Hypersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (Novels of the Jet Age)

by Walter J. Boyne

  Edwards Air Force Base, California

  FROM A DISTANCE, a stranger might have thought the two men were brothers. Both were just over six feet tall, with medium builds and blond hair bleached almost white from the desert sun. Both men bristled with unbounded energy.

  “We probably shouldn’t even be talking to each other!”

  Vance Robert Shannon—V. R. to his friends—punched Dennis Jenkins in the shoulder as they stood in the yellow communications van, listening to the crisp, to the point communications between the Space Shuttle Enterprise and its 747 SCA—the Shuttle Carrier Aircraft. Registered N905NA, the big 747 had a special mount on its fuselage top to carry the orbiters, and was modified with huge square fixed surfaces on its horizontal stabilizer to compensate for the additional side area when the Shuttle was on board.

  “I don’t think even my old man would care and Harry certainly would not. He thinks the world of Rodriquez, O’Malley, and the rest of you ActOn warriors. Quiet now, listen. This is the big payoff to lots of testing.”

  The 747/Enterprise had already done three taxi tests and eight captive flights, testing the systems and pushing the speed and altitude envelopes. Now they were going to undertake the most hazardous test so far—the separation of the two aircraft. The 747 would pull clear, and if everything went well, the shuttle would commence a less than six-minute glide back down to the long runway at Edwards.

  On board the OV-101, the Enterprise, Fred Haise and Charles “Gordon” Fullerton were calmly going through their prelaunch checklist, interacting as necessary with Fitz Fulton and Tom McMurtry in the 747.

  Jenkins nudged Shannon with his elbow.

  “Not much emotion, eh? From the tone of their voices, you’d think they were taking inventory in a hardware store instead of flying the biggest glider in history.”

  V. R. nodded, knowing as Jenkins did that all four men aboard the 747/Shuttle combination knew very well that their lives might all come to a blazing end in the next few minutes if the separation didn’t go as planned. Anything could go wrong—some of the explosive bolts might not fire, the Shuttle might pitch down or the 747 might pitch up, and in either case a catastrophic collision could occur.

  There were precedents for “piggyback” aircraft like this that went back as far as the British Shorts composite experiments in 1937, when they mounted a twin-float, four-engine aircraft on top of a four-engine flying boat. Later, the Germans had used the concept to place fighters, Messerschmitt 109s, or Focke Wulf 190s, on top of explosive-laden unpiloted twin-engine bombers. But nothing on this scale had ever been attempted—a 150,000-pound Shuttle coupled to a 350,000-pound 747. The problem was exacerbated because the two aircraft were of such different types. The four-engine 747 had a long relatively narrow fuselage and swept-back wings, while the Space Shuttle had a stubby fat fuselage and short delta wings. There had been many hours spent in wind tunnels analyzing the airflow and the probable separation paths, but until it actually took place, no one knew for sure what might happen.

  Jenkins had an encyclopedic memory for everything about the Air Force’s test programs and, being a fan of “Fitz” Fulton, said, “After all Fitz’s done, this must seem like a piece of cake. He flew combat in Korea, test-flew the XB-70, flew the launch B-52 for almost all the rocket-powered planes from the X-1 to the X-15, set an altitude record in the B-58, my God, he’s done it all.”

  V. R. had a touch of his father’s cynicism, replying, “No matter, he’s sweating right now, hoping that the Shuttle launches clean from his 747.”

  Fulton’s voice came on loud and clear. “We’re at 24,100 feet, airspeed 310. Nosing over.”

  Fitz pushed the 747’s nose over a scant seven degrees. Haise, in the Enterprise, called “Launch” as he pressed the switch detonating the seven explosive bolts that held the two aircraft together.

  The two gigantic planes parted cleanly, the brief wisp of white smoke from the explosive bolts vanishing in an instant. Haise raised the nose of the Enterprise two degrees, then entered a twenty-degree bank, letting the nose drop down to establish an airspeed of 238mph for the silent glide back to Edwards’s runway 17.

  Fulton’s voice came on, saying dryly, “We’re clear. Shuttle launched.”

  Inside the Orbiter there was no conversation as Haise established a nine-degree nose-down attitude and executed two ninety-degree turns to position the Shuttle for the steep final approach.

  Shannon and Jenkins were outside the communications van now, watching the white Enterprise dropping like a stone toward the runway.

  Jenkins whispered, “Man, when they say final approach, they mean final approach—no go-around allowed.”

  Haise opened the speed brakes, then seconds later rotated the aircraft so that it slowed to 213 mph just as the main gear of the Enterprise touched the desert floor. Inside the Shuttle, Fullerton gave Haise a thumbs-up as they rolled for more than eleven thousand feet down the runway at Rogers Dry Lake, using minimum braking.

  Shannon glanced at his watch. “Five minutes and twenty-one seconds. They’ll have a hard time racking enough time to earn their flight pay at that rate.”

  The two men walked back toward Jenkins’s dusty Corvette, its seats already hot from the early-morning sun.

  “How on earth did you get into the test pilot school, V. R.? It seems like yesterday when I was yelling at you for overcontrolling the Tweetybird.”

  Jenkins had been V. R.’s instructor in Cessna T-37s during his basic training at Columbus Air Force Base.

  “I’m not kidding myself a bit. If my name wasn’t Shannon, I wouldn’t have had a prayer. But your boss, Steve O’Malley, is an old friend of my dad’s. The first thing he did was get me jobs where I built up a lot of flight time in F-4s and even some in the F-15. I flew my ass off, but I’ve logged about two thousand hours of fighter time, and most of my classmates barely have five hundred. He even got me assigned to instructing Israeli pilots when they got their first F-15Cs. Then he did a little persuading with people he knew who were on the selection committee for my test pilot class.”

  V. R. stopped, obviously embarrassed, but determined to tell Jenkins the whole story. He went on. “I don’t think it’s right for things to happen like this, and I’d be pissed off it was happening to someone else, but I’m going to take advantage of it anyway.”

  Jenkins understood. It was the way the world worked, and it was certainly the way things worked in the Air Force. Having a patron wasn’t an automatic key to success—you still had to be good, to be able to deliver the goods. But having a patron opened doors that might otherwise be closed.

  “You interested in being an astronaut?”

  “No, not really. I’m old school, just like my granddad; if it doesn’t have wings, I’m not too interested.”

  Jenkins nodded.

  “That may change. They have some interesting programs coming up with the shuttle, they are even talking about a space station someday. Then they certainly will try to get weapons into space.”

  “That might be worth something. But those long-term programs get canceled—look at Dyna-Soar and the MOL; the Air Force spent a lot of money on both, and then DOD canceled them.”

  Jenkins nodded. Both projects, the Dyna-Soar and the Manned Orbiting Laboratory, would have put pilots into space for military purposes, and both were entirely feasible. But each one had fallen prey to other budget needs.

  V. R. went on. “And besides, there’s some interesting things coming up on the flying end, and I think you know exactly what I mean.”

  That ended the discussion. Both men did know exactly what was meant. The Air Force was looking for some way to beat the incredible integrated air defense systems that the Soviet Union had built up in its own territory, and then farmed out to its satellites. The Soviet system included comprehensive, redundant radar sites, tens of thousands of surface-to-air missile sites, and a huge number of interceptors. The Air Force wanted to neutralize the Soviet system, and the best way to do that was to n
eutralize its radar. Both Vance Shannon, Incorporated, and ActOn were subcontractors to Lockheed and Northrop, respectively on “black” projects that were supposed to lead to that goal.

  The thought struck Jenkins that Shannon really shouldn’t have known anything about the project; Harry or Tom would not have told him. The only way he might know would be through the test pilot school side. He started to ask, and then stopped. It was just too damn sensitive even for old friends to discuss.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE PASSING PARADE: President Carter makes human rights part of U.S. foreign policy; Ed Koch elected Mayor of New York City; Leonid Brezhnev becomes President of Soviet Union; punk rock music gains favor; George Lucas’s Star Wars starts new film trend; Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 launched, en route to Jupiter and Saturn; United States and China establish diplomatic relations; Pope Paul VI dead at 80; mass cult suicide in Jonestown, Guyana; Dolly Parton named country singing entertainer of the year; The Deer Hunter wins Oscar as best picture; Shah leaves Iran after tumultuous year; Ayatollah Khomeini takes over; nuclear power accident at Three Mile Island.

  April 6, 1978

  Palos Verdes, California

  What in the world is America coming to, Tom? Did you see where Frank Borman has leased twenty-five Airbus A300s for Eastern? Can you imagine what’s going on at Boeing? I can see Mal Stamper tearing out his hair.”

  “What’s left of it! I’m more worried about what is going on with Rodriquez and that ActOn outfit he runs. They have a lot of connections in Europe because of the F-16 program. I’ll bet they are tied in to Airbus, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  Harry Shannon shook his head.

  “Airbus is subsidized by the French government, so it probably gave Borman a price they knew that Boeing couldn’t match, just to buy in.”

  Tom, always argumentative, came back, “Yeah, but Boeing gets a lot of military contracts. That’s a form of subsidy, too, though they would deny it. I hate to see a foreign airliner on American routes, but maybe it will be good for competition.”

  “Like you said, though, it’s going to be good for competition, but it’s going to be our competition, ActOn. I’ll bet O’Malley is on this like a herd of turtles, picking up contracts, making deals on both sides of the Atlantic. We’ll do pretty well with Pan American. They’ve ordered five hundred million dollars’ worth of Lockheed L-1011s, and we stand to clean up fitting out their interiors. That’s something even you have to give Rodriquez credit for, Tom, getting us into the business of doing the interiors of aircraft, not just their external equipment.”

  Tom scowled. “I never said he wasn’t smart. But he sure wasn’t smart about telling us not to hire Mae. That crossed the line as far as I was concerned.”

  Harry scoffed to himself. Rodriquez had crossed Tom’s line so many times in the past that the business with Mae was a trifle. Harry had honored his word: Vance Shannon, Incorporated, had not hired her, but Nancy had put her in charge of one of the residual businesses that was left over from the shopping mall debacle, and she was doing well. It was essentially a real estate office, but specializing in arranging mortgages and investigating titles. Mae had learned the business in six months, and was now operating on her own and was salvaging many of the properties that Nancy had given up on.

  “Getting back to the L-1011s—you know the market is not big enough for it and the DC-10, too. McDonnell Douglas is already in trouble on the commercial side, and I don’t think the DC-9 can save them forever. The two companies should have merged and just produced one airplane or the other.”

  Tom crumpled up the sheet of paper he had been writing on and tossed it in the wastepaper basket, saying, “Two points! They were way too proud for that. I think Douglas might have done it once, but Lockheed, never. But say they had pulled it off, they had merged, which one would you have wanted to see them build?”

  Harry didn’t hesitate a second. “The L-1011. They call it the TriStar, you know, and it’s a much more modern aircraft than the DC-10. Douglas was in a hurry to catch up, and used way too much DC-8 technology in the DC-10. Lockheed had been out of the commercial business so long that they could start with a clean sheet of paper. But they may be in trouble yet; the Rolls-Royce engine they chose is not coming along as it should.”

  He paused for a gulp of water and went on. “You know, Tom, I feel badly about the whole deal. Some years ago I did an analysis for Boeing that showed clearly that the total market for a smaller wide-body airliner was about fifteen hundred aircraft. I wish now that I had made a stronger pitch on the subject to both Lockheed and Douglas management.”

  “Harry, they wouldn’t have listened. They have a lot of smart guys in their marketing department, and there’s been a lot of competition between Lockheed and Douglas ever since the Connie was bucking the DC-6.”

  “Yeah, but the big problem is that the breakeven point for either company was about 750 aircraft. So if they divide the market equally—which is probably what will happen—both are doomed to lose a bundle on the project. If one captures most of the market, it might make a little, but the other firm will be ruined. And Boeing is doing a much better job than anyone thought selling 747s, some to the very market that the L-1011 and DC-10 are aiming for. I still think if I could have gotten to their top management, I could have convinced them.”

  “Spilt milk, Harry, forget about it. We’ve got a long way to go to get our own company on its feet, so stop worrying about those guys. We’ve never done as well on the commercial side as we have on the military side, anyway. It’s time we were concentrating on some new military projects.”

  Both men knew that there was a revolution in management taking place in the United States Air Force. The Strategic Air Command was for many years the fiefdom of the great Curtis LeMay, and he had given SAC its character. But now, seventeen years after LeMay’s departure, an erudite, soft-spoken, four-star general named Russell Dougherty was changing things, imparting a new look to SAC management. He had shocked his wing commanders in one of his early talks by saying, “There’s nothing in your job description or mine that requires either of us to be an unmitigated son of a bitch.” It was Dougherty’s way of moving SAC from the authoritarian style that had been a necessity when LeMay had to whip SAC into shape at the start of the Cold War. Later SAC commanders had abused their authority and Dougherty saw that new methods were needed.

  In the Tactical Air Command, the new mover and shaker was General Bill Creech, a perfectionist who demanded the best from everyone—especially himself. Since the Vietnam War, TAC had fallen on hard times, and it was going to take someone with Creech’s drive and determination to make it an effective force again.

  Tom continued. “I think we’ll have an in with the Tactical Air Command. I know Bill Creech pretty well. He’s not everybody’s cup of tea—fighter pilots don’t like to be told to shine their shoes and wear neckties all the time—but he’s a hell of a leader and he knows combat. He flew 103 combat missions over Korea and another 177 over Vietnam.”

  “You had a lot of combat, too, Tom.”

  Harry never stopped trying to build Tom up. His ego, already badly deflated by his long prison stay, had been hurt even worse by his wife taking over the family business and almost destroying it. He was recovering from both shocks, but slowly.

  “And that’s why he’ll talk to me. He’s got some great new ideas. He hates the fact that we lost 397 F-105s in Vietnam. Creech is determined never to have losses like that again.”

  Harry looked at his brother fondly, wishing that their father could see how much strength he had regained. The more he became engaged in the business, the more he shook off the ravages of his time as a POW in North Vietnam.

  Tom went on, visibly wound up, getting up and walking back and forth just as his father used to do when on to a new idea. But where Vance Shannon had walked with long, loping strides until his very last days, Tom’s injuries from his POW days imparted a nautical roll to his walk.

  “Creech gave a
talk at one of my Air Force Association meetings. He says he is determined to see that we never again try to fight an integrated air defense system like the North Vietnamese had or that the Soviets have now. He says he wants to take away the advantage that radar and surface-to-air missiles give them. He absolutely never wants us to have to go in low to avoid SAMs, then get the shit shot out of us by antiaircraft. And he wants to take away the sanctuary that night gives the enemy. He says we used to fight all day in Vietnam, while the enemy stood down; then at night the enemy would move all their supplies, and we couldn’t do much about it.”

  Tom was quiet for a moment, remembering his own time in Vietnamese skies, and the futile bomb runs he and his crews had made on jungle trails, risking a multi-million-dollar F-4 and two lives trying to pick off a three-thousand-dollar truck carrying two hundred dollars’ worth of rice.

  Harry spoke, “We’ve been in the antiradar business for a while, Tom, with our jamming equipment.” He knew it was a mistake the minute he said it.

  “Yeah, that’s another achievement of our friend, our enemy, Bob Rodriquez. But that’s old hat. We introduce some ECM equipment, the enemy introduces a counter, then we introduce a counter-counter. Creech wants the industry to come up with something entirely different, and the word is that the Air Force has Lockheed and Northrop working on it already in a couple of black programs.”

  “Black programs” were so secret that only a few people in key positions in Congress were briefed on them, and their budgets were kept totally out of public view.

  Tom went on. “We’ve got to get in on this, right on the ground floor. One thing I think we can do is work on night-vision equipment. You know we acquired that little outfit up in Redmond, Washington. What was the name of it?”

  “I remember because it was named after its founder, Richard Pierce—he called it ‘Pierce the Night, Incorporated.’ You think they have potential?”

  “They do if we finance them, and get them the military contracts. I think they are mostly concerned with police work, hunters, things like that. If we can get them to raise their sights, look at airborne applications, we’d be on to something. I’d like to take this on as a special project, make it my kind of contribution, à la Bob Rodriquez.”