Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  The Soviet-made R-40 missiles were well within their maximum range, and the Blackjack’s big fire-control radar had a solid lock-on. The Megafortress’s rear-defense fire-control radar locked on to the incoming missiles and started firing Stinger airmine rockets, but this time they couldn’t score a hit. One R-40 missile was decoyed enough for a near miss, but a second R-40 scored a hit, blowing off the left V-tail stabilator on the Megafortress and shelling out two engines on the left side.

  The force of the explosion and the sudden loss of the two left engines threw the Megafortress into a jaw-snapping left swerve so violent that the big bomber almost succeeded in swapping nose for tail. Only Brad Elliott’s and John Ormack’s superior airmanship and familiarity with the EB-52C Megafortress saved the crew. They knew enough not to automatically jam on full power on all the operating engines, which would have certainly sent them into a violent, unrecoverable flat Frisbee-like spin—instead, they had to pull power on the right side back to match the left, trade precious altitude so they could gain some even more precious flying airspeed, recover control, and only then start feeding in power slowly and carefully. The automatic fire-suppression systems on the Megafortress shut down the engines and cut off fuel, preventing a fatal fire and explosion. They lost two hundred knots and five thousand feet of altitude before the bomber was actually flying in some semblance of coordinated flight and was not on the verge of spiraling into the Persian Gulf.

  But the Megafortress was a sitting duck for the speedy Blackjack bomber. “His airspeed has dropped off to less than five hundred kilometers per hour,” the defensive-systems officer reported as he studied his fire-control radar display. “He has dropped to one thousand meters, twelve o’clock, ten miles. He is straight and level—not maneuvering. I think he’s hit!”

  “Then finish him off,” the Iranian pilot shouted happily. “Finish him, and let’s get out of here!”

  “Stand by for missile launch!” the defensive-systems officer said. “Two missiles locked on … ready … ready … launch! Missiles …”

  He never got to finish that sentence. A fraction of a second before the two R-40 missiles left their rails, three pairs of AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles from three pursuing F/A-18 Hornet fighters from the USS Midway plowed into the Blackjack-E bomber, fired from less than five miles away. They had used guidance information from the asyet-unknown but friendly aircraft, so were able to conduct the intercept and lock on to the enemy attack plane without having to use their telltale airborne radars. The Sidewinders turned the Blackjack’s four huge turbofan engines into four massive clouds of fire that completely engulfed, then devoured the big jet. The pieces of Blackjack bomber not incinerated in the blast were scattered across over thirty square miles of the Persian Gulf and disappeared from sight forever.

  “Hey, buddy, this is Dragon Four-Zero-Zero,” the lead F/A-18 Hornet pilot radioed on the UHF GUARD channel. “You still up?”

  “Roger,” Brad Elliott replied. “We saw that bandit coming in to finish us off. I take it we’re still alive because you nailed his ass.”

  “That’s affirmative,” the Hornet pilot replied happily. “We saw the hit you took. You need an escort back to King Khalid Military City?”

  “Negative,” Brad replied. “That’s not our destination. We’ve got a tanker en route that’ll take us home.”

  “You sure, buddy? If you’re not going to KKMC, it’s a long and dangerous drive to anywhere else.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll limp on outta here by ourselves,” Brad replied. “Thank for clearing our six.”

  “Thank you for protecting our home plate, buddy,” the Hornet pilot responded. “We owe you big-time, whoever you are. Dragon flight, out.”

  Brad Elliott scanned his instruments for the umpteenth time that minute. Everything had stabilized. They were in a slow climb, less than three hundred feet a minute, nursing every bit of power from the remaining engines. “Well, folks,” he announced on interphone, “we’re still flying, our refueling system is operable, and we’ve still got most essential systems. I want everyone in exposure suits. If we have to ditch, it’s going to be a very, very long time before anyone picks us up. Might as well get up and stretch a bit—at this airspeed, it’s going to be a real long flight back to Diego Garcia.”

  “The good news is,” John Ormack interjected, “the weather report looks pretty good. I can’t think of a nicer place to be stuck at fixing our bird.”

  “Amen,” Brad Elliott agreed. He waited a few moments; then, not hearing any other comments, added, “You agree, Muck, Wendy? Can you use a few weeks on Diego while our guys fix us up? Patrick? Wendy? You copy?”

  Patrick let his lips slowly part from Wendy’s. He returned once more for another quick kiss, then drank in Wendy’s dancing eyes and heavenly smile as he moved his oxygen mask to his face, and replied, “That sounds great to me, sir. Absolutely great.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time, energy, dedication, and professionalism,” Major General Larry Dean Ingemanson said. He stood before the last assembly of the entire promotion board in the Selection Board Secretariat’s main auditorium. “The final selection list has been checked and verified by the Selection Board Secretariat staff—it just awaits my final signature before I transmit the list to the Secretary of the Air Force. But I know some of you have planes to catch and golf games to catch up on, so I wanted to say ‘thank you’ once again. I hope we meet again. The board is hereby adjourned.” There was a relieved round of applause from the board members, but most were up and out of their seats in a flash, anxious to get out of that building and away from OSRs and official photographs and sitting in judgment of men and women they did not know, deciding their futures.

  Norman Weir felt proud of himself and his performance as a member of the board. He was afraid he’d be intimidated by the personalities he’d encountered, afraid he wouldn’t match up to their experience and knowledge and backgrounds. Instead, he discovered that he was just as knowledgeable and authoritative as any other “war hero” in the place, even guys like Harry Ponce. When it came to rational, objective decision-making, Norman felt he had an edge over all of them, and that made him feel pretty damned special.

  As he walked toward the exits, he heard someone call his name. It was General Ingemanson. They had not spoken to one another since Ingemanson accepted the Form 772 on McLanahan, recommending he be dismissed from the active-duty Air Force. Ingemanson had requested additional information, a few more details on Norman’s observations. Norman had plenty of reasons, more than enough to justify his decision. General Ingemanson accepted his additional remarks with a serious expression and promised he’d upchannel the information immediately.

  He did warn Norman that a Form 772 would probably push the candidate completely out of the running for promotion, not just for this board but for any other promotion board he might meet. Norman stuck to his guns, and Ingemanson had no choice but to continue the process. McLanahan’s jacket disappeared from the panel’s deliberation, and Norman did not see his name on the final list.

  Mission accomplished. Not only strike back at the pompous prima donnas that wore wings, but rid the Air Force of a true example of a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing officer.

  “Hey, Colonel, just wanted to say good-bye and thank you again for your service,” General Ingemanson said, shaking Norman’s hand warmly. “I had a great time working with you.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir. I enjoyed working with you too.”

  “Thank you,” Ingemanson said. “And call me ‘Swede’—everybody does.” Norman said nothing. “Do you have a minute? I’m about ready to countersign your Form 772 to include in the transmission to the Secretary of the Air Force, and I wanted to give you an opportunity to look over my report that goes along with your 772.”

  “Is that necessary, sir?” Norman asked. “I’ve already put everything on the 772. McLanahan is a disgrace to the uniform and should be discharged. The Reserves don’t even de
serve an officer like that. I think I’ve made it clear.”

  “You have,” Ingemanson said. “But I do want you to look at my evaluation. You can append any rebuttal comments to it if you wish. It’ll only take a minute.” With a confused and slightly irritated sigh, Norman nodded and followed the general to his office.

  If Norman saw the man in a plain dark suit sitting in the outer office behind the door talking into his jacket sleeve, he didn’t pay any attention to him. General Ingemanson led the way into his office, motioned Norman inside, and then closed the door behind him. This time, Norman did notice the second plainclothed man with the tiny silver badge on his lapel and the earpiece stuck in his right ear, standing beside Ingemanson’s desk.

  “What’s going on, General?” Norman asked. “Who is this?”

  “This is Special Agent Norris, United States Secret Service, Presidential Protection Detail,” General Ingemanson replied. “He and his colleagues are here because that man sitting in my chair is the President of the United States.” Norman nearly fell over backwards in surprise as he saw the President of the United States himself swivel around and rise up from the general’s chair.

  “Smooth introduction, Swede,” the President said. “Very smooth.”

  “I try my best, Mr. President.”

  The President stepped from behind Ingemanson’s desk, walked up to the still-dumbfounded Norman Weir, and extended a hand. “Colonel Weir, nice to meet you.” Norman didn’t quite remember shaking hands. “I was on my way to Travis Air Force Base in California to meet with some of the returning Desert Storm troops, and I thought it was a good idea to make a quick, unofficial stopover here at Randolph to talk with you.”

  Norman’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Talk to … me?”

  “Sit down, Colonel,” the President said. He leaned against Ingemanson’s desk as Norman somehow found a chair. “I was told that you wish to file a recommendation that a Major Patrick McLanahan should be discharged from the Air Force on the basis of a grossly substandard and unacceptable Officer Selection Record. Is that right?”

  This was the grilling he’d expected from Harry Ponce or General Ingemanson—Norman never believed he’d get it from the President of the United States! “Yes … yes, sir,” Norman replied.

  “Still feel pretty strongly about that? A little time to think about it hasn’t changed your opinion at all?”

  Even though Norman was still shocked by the encounter, now a bunch of his resolve and backbone started to return. “I still feel very strongly that the Air Force should discharge Major McLanahan. His background and experience suggests an officer that just wants to coast through his career, without one slight suggestion that he has or wants to do anything worth contributing to the Air Force or his country.”

  “I see,” the President said. He paused for a moment, looked Norman right in the eye, and said, “Colonel, I want you to tear up that form.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want you to drop your indictment.”

  “If you drop your affidavit, Colonel,” Ingemanson interjected, “McLanahan will be promoted to lieutenant colonel two years below the primary zone.”

  “What?” Norman retorted. “You can’t … I mean, you shouldn’t do that! McLanahan has the worst effectiveness report I’ve seen! He shouldn’t even be a major, let alone a lieutenant colonel!”

  “Colonel, I can’t reveal too much about this,” the President said, “but I can tell you that Patrick McLanahan has a record that goes way beyond his official record. I can tell you that not only does he deserve to be a lieutenant colonel, he probably deserves to be a four-star general with a ticker-tape parade down the Canyon of Heroes. Unfortunately, he’ll never get that opportunity, because the things he’s involved in … well, we prefer no one find out about them. We can’t even decorate him, because the citations that accompany the awards would reveal too much. The best we can do for him in an official manner is to promote him at every possible opportunity. That’s what I’m asking you to do, as a favor to me.”

  “A … favor?” Norman stammered. “Why do you need me to agree to anything? You’re the commander in chief—why don’t you just use your authority and give him a promotion?”

  “Because I’d prefer not to disrupt the normal officer selection board process as much as possible,” the President replied.

  “The President knows that only a board member can change his rating of a candidate,” Ingemanson added. “Not even the President has the legal authority to change a score. McLanahan received a high enough score to earn a below-the-zone promotion—only the 772 stands in his way. The President is asking you to remove that last obstacle.”

  “But how? How can McLanahan possibly earn a high enough rating?”

  “Because the other board members recognized something that exists in Patrick McLanahan that you apparently didn’t, Colonel,” the President replied. “Great officers exhibit leadership potential in many other ways than just attending service schools, dress, and appearance, and how many different assignments they’ve had. I look for officers who perform. True, Patrick hasn’t filled the squares that other candidates have, but if you read the personnel file a little closer, a little differently, you’ll see an officer that exhibits his leadership potential by doing his job and leading the way for others.”

  The President took the Form 772 from Ingemanson and extended it to Norman. “Trust me, Colonel,” he said. “He’s a keeper. Someday I’ll explain some of the things this young man has done for our nation. But his future is in your hands—I won’t exercise whatever authority I have over you. It’s your decision.”

  Norman thought about it for a few long moments, then reached out, took the Form 772, and ripped it in two.

  The President shook his hand warmly. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “That meant a lot to me. I promise you, you won’t regret your decision.”

  “I hope not, sir.”

  The President shook hands and thanked General Ingemanson, then stepped toward the door. Just before the Secret Service agent opened it for him, he turned back toward Norman, and said, “You know, Colonel, I’m impressed.”

  “Sir?”

  “Impressed with you,” the President said. “You could’ve asked for just about any favor you could think of—a choice assignment, a promotion of your own, even an appointment to a high-level post. You probably knew that I would’ve agreed to just about anything you would have asked for. But you didn’t ask. You agreed to my request without asking for a thing in return. That tells me a lot, and I’m pleased and proud to learn that about you. That’s the kind of thing you’ll never read in a personnel file—but it tells me more about the man than any folder full of papers.”

  The President nodded in thanks and left the office, leaving a still-stunned, confused—and very proud—Norman Weir to wonder what in hell just happened.

  GLOSSARY

  ACSC—Air Command and Staff College, an Air Force military school for junior field grade officers that prepares them for more leadership and command positions.

  AFO—Accounting and Finance Officer—handles pay and leave matters

  ASAP—“as soon as possible”

  AWACS—Airborne Warning and Control System, an aircraft with a large radar on board that can detect and track aircraft for many miles in all directions

  Backfire—a supersonic Russian long-range bomber

  Badger—a subsonic Russian long-range bomber

  Bear—a subsonic turboprop Russian long-range bomber and reconnaissance plane

  BIOT—British Indian Ocean Trust, a chain of small islands in the Indian Ocean administer by the United Kingdom

  Blackjack—an advanced supersonic Russian long-range bomber

  Buccaneer—a British long-range bomber

  Candid—a Russian cargo plane

  Chagos—the Iliot native name for the islands administered by the British Indian Ocean Trust

  Class A’s—the business-suit-like uniform of the U.S. Air For
ce

  DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency, the U.S. military’s intelligence-gathering service

  Diego Garcia—the largest island of the Chagos Archipelago in the Indian Ocean, part of the British Indian Ocean Trust

  Dreamland—the unclassified nickname for a secret military research facility in south central Nevada

  Extender—a combination aerial-refueling tanker and cargo plane operated by the U.S. Air Force

  firewaHed—on an Officer Effectiveness Report, when all raters rate the officer with the highest possible marks

  Goblin—nickname for the U.S. Air Force F-117 stealth fighter

  GUARD—the universal radio emergency frequency, 121.5 KHz or 243.0 MHz

  HAWC (fictional)—the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, one of the topsecret Air Force research units at Dreamland

  Iliots—the natives of Diego Garcia in the British Indian OceanTrust

  IRSTS—Infrared Search and Track System, a Russian heat-seeking aircraft attack system where the pilot can detect and feed targeting information to his attack systems without being detected

  Mainstay—a Russian airborne radar aircraft

  Megafortress (fictional)—an experimental, highly modified B-52H bomber used for secret military weapons and technology tests

  MiG—Mikoyan-Gureyvich, a Soviet military aircraft design bureau

  MOI—Memorandum of Instruction, the directives issued by the Secretary of the Air Force to a promotion board on how to conduct candidate evaluations and scoring

  MPC—Military Personnel Center, the U.S. Air Force’s manpower and personnel agency

  Nimrod—a British reconnaissance and attack plane