Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  Boomer rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Frenchy, when we get back home, we need to sit down at a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, have an expensive champagne drink, and talk about your attitude—toward me, toward the service, toward life.”

  “Captain, you know very well that I’m engaged, I don’t drink, and I love my work and my life,” Moulain said in that same grinding hair-pulling monotone that Boomer absolutely hated. “I might also add, if you haven’t realized it by now, that I hate that call-sign, and I don’t particularly care for you, so even if I was unattached, drank alcohol, and you were the last man on earth with the biggest cock and longest tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bar or anywhere else with you.”

  “Ouch, Frenchy. That’s harsh.”

  “I think you’re an outstanding spacecraft commander and engineer and a competent test pilot,” she added, “but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and I often wonder why you are still at Dreamland and still a member of the United States Air Force. I think your skill as an engineer seems to overshadow the partying, hanging out at casinos, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life—mostly out—and frankly I resent that.”

  “Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Now when I report ‘checklist complete,’ Captain, as you fully well know, that indicates that my station is squared away, that I have examined and checked everything I can in your station and the rest of the craft and found it optimal, and that I am prepared for the next evolution.”

  “Oooh. I love it when you talk Navy talk. ‘Squared away’ and ‘evolution’ sound so nautical. Kinda kinky too, coming from a woman.”

  “You know, Captain, I put up with your nonsense because you’re Air Force and this is an Air Force unit, and I know Air Force officers always act casually around each other, even if there’s a great difference in rank,” Moulain pointed out. “You’re also the spacecraft commander, which puts you in charge despite the fact that I outrank you. So I’m going to ignore your sexist remarks during this mission. But it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer—in fact, it verifies it.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t catch all that. I was busy sticking pencils in my ears to keep from listening to you.”

  “Can we follow the test flight plan and just do this, Captain, without all the male macho bullshit nonsense? We’re already thirty seconds past the planned commencement time.”

  “All right, all right, Frenchy,” Boomer said. “I was just trying to act like we’re part of a crew and not serving on separate decks of a ship in the nineteenth-century Navy. Pardon me for trying.” He pressed a control stud on his flight control stick. “Get me out of this, Stud Seven. Begin powered descent.”

  “Commencing powered descent, stop powered descent…” When the computer did not receive a countermanding order, it began: “Commencing deorbit burn in three, two, one, now.” The Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines, or LPDRS, pronounced “leopards,” activated and went to full power. Burning JP-7 jet fuel and hydrogen peroxide oxidizer with other chemicals and superheated pulses from lasers to increase the specific impulse, the Black Stallion’s four LPDRS engines produced twice as much thrust as all of the engines aboard the space shuttle orbiters combined.

  As the spacecraft slowed, it began to descend. Normally at a certain velocity Boomer would shut down the main engines and then turn the spacecraft using its thrusters to a forward-flying nose-high attitude and prepare for “entry interface,” or the first encounter with the atmosphere, and then use aerobraking—scraping the shielded underside against the atmosphere—to slow down for landing. This time, however, Boomer kept it flying tailfirst and the LPDRS engines running at full power.

  Most spacecraft could not do this for long because they didn’t carry enough fuel, but the Black Stallion spaceplane was different: because it refueled while on Armstrong Space Station, it had as much fuel as it would have when blasting into orbit, which meant it could keep its engines running for much longer periods during re-entry. Although aerobraking was much more fuel-efficient, it had its own set of hazards—namely, the intense heat of friction that built up on the underside of the spacecraft—so the crew was trying a different re-entry method.

  As the Black Stallion slowed even more, the descent angle got steeper, until it seemed as if they were pointed straight up. The flight and engine control computers adjusted power to maintain a steady 3-G deceleration force. “I hate to ask,” Boomer grunted through the G-forces pressing his body back into his seat, “but how are you doing back there, Frenchy? Still optimal?”

  “In the green, Captain,” Frenchy responded, forcing her breath through constricted throat muscles in order to keep her abdominal muscles tight, which increased blood pressure in her head. “All systems in the green, station check complete.”

  “A very squared-away report, thank you, M. Moulain,” Boomer said. “I’m optimal up here too.”

  Passing through Mach 5, or five times the speed of sound, and just before reaching the atmosphere at approximately sixty miles’ altitude, Boomer said, “Ready to initiate payload separation.” His voice was much more serious now because this was a much more critical phase of the mission.

  “Roger, payload separation coming up…program initiated,” Moulain responded. The cargo bay doors on top of the Black Stallion’s fuselage opened, and powerful thrusters pushed a BDU-58 container out of the bay. The BDU-58 “Meteor” container was designed to protect up to four thousand pounds of payload as it descended through the atmosphere. Once through the atmosphere the Meteor could glide up to three hundred miles to a landing spot, or release its payload before impacting the ground.

  This mission was designed to show that the Black Stallion spaceplanes could quickly and accurately insert a long-duration reconnaissance aircraft anywhere on planet Earth. The Meteor would release a single AQ-11 Night Owl unmanned reconnaissance aircraft about thirty thousand feet altitude near the Iran-Afghanistan border. For the next month, the Night Owl would monitor the area with imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radars for signs of Muslim insurgents crossing the border, or Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds convoys smuggling in weapons or supplies from neighboring countries.

  After the Meteor container was away, Boomer and Frenchy continued their powered descent. The atmosphere made the spaceplane slow down much more quickly, and soon the LPDRS engines were throttling back to maintain the maximum 3-G deceleration. “Hull temperatures well within the green,” Moulain reported. “I sure like these powered descents.”

  Boomer fought off the G-forces, reached out, and patted the top of the instrument panel. “Good spaceship, nice spaceship,” he cooed lovingly. “She likes these powered descents too—all that heat on the belly is not nice, is it, sweetie? Did I tell you, Frenchy, that those ‘leopards’ engines were my idea?”

  “Only about a million times, Captain.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Air pressure on the surface is up to green…computers are securing the reaction control system,” Moulain reported. “Mission-adaptive control surfaces are in test mode…tests complete, MAW system responding to computer commands.” The MAW, or Mission Adaptive Wing, system was a series of tiny actuators on the fuselage that in essence turned the entire body of the spaceplane into a lift or drag device—computers shaped the skin as needed to maneuver, climb or descend, make the craft slipperier, or slow down quickly. Even flying backward, the MAW system allowed complete control over the spaceplane. With the atmospheric controls active, Boomer took control of the Black Stallion himself, turned so they were flying forward like a normal aircraft, then hand-flew the ship through a series of steep, high angle-of-attack turns to help bleed off more speed while keeping the descent rate and hull temperatures under control.

  At the same time, he was maneuvering to get into position for landing. This landing was going to be a bit trickier than most, because their landing spot was i
n southeast Turkey at a joint Turkey-NATO military base at a city named Batman. Batman Air Base was a Special Operations Joint Task Force base during the 1991 Gulf War, with American Army Special Forces and Air Force pararescue troops running clandestine missions throughout Iraq. It was returned to Turkish civil control after the war. In a bid for greater cooperation and better relations with its fellow Muslim nations in the Middle East, Turkey forbade NATO offensive military operations to be staged from Batman, but America had convinced the Turks to allow reconnaissance and some strike aircraft to fly from Batman to hunt down and destroy insurgents in Iran. It was now one of the most vital forward air bases for American and NATO forces in the Middle East, eastern Europe, and central Asia.

  “Passing sixty thousand feet, atmospheric pressure in the green, ready to secure the ‘leopards,’” Moulain said. Boomer chuckled—securing the “leopards” and transitioning to air-breathing turbojet mode was done automatically, as were most operations on the spaceplane, but Moulain always tried to pre-guess when the computer would initiate the procedure. Cute, yes—but she was generally correct, too. Sure enough, the computer notified him that the LPDRS engines were secure. “We’re still in ‘manual’ mode, Captain,” Moulain reminded him. “The system won’t restart the engines automatically.”

  “You’re really on top of this stuff, aren’t you, Frenchy?” Boomer quipped.

  “That’s my job, Captain.”

  “You’re never going to call me ‘Boomer,’ are you?”

  “Unlikely, Captain.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, Frenchy.”

  “I’ll survive. Ready for restart.”

  Part of her allure was definitely the chase. Maybe she was all businesslike in bed too—but that was going to have to wait for a time when they weren’t seated in tandem. “Unspiking the engines, turbojets coming alive.” They had enough oxygen in the atmosphere now to stop using hydrogen peroxide to burn jet fuel, so Boomer reopened the movable spikes in the engine inlets and initiated the engine start sequence. In moments the turbojets were idling and ready to fly. Their route of flight was taking them over central Europe and Ukraine, and now they were over the Black Sea, heading southeast toward Turkey. Along with keeping hull temperatures low, the powered descent procedures allowed them to descend out of orbit much quicker—they could come down from two hundred miles’ altitude into initial approach position, called the “high gate,” in less than a thousand miles, where a normal aerobraking descent might take almost five thousand miles.

  Below sixty thousand feet they were in Class A positive control airspace, so now they had to follow all normal air traffic control procedures. The computer had already entered the proper frequency in the number one UHF radio: “Ankara Center, this is Stud Seven, due regard, one hundred twenty miles northwest of Ankara, passing flight level five-four-zero, requesting activation of our flight plan. We will be MARSA with Chevron Four-One.”

  “Stud Seven, Ankara Center, remain outside Turkish Air Defense Identification Zone until radar identified, squawk one-four-one-seven normal.” Boomer read back all the instructions.

  At that moment, on their secondary encrypted radio, they heard: “Stud Seven, Chevron Four-One on Blue Two.”

  Boomer had Frenchy monitor the air traffic control frequency, then switched to the secondary radio: “Four-One, this is Stud Seven.” They performed a challenge-and-response code exchange to verify each other’s identity, even though they were on an encrypted channel. “We launched out of Batman because we heard from Ankara ATC that they are not letting any aircraft cross their ADIZ, even ones with established flight plans. We don’t know what’s going on, but usually it’s because an unidentified aircraft or vessel drifted into their airspace or waters, or some Kurds fired some mortars across the border, and they shut everything down until they sort it out. We’re coming up on rendezvous point ‘Fishtail.’ Suggest we do a point-parallel there, then head out to MK.”

  “Thank you for staying heads-up, Four-One,” Boomer said, the relief obvious in his voice. Using the powered descent profile grossly depleted their fuel reserves—they were almost bingo fuel right now, and by the time they reached the initial approach fix at Batman Air Base they’d be in an emergency fuel status, and they would have no fuel to go anywhere else. Their closest alternate landing site was Mi-hail Kogălniceanu Airport near Constanţa, Romania, or simply “MK” for short, the first U.S. military base established in a former Warsaw Pact country.

  With the two aircraft linked via the secure transceiver, their multi-function displays showed them each other’s position, the track they had to follow to rendezvous, and the turnpoints they’d need to get into position. The Black Stallion reached the Air Refueling Initial Point fifteen minutes early, four hundred knots too fast, and thirty thousand feet too high, so Boomer started a series of high-bank turns to bleed off the excess airspeed. “I love it—boring holes in the sky, flying around in the fastest manned aircraft on the planet.”

  “Odin to Stud Seven,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.

  “It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Odin.”

  “You’re cleared to proceed to MK,” Patrick McLanahan said from Armstrong Space Station. He was monitoring the spaceplane’s progress from the command module. “Crews are standing by to secure the Black Stallion.”

  “Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.

  “That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Any idea why Ankara wasn’t letting anyone in, sir?”

  “This is Genesis. Still negative,” David Luger chimed in. “We’re still checking.”

  Eventually the Black Stallion was able to slow down and descend to get into proper position, five hundred feet below and a half mile behind the tanker. “Stud Seven is established, checklist complete, got you in sight, ready,” Boomer reported.

  “Roger, Seven, this is Chevron Four-One,” the boom operator in the tanker’s tail pod responded. “I read you loud and clear, how me.”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Roger that. I have a visual on you too.” On intercom, he said, “Boom’s lowering to contact position, crew,” and he motored the refueling book into position, its own steerable fly-by-wire wings stabilizing it in the big tanker’s slipstream. Back on the radio: “Seven is cleared to precontact position, Four-One is ready.”

  “Seven’s moving up,” Boomer said. He opened the slipway doors atop the fuselage behind the cockpit, then smoothly maneuvered the spaceplane to the precontact position: aligned with the tanker’s centerline, the top of the windscreen on the center seam of the director light panel. The immense belly of the converted Boeing 777 filled the windscreen. “Seven’s in precontact position, stabilized and ready, JP-7 only this time,” he said.

  “Copy precontact and ready, JP-7 only, cleared to contact position, Four-One ready,” the boom operator said. He extended the nozzle and set the “maneuver” light blinking, the signal for the receiver to move into position. Boomer barely had to move the controls because the plane was so light—almost as if just by thought, he carefully maneuvered the Black Stallion forward and up. When the maneuver light turned steady, Boomer held his position, again as if by thought only, and the boom operator slid the nozzle into the receptacle. “Contact, Four-One.”

  “Seven has contact and shows fuel flow,” Boomer acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys.”

  “We’re a Cabernet crew, sir,” the tanker pilot said.

  It took the KC-77 ten minutes to transfer thirty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the Black Stallion. “Let’s start heading west, Four-One,” Boomer said. “We’re starting to get too close to Krasnodar.” Krasnodar on the east coast of the Black Sea was the location of a major Russian air base, and although they were well outside theirs or anyone else’s airspace, it was best not to fly around such areas unannounced. Along wit
h their big air defense radar and numerous long-range surface-to-air missile batteries, Krasnodar was one of the largest fighter bases in the entire world, with no less than three full air defense fighter wings based there, including one with the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-29 “Fulcrum,” considered one of the best interceptors in the world.

  Even four years after the American retaliatory attacks in Russia, nerves were still frayed throughout the entire region, and operators were on a hair trigger to scramble fighters and activate air defense systems. Luckily, there were no signs of any air defense activity behind them. “Right turn is best.”

  “Coming right to two-seven-zero,” the tanker’s pilot said. Boomer expertly banked behind the modified Boeing 777 aircraft as they started to turn south, maintaining contact in the turn.

  They had just rolled out on the new heading when the tanker’s boom operator said, “Well well, folks, looks like we have a visitor. Seven, your three o’clock, real damned close.”

  “What is it, Frenchy?” Boomer asked, concentrating on staying in the refueling envelope.

  “Oh shit…it’s a Russian MiG-29,” Moulain said nervously, “three o’clock, less than a half mile, right on our wingtip.”

  “See if he has a wingman,” Boomer said. “Russkies don’t fly around single-ship too often.”

  Moulain scanned the sky, trying to stay calm, straining to look as far back as she could. “Got him,” she said moments later. “Seven o’clock, about a mile.” The one at three o’clock slid closer, riveting her attention. In her fifteen-year Navy career she had never seen a MiG-29 except the ones in service in Germany, and that was on a static display, not inflight. It could’ve been a fixed-wing clone of the F-14 Tomcat Navy carrier fighter, with broad wings, beefy fuselage, and a large nose for its big fire control radar. This one was in green, light blue, and gray camouflage stripes, with the big white, blue, and red flag of Russia on the vertical stabilizer—and she could clearly see one long-range and two short-range air-to-air missiles hanging off the MiG’s left wing. “He’s loaded for bear, that’s for sure,” she said nervously. “What are we going to do?”