.
It was the closest thing he owned to a business suit, which seemed to be the order of dress for any non-uniformed NERV personnel. He supposed he could have worn his flight suit too if he wanted; since he was now aircrew again, under RCAF regulations he was entitled to do so. Certainly, it would be much more comfortable in the ever-present heat than his heavy wool uniform.
He was still a commissioned officer of the King, however, and to his knowledge the senior Commonwealth officer currently in Japan. This meant that he was technically His Majesty's highest representative here after the ambassador in Tokyo-2, and he figured he should probably present himself as such.
Nearing the northern end of the runway, he saw that the Avenger had been towed from its tent hangar, and now stood on the abandoned base's small concrete flightline, its polished silver skin reflecting the brilliant orange of the rising sun. A fuel truck was parked next to it, and its driver came jogging up to him as Bishop approached. She handed him a clipboard detailing the amounts of fuel that would be pumped into the aircraft's various tanks, and which required his signature. Verifying that the amounts were consistent with his careful weight and balance calculations, he scribbled his assent and watched as the fueling crew scrambled to work.
He supervised the activities around his aircraft for a few moments, before he was suddenly distracted by the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting on the breeze. Tracing the enticing aroma back to the temporary hangar, he found a group of mechanics gathered around a coffee pot they had set up on their work bench.
He had endeared himself greatly to the ground crew over the past week with his careful attention to their work, not to mention the frequent gifts of beer, and they greeted him warmly, one of the jumpsuit clad men offering him a steaming mug. Accepting it gratefully, Bishop enjoyed the strong brew and the friendly conversation, putting the dangerous task that lay ahead of him out of his mind.
If only for a while.
A few hours later, the Canadian stepped out into the late morning sunshine and turned his gaze upwards. It was shaping up to be a fine day for flying; the sea breeze blowing up the valley from the south had picked up speed and lifted some of the oppressive heat, and the sky was a clear azure blue dome for as far the eye could see.
Dressed now in his olive drab flight suit, Bishop began to feel some of the old confidence coming back to him as he strode across the tarmac towards his waiting aircraft. Before packing for this trip, the green jumpsuit had not left his footlocker since his stint with the JSSDF, and still smelled vaguely of mothballs. He was lucky, he supposed, that it still fit.
The left shoulder bore his country's flag and the wolverine badge of 445 squadron, the unit he had briefly commanded. The right had his Avenger qualification badge, a circular patch featuring an image of the fighter. On the suits' left breast were the usual pilot's wings, on the right a patch bearing his name and his old fighter pilot callsign: 'Hound Dog'
The media had speculated that the name came from the relentless way he chased his prey, like a bloodhound on the trail of a fox. The truth, however, was far less glamorous. He had earned his callsign at a party in the officer's mess, after he and his fellow pilot trainees completed their first solo flights in the Avenger. Then an extremely inebriated young 2nd Lieutenant, Bishop grabbed a guitar and, jumping up on a table, performed a drunken rendition of the old Elvis hit; much to delight of his equally sloshed comrades. His fate was sealed when, at the conclusion of the song, the copious amounts of alcohol finally overtook him, and he tumbled to the floor with his newly acquired instrument smashing beside him.
Upon coming to, the squadron CO had him kneel and touched a butter knife to each shoulder as though knighting him, officially dubbing the young pilot 'hound dog' for the rest of his days.
Chuckling fondly to himself at what little he could recall of that evening, he approached his aircraft and returned the burly crew chief's salute, before beginning his preflight inspection. He was perched on the forward landing gear leg with his head in the bay, when he heard a female voice call his name.
Bending down, to his surprise he spotted a familiar woman in a black dress and sunglasses heading his way from the direction of the runway.
He had seen very little of Captain Katsuragi after his first day, both being busy to all hours of the night with their respective duties at NERV. The few times they had run into each other, she had seemed rather wary of him, leaving Bishop wondering if he had done something to offend her. Today, however, she again seemed to be all smiles, and was accompanied by the boy Bishop had met that first night.
He had learned that the kid's name was Shinji after paying their apartment a visit to return his borrowed bed, formally introducing himself and managing to get a brief conversation out of the nervous teenager who again answered the door. Apart from that however, he knew nothing about the skinny kid, who walked beside and a bit behind the woman he assumed to be his Mother.
"Hello again, Major, so nice to see you." She greeted him with a pleasant smile and extended her hand as he hopped down from the strut and strode over to meet the pair. He shook her hand and returned the greeting, a little perplexed to find her here, but no less pleased.
"Likewise Captain Katsuragi. Good to see you again as well, Shinji, what brings you two all the way out here?" It was a stupid question, he thought in hindsight, but if the dark-haired woman thought so too she gave no indication, simply shrugging as she replied.
"I have the day off and I thought it might be fun to come see the big flight, so I sprang Shinji from school. Privilege of rank and all that. Anyways, we just wanted to come wish you good luck, right Shinji?" She gave the timid boy a nudge forward, who looked up at Bishop and meekly shook the man's hand when it was offered to him.
"Oh, uh, yeah good luck with your flight today, sir." The boy's voice was monotone, as always. Bishop frowned for a moment. The few times they had met thus far his demeanor had reminded him of the shell-shocked soldiers he had had often encountered during the war. The poor broken souls just shuffled along and went through the motions of being alive, without actually living. They spoke in the same monotone voice, and likewise always did what they were told without question. He wondered what could have happened to the boy to leave him like this, perhaps he was traumatized by the angel attack.
Or he could just be a typically sullen teenager.
In either case, he figured the kid could use some cheering up. Thinking back to his own teenage years, he recalled that even the surliest of his classmates had stopped their grousing and stared up in wonderment whenever a fighter roared overhead.
Turning to gesture at the silver bird of prey behind him, he smiled at the kid and asked "Well, Shinji, what do you think?"
Shinji's cobalt eyes seemed to notice the aircraft for the first time, and widened slightly as he took in its sleek lines. It reminded him a bit of unit-01, in that despite being an inanimate machine, the thing had the implicit look of a predator about it. He looked up that the aircraft's pilot, still smiling expectantly down at him. "Its, uh, pretty big I guess" was all he could think to say.
The pilot couldn't help but give a hearty laugh at the comment. "Yeah, I suppose it is." he replied with a grin. Looking down at his watch, he continued. "Well, I was just in the middle of doing my preflight checks, if you two wanted to tag along I could give you a quick tour..."
The prospect didn't excite Shinji, it had only been Misato's insistence that had dragged him out here in the first place, and he didn't much care for the idea of more time spent wandering around the hot tarmac than was absolutely necessary. He tried to politely decline, but was cut off by his guardian's elbow in his ribs.
"We would love a tour, Major, thank you." she looked down at her ward with a slightly threatening smile.
"Uh, yeah, that would be great…" He really didn't get why Misato was so enthusiastic about this. She had told him that they were testing a weapon that might be able hurt an Angel without resorting to N2 mines, something which could be used to help him in battle. But he had his doubts such a thing was possible.
He ought to know, he was the one who had looked into the monster's empty black eyes, and had felt the sensation of a battering ram against his skull as it pounded unit-01's head into mush. Swarms of gunships had attacked the thing with no appreciable effect, and they were much more modern than this relic. What could it do that they couldn't?
Unenthusiastic as he may have been, he still managed to show a polite amount of interest as the two followed the tall pilot around the silver jet, listening as he pointed out various bits and bobs and their purposes. Misato seemed particularly interested in the weapons bay, and hearing about the various armaments the aircraft could carry.
Shinji supposed it was part of her job to be interested in such things, though he personally couldn't have cared less. He noticed that when Misato asked about his experience flying in combat, the man's cheerfulness seemed to disappear, and she avoided the subject from then on. Shinji frowned in thought for a moment. His new teacher constantly droned on about second impact and the countless wars that followed, he reasoned this man must have actually fought in one of them.
Arriving at the back of the plane, even Shinji couldn't help but be impressed at the size of the twin tailpipes. He could almost stand upright inside one of the massive engines. Carrying on up the other side of the aircraft, Misato continued to be full of questions and the pilot continued to happily answer them. As they neared the nose, Shinji spied something that made him mildly curious, and that his guardian seemed to not notice, so he spoke up for the first time during the tour.
"Uh, excuse me sir, but, what is that thing?" he asked, pointing to a small propeller mounted on an arm that extended from an open panel above one of the gun ports. The pilot's grin broadened as he answered.
"Ah, that..." he said, giving the propeller a spin with his hand, "...is the Jericho trumpet."
"...Jericho trumpet?" Shinji had never heard the term before.
"Yeah." Seeing he would have to explain further, he asked "Do either of you know what a Stuka is?"
They both shook their heads, so the pilot continued.
"Well, the Stuka was a type of dive bomber used by the Germans in world war two, and they were famous for their sirens. When the Stuka began its dive, the sirens would be activated, and they made a terrifying noise that could be heard all the way down on the ground."
"Okay…" It was Misato who replied, seemingly just as confused as Shinji. "...But what does that have to do with this thingy?"
The Canadian gave a small sigh. "I'm getting to that. Now, there's a story from the bible that says that when the Israelites attacked a city called Jericho, they were able to make the walls crumble just by blowing their trumpets. The idea behind the Stuka's siren was similar, to make the enemy panic and run just from hearing the noise. Therefore, the Germans nicknamed them…"
"...Jericho trumpets." Misato now nodded in understanding. "So this is a siren then?"
The pilot nodded. "It used to be an emergency generator. If the electrical system failed, this little propeller could be extended into the airflow to generate power. The damn things never worked anyways, so I asked the ground crew to modify it for me. They say It should be sturdy enough to work at any airspeed." With a wink and an affectionate pat to the aircraft's nose, he continued. "Since they went and turned it into a dive bomber, I figured it should be a proper one, one that'll put the fear of god into an angel."
He frowned in thought, however, as something seemed to occur to him. "Although, I'll be supersonic all the way down, so I guess anyone on the ground won't hear the siren until after I've come and gone already." He shrugged. "I guess I didn't think that through, huh?"
Shinji thought about commenting on the silliness of trying to intimidate an angel, but from the man's half-joking tone it seemed he probably already knew that. The siren seemed to be more for his own amusement than anything, although Misato seemed quite taken with it, trying in vain to get the heavy metal blades spinning fast enough with her hand to make a noise. Shinji couldn't help but crack a tiny smile as she gave up with a huff, before the pilot offered to show them the cockpit, much to her delight.
The pilot ascended the ladder first, crouching beside the cockpit atop the air intake before inviting his companions up after him. Misato went next, with Shinji dutifully keeping his eyes pointed firmly forwards as he followed. His guardian took the pilot's seat while he stood at the top of the ladder, and watched as the man briefly explained the functions of the myriad of screens, switches and gauges.
Mentally comparing it to Unit-01's cockpit, Shinji couldn't imagine how one could fight from within the confined space. The Eva's cockpit gave him almost completely unimpeded all-around vision, albeit through remote cameras, had a simple and sleek control interface, and was specifically adjusted to fit his body.
This cockpit, however, seemed cluttered and disorganized by comparison, with no apparent rhyme or reason to placement of the instruments and controls. The pilot could really only see forward, up and off to the sides, and maybe a bit behind if they craned their neck. In addition, even Misato seemed to find it a bit cramped, and she was a full head shorter and much slimmer than the pilot.
Looking back, Shinji noticed that there was a second, even smaller cockpit behind the one in which Misato sat, and inquired to the pilot as to why.
"That's where the Radar operator sits," he explained. "The fire control radar is pretty complicated, and having a second pair of eyes and hands to operate it takes a lot of workload off of the guy up front." Shinji asked who would be sitting there during the test flight.
The pilot chuckled as he replied. "No one, kid. The radar operator's main job is to help the pilot attack enemy aircraft, they aren't needed for normal flying. Unless the JSSDF decides they want a piece of me, I should be okay by myself,. And besides, I don't think anyone here is qualified to work the system."
"Well, if you've got an empty seat anyways, can I come for a ride?" Both Shinji and Bishop turned in surprise at the sound of Misato's voice, the woman looking up expectantly from the pilot's seat at the Canadian. Shinji knew she was a bit of adrenaline junkie, that much was evident from her driving, but joyriding in the back of this thing, not even able to see ahead as they hurtled through the sky seemed a touch mad even for her. Major Bishop seemed to agree.
"Uh, I don't know Miss, this first flight might be a bit risky." Misato frowned up at him as he went on, but did not argue. "Have you ever flown in a fighter before?" She shook her head. "Well, its not like sitting on an airliner. It takes a lot of training to be able to handle the G-forces, and the engineers tell me that the dive pullout will be at least nine Gs. That means that you experience nine times the regular force of gravity. Unless you know exactly how to breathe and work your muscles when your body is under that kind of strain, the blood will be drained from your brain and you'll black out. You might even end up with brain damage if you don't recover quickly enough."
He shook his head emphatically. "I'm sorry, but it's just too dangerous."
Seeing her crestfallen expression, however, the Canadian sighed and made a concession. "...Maybe, if you get approval for it, I can take you up on another flight later on, one that isn't quite so risky."
Misato sighed and stood with a huff. "Fine," she said, giving the man a poke in the chest that nearly sent him tumbling from his perch and a sly wink. "But you're going to keep that promise. And that's an order, Mister."
The pilot gave her a small chuckle and a 'Yes Ma'am!' in return.
The three descended the ladder, and found a small man in a lab coat waiting at the bottom, looking a bit peeved.
"Ah, good morning doctor." It was Bishop who greeted the irritated looking man with a genial smile, which was not returned.
"Good morning. If you're quite finished with your private tour, Major, we have work to do." He handed the pilot a clipboard and immediately launched into some technical babble Shinji couldn't comprehend even if he'd cared to try, Bishop trying to keep up as he scanned the document now before him.
"It seems we've overstayed our welcome, hey Shinji." He nodded idly as Misato nudged him in the direction they had come from, waving to Bishop as they parted.
"Goodbye Major, and good luck" she called, the pilot barely having time to acknowledge the farewell with a wave before the shorter man in the lab coat again commanded his attention.
The pair walked in silence, crossing the runway to reach the vacant concrete lot on its east side where Misato had parked. Shinji saw that her blue sports car had been joined by a number of other vehicles, other NERV employees with the day off clearly having caught wind of what was happening here and deciding, like Misato, that the spectacle would make for a welcome diversion.
Shinji recognized very few faces, save for a couple of the bridge crew, though everyone seemed to know who he was. They all stopped what they were doing to give him and his guardian a respectful nod as they passed by. Most were leaning or sitting on whatever vehicles had brought them there, though a few enterprising individuals had thought to bring folding chairs.
As they neared Misato's car, the pair found, to their surprise, NERV's chief scientist leaning on the little Renault's hood. The blonde woman was dressed in her usual blue sleeveless shirt and black skirt, though she lacked the lab coat, which it had never occurred to Shinji was not permanently attached. She gave them a cool acknowledgement and took a drag on her cigarette as Misato joined her on the hood of the car, and the two began to make idle chit-chat. Shinji stood a few feet away, half-listening in as he turned his eyes across the runway, watching as the pilot was helped into what looked like an orange space suit.
"Heya Rits, what're you doing here? I thought you wanted nothing to do with this project." Misato sounded perplexed as she greeted her friend, who shrugged and took another puff on the ever-present cigarette before replying.
"I don't, I'm just here as a spectator. The commander asked me to observe the proceedings and report back to him on the results. And besides," she looked around at the crowded lot and said with a sly smile, "everyone loves an airshow. Some more than others it seems..."
Misato frowned at that. "...and what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Ritsuko gave her a knowing look. "Oh come on, first you get this guy a unit in your building, now you pretend to be interested in that deathtrap of his in order to get a private tour?" She continued with a snicker. "Certainly good to see you've moved on from Kaji at any rate, at least this one shaves..."
"WHAT!?" His guardian's indignant shout drew Shinji's full attention, as well as the attention of most of the nearby NERV staff to the two women. Looking around sheepishly, she lowered her voice before fixing her friend with a glare.
"Its not like that, Rits, I'm just trying to be friendly. You ought to try it some time."
Ritsuko gave her a dubious look. "Really..."
"Yes, really. And I am interested in that deathtrap for your information." She continued with a shrug. "Fighter jets are cool, you'd know that if you were a human being. In fact, I'm getting a ride in the back seat." Misato stuck out her tongue as Ritsuko's jesting smirk turned into a serious glare.
"Out of the question, its too dangerous. What if something were to go wrong? Where would NERV be without you, not to mention Shinji..."
The dark-haired woman gave one of her characteristic dismissive hand waves. "Bah, its no more dangerous than flying in an airliner. In fact, its probably safer, there are no ejection seats if something goes wrong on a jumbo jet."
Idly wondering who this Kaji person was, Shinji returned his attention to the activity on the flightline; losing interest in the women's conversation as Ritsuko tried in vain, like Bishop, to dissuade Misato from her thrill-seeking. He watched as the tall pilot, now clad in the orange suit and carrying a white helmet under one arm, ascended the ladder to the cockpit.
He wasn't quite sure what to think of the man. His imposing stature and the steely look in his eye reminded him to an uncomfortable degree of his father. Something told him that, much like his father, the pilot was not someone to be trifled with. However, each time Shinji had met the pilot he had been greeted with kind words and a friendly smile, a courtesy he could not recall ever having been extended to him by the elder Ikari. He had also gone out of way to try and impress Shinji with the tour, perhaps assuming he was some sort of military geek, like the kid with the glasses in his new class.
NERV personnel constantly bent over backwards to please him on account of his status as an Evangelion pilot, something that annoyed and embarrassed Shinji to no end. But, Misato had mentioned before they arrived that the Canadian didn't know he was a pilot, and asked him to keep that fact to himself if it came up in conversation...
His attention was again diverted from his own thoughts as a remark from Ritsuko drew another furious reaction from Misato.
"...then I guess it's safe to say you aren't over Kaji then, huh?" He had to stifle a chuckle as his enraged guardian gave her friend a painful punch in the arm.
Any further bickering quickly became impossible however, as the whine of a jet engine starting up drowned out any other noise in the vicinity.
All eyes turned west towards the tarmac, where a sleeping bird of prey was beginning to wake up.
The heat in the insulated pressure suit was sweltering.
Bishop, like most pilots, detested the stiff and clumsy getup. The metal collar which formed an airtight seal with the helmet severely restricted head movement, a flaw which could prove deadly in a dogfight. In combat, Avenger pilots had generally spurned them in favour of a regular G-suit for any mission that did not require them to climb above 50,000 feet.
If all went well there would be no dogfighting today, however, and Bishop's mission would take him as high as he could convince the big jet to go; well above the threshold where a regular oxygen mask was no longer good enough. At least this suit was a little more flexible than the older models they had used in the war, and had an integrated system of air bladders like a G-suit that could inflate to compress his lower body, hopefully preventing him from blacking out at the end of his dive from the edge of space.
He ensured the harness straps were tight, and took one last breath of fresh air as the technician standing atop the ladder placed the white helmet on his head and fastened it to the collar around the suit's neck.
There was absolute silence inside the helmet as the seal snapped shut. He reached down and ensured that the suit's air hose was secured into the receptacle on the wall of the cockpit, before opening the valve and finally receiving some relief from the stifling heat as cool, pure oxygen began to fill the suit. He gave the tech the OK hand signal, and the man returned the gesture before disappearing down the side of the aircraft. The ladder was removed, and the crew chief stepped out in front and to the left of the nose where Bishop could see him.
He gave him a signal indicating that the ground crew were ready to proceed with startup. Bishop pointed the index finger of one hand into the palm of the other, asking the chief to connect the ground power cart. That done, he flipped the battery and generator switches on, and the dark cockpit flickered to life. He adjusted the volume on the radio, and static interrupted the silence within his helmet.
Tuning it to the correct frequency, he contacted Takao's team. The engineers had taken up position in the abandoned control tower, where they would monitor data from the eclectic collection of testing equipment packed into the weapons bay.
"Fuji control, this is NERV one-seven-niner, do you read me?" Following military protocol, the aircraft's radio callsign was based on the last three digits of the tail number. He had insisted all communications be in English, both because it was the international language of aviation, and because he didn't want the distraction of trying to translate his thoughts while at the controls. Plenty of Takao's staff had been educated overseas, so it was not a problem finding someone to man the radio who spoke his language, and one of the engineers answered him now.
"Roger one-seven-niner, we read you. We're all set here, you are clear to start and taxi whenever you're ready."
"Roger." He flashed the crew chief a thumbs-up, and the burly man raised one finger on his right hand and with the left made a spinning motion while pointing at the sky. Start engine one.
His hand instinctively went to the panel of switches behind the throttle to his left. He flicked the first of the two engine switches from off into the middle 'run' position, then held it forward to engage the starter.
He was immediately greeted by a familiar whine from behind him, which gradually increased in frequency as the Orenda turbofan began to spool up. He watched the engine RPM gauge climb, pushing the left throttle forward from the cutoff to the idle position when it passed 9% of max RPM, and allowing the switch to fall back into the run position when it passed 20%. Soon the whine gave way to a roar as the massive engine came to life. The RPM gauge hovered in the correct position, and no warning lights showed on the strip that ran across the top of the instrument panel.
The chief signaled that everything looked good outside, and they repeated the process with the starboard engine. The roar doubled in intensity as engine two kicked in, running just as smooth as the day it left the factory in Ontario thirty years ago. It was a testament to the tireless efforts of NERV's mechanics, and Bishop made a mental note to order them a few cases of Canadian whisky as a token of his appreciation.
His hands raced across the cockpit, acting on muscle memory to switch on the various subsystems. The Head up display showed correctly and the radar screen lit up as it should, as well as the new screen for the silver dart's targeting system. He advanced the throttles about a quarter of the way forward, verifying that engine temperatures and pressures remained acceptable as the big jet strained against the wheel chocks, before returning the engines to idle. He moved the control column in circles and worked the rudder pedals, the chief verifying with a thumbs-up that all the control surfaces moved as they should.
Finally satisfied, he closed the canopy, signalled for the chief to remove the chocks and ground power, and radioed that he was taxiing to the runway.
Verifying that all was done, the chief stepped clear and chopped a hand in the direction of the runway. Clear to taxi.
He advanced the throttle ever so slightly and, likely for the first time in many years, the Avenger moved under its own power. The ground crew assembled around their chief, and the jumpsuit-clad men and women all offered the jet a smart salute as it rolled past.
Bishop grinned as he returned the gesture, before returning his attention forward. The flightline was connected directly to the northern end of the runway by a short taxiway. There was a slight bump as he rolled from concrete onto asphalt, working the rudder pedals to expertly manoeuvre the fighter into takeoff position on runway 20.
"Fuji, this is one-seven-niner, I'd say I'm good to go, how're things looking on your end?"
"One-seven-niner, you are looking just fine from up here. You're clear to take off, good luck."
"Roger." The pilot did one more scan of the instruments and warning lights. All was well. He rechecked his harness and oxygen hose, and gave a wave to the NERV personnel watching from vacant lot. They were a bit close to the runway for comfort, he wondered they had ever heard of jet blast.
He supposed they would have to learn the hard way. Once the afterburner kicked in, anyone wearing a hat was going to lose it, and any ladies wearing a skirt may quickly come to regret that choice.
Hey, kid. The voice of an old flight instructor suddenly popped into his head from across the years, scolding him as clearly as if the ornery old bastard were sitting in the back seat now. You gonna sit here all day? Light this fuckin' candle before I piss myself.
"Yes sir..." he mouthed to himself with a grin. Taking hold of the twin throttles, he slowly advanced them to full military power, then pushed them past the final detent to light the afterburners.
He held the straining aircraft against the brakes for a moment as the engines spooled up, the roar building in intensity until it became a demonic howl, an entire nation's fury expelled with two jets of orange flame from the twin tailpipes. When the brakes began to squeal from the strain of holding back 74,000 pounds of thrust, he released them, and the old delta-winged warrior leapt forward, eager to once again be free of the earth's embrace.
With a light payload, the Avenger had a greater than one thrust-to-weight ratio, and its vast bulk accelerated like a rocket down the old cracked-up runway. The pilots eye was fixed on the airspeed indicator.
One hundred knots. One twenty. One forty. One sixty. He was committed now, not enough runway to stop if something went wrong.
As the needle approached two hundred, he eased the control column back and felt the nose wheel lift off. The main gear lingered a moment longer, until the noise of rubber on asphalt suddenly ceased, and the forest was rushing by beneath him.
"One-seven-niner, airborne." He reached forward with his left hand and lifted the landing gear lever, listening for the 'ka-clunk' as the wheels retracted into their bays. At a thousand feet he levelled off and accelerated straight down the valley towards the sea. If anyone in the town below had still been asleep, they were awake now.
The airspeed indicator continued to rapidly climb, and a sonic boom tore through the sunken city of Numazu as the silver jet shot out over the sparkling blue waters of Suruga bay. The instruments still showed him nothing of concern, and he radioed back to Fuji to relay this news.
"Roger, we want to see how it handles a high-G turn, so make a U-turn and head back towards us."
"One-seven-niner, copy." He eased the throttle back, allowing the jet to slow to about 600 knots, before he rolled to the left and pulled back on the stick, beginning a wide sweeping turn towards the green mountains of the Izu peninsula.
The Avenger's airframe had an official G-limit of plus 7.5, but Takao had assured him that with their structural modifications it could easily handle ten. Time to see if the little engineer was as good as his word.
His body was pressed down into the seat, and he instinctively clenched the muscles in his legs and core and began to take short, sharp breaths, continuing to turn tighter until the indicator on the HUD rose through nine G's. The suit's air bladders inflated and put immense pressure on the pilot's legs and lower torso, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead as the edges of his vision began to turn grey.
The airframe groaned a complaint at the immense forces acting upon it, but like its pilot the old fighter endured through the steep turn until it rolled back onto an even keel, now low over the forests of Izu and heading north.
It took Bishop a moment to catch his breath. Enduring G's on a regular basis again would take some getting used to, but he noted with satisfaction that he hadn't come too close to blacking out. In fact, as he dipped the silver jet down into one of the mountainous peninsula's many valleys and followed its winding course to the north, the aviator felt something he had not experienced in many years.
Joy. Pure, unadulterated Joy.
It was just like racing through the Mackenzie mountains of Canada's wild northwest territories, where he and his fellow recruits completed their brief but grueling flight training regime. There, he had first taken to the air with a single-minded desire to kill, but once aloft he had found that his pain and anger remained on the ground.
In their place, the young trainee had found, for the first time in many months, solace. His troubles were simply forgotten amidst the freedom and beauty he found among the clouds and the wind-swept mountain crags.
That was, until the time came to fly into battle. The sight of the invader in the peaceful skies he had come to love brought the anger back to the surface, and turned him into the monster the world now knew him as.
But here and now, his mind was completely focused on guiding his mount through this foreign valley, rattling windows in the sleepy mountain villages that rushed by below.
For the first time in years, the pilot was at peace.
Shinji figured that the fighter taking off was about the loudest sound he had ever experienced. The only thing that rivalled it was unit-01's roar, though he had been insulated in the entry plug and only semi-conscious when he'd heard it. There was nothing but a pair of fingers stuck in his ears to shield him now, though.
There was a brief cheer from the NERV staff in the vacant lot as it began to roll down the runway, before they found themselves caught in the wake of the huge engines. The viewing gallery was thrown into chaos as a hurricane-force blast of hot air tore through the crowd.
Anything lighter than a person was sent flying. Ritsuko's cigarette was blown right out of her hand, leaving her standing with two fingers held aloft. Dust and stones swirled through the air and pelted both people and vehicles. Misato looked to be on the verge of tears as she took in the state of her prized Renault, freshly repaired from the damage done to it by the JSSDF's N2 mine. A rock had put a huge chip in the windshield, and the flawless blue paint job bore now bore numerous scratches from the swirling cloud of debris.
Shinji was just glad nobody seemed to have been hurt. He supposed they should have known better than to park so close to the runway, though he guessed there would still be hell to pay for the pilot when he landed.
After the jet had taken to the skies, it headed out of sight down the valley, and they hadn't seen it since. To the crowd of spectators expecting a show, it was a bit of a let-down. Sorting themselves out from the bedlam that followed the takeoff, they now mostly stood around, some making idle conversation while most, like Shinji, didn't seem to know what to do with themselves.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking off to the south while Misato ranted to a highly amused Ritsuko about the state of her car. Gazing down the valley towards the sea, he thought he spied a flash of silver in the distant sky. Yes, there it was alright, and it was coming back their way. Fast.
"Hey! uh, I think I see it." The two women turned away from the beat-up sports car at the sound of his voice, and shielded their eyes as they tried to see what he was pointing at.
It was closing impossibly fast, and all at once the silver jet had come and gone, almost too fast for the eye to comprehend.
For a brief second there was absolute silence as it passed overhead. Shinji realized that it was travelling faster than the speed of sound, a thought that was confirmed by the boom that followed an instant later, ringing through the air like a cannon shot. He scrambled to cover his ears as the deafening howl of the engines followed. Ritsuko seemed annoyed by the racket, while Misato pumped her fist and let out a whoop, automotive woes trumped by her delight at the display of speed and power.
Turning to see where the aircraft had gone, he saw it rocket straight up into the beginning of a wide loop. It reached the top of the circle and hung upside-down directly above them for a moment, before entering a dive that seemed to be aimed directly for him. It roared straight down towards the earth for a few heart-pounding seconds, pulling out at the very last opportunity to level off just a few metres from the asphalt of the runway.
It was flying quite a bit slower now, and Shinji got a good look at the fighter as it flew past them this time. When on the ground, it had looked a bit odd, out of place somehow as it sat perched at an awkward angle on its tall, lanky landing gear.
In the air, however, Shinji couldn't describe it as anything else other than, well, beautiful. As beautiful as something designed to kill people could be he supposed.
As it again roared away from the runway, the pilot flicked the massive aircraft into a perfect barrel roll, as if waving farewell to his audience before the nose rose into another vertical climb. It didn't come down again this time, it just kept going up and up until it could no longer be seen in the infinite sea of blue.
It all looked so... free. In his plane, the pilot was free to go where he pleased, as far as away as he wanted, as fast as he could. Freedom was a sensation Shinji could never recall truly experiencing during his short time on earth.
Though he had never felt it, looking up at the sky now, he longed for it.
It was always so peaceful up here in the stratosphere. Lonely, but peaceful.
Though the Mach indicator told him he was traveling at over twice the speed of sound through the thin air, there was almost no sensation of movement. The only sound that could reach him was the steady hum of the engines reverberating through the airframe. Looking up, Bishop gazed off into the black emptiness of space. He half-wished that the test had been done at night, so that he could take in brilliant array of stars that could be seen from these altitudes.
Space felt so close. It seemed like if he climbed just a bit higher, he could be off on his way to some distant star, completely free of the earth and all its problems. The logical part of his mind, however, reminded him that the atmosphere continued on for another 75 or so kilometers above him.
Below, Honshu was sketched out as clearly as he were looking at a map. He could see clearly out to the northeast coast and the sea of japan, Sado island appearing as a dark mass on the curved horizon. Dipping a wing, he looked to the east, where the sun reflected off the still waters of the flooded Kanto plain, a vast twisted forest of glass and steel sticking up above the waterline where the ruins of old Tokyo stood.
First devastated by the tsunamis, then the target of a nuclear attack mistakenly fired from a Chinese submarine. He recalled that more souls had perished in Kanto's cites during those first few hellish days following second impact than in all the long years of war back home.
The radio crackled in his ear and distracted him from his sightseeing. He had not heard from his colleagues on the ground since Takao had grabbed the mic to chew him out for his showboating over the airfield, and he completed the five minute climb to altitude in silence. Now the English voice again spoke to him, though it sounded a bit less friendly than before.
"One-seven-niner, this is Fuji, we are switching on the beacon, are you ready?"
"Roger." A radio beacon placed on the open plains several kilometers southwest of camp Fuji would serve as his target, simulating an Angel-sized object when seen by the radar.
The altimeter was holding steady at 80,000 feet, or about 25,000 meters. He knew that in a zoom climb his mount could go higher still, the record set by one of Avro's test pilots was 126,000 feet, but this was about as high as he figured it would go if weighed down by the silver dart. He used mount Fuji as a landmark to remain in a steady orbit around the plateau to the east of the mountain, awaiting the order to strike.
"One-seven-niner, this is Fuji, the beacon is now active, begin your attack"
"Roger." He switched the radar to air-to-ground mode. Though not able to use the system's more advanced air-intercept functions without someone in the back seat, he could use the relatively simple ground attack mode without issue. He fiddled with the knobs around the circular display until it showed him a green and black impression of the terrain below.
Sure enough, a huge blip showed in the middle of the plateau. His eyes moved to the new screen, installed just above the radar display in place of some of the less important gauges. He hit a button to send the data from the radar to the ballistic computer. The screen now showed him the same image, and he used a control on the throttle to move the crosshair over the green blip.
He pressed down on the control, and the system locked onto the contact. The computer was now tracking where the target was in relation to the aircraft, and set to work calculating a trajectory. A tone in his ear an instant later told him he now had a valid firing solution, and the display changed to show a three dimensional representation of the calculated trajectory in relation to his current course. He again clicked the control on the throttle, locking in the solution.
A new indicator popped up on the HUD: a hollow circle in the very centre where the gunsight reticle would normally be. An arrow extending from the left side of the circle told him to steer to port, and as he did so the arrow gradually became shorter until a dot entered the display from the left side. He leveled off as the arrow disappeared and the dot centered itself in the circle, forming a bullseye.
The targeting display now showed his aircraft flying along the calculated trajectory, rapidly approaching the point where the line took a sudden turn towards the earth.
Reaching down to the armament panel located behind the control column, he first flicked the master arm switch on, then flipped the switch to open the weapons bay. His hand then moved to the three newly installed switches on the panel, labeled, much to his annoyance, in Japanese.
The first armed the explosive charge in the launch tube, in this case a blank since there was no projectile loaded. The second lowered the tube clear of the bay, and the third toggled between manual and automatic launch modes. In manual, the charge would fire as soon as he hit the big red weapon release button on the stick, known to pilots as the 'pickle', while in automatic he need only hold the pickle down; the computer would automatically launch the dart when it decided all the necessary conditions for a good hit were fulfilled.
He flipped it to automatic, the engineers had assured him that the manual mode was for emergencies only. Bishop wasn't yet sure if he trusted this computer's judgment over his own, but Takao's team had thus far given him no reason to doubt their work.
Only one last thing to attend to before all was set. He turned his eyes to the electrical panel, and reached for the switch with the original label scratched off and replaced with a hastily written one that read 'SIREN'.
Since the jet was supersonic, no sound from outside the cockpit could reach him to confirm that his siren worked, but the warning light for the emergency generator told him it had at least deployed successfully. The dot dropped out of the circle and moved towards the bottom of the HUD, until it disappeared and an arrow extended from the bottom of the circle.
"One-seven-niner, commencing dive onto target."
There was no acknowledgment, so he rolled the jet over onto its back and pulled back on the stick. The sky disappeared under the nose, and the ground filled the canopy as he aimed himself straight for the earth.
The artificial horizon told him he was in a negative 85 degree dive when the bullseye again aligned on the HUD, and he rolled right-side-up. Against all instincts, he kept the throttle shoved all the way forward. The altitude indicator began to rapidly unwind, but he ignored it, his attention divided between two other gauges.
The regular airspeed gauge told him the indicated airspeed, or IAS, measured simply by the amount of air being rammed into the pitot tube extending from the tip of the nose. It did not adjust for air density at altitude, though was still useful for knowing how much air was moving over the control surfaces. The other gauge, the Mach indicator, told him the aircraft's true airspeed, or how fast he was actually moving relative to the surrounding air when adjusted for altitude. The lower the aircraft's altitude, the more closely the indicated and true airspeeds matched.
At 200 knots IAS at 80,000 feet, the Mach indicator told him he was actually moving at two and a half times the speed of sound. The hard pull into the dive had cost him much of his speed, and he had already used up 10,000 feet of altitude before he was back above Mach two.
Now it was a race against time, the Mach indicator had to hit three before the indicated airspeed topped 800 knots. At that point, the air resistance would be such that the wings would likely rip off regardless of any strengthening measures done to the airframe. His calculations had told him that the lowest altitude at which he could hit Mach three before his aircraft broke up was 40,000 feet. That would give him less than ten seconds to slow down and pull up before… splat.
The tone in his ear from the ballistic computer told him he was on target, and he held down the pickle with his thumb. Now all he had to do was keep the bullseye centered, and hang on for dear life.
The altimeter ticked past 60,000 feet. 400 knots IAS, Mach 2.5 true airspeed. There was now a noticeable jostling as the thicker air began to make itself known, and he had to wrestle with the controls to keep the dot centered.
50,000 feet. 600 knots indicated, Mach 2.8.
45,000 feet ticked by an instant later. Several things then occurred, all in less than the blink of eye. The airspeed needle passed 750, the Mach indicator touched three, and the aircraft jumped as a propellant charge equivalent to several thousand pounds of smokeless powder detonated in the launch tube. Success.
He was not out of the woods, though. It took a precious moment for him to register what had happened, by then he had shot past 40,000 feet and the indicated airspeed was rapidly approaching the 800 knot cutoff. The bullseye indicator disappeared from the HUD, and in its place the words 'PULL UP' repeatedly flashed at him. The control column was now shaking violently in his hand, and outside the wings began to vibrate and wobble as they neared their breaking point.
Acting on pure instinct now, he yanked the throttles back to idle, then lifted the safety catch that allowed them to slide further back into the reverse position. In an instant, the thrust reversers extended from their stowed position and folded over the twin tailpipes. The engines roared back to full power, their fury now directed towards the earth rushing up the meet them. His thumb hit the airbrake control, and the two huge panels rose from the aircraft's broad back to lend their assistance in slowing the jet.
Bishop was thrown forward against the seat harness. The force of the deceleration was staggering, it was like being in a continuous car accident. The airspeed indicator hung just below 800 knots for a torturous moment, before finally beginning to inch counter-clockwise as he rocketed past 30,000 feet.
750. 700. Still too fast to start pulling up. He was passing 20,000 feet now, and had precious few seconds left to make the decision whether to eject or not.
650 knots. Close enough. He applied pressure on the stick, and was slammed back down into the seat as the boosted elevators jumped to respond to his inputs. The nose slowly began to rise, and he was immediately assaulted by the full brunt of nine Gs. Straining against the force, he pulled the stick back further, his vision becoming a narrow tunnel as the G indicator neared ten.
Through that tunnel, he could still see nothing but the green forest hurtling towards him. From somewhere behind him there came an alarming amount of creaking as the thirty-year-old airframe was stressed far beyond what it was designed to handle. His instincts screamed at him to reach for the ejection handle, but the immense force pressing him down meant he couldn't have moved his leaden limbs even if he tried.
Sure his life was about to come to a very messy end, he felt no fear. Just a twinge of regret that he had failed.
At least it would be quick, and maybe she would be waiting for him on the other side, a smile in her blue eyes.
Blue. The end of the tunnel was blue now, not green. He released his death grip on the stick and let it fall forward, and as quickly as the ordeal had begun, it was over.
His vision quickly returned to normal, and he greedily gulped down the cool oxygen filling his helmet. A quick scan of the instruments told him he had leveled off at a mere 3,000 feet, and the airspeed needle was still rapidly falling. Realizing the thrust reversers were still deployed, he quickly moved the throttle forward to maintain an easy cruise.
Three thousand feet. Fuck me, that was close. Another half-second's hesitation would have resulted in his death.
At least they now knew exactly how much room the aircraft needed for a successful pull-out. Such was the life of a test pilot, pushing to the very razor's edge and risking life and limb in the name of science.
"One-seven-niner, this is Fuji, how do you read? Are you alright up there?" He chuckled at the concern in the engineer's voice, no doubt wondering if he was still alive after seeing the numbers from the onboard sensors.
"Roger Fuji, I think I'm about a full inch shorter now, but other than that I'm okay. Did you get all the data you needed? It seemed to have fired at the right time…"
"Copy, the launch system functioned perfectly. If it had been loaded you would have scored a direct hit, congratulations. We have all the data we need, you can return to base."
"Understood." Congratulations? The computer did the shooting, all I did was survive.
Reminded that the launch tube was still deployed, he flipped the armament switches back to their original positions, hearing a hydraulic hiss from behind as the weapon bay doors slid shut. Frowning at the warning light that remained on the panel, he belatedly remembered the siren. He could hear it now, he realized, a faint whining sound barely audible above the other noise in the cockpit.
A little underwhelming, but he was cruising along at only 250 knots now, maybe it had been a bit louder during the dive. With a shrug, he flipped the switch, and the whining stopped as the little propeller folded back into the nose.
Oh well, at least the damn thing hadn't fallen off.
As the pilot suspected, it had indeed been louder during the dive. A lot louder.
At first, Shinji had heard nothing, even when he'd finally spied the silver jet at the very end of its long descent.
Right after it appeared overhead, however, an odd whining sound began reach his ear. It gradually built in intensity and pitch, the whine soon giving way to an unholy scream that filled the air and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
It sounded as if the tortured wailing of all of hell's condemned souls were echoing through the valley, warning all who heard them of the Almighty's wrath.
As he covered his ears, every fibre of his being told him to run. To where, and away from what, he didn't know.
What he did know, was that if anything could put the fear of God into an Angel, it would be that noise.
It certainly put the fear of God into him.