Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06

by Fatal Terrain (v1. 1)

  And, last but not least, they were all together with the beast that had started the whole thing ten years earlier—the modified B-52 strategic escort “battleship” they called the Old Dog. Over the past ten-plus years, they had done some incredible, mystifying, unheard-of things in the strange pointed-nose, V-tailed, fibersteel-skinned demon.

  Now they were faced with their greatest challenge—to leave the protection and support of the United States military, fly to a strange new land, and attempt to turn the tables on a giant military superpower that was willing to risk a global thermonuclear holocaust to assert its domination. The odds seemed enormous.

  “Guys, listen up for a minute, all of you,” Patrick McLanahan said. “I don’t mean to insult any of you, but I’m going to remind you that what we have done and what we are about to do are probably among the most dangerous things you will ever do or ever contemplate doing. If we succeed, you will not be rewarded for a job well done—in fact, you might find yourself in federal prison for a long, long time. My child ...”

  “Your . . . what, Mack?” David Luger asked incredulously. “Your child? ”

  “Yes, my child—our child,” Patrick said, reaching over to take Wendy’s hand. “My child could grow up fatherless, or he could be born with his father in prison—in fact, he or she could be born in prison. And of course, we could all die successfully defending our country, and no one will thank us, or we could die in total obscurity, and it will be as if we never existed at all. I know we’re not in this business to get thanks from anyone, but I do know that we fly for our country and to preserve our freedom. Well, our country’s leaders don’t want us to do what we’re about to do.

  “On the other hand, if we don’t do this mission and if we turn ourselves in to Sky Masters, Inc.’s, lawyers in Washington, we could have a pretty good chance of surviving lawsuits and court-martials and returning to our former lives with our fortunes and careers intact,” Patrick went on. “I think Jon Masters and I have enough friends in high places, including the White House, to go to bat for us. Between our political pals and our lawyers, I feel pretty confident that if we stop now, our careers and our company can survive all that we’ve done up until now, even including taking this airfield. So you see, you’ve got nothing to gain and everything to lose if we go on.”

  “So what else is new, Patrick?” Hal Briggs deadpanned.

  “If you’re done talking, Colonel,” Nancy Cheshire said, “I think we better get off this airpatch before someone happens by. Let’s go.”

  Patrick McLanahan searched the faces of all those surrounding him—there was not one downturned eye, not one uncertain fidget, not one shred of doubt evident in any nuance or expression. They were all ready to fight. “Very well, folks,” Patrick said. He turned to Brad Elliott and asked, “You feel up to doing some flying again, sir?”

  “You try to stop me, Muck,” Elliott responded. The retired three- star looked at his young colleague and protege with great admiration, but said nothing else as he headed back to the hangar to get ready to load and launch his bomber.

  “Good speech, boss,” Nancy Cheshire said as she followed. “Corny as hell, but very inspirational. Made me weepy all over the damn place.”

  “Thanks, Nancy. High praise coming from you,” he deadpanned. “And I’m not your boss.”

  “Maybe you will be,” Cheshire said. “You sure sound like a commander giving a pep talk to the troops before stepping.”

  “It’ll be all I can do to keep us out of prison, Nance,” Patrick said. “Try to keep the general straight.”

  “No problem, Colonel,” Nancy Cheshire said eagerly. “See you on the other side.” She trotted off after Elliott.

  “Dave, it’s you and me in the back,” Patrick said. “We’ll do a little on-the-job training on the equipment.” The eagerness and excitement in Luger’s eyes immediately took Patrick back to their heyday, winning trophies and building an unmatched reputation for themselves. Plus, they had a lot of damn fun—and, despite the danger they faced, it felt like it was going to be fun again. “Everyone else evacuates with Jon’s DC-10.”

  “You still haven’t told us where we’re evacuating to, Patrick,” Jon Masters pointed out.

  Patrick McLanahan smiled a mischievous grin that could have been directly cloned from Brad Elliott himself. “I’ll brief you just before we shoot the approach, Jon,” he said. “You’d probably want to stay right here and take your chances with Commander Willis and the federal marshals if you knew where we were going or how we were going to get there.”

  OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN, TWENTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF HUALIEN, REPUBLIC OF CHINA (TAIWAN) JUST BEFORE DAYBREAK

  “Hualien approach, Military Flight One-One,” Nancy Cheshire radioed. “Requesting GPS approach runway zero-three right.”

  “Military One-One, Hualien approach, do not fly in the vicinity of the Republic of Taiwan or you may be fired on without further warning,” the precise but heavily Chinese-accented English-speaking voice responded. “All airspace in and around the Republic of China is restricted due to the air defense emergency. Say your PPR number.”

  “Stand by.” Cheshire referred to a Post-it note stuck on the center multifunction display on the forward instrument console. “One-One has victor-alpha-one-seven-alpha-two-lima.” A PPR, or Prior Permission Required, number was standard operating procedure for most military installations, even halfway around the world on the island of Formosa, just ninety miles east of the Asian mainland. Any aircraft attempting to land at a base without a PPR would certainly be detained and its crew arrested—or worse.

  “Hualien Approach understands,” the Taiwanese approach controller replied after a long pause, repeating the code warily, as if there was something very wrong. Hualien Air Base in east-central Taiwan was the largest Taiwanese military base on the east side of the island, the home of several Taiwanese Navy air and surface units as well as two Taiwan Air Force fighter-interceptor and fighter-bomber squadrons—at least it had been, until a nuclear-tipped Communist Chinese M-9 ballistic missile destroyed most of the base. Now it was a flattened collection of burned- out foundations and scorched aircraft revetments, with large blackened piles of metal here and there the only evidence that several dozen aircraft once were based there. Just three miles to the west, the Chung Yang Shang mountain range rose precipitously right up to 10,000 feet above sea level in just a few miles.

  “Military Flight One-One, cancel GPS approach clearance,” the approach controller said.

  Nancy Cheshire and Brad Elliott looked at one another in astonishment. “Say again, control?” Cheshire radioed. “Have we been cleared to land? Is there a problem?”

  “Cancel approach clearance,” the controller repeated angrily. “Contact the controller on security frequency channel one-one immediately or you will be considered a hostile intruder. Comply immediately!”

  Cheshire acknowledged the transmission and switched channels, but she was totally confused. The weather was pretty good right now—scattered clouds, good visibility, some swirling winds because of the mountains but not too bad. The runway was in sight in the growing dawn. In the military world, the GPS, or Global Positioning System satellite navigation system, was far more accurate than any other kind of instrument approach. GPS signals in the civilian world were downgraded by the U.S. Department of Defense to prevent America’s enemies from using the system against America—not so on the EB-52 Megafortress. The EB-52’s Global Positioning System was accurate to within six inches in both position and altitude, which made it hundreds of times more accurate than any other navigation instrument in existence.

  Cheshire quickly set up the primary radio for the next controller, who was on a special military frequency accessible only by planes using the HAVE QUICK secure radio system, which shifted frequencies for both air and ground units simultaneously based on a computerized timing sequence. “Button one-one on radio one,” the copilot announced. “Hualien approach on backup, Hualien ground on radio two with t
heir command post on backup. I’ve got the GPS approach dialed in as a backup.”

  “Thanks,” Brad Elliott responded. “I got the radios.” He keyed the mike: “Hualien radar, Military Flight One-One with you, level five thousand, thirteen out for runway zero-three right.”

  “Military Flight One-One, this is Hualien final controller,” a voice responded sternly, “execute all of my instructions immediately.” The Megafortress pilots noted the extreme emphasis on the words “all” and “immediately” ”In case of loss of communications, immediately execute missed approach procedures. You must not delay any missed approach procedures. Do you copy?”

  “One-One copies.”

  “Roger. Do not acknowledge further transmissions. Descend to two thousand, turn left heading zero-eight-one. This will be a PAR approach to runway zero three right.” Elliott and Cheshire dialed in the new heading and altitude, and the autopilot complied. “Five miles to final approach fix.” The controller made the same reports—altitude, heading, and position—every five seconds. For the EB-52 s pilots, it was a complete no- brainer—simply dial in the numbers in the autopilot and watch as they got closer to the runway. The approach looked like a mirror image approach to what the GPS was showing them, so the backup was working, too.

  “Maybe it’s a local procedure—PAR approaches only, as a security measure,” Cheshire offered. The PAR, or Precision Approach Radar, was a controller-operated instrument landing procedure where a radar controller guided the plane down to the runway by the use of two high-speed, high-resolution radars—very accurate, but not as accurate as GPS and not necessary because they could see the runway. Elliott shrugged—it didn’t matter now, because they were lined up for landing and they hadn’t been shot down yet. They could see the runway, the GPS was giving them good info along with the PAR controller—everything was humming along OK.

  At the final approach fix, the beginning of the final segment to landing, Elliott called for the “Before Landing” checklist and lowered the landing gear. “Three green, no red,” Cheshire announced, checking the gear-down lights. Elliott checked them as well. Everything going smoothly—PARs were so simple, a monkey could do it, given enough bananas.

  “Passing final approach fix,” the controller reported. “Check gear down, heading zero-four-two, altitude one thousand two hundred, slow to final approach speed.”

  “Military Flight One-One gear down,” Elliott radioed—that was the only allowable radio call, done as a safety measure. Cheshire began reading the portions of the “Before Landing” checklist not already accomplished—flaps, lights, starters, weapons stowed, radar standby, seat belts, shoulder harnesses, crew notified . . .

  “Heading zero-three-one, five-hundred-feet-per-minute rate of descent, altitude seven hundred feet, three miles from touchdown,” the controller intoned. “Heading zero-three-one, six hundred feet altitude, two miles from touchdown. Report runway in sight.”"

  “Runway in sight,” the pilot responded—he had had it in sight for the past five minutes. He expected instructions to take over visually about half a mile from touchdown, when the PAR radar could not update fast enough to provide accurate course and glideslope data. One last check around the cockpit, check the gear, check . . .

  “One-One, lights off,” they heard the controller say. “Two miles to touchdown, heading zero-three-zero, altitude four hundred.”

  “What did he say?” Elliott asked aloud.

  “He said turn the lights off,” Cheshire replied. She reached up to the overhead switch panel. “Want ’em off?”

  Well, this was stupid, Elliott thought. But he had the runway made and most of the rest of the airfield in sight. “Okay, lights off, but I don’t know why the hell—”

  Just as Cheshire flicked the breaker switches, they heard, “Military One-One, turn left immediately, heading three-zero-zero, descend to three hundred feet, maintain final approach speed!”

  “What!” Elliott exclaimed. That was a ninety-degree turn to the west—directly toward the mountains'. He crushed the mike switch: “Hualien, repeat that last!”

  “Military One-One, turn immediately!” the controller shouted. “Turn now or execute missed approach instructions! ”

  Elliott grabbed the control stick and power controller, paddled off the autopilot, and swung the EB-52 Megafortress hard onto the new heading. “Where the hell is the terrain? Lower the radome.” Cheshire hit a switch on the overhead panel, and the long, pointed SST-style nose of the Megafortress lowered several degrees to improve forward visibility.

  “Heading two-niner-eight, altitude two hundred feet, three miles to touchdown,” the controller intoned. The vectors were coming in faster: “Heading three-zero-niner, altitude one-fifty, two point five miles to touchdown . . . now heading three-four-nine, altitude two-twenty, two point two miles to touchdown ...”

  “The son of a bitch! ” Elliott shouted, making the sudden right turn with fifty degrees of bank, “He’s vectored us right into the side of a mountain! What in hell is going on?”

  “Brad, stay on the vectors,” Patrick McLanahan shouted on interphone. “Kuo told us it was going to be a hairy approach.”

  “ ‘Hairy?’ We’re headed right into the side of a fucking mountain! ” “One-One, I show you well above glide path, fly heading three-five- zero, altitude two hundred feet...”

  “General, this is nuts!” Cheshire shouted. “I see mountains all around us! ”

  “Shut up, everyone, shut up!” Elliott shouted. “This doesn’t look good. I’m going missed. Radome in flight position.” He keyed the mike trigger as he pushed the throttles forward: “Hualien, I’m executing missed . . . wait, stand by! Wait on the radome!”

  Just before Elliott began pushing in power to execute a go-around, he saw what looked like a long, tall cleft in the mountainside. It looked like a depression at first, but as they got closer, it was obvious that it was far deeper than a depression, more like a hollow, or even a huge cave ...

  “One-One, start a right turn, heading zero-two-zero, altitude one- fifty, touchdown point in two miles, advise when you have the runway in sight.”

  “Runway?” Cheshire exclaimed. “I don’t see no freakin’ runway!” Elliott started his tight right turn. The mountains were everywhere— they were in a deep river valley, with sharply rising mountainous terrain in every direction except behind them, toward the sea. Straight ahead, the mountains were less than four miles away—it would take every bit of power, and a lot of prayers, if they had to climb out of this defile right now. He couldn’t afford to make careful, cautious turns now—every turn had to be at forty degrees of bank, crisp and positive, so he could line up on the center of the cave.

  The glow from the cave got brighter, and wider, and taller . . . and then, suddenly, the entire outline of the hollow in the mountain was outlined in dull yellow. It was enormous, more than 600 feet across and 200 feet high. Now, a bit closer in, the outline of the edge of a runway could be seen, inside the cave “Co, you . . . you see what I see?”

  “I see it,” Cheshire breathed, “but I don’t freakin’ believe it.” “One-One, Hualien final controller,” the radar controller radioed, “proceed visually. If unable, execute missed approach instructions immediately. You have ten seconds until your missed approach point.”

  “No . . . no, we got the field . . . uh, we got it in sight,” Elliott responded. “Proceeding visually.”

  “Roger,” the controller said—the EB-52’s pilots could practically hear a huge sigh of relief from the controller. “Remain this frequency for ground controller. Max runway length one thousand eight hundred meters, approximately six thousand feet, favor the right side of the runway. Welcome.”

  The controller’s voice sounded so relieved and casual, almost ecstatic, that Brad Elliott felt as if he were in a dream—because he was still far from home free right now. He felt as if the Megafortress’s pointed SST nose was the end of a piece of thread, and the cave mouth was the eye of a needle, and the M
egafortress was barely small enough to squeeze inside! “Flaps full, airbrakes six!” Elliott ordered. “My God, I don’t believe it!”

  It was way, way too late to go around at this point—even the power of the Megafortress’s CF6 turbofans couldn’t fly it clear of the mountain now. Even a ninety-degree bank turn with maximum back pressure and clinging to the edge of the stall wouldn’t save them. They either landed now, or they would die in the blink of an eye. The right wingtip dipped, pushed down by a gust of wind right at the mouth of the cave, and for an instant Elliott thought he wouldn’t be able to raise the wingtip fast enough before it crashed into the side of the cave and spun them around inside. He forced the image of death out of his mind’s eye.

  The Megafortress touched down several hundred feet from the edge of the cliff—Elliott landed way long, a poor touchdown even on a normal runway in perfect conditions. He didn’t wait until the front trucks were on the ground; he pulled the throttles to idle, jammed the thrust reverser levers full down, waited as long as he possibly could stand for the reversers to deploy, then started to shove the throttles forward. There was a huge black aircraft barrier net at the end of the concrete, and it was right there, right in front of them! Elliott kept on shoving the throttles forward, almost into military power. The Megafortress began to shake as if they were in an earthquake.

  “Ninety knots! ” Cheshire shouted. Elliott tapped the brakes and felt the pressure on his shoulder harness—good, they had brakes! He pressed the toe brakes farther, and the Megafortress responded. Thrust reversers still on, he pressed the brakes farther, right up to where he could feel the anti-skid system begin to cycle the hydraulic power in the brakes on and off. He depressed the toe brakes all the way, no more time to tap or save the brakes.

  Full brake power, full reverse thrust, and the barrier was still rushing up to meet them. A little more than a hundred feet beyond the barrier was a steel jet exhaust blast fence, and then the back of the cave wall itself—complete darkness, cold deadly granite. It was very much like the end of the line in a subway tunnel.