“I doubt if it’s a permanent condition,” Furry said. The wizzo had seen it before—matt was suffering a massive case of self-doubt. If he was to have a future flying fighters, Matt would have to find his self-confidence; the belief that he was the meanest, toughest, best fighter pilot on the block and any comers had best know it.
The pilot said nothing.
“I understand you haven’t been matched with a new wizzo. You want me in your pit?”
Matt couldn’t believe it. Locke’s old wizzo, one of his best friends and probably the best backseater in the wing, was now volunteering to be his wizzo. What was going on? then it came to him—his grandfather’s influence. Matt wasn’t going to have it. “Why?” he challenged. “A phone call from some general in the Pentagon?”
“You think I work that way?” Furry shot back. “Then fuck off.” He started to leave.
“Why?” Matt was confused. “I’ve got to know.”
Furry stopped. “I was talking to Jack the day before the accident. He said you were one damn good stick.” Furry paused, recalling the conversation, controlling the emotion he felt. “He claimed you’re a rerun of him and living proof of what the Tactical Air Force is all about.”
“And what’s that?” Matt asked.
“Fighting and fucking, everything else is a surrogate.”
“Colonel Locke said that?” Matt was incredulous.
“It’s not original but yeah, he said that.” A rueful look played across Furry’s round face as he thought about his old friend. “There’s one other thing I can’t get past—Jack wouldn’t have picked you to fly as number two with Ramjet Raider along if he had any doubts about your ability.”
“But why take a chance on me? Hell, like I said, I don’t know what happened up there and everyone is saying I caused the midair.”
Furry’s face was impassive. “I don’t think you did.”
8
“Mr. Fraser,” Melissa called, stopping the President’s chief of staff as he hurried past her desk. “B. J. Allison called ten minutes ago and asked for you to call her immediately.”
A worried look flicked across Fraser’s face and he glanced at his watch. It was 6:32 in the morning. “What does she want so early in the morning?” he grumbled to himself and scurried into his office. Barbara Jo Allison was well known to be a night person, often working till four in the morning and then sleeping until noon. She would be at her bitchiest if she had been working all night.
Melissa saw the telelight for one of Fraser’s private lines flash on her com panel. Fraser had left strict instructions not to interrupt him when that light was on. The light was still flashing six minutes later when the President called. “Melissa, don’t you ever go home?” Pontowski asked. The warm humor that always floated underneath the surface whenever he talked to her was still there, enchanting her.
“I just got here, sir.” It was a lie. She had been at work for over an hour. For her troubles, she was paid $53,000 a year, had no private life, and never had time for a vacation. She could feel the first twinges of cynicism sour her personality as menopause approached, and she realized she would never have a family. Yet, when she was honest with herself, she admitted she would have it no other way. Melissa Courtney-Smith loved Zack Pontowski and had long ago given him her loyalty, willingly devoting her life to his career. When she was younger, she often indulged in a fantasy that included her body in that devotion. But that fantasy had been laid to rest years ago. Part of Zack Pontowski’s appeal was his faithful loyalty to his wife.
“Is Tom around?” Pontowski asked. “He’s not answering his line.”
“He’s in his office, sir. He often turns the bell off when he’s working. He probably didn’t see the light. I’ll get him.” It was a minor snafu, the kind that Melissa often handled—smoothing out communications in a busy office. She didn’t hesitate and walked directly into Fraser’s office to tell him that the President was calling him on the direct line to his office. She deliberately did not knock, curious to see what was distracting Fraser.
“Damn it, B.J., I’m doing what I can …” He was still talking on the phone, his back to the desk.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Fraser whirled around in his chair, furious at the interruption. Melissa pointed at his intercom panel. The light for the direct line to the President’s quarters was flashing. “The President.”
“I’ll call you right back,” he said and cut off B. J. Allison. Melissa closed the door as he glared at her.
Now what was that all about? Melissa thought. That’s the third time this week Allison has called him.
Ambler Furry was not impressed with Matt’s mission brief for their first single-ship, low-level mission. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.
“Yep, let’s go do it,” Matt answered, glad to see they had plenty of time for him to get a cup of coffee and relax in the crew lounge before the flight. He also wanted some time to screw up his courage and drive his self-doubts back into the shadows.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee and then let me show you how I’d brief the mission,” Furry said. It was not a request.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit stupid to go through the entire briefing guide just for a single-shipper? We both know what we’ve got to do and can talk about it in the air.”
Furry grinned at him. “If it’s stupid but works, it ain’t stupid.” Matt started to protest, but Furry just grinned. “That’s one of ‘Furry’s Rules for Survival.’ ”
“‘Furry’s Rules for Survival’?” The pilot was intrigued.
“I’ve got a whole list of ‘em.”
“What’s the first rule?” Matt asked. He liked the wizzo’s way of thinking.
“Never forget your jet was made by the lowest bidder.”
“Okay, forget the coffee. You brief.”
For the next twenty minutes, Furry machine-gunned Matt with procedures, techniques, options and what ifs. When they walked out of the briefing room. Matt knew that he had a hard-nosed professional flying in his pit who probably knew more about how to handle the sophisticated, multilayered systems in the Eagle than anyone he had ever met. “You make it sound so simple,” Matt told him.
“The important things are always simple.”
“Is that another one of your rules?”
“Yep. But it’s got a tough partner—the simple things are always hard.”
From the moment Furry stepped off the crew van that delivered them to the hardened concrete bunker that sheltered their aircraft, Matt could sense a change in the wizzo as he neared the F-15—his easygoing demeanor disappeared, his step quickened. Then Matt realized he was teamed with a professional killer, a man more than willing to enter the combat arena, risk his own life, and purposefully bring death and destruction on an enemy. Matt felt a sense of purpose settle over him as he started his preflight. He wanted to do it right.
“This is one healthy jet,” Matt said. They had just come off a tanker after an air-to-air refueling and were letting down for a second low-level run. On this run, they would head south, working their way through the hills of northern England and onto an RAF range that sported a host of simulated Soviet air defenses. Their job was to get through a ring of simulated antiaircraft artillery (AAA, or triple A) and surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) that were backed up by very real radars and electronic jamming. Once through the defenses, they were to drop an inert laser-guided bomb on a mock-up of a Soviet command bunker.
“All systems are go,” Furry told him. “Couple the TFR to the autopilot.” Matt did as the wizzo suggested and set the clearance limit for five hundred feet for the low-level run. Deep inside, he did not trust the Terrain-Following Radar. Gingerly, he relaxed his hold on the stick, ready to “paddle” the autopilot off and hand-fly the jet. “Come on,” Furry groaned, “five hundred feet ain’t low. Take it down to at least three hundred. Nice picture on the Navigation FLIR.”
Matt chanced a glance at his left Multi-Purpose Display (MPD) vi
deo screen where he had called up the Navigation Forward Looking Infrared picture coming from the LANTIRN (Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared System for Night) pod slung under the right intake. The same pod also held the Terrain-Following Radar (TFR). The pod under the left intake carried a laser and a FLIR for targeting. Together, the two pods made the F-15E into the true all-weather, nighttime, dual-role fighter that had ruled the skies over Iraq. The infrared picture coming through the nav pod was almost as sharp as the visual picture he was seeing through the HUD (Head Up Display). It was very reassuring.
Then Matt looked at the right-hand MPD, where he had called up the TFR. The E scope presentation checked perfectly with what he was seeing on the Nav FLIR and through the HUD. Furry was trying to remind Matt of what the F-15 could do and rebuild his confidence after the crash. “Come on,” Furry urged, “take her down. We got to get into the weeds if we’re going to get onto the range undetected.” The TEWS, or Tactical Electronic Warfare System, started to chirp, warning them that an acquisition radar was sweeping the area.
“Amb, I don’t know about the TFR down this low. If it fails …”
“Then we’ve had a very bad day,” the wizzo growled, “use the goddamn feature or someone will guarantee we get our asses hosed down.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Amb!” Matt protested. “This is only a training mission.”
“Train like you’re going to fight,” Furry snapped.
“Real original. Is that one of your ‘rules'?”
“Damn right” was the only reply from the rear cockpit.
Matt set the clearance limit to three hundred feet and let the autopilot take them down. After a few minutes, he started to relax and concentrate on other tasks. His trust in the F-15 was coming back. The TEWS was doing its job and they were getting early warnings of the hostile radars ahead of them.
At one point, Furry reevaluated the threats in front of them and reprogrammed their route, bypassing a heavily defended point and flying down a low valley. The Tactical Situation Display (TSD) that Matt had on his Multi-Purpose Color Display screen blinked and the new route came up on it. The TSD was a constantly moving electronic map that was synced with the laser ring gyro inertial navigation system and nav computer. The TSD showed them their current position and was overlaid with a wealth of navigation info. “We’ve got to get lower in this valley,” Matt said and lowered their clearance limit on the TFR to two hundred feet. Furry only grunted in satisfaction. Matt was amazed how fast Furry could bring the APG-70 radar to life by hitting the EMIS Limit switch, sweep the area in a mapping mode to update their position, and then tell him to take command of the radar for an air-to-air sweep. Within seconds, Furry would hit the EMIS Limit switch again and they would be back to silent running, their powerful radar in standby.
“I wish we could use the jamming feature of our TEWS,” Furry said. “That would water their eyeballs.” In peacetime the crews were only allowed to use the detection part of the TEWS and not activate the system’s jamming and deception circuits.
The chirping warning sound on the TEWS changed, becoming more insistent. “Airborne interceptors,” Furry muttered. “I’Ve got our position wired down to a gnat’s ass so when I hit the EMIS Limit, do an air-to-air search for bogies.” It was a crew coordination procedure the wizzo had talked about in the mission briefing. It went off without a hitch.
“Right on,” Matt rasped. “Two hits, on the nose, forty-two miles.”
“Probably RAF Tornados out of Five Squadron at Coningsby,” Furry told him. “I heard they were using the range.” A low laugh came from the back. “I know those toads. They’re good but the Fox-hunter radar on the Tornado ain’t worth shit. Try to sneak by ‘em.”
“Rog,” Matt said, feeling much more confident. He made a mental note to ask Furry how he knew so much about the RAF when they debriefed. Probably another one of his damned rules, he decided, probably something about knowing the opposition better than what your wife wants in bed.
Then Furry’s fengs started to grow. “What the hell,” he said. “Even if they don’t see us, let’s engage. A kill is a kill.”
Matt was feeling better and better as his self-confidence surged. “I’ll simulate a head-on shot with an AMRAAM at the leader and after it would have gone on internal guidance, I’ll take a head-on Sidewinder shot.” Furry grunted an acknowledgment. The more they flew together as a crew, less chatter would be needed and they would become much more efficient. The AIM-120, or AMRAAM, was their mediumrange standoff missile that was launched in a semiactive mode, homing on reflected radar energy from the F-15's radar. Close in, the AMRAAM’s internal radar would become active and steer the missile to the target, allowing the F-15 to disengage. By launching a Sidewinder missile at short range, the target aircraft would have to defeat a second missile. Only this one would be guided by an infrared seeker head. Life would have been very complicated for the Tornado if the missiles had been for real.
“I’ll blow on through and turn on the trailer,” Matt said, “and Fox Two him.” Fox Two was the brevity code for a Sidewinder missile. Furry grunted again. “Then I’ll close a Fox Three.” Fox Three was the brevity code for guns, their close-in weapon.
“No can do,” Furry said. “Without a face-to-face briefing before the engagement, the ROE say one turn only on a defender and no closer than one mile.” The ROE, or Rules of Engagement, determined just what they could do when engaged in combat. The ROE for peacetime were designed to keep fighter pilots alive.
“Rog,” Matt acknowledged. “Now.”
Furry hit the EMIS Limit switch and the radar came to life. Matt locked on the lead aircraft and simulated launching an AMRAAM. He keyed the UHF radio, transmitting on the frequency all aircraft using the range had to monitor. “Fox One on the northbound Tornado at twelve thousand feet.” Fox One was the brevity code for a radar missile. He waited, watching the two aircraft split on his radar, taking evasive action. Matt pulled up and into them. The track-while-scan ability of the Hughes radar gave him an awesome capability. When the computer gave him a signal that the AMRAAM would have gone on internal guidance, he locked on with a Sidewinder and simulated launching it. “Fox Two on the same aircraft,” he transmitted.
Now Matt searched for the second aircraft. He thumbed the Weapon Select switch on the side of the right throttle full aft. Three things happened: The radar went into an air-to-air supersearch mode and locked on the nearest target; second, the 20-millimeter cannon was selected or made “hot"; and third, the sight picture in the HUD flashed to a “guns” display. Matt looked through the small target designator box on his HUD. As advertised, he could see die target and did not have to search the skies for a “tallyho,” the visual sighting of another aircraft. He broke lock and zoomed into the sun, never losing sight of the Tornado. In the mission briefing, Furry had suggested that technique as a way to find the bad guy and then confuse him. The radar warning gear in the target aircraft should have warned the pilot that he was being tracked by the F-15's radar. When the signal disappeared, the pilot would be preoccupied with a visual search while they hid in the sun.
“Tallyho on the trailer,” Matt shouted. At the same time, he moved the Weapon Select switch to the mid-detent position that called up a Sidewinder missile. Again, the system did its magic.
“Tallyho the leader,” Furry said, much calmer. “Coming to our six, disregard him, we already killed him.” The lead Tornado was converting to Matt’s six o’clock position, eager to engage. But in reality, one of the missiles would have taken him out. In this game of cowboys and Indians, Furry figured this particular cowboy was dead and was going to ignore him.
Matt was still climbing straight up. He rolled and pulled his nose down, into a forty-five-degree dive, pointed directly at the second Tornado. “That’s your one turn,” Furry cautioned. The one turn allowed by the ROE did not have to be made parallel to the ground but could be made in any plane. Matt had made his in the vertical. The distinctive growl of the
Sidewinder came through their headsets. The cooled, infrared seeker head on the Sidewinder was tracking the target. The Lock/Shoot lights on the canopy bow came on. “Fox Two on the Tornado in a hard left diving turn,” Matt transmitted. He stroked the afterburners and continued his dive. The Pratt and Whitney F-100-229 engines responded crisply and they outran the Tornado that was at their six o’clock.
A clipped British voice came over the radio: “Fox One on the Eagle.”
“He blows a lot of smoke for a dead man,” Funy said.
“Thanks for the fun, troops,” Matt transmitted. “Got to run.” They were back on the deck, heading for the target.
“I want to update our position,” Furry said. The wizzo called up the mapping radar on his right-hand MPD. The radar image was overlaid with symbols coming from the navigation computer. If the inertial nav system was totally accurate and had their actual position pinpointed, the turn points and target boxes that had been programmed into the navigation computer would be over the correct spot on the radar return. But life being as it is, they seldom agreed. He placed the radar cursors over the center of one of the target boxes, which should have been a small crossroads he had picked out during mission planning. He hit the Auto Acq switch under his right thumb on the right-hand controller and reduced the size of the box around his cursor. Then he hit the pushbutton switch with his little finger, freezing the picture. He was making a map. The system counted down for a few seconds and then unfroze. “Take command and search for bogies,” he said.
Matt took command of the radar with the Auto Acq switch on his stick and did a quick search. “Done,” he said. Furry hit the EMIS Limit switch and they were back in silent running. All the time the TFR had been coupled to the autopilot and guiding them along their route at 480 knots and two hundred feet above the ground.
Firebreak Page 15
