Sky Masters

by Dale Brown

Memorial, sitting erect and unmoving in his seat, hands on either side

  of him, staring straight ahead. McLanahan selected a special symbol in

  the upper-right corner of the SMFD with his head-pointing system. He

  spoke "Active" and it began to blink, indicating that it was active and

  preparing to send data. "I'm calling up satellite-targeting data from

  the latest NIRTSat surveillance scan, " he told Ormack. "In a few

  minutes I should have an updated radar image of the target area, and

  with the composite infrared and visual data, I should be able to program

  the SLAM missile for a direct hit. We got this bomb run wired." ABOARD

  THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS The F-23 pilots, Lieutenant Colonel Mirisch

  and Captain Ed Milo, felt as if they were chasing a ghost ship-there was

  an attacker out there, but he barely registered on any of their sensors.

  If they didn't find him within the next five minutes or less, they would

  lose max points for any intercepts done outside the MOA. Well, Mirisch

  thought, this mystery plane couldn't escape the Mark One attack sensor

  system-their eyeballs. Jarrel's Air Force Battle had B-1 and B-2

  bombers in it now, so just maybe this attacker was one of those stealthy

  beasts. Mirisch noted the direction of the shadows on the ground and

  began to search not for the airplanes themselves, but for big, dark

  shadows-a bomber's shadow was always many times larger than the plane

  itself, and there was no camouflaging a shadow. Got it! "Tally ho!"

  Mirisch shouted. He was so excited that he forgot his radio discipline:

  "Jesus Christ, I got a B-2 bomber, one o'clock low! It's a fucking B-2

  bomber!" That's why their attack radars wouldn't lock on or the

  infrared scanners wouldn't work-the B-2 was supposed to have the radar

  cross-section of a bird, and birds don't paint too well on radar.

  Mirisch was expecting a black aircraft, but this bat-winged monstrosity

  was painted tan and green camouflage, blending in perfectly with the

  surrounding terrain. It was flying very low, but the late afternoon's

  shadows were long and it was a dead giveaway. At night, Mirisch

  thought, it would be next to impossible to find this bastard. "Raider

  flight, this is Raider Two-Zero flight, we got a Bravo Two bomber,

  repeat, Bravo Two, at low altitude. Closing to... Suddenly there was

  the worst squealing and chirping on the UHF radio frequency that Mirisch

  had ever heard. It completely blotted out not only the UHF channel, but

  the scram bled FM HAVE QUICK channel as well. Except for the Godawful

  screeching, the jamming was no big deal-they had a visual on the bomber,

  and no B-2 was going to outrun, outmaneuver, or outgun an F-23. This

  guy is toast. The newcomer, whoever he was, was too far out to matter

  now. He would deal with the B-2, then go back and take care of the

  newcomer with the big jammer. Mirisch had a solid visual on the B-2, so

  he took the lead back from Milo and began his run. The B-2 had begun a

  series of 5-turns, flying lower and lower until his shadow really did

  seem to disappear, trying to break Mirisch's visual contact. In fact it

  did take a lot of concentration to stay focused on the bomber as it slid

  around low hills and gullys, but the closer the F-23 got, the easier it

  was to stay on him. Now, with the B-2 noticeably closer, the attack

  radar finally locked on at four miles. The heavy jamming from the

  bomber occasionally managed to break the range gate lock and spoil his

  firing solution, but the F-23's attack radar was frequency-agile enough

  to escape the jamming long enough for the lead-computing sight to

  operate. No sweat. ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN The throttles were at full

  military thrust, and Cobb had the three-hundred~thousand~pound bomber

  right at three hundred feet above the ground, and occasionally he

  cheated and nudged it even lower. He knew the wild 5-turns ate up speed

  and allowed the fighters to move closer, but one advantage of the

  water-based custom camouflage job on the B-2 that had been applied

  specifically for this mission was that it degraded the one attack option

  that no B-2 bomber could defend against-a visual gun attack. With the

  fighter's attack radars in standby or in intermittent use, the B-2's

  most powerful sensor was the ALQ-158 digital tail-warning radar, a

  pulse-Doppler radar that scanned the skies behind the bomber and

  presented a picture of the positions of the fighters as they prosecuted

  their attack. Each time the fighters began to maneuver close enough for

  a gun shot, McLanahan called out a warning and Cobb jinked away, never

  in a predictable pattern, always mixing sudden altitude changes in with

  subtle speed changes. Without their attack radar, the F-23 pilots had

  to rely on visual cues to decide when to open fire. If nothing else,

  they were losing points or wasting ammunition-at best, the B-2 might

  escape out of the MOA before the fighters closed within lethal range.

  Plus, they had one more ace in the hole, but they were running out of

  time. "Guardian must be around here close to be blotting out the radios

  like this, " McLanahan told Cobb and Ormack, "but I have no way of

  knowing where he is. He might be only a few minutes away. ... ABOARD

  THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS "Fox three, Fox three, Raider Two-Zero, guns

  firing, " Mirisch cried out on the primary radio. The B-2 had finally

  remained steady for the first time in this entire chase, long enough for

  Milo to safely join on his wing and for Mirisch to get his first clean

  "shots" off at the big bomber's tail. The B-2 had accelerated, really

  accelerated-it was traveling close to six hundred nautical miles per

  hour, much faster than he ever expected such a huge plane to travel.

  Suddenly the threat scope lit up like a gaudy Christmas wreath. There

  was a powerful fighter radar somewhere up ahead, dead ahead, not a

  search radar, but a solid missile lockon. A "Missile Launch" warning

  soon followed. It wasn't coming from Milo-there was another fighter out

  there, and it was attacking them! His RHAWS was indicating several

  different threats in several different directions-surface-to-air

  missiles, fighters, search radars, at least a dozen of them. It was as

  if six VPVO sites and six "enemy" fighters had appeared all at once.

  Mirisch had no choice. He couldn't see his attackers, he had no radio

  contact or data link with GCI to tell him what was out there, he was

  less than two thousand feet above ground, and the loud, incessant noise

  of the jamming on all channels, bleeding through the radios into the

  interphone, was beginning to cause disorientation. He checked to be

  sure where Milo was the kid had managed to stay in formation with him,

  thank God, and had not yet moved into the lead position-then called out

  on the emergency Guard channel, "Powder River players, this is a Raider

  flight, knock it off' knock it off' knock it off!" Whoever was jamming

  him obviously heard the call, because the noise jamming stopped

  immediately. Mirisch leveled off at two thousand feet, waited until Milo

  was back safely in position on his wing, then scanned the skies for the

  unknown attacker. He spotted
it that instant. He couldn't believe his

  eyes. It was a damned B-52 bomber. But it was like no B-52 he had ever

  seen before. As it banked right, toward the center of the Powder River

  MOA, Mirisch saw a long pointed nose, a rounded, swept-back V-tail,

  eight huge turbofan engines, and twin fuel tanks on each wingtip. But

  the strange bomber also sported a long wedge-shaped fairing on its upper

  fuselage resembling a specialized radar compartment, and... he saw

  pylons between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles, with what

  looked like AIM- 120 air-to-air missiles installed! "Lead, I've got a

  tally on an aircraft at our eleven o'clock high, five miles... "I see

  it, Two, I see it, " Mirisch replied. Dammit, Mirisch cursed to

  himself, why didn't you pick that sucker up two minutes ago? But it was

  too late to blame anyone else. Whatever that plane was out there, it

  had "killed" them both. "I don't know what the hell it is, but I see

  it." ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN, OVER POWDER RIVER MOA, MONTANA General

  Ormack strained against his shoulder harness to look out the B-2

  bomber's cockpit windscreens just in time to see the huge EB-52

  Megafortress do a wing wag" and then bank away to the north. "Jesus,

  what a beautiful plane. We could use a hundred of those." McLanahan

  laughed. "Well, it just sent those F-23s running, didn't it? That

  thing is tailor-made for the Air Battle Force. You give every heavy

  bomber going in a Megafortress to provide jamming and air-defense

  support, you've got an awesome force." McLanahan and the other

  participants at the Strategic Warfare Center had been hearing about the

  EB-52 for weeks. Nobody had expected it to show up during the

  exercises. But it had, and McLanahan was right, it was awesome. It had

  a radome on its spine that had been taken off an NC-135 "Big Crow." The

  radome could probably shut down all communications in and out of Rapid

  City. It certainly jammed everything the F-23s who'd been on

  McLanahan's tail had on them. The plane also had capability of carrying

  twenty-two AMRAAMStwelve on the wings, up to ten internally on a rotary

  launcher, including rear-fighting capability. Plus HARM missiles, TACIT

  RAINBOW antiradar missiles, rear-firing Stingers, Harpoon antiship

  missiles, conventional cruise missiles, SLAM and Maverick TV-guided

  missiles, Striker and Hammer glide-bombs, Durandal antirunway bombs...

  General Brad Elliott had six such planes. One was under repair and two

  more were authorized. They would revolutionize SAC and SWC. PUERTO

  PRINCESA AIRFIELD, PALAWAN, THE PHILIPPINES SAME TIME The first

  instructor pilot to show up on Colonel Renaldo Tamalko's orders that

  evening was twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant J~~e Borillo, one of the

  newest and most energetic young flight instructors at Puerto Princesa;

  it was no surprise that an enthusiastic hotshot such as he reported

  immediately when the squadron recall was issued. The "old heads"

  usually answered the phone call right away-Sergeant Komos had all the

  phone numbers of the pilots' mistresses and girlfriends as well as their

  home numbers-but took their time getting back to base. Colonel Tamalko

  paired Borillo up with Captain Fuentes, an experienced and competent but

  unmotivated weapon systems officer (WSO), and he took a relatively new

  WSO named Pilas with him as his backseater. The maintenance squadron

  commander, Captain Libona, was also wide-eyed and enthusiastic as

  Colonel Tamalko made his way out to the flight line to inspect his jet

  and brief Borillo. After the inspection and briefing, Tamalko asked

  Libona, "Did we get a confirmation that this wasn't a drill?"

  "No, sir. Sergeant Komos, who called you, hasn't been able to get any

  confirmation at all. We're assuming it is real."

  "Don't be so sure. What about a confirmation on that Captain Banio, the

  Navy guy who alerted us? Anyone authenticate his identity?' Libona

  shook his head. "No one's been able to, sir. Tamalko let out a string

  of four-lettered words. This was either a really well-executed drill...

  or it wasn't a drill at all. He sure as hell didn't know. More than

  likely, it was a drill, but he still had to respond as if it wasn't.

  After all, what with all the tension in the Spratlys. . Tamalko turned

  to Borillo. "Once we're airborne, you leave your fucking finger off the

  trigger, hotshot, or so help me I'll shoot you down myself. Stay on my

  wing, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If the Navy files a bad

  report because of you, you'll be flying a garbage scow on Mindanao five

  minutes after you land. Now mount up and let's see what the hell is

  going on out there." Tamalko stomped off to do a fast walkaround,

  leaving Borillo and Libona in his wake. Five minutes later the two

  fighters were airborne and heading north across Honda Bay toward Ulugan

  Bay. "Bear flight, one-three-seven point one-five, " Tamalko radioed to

  Borillo, directing him to dial in the assigned Navy fleet common

  frequency. There was a pause; then: "Say again, lead?" Oh, Christ!

  Tamalko thought, and hissed: "One-three-seven point one-five." Borillo

  should have known enough to ask his WSO for the frequency if he missed

  it-asking the flight leader to repeat a new frequency was a mortal sin

  during night formation flight. "Two, " Borillo finally replied. Tamalko

  switched frequencies himself and was about to call to order Borillo to

  report up on frequency, but the channel was a mass of confused voices in

  several different languages. And then... "Mayday, Mayday . . . I'm

  hit, I'm hit . . . get over here, someone, help me . . . missile

  in the air! Missile in the air . . . ! Hard to port . . . Watch

  it . 1" "Bear flight, check!" Tamalko yelled. He heard a faint "Two"

  over the radio, and he hoped that was Borillo. "Cowboy, Cowboy, this is

  Bear Zero-one flight on fleet common. Over."

  "Cowboy" was the call sign Sergeant Komos had given him for Captain

  Banio's ship, but Tamalko couldn't tell who was on freq or what was

  going on. There was so much chatter on the channel that he wasn't sure

  if anyone heard him. "Cowboy, come in!"

  "Bear flight... Bear flight, this is Cowboy." The voice was frantic.

  "What is your position? Say your position!"

  "I need authentication before I can report, Cowboy "We are under attack,

  Bear flight, we are under attack, " the voice-now firmly racked with

  terror-replied. "Smoke . fire in all sections... we need you over

  here right now, Bear flight, we need you down here right now!"

  "Mode two, three, and four squawk is set, Cowboy, " Tamalko reported,

  informing the ship that his radar identification system was set and

  operating. The ship's radar should be able to identify his coded

  signals and give him steering commands, if it was indeed Cowboy he was

  talking to. Part of an exercise would be to check if Tamalko would fly

  off following directions from an unverified radio voice, and Tamalko was

  going to play this one by the book-as much as possible. "Give me a

  vector, Cowboy."

  "Can't... Combat section evacuated... ship on fire, Bear flight.

  Please, help us...!" And the
n Tamalko saw it, off the nose at about

  forty miles into the inky night sky-two blobs of light in the ocean,

  shimmering dots of red and yellow fire. The dot off his nose was dimmer

  than the northern one, which looked like a huge magnesium flare, as

  bright as watching an arc-welding flame. Just then he saw several

  bursts of light issue from some other nearby spots in the dark ocean

  farther to the south, with tracers speeding out farther to the west.

  "Cowboy, I see fires and tracers. Who is shooting?"

  "Bear flight, this is Cowboy, " a different voice came on the radio.

  "Bear flight, this is Lieutenant Sapao, engineering officer aboard the

  frigate Rajah Humabon. We are under attack by Chinese naval warships. We

  have been hit by missile fire. Patrol boat Nueva Viscaya also hit by

  missile fire.. ." The slightly calmer report was interrupted by shouts

  and cries, and the newcomer Sapao issued a few orders of his own before

  returning to the radio: "Chinese warships estimated thirty miles west of

  Ulugan bay, estimated ten vessels including one destroyer. Also Chinese

  attack aircraft in vicinity, a naval-warfare craft launching antiship

  missiles and torpedoes. Frigate Rajah Lakandula is operating south of

  our position, and patrol boat Ca ma rines Sur is assisting the Nueva

  Viscaya. Can you assist, Bear flight?" As Tamalko got closer, he could

  see more and more detailsthere were indeed two ships burning in the

  Palawan Passage just outside Ulugan Bay. Sheets of gunfire continued to

  erupt from the southernmost ship, which was darting back and forth,

  firing in all directions. "Cowboy, can you give us the position of the

  aircraft?"

  "Negative, negative, Bear flight, " Sapao's tortured voice responded.

  The transmission began to break up. "Portable radio running out of

  power... negative, our combat systems are out and we are beginning

  evacuation procedures. If Rajah Lakandula comes up on frequency, he can

  assist-" The transmission went dead. Tamalko started to feel uneasy. The

  possibility that this wasn't an exercise hadn't been fully realized

  until now. Naturally, he assumed... Of course, it could still be an

  exercise, he reasoned, although a very elaborate one. He knew he