Spirit Flight

by P. R. Fittante

  “We propose sending a single B-2, carrying GPS guided weapons, to strike these targets. The B-2 can achieve accuracy unattainable by cruise missiles, and unlike cruise missiles or other conventional aircraft, it can get in and out without being targeted. The B-2 can simply over fly the country at forty thousand feet, drop its weapons, and escape undetected. In this way, no other support assets will be required, other than in-flight refueling. The aircraft will launch and recover from Whiteman—we don’t want to tip anyone off with a deployment to Guam. The North Koreans will never know what hit them.”

  Frank looked at General Morgan to gauge his reaction. He was surprised to see the general glance at him, before directing a question at Lieutenant Colonel Hernandez. “You say we targeted nuclear facilities during the Gulf War, Colonel. What was the result of that strike?”

  “F-16s attacked from medium to high altitude and destroyed their enriched uranium processing plant. This occurred during the first week of the air campaign.”

  General Morgan turned toward Frank. “Is this true Major Farago?”

  “Not completely, sir,” Frank said, trying to conceal his astonishment. The general had obviously received some background on Frank’s career. “The F-16s inflicted only minimal damage on the processing plant. F-111s ended up coming in low with laser guided bombs to finish the job.”

  “How do you know this?” Hernandez demanded.

  “I flew that mission in the F-16. We came in high because of the triple ‘A’, but it turned out the SAMs were more of a threat. My lead was shot down that night.”

  General Morgan nodded then turned his attention back to Hernandez. “Tell me, Colonel. Is the B-2 less detectable at high altitude or low altitude?”

  “Low altitude, sir.”

  The general turned again to Frank. “I was briefed yesterday by the B-2 Program Manager that the aircraft’s current terrain following software is ready for full up operational use. Would you agree, Major Farago?”

  “Under most circumstances, it is sir.” Frank hesitated to express any more of his suspicions or concerns. He had no evidence to back them up. But looking at General Morgan and understanding the importance of this decision, he had to tell the truth. “I am confident the B-2 can TF through any kind of weather, sir. My only concern is extended low level operations with gusty winds and turbulence. I think the B-2 should avoid such conditions.”

  Hernandez seemed ready to explode. “Major, we’ve all read the preliminary safety report from your accident. You certainly didn’t terminate your mission after encountering severe turbulence!”

  “Colonel, that is a discussion for another time,” the general said firmly. “Tell me, do any of your crews currently train for low level flight in the B-2?”

  “No sir. But we are confident we can safely execute our mission from high altitude.”

  “I don’t disagree. But the air defense network of North Korea is much more formidable than what Iraq possessed. Therefore, I don’t want to rule out a defensive measure that can make the aircraft less vulnerable simply because your crews are not trained to do it.”

  Hernandez had no argument against General Morgan’s logic. “Sir, we can use the simulator to train a crew—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Colonel. We have a pilot right here who knows more about the B-2’s terrain following system than anyone else. Major Farago, will you fly this mission?”

  Frank stared at the general in disbelief. The rest of the Whiteman commanders did the same. Lieutenant Colonel Hernandez started to speak, and then thought better of it. The general waited patiently for Frank’s reply.

  On one level, Frank could understand General Morgan’s reasoning. Frank had combat experience in Iraq, a wealth of B-2 experience and in-depth knowledge of its terrain following system. Still, he felt there was something more to the general’s decision. After all, in the eyes of most of the room’s occupants, a criminally negligent test pilot was suddenly being offered a combat mission of international importance. But he couldn’t dwell on that. He decided to trust General Morgan’s thinking.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll fly the mission.”

  The general nodded. “Good. I don’t think I have to emphasize to any of you the importance of acting quickly and quietly. We don’t want North Korea scrambling to use these weapons because they think they’re going to lose them. Colonel Hernandez, please begin your preparations.”

  “Sir, the aircrew will mission plan tonight, go into crew rest and launch tomorrow evening.”

  The entire room snapped to attention as General Morgan stood up. “At ease,” he said quickly and then motioned for Frank to come over.

  Frank followed the general to a corner of the room. “Sir, I want to thank you for giving me a chance to—”

  The general cut him off. “This is not about redemption, Major. The B-2 is the right aircraft to perform this mission, and you are the right person to have on board. All I want is to give this mission the best chance of succeeding.”

  Frank nodded.

  “And this mission will be a success,” the general added, lowering his voice. “I am confident of that. But that doesn’t mean the aircraft is a success. Frank, if you think there is a problem with the B-2, I want to hear about it. That’s your job as a test pilot. Don’t worry that powerful people might attack you for what you say. I promise, you won’t be alone.”

  “I’ve never minded going it alone, sir. But lately, I’d appreciate having a few friends.”

  General Morgan smiled, then turned serious. “Concerning the flight through turbulence, you set the abort criteria. If the jet’s not performing properly, get out. No one will fault you. We have other options standing by to take out these targets if need be.” He looked hard at Frank before continuing. “And as far as I’m concerned, the jury is still out with regard to your safety investigation. Right now, I want you to concentrate on this mission alone. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “OK. Go mission plan before Hernandez finds an excuse to replace you.”

  Chapter 25

  Ernest Walker anxiously listened to every surge of the wing mounted turbo prop. At full power, it appeared every screw and fastener on its thin engine cowling was ready to vibrate into oblivion. He leaned back and tried to loosen his grip on the armrests. Though he had spent a lifetime designing new aircraft, he still hated to fly—especially in these tiny commuter planes.

  He peered out the side window through the whirling blur of propeller blades. A murky gold layer of smog became evident as they climbed away from LAX. The small plane gained altitude over the clear Pacific, and then began a slow turn back to the northeast. Looking below, Mr. Walker could make out the Malibu coast and the approaching San Gabriel Mountains. He could also see a long line of traffic snaking its way north along the Five Freeway. He figured that was reason enough to tolerate this twenty-minute hop to Palmdale. The alternative would have meant up to three hours in traffic.

  Looking back at the L.A. basin, he marveled at how much the area had grown since he last worked there. It seemed the city had metastasized into every valley and canyon within its hard mountain confines. So many of the city’s bedrock industries had moved to escape the noxious sprawl. The aerospace industry was no exception. He knew his old Northrop facility in East L.A. had been shut down soon after the American Aero takeover. Indeed, many of the remaining aerospace giants now did much of their work in outlying towns such as Palmdale.

  It was obvious the entire nature of aircraft development had completely changed since he first drafted a schematic with pencil and protractor. Today’s technology allowed incredibly complex and previously unimaginable designs. But is also brought high costs and high stakes. Companies could not take risks and experiment with new ideas as they once did. There was too much pressure to get a new aircraft right the first time—a goal he knew to be unattainable with the latest “do it all” designs.

  But not all changes had been for the worse. An industry that was once e
xclusively the domain of the white male had diversified. He thought of his conversation yesterday with the young woman from Edwards. Melissa Fairfield had impressed him with her knowledge of the B-2. When he related his concerns about stress on the elevons during low level flight, she had immediately seized upon the idea and peppered him with questions for nearly an hour. Her knowledge of flight control systems far exceeded anything he had ever known during his day. But what truly struck him was her genuine concern for the other people she worked with. She wanted to find the reason for the B-2’s crash because it was important to the other members of her squadron, particularly one Frank Farago. He was thankful that Dale had been able to work with people like Melissa and Frank.

  Talking with Melissa reminded him of the great camaraderie he had once enjoyed during his days as an engineer. He missed working with a team of motivated individuals and the satisfaction that came from overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles to achieve a goal. If only he had learned to balance his love of the job with the love that his wife and two sons had craved from him. He bitterly recalled the day that his wife informed him that she was taking Dale and his brother back to North Carolina to live with her family. Her announcement had caught him completely by surprise. To his linear way of thinking, he was providing for his family and that should suffice. He had no idea how to respond to her, so he had simply gone to work. When he returned that evening, they were gone. Now his eldest son was gone forever.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice interrupted. “We’re beginning our descent into Palmdale. We may experience some turbulence coming over the mountains, so please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened.”

  Mr. Walker automatically reached down to check that his belt was tight. He wondered what Dale was thinking as his B-2 was rocked by turbulence during that final flight. Did he think of his father at all? It had been a good while since they had last talked. When Dale and Rachel first moved out to Edwards, he had promised them he would visit. He never did—until now.

  After talking with Frank and Melissa, he had resolved to finally make the trip. He realized he needed to do something to get to know his son a little better. He wanted to see where Dale had lived and worked. He wanted to meet the people who knew him and flew with him. At long last, he simply hoped to capture some sense of who his son had been.

  By flying into Palmdale, he also wanted to learn something about the B-2. He was curious how the B-2 had progressed since the early days of the program. Some of his old co-workers were still employed by American Aero. He needed to see first hand if they still truly believed in the B-2’s design and capabilities.

  The small plane crossed the twisted rocks of the San Andreas Fault and descended into the southern edge of the Mojave Desert. Mr. Walker could see the huge assembly buildings and hangars lining the Palmdale runway. Primarily known as Air Force Plant 42, it was the origin of some of the nation’s most renowned aerospace vehicles. Along with the B-1 and B-2, all of the NASA Space Shuttles were assembled and modified here. More accessible than Edwards Air Force Base twenty miles to the north, aerospace buffs from around the world would assemble on its adjacent streets to gaze at an airborne parade of exotic aircraft. But the procession had thinned in recent years. He knew many of the massive buildings now found more use as giant sets and sound stages for the Hollywood folks down the road than as shelters of genuine aircraft creation.

  The pilot let the commuter slowly settle to earth where it was dwarfed by the expanse of concrete runway. He over flew much of the surface before touching down just prior to the civilian terminal taxiway. As the props wound down, Mr. Walker stepped from the plane into a stiff, dry wind. He quickly retrieved his luggage, picked up his rental car and made the short drive to the American Aero facility on the other side of the runway.

  As he approached the complex of immense windowless boxes, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the B-2 program. What he first knew as a few sketches on drafting paper had developed into a real, ongoing day-to-day operation employing thousands of people. Several of those workers were returning to the complex from lunch as Mr. Walker made his way to the security building. He walked among them, but understood he had little in common with any of them. He was now on the outside looking in at an industry he had sacrificed so much for. Still, he had to see for himself how his life’s work had turned out.

  He glanced up at a massive sign above the security entrance that implored “Catch The Spirit” in large red, white and blue letters. He noticed it was terribly cracked and faded. It occurred to him that he was visiting a program whose existence was hanging in the balance—a program that no longer produced airplanes, but simply modified and maintained them. He looked back at the half full parking lot and wondered how desperate a program like that might become.

  The security guard eyed him warily as he approached the desk. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see a Mr. Jeremy Thompson.”

  “Who should I say is asking for him?”

  “Tell him it’s his old boss, Ernest Walker.”

  The guard nodded and suppressed a smile as he dialed the senior vice president’s secretary. After a few moments of conversation he issued Mr.Walker a visitor’s badge and told him the secretary would come out in a few minutes to escort him inside.

  He waited patiently until a young woman arrived who seemed barely out of college. She smiled cordially and asked him to follow her. As they stepped outside, she looked at him curiously. “Mr. Thompson seemed happy to hear you were visiting. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Jack Northrop,” Mr.Walker replied with mock sincerity.

  The young woman didn’t flinch. “So the two of you worked together back in the old days?”

  “Yes. Jeremy was a young engineer on my structures team,” he answered truthfully. “We did some of the early B-2 design work together.”

  “Well, I just love the B-2,” she said, as she led him into another building. “It looks so cool at air shows.”

  “Did you know it was originally designed to drop enough nuclear weapons to wipe out sixteen Soviet cities?”

  “Well, no,” she said quietly. They stepped into a plush office where Jeremy Thompson stood waiting. “Sir, Mr. Northrop is here.”

  “Uh, thank you Brandi.” He broke into a broad grin as he stepped forward and extended his hand to Ernest Walker. “It’s good to see you again, Jack.” He waited a second for his secretary to leave. “She looked absolutely pale, Ernest! What did you say to her?”

  “Just told her the truth.”

  “Well, you were always one to do that! Please, have a seat. How have you been? It’s been, what, over fifteen years since you retired?”

  “Seems longer seeing how things have changed.”

  Thompson grimaced. “It’s certainly not like the old days at Northrop.”

  Mr. Walker noted a hint of fatigue in his voice. “Well, we were lucky to work on some cutting edge projects back then. The B-2 was truly revolutionary.”

  “Yeah, I miss the hard engineering. Being an executive pays better, but I don’t get the same satisfaction. Especially now that we’re just sustaining aircraft and not producing them.”

  “As I recall, we were supposed to build one hundred and thirty-two B-2s.”

  “That’s right. But our opponents in Congress balked at the price tag. So they cut the total buy to seventy-five. Of course when you determine each airplane’s cost by dividing the total program cost by the total number of aircraft built, you get a higher per unit cost. It’s a catch twenty-two. The more you try to save by building fewer, the higher the price for each one you do build. Further justification for canceling a program. That’s how you end up with a two billion dollar price tag for twenty-one aircraft. It really only costs about eight hundred million to build a B-2.”

  Mr. Walker scratched his head. “Still sounds a might pricey to me.”

  “That’s what the Air Force says. Fortunately, we have
some friends in Congress who agree we need an expanded bomber force.”

  Mr. Walker suddenly felt like an outsider again. He looked at Jeremy Thompson and realized the man had become a stranger to him. “You mean you want to force the Air Force to buy an airplane they don’t want?”

  Thompson laughed. “It’s not like the Air Force is paying for it. Congress will get them the extra funds.”

  “I think we’re all paying for it,” Mr. Walker said quietly.

  Thompson’s smile faded. “Tell me, Ernest. Why did you come to visit today?”

  “Oh, I guess I was just curious how the B-2 turned out. Remember when I left, the B-2 was undergoing a complete redesign for low level flight.” He paused to work up the courage to ask his real question. “How did you finally get the elevons to handle the stress of low level flight?”

  Thompson gave him an odd look. “Well we’ve had some amazing advances in computers and software since you left, Ernest. We simply optimized the elevon response for low level operations. It has worked out quite nicely.”

  Mr. Walker could feel the anger rising within him. “I think you’ve forgotten your roots, Jeremy. We always said high-tech workarounds were no substitute for sound engineering. You’ve still got to make the hardware work.”

  Thompson waved his hand. “I know what you’re referring to,” he said genially. “The B-2 that went down last week. I assure you that was no fault of the aircraft. Those test pilots up at Edwards got a little too carried away and lost the jet. Simple as that. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if criminal . . .” His voice trailed off as he noticed Ernest Walker’s reaction.

  Mr. Walker struggled to compose himself. He cast his eyes downward, rubbed them fiercely with both hands and then stared vacantly at Jeremy Thompson. “My son was one of the pilots, Jeremy.”

  Thompson immediately made the connection. “My God, Ernest. I had no idea!”

  “That’s OK, Jeremy. I don’t need your sympathy. Lord knows I don’t deserve any. But I did hope to hear the truth from you.”