Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) by Philip Donlay Page B

filters for the engine, but the heart of what protects the
Scimitar
is a liquid nitrogen heat exchanger. We circulate super-cooled jet fuel throughout the airframe. Everything that the heat of a volcanic plume could affect is protected by this system, including the air that is ingested into the engine.”
    “Amazing—what’s the endurance on the
Scimitar
?” Donovan asked.
    “Fourteen hours with a thirty-minute reserve.”
    Donovan thought how difficult it must have been to engineer all the complicated systems and still keep the aerodynamics intact. “How do you keep the corrosive aspects of the ash from destroying the optics? I wouldn’t think it’d take very long for the ash to eat away at the lenses, and then all you’d have is one very expensive, but blind, airplane.”
    “Yes, you’re correct. In laboratory tests, we discovered that the typical ash cloud renders the
Scimitar
’s optics unusable in about eight minutes. I devised a rotating lens cover system that continually slides a new protective film into position when needed. The optics system is unproven, and that’s one of the necessities of flying the
Scimitar
from inside your airplane. In the event that the
Scimitar
is blinded, our pilot can guide the drone to a safe landing by actually looking out the window of the
Galileo
and visually controlling the flight.”
    “Professor, thank you for the tour. I’m looking forward to seeing the
Scimitar
in action.”
    “As am I,” Professor Murakami replied, as he nodded a farewell and went to resume his work.
    “Incredible,” Buck said. “I’ve seen firsthand what these things can do out in the field, at least the militarized version.”
    “Here we are.” Malcolm held open the door to a small office connected to the hangar itself. “We set up a makeshift office here at the airport to be closer to the
Scimitar
and the data we hope to recover from the test flights.”
    Donovan could see that the room was small and hastily put together. The air was filled with the acrid smell of over-cooked coffee. Donovan guessed that this place was manned twenty-four hours, and coffee was a by-product of that vigilance. Along one wall were several computers situated on old metal desks, the floor snaked with the wires of multiple connections going to printers and phone lines. On the facing wall was a row of seismographs, each contained white rollers with long metal pointers etching lines on the drums. Donovan knew enough to understand that each small variation of the ink reflected some unseen movement deep inside the earth. Seated at one of the terminals was a smallish woman with straight, mostly gray hair tied in a ponytail. Her glasses were pushed up onto the top of her head.
    “Honey,” Malcolm called out. “We have company.”
    The woman turned, and Donovan saw that she was probably in her early sixties, similar in age to Malcolm. Her features were sharp, but the lines of time and obvious exposure to the elements were visible around her eyes. She struck Donovan as someone who spent a great deal of time in the outdoors, thin and tall, almost stately, she was the perfect match for Malcolm. She rose from her chair to greet them. As she neared, Donovan could see in her eyes what looked to him to be a great sadness. She didn’t smile, but Donovan immediately felt a kinship with this woman.
    “Gentlemen, this is my wife Lillian,” Malcolm said. “Honey, I’d like you to meet Donovan Nash and Howard Buckley. They’re with Eco-Watch.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Lillian replied, then turned toward her husband. “There were a series of three small-scale earthquake swarms about twenty minutes ago.”
    “I’d like to see what that looks like,” Donovan said, as he turned and tried to figure out exactly which instrument in the room might show an earthquake swarm.
    “It’s right here,” Lillian said, pointing to one of the seismograph drums. “See how we get a big spike and then it gradually goes back to