Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  But such serious errors were fortunately rare, and in general flying so close to the mainland, so close to the enormous military might of the Peoples Republic of China, was very routine, almost mundane. The key was in a careful cross-check. Captain Shen double-checked that the proper tower control frequency was set—it was. Double-check the ILS (Instrument Landing System) frequency, get a good Morse code ident—got it. Double-check the inbound course set—got it. Double-check the NDB (Non-Directional Beacon) frequency set, get a good ident, then check that the marker beacon lights were working—got it. Gyro heading indicators checked with the “whiskey” compass—done, both within five degrees, which was a lot but acceptable. Double-check the ILS with the VOR (Very-high-frequency Omnidirectional Receiver) on the copilot s side, in case the glideslope went out—done. If there was any big deviation, the copilot would call it out and they’d decide as a crew which approach to use. In this weather, losing the ILS might mean returning back to Taipei because the VOR was never as accurate as the ILS, but both appeared to be working fine. Shen wished he had a GPS (Global Positioning System) satellite navigation receiver, but this old transport wasn’t slated to get one for several weeks.

  Now the business of shooting a “no shit” instrument approach got under way. For any pilot, even one with as many hours as Shen, flying totally on instruments, without one single reference outside the cockpit, was always tension-filled. The C-130’s autopilot was a simple heading-hold system, not coupled to the ILS, so Shen was hand-flying it on this approach. It was like playing a video game, maneuvering the sixty-thousand- pound plane in order to keep two needles on the HSI (Horizontal Situation Indicator) forming a perfect cross in the center of the instrument. The needles’ movement got more sensitive as they got closer to the field, so Shen’s inputs had to be more careful, more delicate. But if he kept those needles centered perfectly, at just the right airspeed, he would be lined up perfectly on the runway, in position to execute a landing without any gross turns or dives.

  “Coming up on point Charlie,” the copilot announced.

  “Approach flaps,” Shen ordered, and the copilot put in twenty degrees of flaps, which slowed the big transport down nicely to just below approach speed, they’d get back up to approach speed as they started down the glideslope, the invisible electronic “ramp” that would take them to the runway. Shen now focused all his attention on the instruments, performing a careful scan of the four primary flight instruments— the copilot would look after the engine instruments and other indicators. The HSI in the center of the instrument panel in front of the pilot was a combination gyro compass, omni bearing indicator, and ILS indicator, so that was the central instrument to watch; next was the artificial horizon, back to the HSI, then out to the airspeed indicator, back to the HSI, out to the altimeter, back to the HSI, out to the vertical velocity indicator, back to the HSI, then perhaps a quick scan of the engine instruments and a peek out the cockpit windscreen before starting the scan all over again.

  “Point Charlie... now,” the copilot said, resting his hand on the gear handle. “Glideslope alive.” When the glideslope needle on the HSI reached five degrees above center, Shen ordered the copilot to lower the landing gear. “Gear down,” the copilot repeated, as he put the handle down. A red light in the handle illuminated, meaning the gear was unlocked, and the three gear-position indicators moved from up to black and white stripes, indicating the gear was in an intermediate position. “Gear moving ...” One by one the gear indicators showed down, and seconds later the red light in the gear handle went out. “Three down and locked, red light out,” the copilot said. He reached over and moved an indicator bug on the altimeter. “Decision height, two-forty.”

  “Roger,” Shen said. He lowered the nose, reduced power, and transitioned smoothly onto the glideslope. There was a pretty good crosswind from the west, and Shen banked left to center the localizer needle.

  “Transport One-Five, contact tower,” they heard on the radio. Right on time. The transmission was a bit scratchy—a storm was brewing, Shen thought, a big thunderstorm. Hopefully they’d be on the ground well before it reached the airfield.

  “One-Five going to tower,” the copilot acknowledged, then switched channels and announced, “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five point Charlie inbound on the ILS.”

  There was a scratchy, barely readable “Roger, One-Five,” then a garbled “Clear to land,” and the copilot acknowledged the clearance and reported the clearance to Shen as he set up the ground control frequency. The ground spotters had issued the landing clearance early, considering the cloud cover—maybe it wasn’t as thick as it looked from up here, Shen thought.

  Needles centered perfectly, airspeed right on the dot—this approach was going well. A bit more crosswind correction, left wing down... “Two thousand to go,” the copilot said.

  “Engines look good,” the engineer, sitting behind the copilot, said. He looked at the forward instrument panel, triple-checking the indications prior to landing. “Gear, flaps, lights, all check.” He made a quick announcement on intercom to the passengers in the back, ordering them to check that their seat belts were on. “Before-landing check complete.”

  Bit more left—there, needles centered again, right on the glideslope. The Doppler was not locked on—it commonly did not lock on over water—but even without it he knew he had some pretty hellacious west winds. No sweat, he could handle it.

  “One thousand above,” the copilot said.

  “Doppler’s OTL,” the flight engineer said, meaning “out to lunch,” “mag compass . . . it’s OTL too.” The flight engineer quickly checked the engine and flight systems, looking for any sign of trouble.

  “Looking good, a little hot,” the copilot said. Shen was right on the glideslope, so he pulled the throttles back slightly to get back on the proper airspeed. That should be his last correction, he reminded himself—any more corrections this close to the airfield and he’d be “chasing” the ILS needles, which would porpoise him all over the sky. Nice, easy, small corrections from here on out. “Five hundred to decision height.”

  Shen completed another scan, ran his eyes over the engine instruments—all OK, all needles pointing in roughly the same direction—then back to the HSI—right on the glidepath—then quickly up to the mag compass above the center of the windscreen . . .

  . . . and it read sixty degrees differently than the inbound course to Matsu Airport. A sharp thrill of panic clutched at Shen’s throat. The ILS needles were perfectly centered, the DME (Distance Measuring Equipment) put them at the proper position on the approach—but they were sixty degrees off course! If the ILS was wrong and the gyro and mag compasses were correct, they were far, far off course—into Red China’s airspace. “What in hell’s going on with the heading?” Shen shouted. “I’m centered up, but the compass says we’re way west.”

  “My VOR’s centered up, too,” the copilot said. He quickly punched the buttons on the audio panel. “I’ve got good idents on the ILS, VOR, and NDB. DME’s okay ...”

  “Electrical and vacuum systems okay,” the engineer said.

  “The tower’s got us, they cleared us for landing—if we were off course, they’d have said something,” the copilot said. “The gyros must be screwed up.”

  “But the gyro compass and mag compasses are both reading the same,” Shen shouted, the fear rising in his voice. He suddenly jammed the throttles to full power and raised the nose, trying to stop the descent on the “glideslope.”

  “Damn it, we’ve been MIJIed!” MIJI stood for Meaconing, Interference, Jamming, and Intrusion, a common enemy tactic to disrupt communications or air traffic by playing havoc with radios and radar signals; oftentimes it was done just to confuse, but sometimes it was done to force a pilot into unintentionally violating enemy airspace. On the radio, Shen said excitedly, “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five, executing missed approach procedures, proceeding to holding point Tango, acknowledge.” No response. “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five, ho
w do you copy? We are executing missed approach. We suspect enemy MlJIing in effect. Acknowledge! ”

  “Transport One-Five, Matsu Tower, cancel missed approach, we have you on the glidepath. You are cleared to land, winds three-three- zero at seven knots, if you can hear me, ident, please.”

  The copilot automatically hit his ident button, which would electronically draw a highlight box around the data block for his aircraft on the tower controller’s radarscope. “Matsu Tower, Transport One-Five is executing a security missed approach, we are in the turn, acknowledge, over! ” The radio was still scratchy, as if they were still a long distance away from the base . . .

  . . . and seconds later, the C-130 popped through the clouds—and the windscreen was filled with the lights of the city of Lang-Ch’i, just a few miles ahead, and farther ahead on the horizon was the mass of lights of the city of Fu-Chou, less than twenty miles away. Shen realized they were well within Chinese airspace—they were practically over Chinese soil!

  “Transport One-Five, ident received,” the voice said. “Continue inbound, do not turn. Be advised, still clear to land. Acknowledge with an ident.”

  The copilot was about to automatically hit the ident button again, but Shen hit his hand away. “Don’t touch that! Something is not right,” he said. “Set emer in the IFF, get on guard channel, and notify someone that we are being MlJIed. We’re flying over Chinese airspace! ” “What in God’s name is happening?” the copilot breathed, as Shen started a steep right bank turn to the east.

  “I do not know,” Shen said. “We can do nothing but the proper procedures. We shall go to point Tango and attempt to—”

  Suddenly the entire aircraft shuddered and dropped several feet, as if it had hit a sudden wave of turbulence, sharp and hard enough to disengage the autopilot. “I have the aircraft!” Shen shouted, grasping the control yoke and rolling wings-level. “Check instruments! ”

  The engineer quickly scanned the engine instruments. “All systems okay,” he responded.

  “Everything looks okay,” the copilot agreed. “Clear to reengage the autopilot.”

  “I will hand-fly it,” Shen said, “until we get everything straightened out. I will fly the mag compass until we get everything sorted out. Get on squadron common channel and—”

  “Hey! ” the copilot shouted. He pointed out the windscreen in horror, then looked at his pilot. “Is that... is that Matsu?”

  Shen stopped and stared out the window; his copilot followed his gaze, then gaped in amazement as well. Half of the island seemed to be on fire. Smoke billowed from hundreds of burning buildings, the northern half of the island was completely obscured in black smoke—even the ocean seemed to be on fire. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “They are attacking,” Shen said woodenly. “The Communists ... this entire thing was a diversion. The Communists must’ve launched a rocket attack on the island, thinking that we were attacking them! Gear up! Let’s head back to Sungshan, fast! ”

  The radios were a completely indecipherable babble of voices, so the crew forgot about reporting their position and prayed that their coded transponder would still be showing to Taiwanese air defense forces while they turned away from Matsu. Everyone on the flight deck was riveted to the left-side cockpit windows as they turned eastbound away from the air base. “Fighters are airborne,” Shen said. “At least we have fighter coverage. We should ...” And then he froze, his mouth turning dust-dry: “Those are not Taiwanese fighters! Those are Communist fighter planes! ” Soon, those fighters were swarming over the C-130, and moments later it was sent crashing down into the sea.

  It turned out to be a very well-coordinated attack—a missile bombardment from shore-based batteries from Lang-Ch’i Army Base on the mainland, followed moments later by a wave of fighter-bombers from Yixu Air Base. Captain Shen, his crew, and his aircraft were only a small part of the casualties of the Chinese attack on the entire Matsu island chain. Within hours, the Matsu Islands were completely defenseless.

  NEAR QUEMOY ISLAND, OFF THE COAST OF MAINLAND CHINA THURSDAY, 19 JUNE 1997, 0800 HOURS LOCAL (WEDNESDAY, 18 JUNE, 2000 HOURS ET)

  “Headbanger Two reporting on station,” Nancy Cheshire radioed on the secure satellite net.

  “James Daniel copies, Headbanger,” came the reply. Just ten miles north of the EB-52 Megafortress, flying 15,000 feet above the Formosa Strait, was a small task force of two American Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided missile frigates, the Duncan, a Naval Reserve Fleet ship with eighty Naval Reservists on board, and the lead vessel in this task force, the James Daniel; they had been moved into the area of the recent skirmish between the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy and the Quemoy flotilla of the Republic of Chinas navy. The American task forces nominal orders was to stand by and render any possible assistance if requested by both China and Taiwan, as salvage and recovery vessels from their respective countries tried to recover whatever was left of their stricken vessels; their actual mission was to show the American flag and try to prevent a re-eruption of hostilities between the two Chinas. But even though there was very little rescue or recovery work being done by anyone, the frigates—and now the EB-52 Megafortress—were on patrol, ready for action.

  The crew of the Megafortress was very quiet, except for the intense but hushed coaching going on in the back of the crew cabin. Extra seats had been bolted into the deck beside the offensive and defensive operator’s consoles, and Patrick McLanahan and the crew DSO, Megafortress veteran Air Force officer Major Robert Atkins, were seated in the jump seats giving instruction on using the sophisticated electronic attack, surveillance, and defensive systems to newcomers Air Force Captain Jeff Denton in the OSO’s seat, and Navy Lieutenant Ashley Bruno in the DSO’s seat.

  “There—is that Xiamen’s long-range surveillance radar?” Bruno asked, pointing at the large threat display.

  “Don’t ask me—ask the computer,” Atkins said, acting his part as the patient but demanding instructor. “You’ve got a full-up system, so use it.” Atkins had joined the Megafortress program almost at its inception, recruited from the handful of 4.0-grade-point-average-or-better Air Force Academy graduates who had also graduated high in their Undergraduate Pilot Training classes. Atkins was the best of the best—a straight-A student in electrical engineering from the Zoo, in the top 20 percent of his UPT class, who had managed to earn a master’s degree in business administration while a FAIP (First Assignment Instructor Pilot). He had been recruited personally by Wendy Tork McLanahan, the director of the Megafortress’s advanced electronic warfare suite design team at HAWC, and he had remained there for several years, refining the high-tech electronic detection, analysis, countermeasure, and counterattack systems on the Megafortress “flying battleship.”

  And, like Nancy Cheshire flying in the copilot’s seat, he had seen combat before in the Megafortress: over the Philippines, over Lithuania, and over the United States. Back then, actually flying the beast hadn’t been his strong point—he could design systems built perfectly for a crewdog, but he didn’t enjoy flying itself. But flying was part of the job, and besides, no one said “no” to the boss, Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott. Even after HAWC disbanded and Atkins set off to get his doctorate at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology as part of a joint industry-Air Force program, he could not escape, or resist, Brad Elliott’s call to glory.

  “Right, right,” Ashley Bruno responded. Bruno, a former Navy engineer from the China Lake Naval Weapons Center, touched the threat display and keyed the computer voice interface button with her left foot and said, “Computer, identify.”

  SIERRA-BAND BEAN STICKS EARLY-WARNING RADAR, the computer responded.

  “It’s not necessary to preface your commands with ‘computer’ or anything else,” Atkins said.

  “I know,” Bruno said, wearing a playful grin. “But I guess I’m still a Trekkie at heart. Mr. Spock always started a voice command with ‘computer.’ ” She keyed the voice command switch again: “Co
mputer, are we in detection range of the Bean Sticks radar? ”

  NEGATIVE.

  “Computer, what is the estimated detection range of the Bean Stick radar?”

  ESTIMATED EFFECTIVE DETECTION RANGE IN CURRENT CONFIGURATION, FIFTEEN MILES, the computer responded, effective detection RANGE WITH BAY DOORS OPEN, TWENTY-SEVEN MILES. EFFECTIVE DETECTION RANGE IN CLEAN CONFIGURATION . . .

  Bruno keyed the voice command button twice to cancel the report. “Thank you, computer,” she said.

  “I think, I hope, what Atkins is saying, Lieutenant Bruno,” Brad Elliott cut in on interphone, “was that it would be faster and more efficient in a combat situation to just say what you want and can the fucking bullshit!” He spat the last four words like heavy-caliber gunshots. “This is not a starship Enterprise reunion, and it’s not a computer game. Now, do it right or I’ll beam your Trekkie ass into the goddamn ocean—with my boot, not a transporter.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bruno responded contritely.

  McLanahan said to Denton, “Read up on the emergency electrical attack procedures for a few. ” While the student OSO called up the hypertext tech order flight manual on the supercockpit display and began reading, McLanahan leaned back in his jump seat and clicked the interphone button twice. He and Elliott had used that command many times in their ten-year relationship to signal one another to “go private” on the interphone panel, which would allow the two to talk to each other without the rest of the crew listening in.

  Sure enough, Elliott was on private to meet him. “What?”

  “Ease up a bit, Brad,” McLanahan said.

  “The newbies need to keep their minds on the job and stop fucking around.”