Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  “Sir,” Curtis said, leaning toward the President, “there is only one aircraft in our inventory more heavily armed, more capable, and more prepared to accomplish this mission than even those two Excaliburs—the Old Dog.”

  “The Old . . . you mean that B-52 test airplane? The one that almost got blown up in Nevada?”

  “The Old Dog has more defensive weapons, more power, better range and better countermeasures than the B-ls. That plane is manned by the experts that designed all the gear aboard the Excaliburs. And they have the best bombardier in the Strategic Air Command aboard.”

  “Curtis, that’s out of the damned question.” The President began to pace the office, then abruptly, stopped and faced Curtis.

  “How the hell could a B-52 get in when two B-ls got caught?” Curtis took a deep breath to hide his excitement. He didn’t want to blow this. “The Old Dog wouldn’t go in the same way.” He walked over to the large map, found the President had come along with him. “The Russian air defenses will be swarming over the north area, waiting for more attackers—they’ll probably be expecting a mass of bombers. General Elliott could pick his way in from the south—”

  “How would he know what route to take to avoid being spotted?” “Sir, General Elliott, who’s now in command of the Old Dog, has spent months studying the defenses of the Kavaznya area and the Kamchatka peninsula. He knows them much better than I do. I’m betting he can find a gap in the radar coverage and get in without giving away his position. And once he gets in the mountainous terrain of the Kamchatka peninsula, a whole air wing of fighters couldn’t find him.”

  The President shook his head, turned his back to Curtis.

  “Sir, the Old Dog is already airborne,” Curtis reminded him. “It doesn’t have a flight plan—it’s a non-mission. The Russians may even believe it was destroyed in the attack—we can leak that it was destroyed. It can be diverted easily.”

  “What about the damage, the injuries?”

  “I’ll check on its operational status,” Curtis said. “Get a report from General Elliott, have him make a decision whether or not he can accept this assignment.”

  “Would Elliott say no? I know him. He’s gung-ho as they come—”

  “But he wouldn’t risk the lives of his crew unless he knew there was a chance of success. That I know.”

  To Curtis’ surprise, and relief, the President said: “Get Elliott’s decision.”

  “Yes, sir.” Curtis turned to leave the room, then hesitated a moment. “The Old Dog is vulnerable to the same security leak that has compromised us all along. Under the circumstances it would be wise to take certain steps—”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, sir, such as keeping knowledge of the Old Dog’s involvement between just the two of us.”

  “No way,” the President said. “I rely on the support of my advisers, and I’ve no doubt about their integrity. We’ll restrict knowledge of this to the Cabinet, but the Cabinet must be involved.”

  “Very well, but I would like to suggest one more thing. If the Old Dog is to get through this, it will have to play it by ear. A set of recall options can’t be reliably built into the mission plan without compromising it. And there’s always the possibility of a leak if the crew had to radio back for a go-ahead.”

  “What I think I’m hearing, General, is that you want me to give the strike order now, even with negotiations going on?” The President shook his head.

  “Sir, right from the beginning the Soviets have failed to negotiate in anything like good faith. They’ve kept us at the bargaining table under false pretenses while they’ve carried out their own hidden agenda. The loss of the Midgetman and Ice Fortress both happened while so-called negotiations were going on. They’ve demonstrated that they’ve never intended to do anything but stall for time. Negotiations are in name only.”

  There was a long silence as the President considered Curtis’ words. “There’s truth in what you’re saying. And I’m not unaware of history . . . FDR thought that Secretary of State Cordell Hull could work out an agreement with the Japanese just before they attacked Pearl Harbor. He underestimated their duplicity. It seems I’ve made the same mistake, and for the same reasons. We both wanted a result so much we lost sight of realities ...”

  For a moment all that could be heard was the ticking of the brass clock on the President’s desk and the muted sound of trees swaying in the wind outside.

  “All right, General... you ask Elliott if he’s up to this. If he is, there’ll be no turning back ...”

  McLanahan and Luger were dozing in the downstairs offensive crew compartment when Elliott came over the radio: “Crew, listen up. We have received orders from the Joint Chiefs. It was why I had you accomplish a thorough equipment check a few minutes ago. Now, I want to make another check—a people check. You all remember earlier today when I told you about the planned B-1 sorties that launched early this morning. Well, it seems those B-ls were discovered and intercepted just north of Point Barrow about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Intercepted?” Ormack asked.

  “Somehow the Russians knew where the B-ls would be coming from. They had a Mainstay early-warning and control radar plane waiting for them, dragging two MiG-31 Foxhound fighters with it. The B-ls didn’t have a chance to evade.”

  “Did . . . the B-ls get shot down?” Wendy asked.

  “No, but the fighters are dogging them. They’ve been ordered to hold at a fail-safe orbit point over the Chukchi Sea just outside Soviet airspace. It’s presumed the MiGs will follow.”

  “But why are the B-ls continuing?” Luger asked. There was a long moment of silence.

  “Don’t you get it?” McLanahan said. “They want us to do it.” “How the hell are we supposed to make it if two B-ls couldn’t?” Elliott took over. “It’ll be risky trying to get past their early-warning radar net, much less flying over the Soviet Union, I agree. I need your thoughts, people. We’ve got some left wing damage but our offensive and defensive weapons and systems are all operational. We don’t have proper military charts but we have general aviation charts plus, fortunately, a terrain cartridge for the Kavaznya site. We’ll also get refueling support going in and fighter coverage coming out.”

  Elliott hoped it was sinking in, hoping his crew was buying it. . . his crew? It hadn’t been his crew until a few short hours ago when they were close to death in that hangar in the high Nevada desert.

  “I won’t go on unless I have everyone’s support,” he said. “I know none of you thought you’d be part of an actual mission, much less a raid against an installation in the Soviet Union. We’ve only flown together a few times—hell, I wasn’t even a part of the crew. John and I are the only ones who have ever flown in combat. If we aren’t one hundred percent agreed, we land in Seattle and that’s that. But consider the situation. The Russians have continued to use their laser at Kavaznya in spite of all our diplomatic protests. They have, literally, crippled our ability to detect ballistic-missile launches over the Pacific or the Pole. If they decide to launch an attack we have only a few minutes’ warning before the warheads impact. I believe that if the B-l mission has failed—and it has—the next step is either a cruise missile attack from long range, a naval strike force, or an intercontinental ballistic missile attack on Kavaznya. The laser site can probably protect itself against all those threats. And the sight of cruise missiles or an ICBM heading toward Asia could well result in someone pushing an even bigger button and triggering a thermonuclear exchange ...” Was he laying it on too thick? No, dammit, he was laying out the awful option. Speaking the unspeakable ... “I truly believe this crew and this plane is the one answer left. I believe we have a very good chance of getting past Russian radar, avoiding their air defense, neutralizing that laser facility, and getting back.”

  It was the longest speech he had ever given. The throbbing in his right leg that had stopped over the past hour now was returning full force.

  “If you like the odds, say so.
If you don’t say so. Without everyone pulling together, we for sure won’t make it.”

  Ten minutes later Elliott sat back in his seat, drained. He no longer had feeling in his right heel, and the throbbing pain had reached his knee. He thought again of what Curtis had told him. So far the Russians had been one step ahead. Curtis was obviously afraid that they might be tipped off to the Old Dog’s mission too. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, the odds were too damn long. Seattle seemed as good a place as any to stage his protective aerial sleight of hand . . .

  “Seattle coastline in sight,” McLanahan reported, returning his ten- inch radar display to the two hundred mile range. “One o’clock, one hundred miles.”

  These were the first words anyone in the crew had spoken since their decision. Elliott turned to Ormack.

  “Get us clearance into Seattle Center airspace, John. Wendy, see if you can raise Boeing Field on HF. Get us permission to land.”

  “Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox is with you at two-five thousand.”

  The Seattle Air Route Traffic Control Center controller checked his radar display. He had already received a call from McClellan Air Base’s Global Command Control radio operator that Dog Zero-One Fox would be appearing in his sector. And there he was—right where McClellan said he would be.

  “Dog Zero-One Fox, good evening, radar contact at two-five thousand feet.”

  Earlier the Seattle controller had passed along a Mode 3 “Squawk” identification code to McClellan for the airplane to set in its IFF, its Identification Friend or Foe system. The IFF would transmit the fourdigit code to the controller’s computer, which would display a data block near the airplane’s radar dot with the plane’s call sign, altitude, ground- speed, and a computer ID number. The Seattle controller checked the area from which McClellan said the aircraft would be coming and, as advertised, the data block and beacon target symbols appeared at the extreme outer edge of his one hundred and fifty-mile range scope. There was no primary target return—a smaller symbol superimposed on the larger beacon target symbol—but that wasn’t unusual at extreme ranges.

  “Dog Zero-One Fox, confirm your destination is Seattle-Boeing Field.”

  “That’s affirmative, Seattle. We’ll be requesting permission for a visual to an auxiliary field when within ten miles. Boeing has been notified.”

  That was very strange, but the controller had heard of it before. To avoid attention some experimental or classified planes used one of Boeing’s numerous auxiliary fields scattered around Seattle instead of the main corporate terminal. When they did, they didn’t tell the controller which one until in the vicinity of all of them. The approach controller would have to clear the airspace and grant clearance to make an approach to a very wide area, which really complicated air traffic control in the already super-congested Seattle-Vancouver-Portland area, but at this time of day it wasn’t too much of a hassle. The procedure wasn’t limited to military flights, either—the private aircraft firms guarded their newest developments almost as zealously as the military.

  “I’ve been advised, Zero-One Fox,” the controller replied. “I’ll pass it along to Seattle Approach in—”

  The Controller saw something that made him blanche—a beacon code being changed to 7700, the emergency code. The plane’s data block was instantly surrounded by a flashing border, and the letter “EMRG” began to flash above the beacon target.

  It was the newcomer—Dog Zero-One Fox.

  “Mayday, mayday! Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox!”

  “Zero-One Fox, I copy your emergency code.” The controller buzzed his shift supervisor, who hurried over and plugged his headset into a jack on the console.

  “Shift supervisor A. Watt on console seven, ID number S-one—one- three-one, time two-three-one-seven local time.” That was for the benefit of the continuously running tape that was monitoring all communications—the tape that would be used in an accident investigation.

  “Dog Zero-One Fox is declaring an inflight emergency at this time,” came the hurried transmission. The voice—presumably the pilot, the one who had made the initial call-in to Seattle—was nearly drowned out by a thunderous noise in the background.

  “It sounds like . . . water? A waterfall?” the controller murmured.

  “He’s depressurized, Ed,” the supervisor said. “It’s windblast. A big one, too. If it’s a depressurization, the noise should stop. If it’s glass panel failure, it won’t . . .”

  The shift supervisor switched to a Center-wide intercom. “This is Watt to all controllers. Clear airspace from radials two-six-zero to three-two zero from Hoquiam VORTAC for inbound emergency aircraft in ten minutes. Advise Boeing, McChord, Bowerman, and Portland of possible diverting emergency aircraft, type unknown. Advise McChord and Coast Guard search-and-rescue. Aircraft is currently on the two-eight-two degree radial from Hoquiam at one hundred and thirty nautical miles, flight level two-five zero, groundspeed four-twenty knots.”

  Meanwhile, the first controller watched transfixed as the altitude readout of the emergency aircraft began to wind down. “Zero-One Fox, are you encountering difficulty maintaining altitude?”

  Through the roar in the background the pilot said, “Seattle, descending below ten thousand feet . . . lost pressurization . . . fire on board . . . emergency! Emergency! Mayday! Mayday!”

  “Understand, Zero-One Fox. We are clearing the airspace for you. If possible, turn left, heading two-eight-zero, vectors for emergency landing at Boeing Field, cleared to descend and maintain ten thousand feet.” No reply. The altitude readout was winding down, faster and faster. “Twenty thousand ... eighteen thousand ... fifteen thousand ... Andy, rate of descent increasing ... passing through ten thousand feet...” Over the radio he said, “Dog Zero-One Fox, climb and maintain ten thousand feet. Acknowledge.”

  The noise of the windblast over the frequency all but drowned out any reply.

  “Passing eight thousand . . . rate of descent slowing but he’s still going down . . . passing five thousand . . . low altitude warning!” Over the channel the controller said, “Zero-One Fox, climb. Pull up, pull up. If you’re in a spin release your controls. Acknowledge . . .”

  “Beacon target lost,” the supervisor said. “This is A. Watt plugged into console seven, local time two-three-two-zero, Seattle ARTCC. We have lost Dog Zero-One Fox on radar. Last report from the pilot said he was descending to ten thousand feet due to inflight emergency, fire, and loss of pressurization. Rate of descent from flight level two-five-zero estimated at fifteen thousand feet per minute, slowing to approximately ten thousand feet per minute but mishap aircraft never regained altitude or appeared to level off. No primary or secondary targets visible at this time. No flight data visible. No aircraft within sixty nautical miles of mishap aircraft noted. No emergency locator beacon transmissions yet received. Coast Guard and Air Force search-and-rescue forces have been alerted.”

  * * *

  Several minutes later the President, still in the Oval Office with General Wilbur Curtis, took the message from Jeff Hampton that the FAA had lost Dog Zero-One Fox from radar, that the plane had experienced a major emergency and had plummeted twenty-five thousand feet into the ocean in less than two minutes.

  The President forced his left hand steady as he replaced the phone receiver on its cradle. He looked at Curtis. “Dog Zero-One Fox has disappeared. Presumed lost a hundred and thirty miles off the west coast.”

  Curtis said nothing. Apparently too shocked, the President decided.

  “How long can the Excaliburs stay in their orbit, General?”

  Curtis checked his watch, made a fast calculation. “They must leave in six hours to have enough fuel to reach Eielson with the necessary reserves. We’ll have a tanker back in the first orbit area to give them extra fuel, but six hours is the most.”

  “Order them to depart the orbit area in five,” the President said. “I know it doesn’t make much sense keeping them out there. They’d be sitting ducks if they tri
ed anything, but at least it will make the Soviets nervous having two B-ls heading toward their backyard. We may even be able to bluff them into thinking those Excaliburs have more fuel and firepower on-board then than they thought. It might even get them to negotiate for real . . .” The President’s voice was flat. Who could blame him? He was still thinking of the Old Dog—thinking of another plan that had failed, and of the crew that would never come back.

  He swiveled his seat around and stared, unseeing, into the gray, snow- covered world outside the Oval Office.

  18 Aboard the Old Dog

  Dave Luger checked the master computer’s clock on his TV display. Weird, he thought. Watching a machine doing his navigation for him. Playing a big “video game” in the belly of a B-52 somewhere over the north Pacific.

  Well, not exactly “somewhere.” With the GPS up and running, he knew within sixty feet where they were at any given moment—and the GPS measured those moments within one-hundredth of a second.

  Luger plugged his nose and blew against the pressure—a “valsalva,” designed to clear his ears after their hair-raising dive to “disappear” from Seattle Center radar. “General?”

  “Go ahead, Dave,” Elliott said.

  “Fifteen minutes to the decision point.” Luger quickly called up a fuel reading on his video display. “I’ve got us right on your updated fuel curve, Colonel.”

  “Checks up here,” Ormack acknowledged.

  “So we’re not leaking fuel?” Wendy asked.

  “Negative,” Ormack said. “At least there’s some good news.”

  “Well, it’s time we talked about the bad news,” Elliott said. “This is what we’re looking at. According to Patrick and Dave, and courtesy of those twelve navigation satellites feeding our computers information, we’re fifteen minutes from a major decision point.