Fatal Terrain

by Dale Brown

  of thundering wind and violent sound. Brad Elliott was thrown

  to the right as his head and upper torso took the entire brunt

  of the hurricane-force winds ripping through the blasted left

  cockpit windows.

  Through her screams of terror and shock, copilot Major

  Nancy Cheshire's training took over. She was battered by the

  hurricane-force slipstream and shocked by the explosions rip-

  ping through her plane, but she managed to focus on her one

  and only priority: flying the airplane. Everything else had to

  wait. Still two hundred feet above the South China Sea, the

  EB-52 Megafortress was still flying and still accelerating, so

  she held on to those two facts with every ounce of her skill,

  experience, and strength. The wings were still attached, three

  of the plane's four engines were still running and still produc-

  ing smash, and they hadn't hit the rock-solid ocean yet-and

  it was her job to keep it that way.

  "Guard your throttles!" she heard a voice thunder. Just as

  she laid her hands on the throttle quadrant, Patrick McLanahan

  reached across the center console and began unbuckling Elli-

  ott's lap belt and parachute harness straps. "You okay,

  Nancy?" McLanahan shouted over the windblast.

  "Yes!" she shouted back. She didn't dare take her eyes off

  her instruments, but out of the comer of her eyes she saw

  McLanahan detach Elliott from his ejection seat, drag him out

  of the pilot's seat, lay him down on the deck between the

  pilot's seats and instrument console, hook up his oxygen mask

  and interphone cord, turn his regulator to oxyGEN 100%, and

  begin checking his wounds.

  "How is he, Patrick?" Cheshire asked.

  "He looks okay," McLanahan replied. "A few cuts on the

  left side of his face and shoulders." He quickly wrapped band-

  ages from a first-aid kit around the worst-looking wounds.

  Thankfully McLanahan had thought to detach the man from

  170 DALE BROWN

  his seat rather than simply undo his shoulder straps, because

  now Elliott had a parachute on and at least had a fighting

  chance to eject or do a manual bailout if they got hit. "How

  are you doing up there?"

  "I feel like I'm suddenly flying an ambulance plane rather

  than a bomber."

  "Can the wisecracks, co," McLanahan snapped-but he

  was happy that Nancy Cheshire was still cracking wise. If she

  was too quiet or too serious, it was an indication they were in

  serious trouble! Satisfied that Elliott was breathing on his own

  and secured the best he could be, he crawled back into his seat

  and called up the aircraft systems 5tatus page on his super-

  cockpit display. "Number four's shut down, no further fire

  indications," he announced, acting as copilot while his only

  other surviving crew member flew the plane. "Successful fuel

  system transfer, successful hydraulic and electrical shunts.

  Auto transferring fuel from the fuselage and mains to the

  wings, because I think we're leaking fuel."

  "We're on the deck at mil power and four hundred knots,

  and I think that's all we're going to get out of her," Cheshire

  added. "We've lost the left-side windscreen and all of the left-

  side controls and indicators. At least it's warm out there."

  "Defense is tits-up," McLanahan reported after doing a

  status check on the defensive suite. "All weapons went into

  emergency safety shutdown with the engine fire. I'm going to

  -reset everything. Radar should be up in ninety seconds. If we

  still have weapons, they'll be up in two minutes. Nav systems

  successfully reset and reloaded. All weapons went into emer-

  gency safety shutdown."

  "What about those fighters out there, Muck?" Cheshire

  asked.

  we can see him and track him on the attack radar, there's

  a chance," McLanahan said as he started to check his own

  equipment. But a few seconds later: "I've got no-go lights on

  all internal and external weapons, Nance-they might've been

  hit by a bullet -or damaged- by the fire. Looks like we got squat.

  Left turn heading zero-four-five, co. We're heading right for

  Taiwan. If we got any help out there, that's where they'll be.

  I'll do another restart, but I think my stuff is dead."

  "Any contact with the Taiwanese air force?" Cheshire

  asked on interphone.

  McLanahan tried all the radios. "Negative," he responded.

  FATAL TER RAI N 171

  "The electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear explosions shut

  down all the radios. Nothing's getting through."

  "We won't make it," Cheshire said. "That Chinese fighter

  is probably lining up on us right now. Without weapons or

  countermeasures, he can slice us up at his leisure."

  "I'll jettison the wing weapons pods so we can get max

  performance," McLanahan said. Moments after punching off

  both wing pylons: "Hey, I've got a green light.on the bomb-

  bay Striker missiles! The wing weapons pods must've been

  damaged from the explosion on the number four engine-jet-

  tisoning the bad missiles cleared the continuity faults on all

  the other missiles. But there's still no way we're going to hit

  a fighter with a three-thousand-pound Striker missile. . . " But

  that didn't stop him from repowering the Striker missile rotary

  launcher and getting the eight remaining missiles on-line.

  "Radar's up!" McLanahan shouted over the screaming

  windblast coming through the Megafortress's shattered left

  windows. "Bandit six o'clock, five miles!"

  11 Nail him!" Cheshire shouted on interphone. "Launch the

  Strikers! "

  "Got him!" McLanahan shouted. He touched the fighter

  symbol on his supercockpit display, which designated the tar-

  get, then hit the control stud on his trackball pad and spoke,

  "Launch commit Striker."

  CAUTION, NO AIR-TO-AIR WEAPONS AVAILABLE, the attack

  computer responded.

  "Override that caution," McLanahan ordered the computer.

  "Launch commit Striker."

  WARNING, WEAPON SELECTION OVERRIDE, WARNING,

  WEAPON PERFORMANCE HAZARDOUS, RECOMMEND LAUNCH

  ABORT... RECOMMEND LAUNCH ABORT ...

  Just then, they felt the Megafortress's tail slide to one side,

  f ollowed by a heavy buffeting. "Jesus, I think we're hit!

  Cheshire shouted.

  "Launch," McLanahan ordered.

  WARNING, LAUNCH COMMIT STRIKER, BOMB DOORS OPEN-

  ING.

  "Wings level!" McLanah.-n shouted. "Gimme a slight

  climb." Cheshire raised the nose and leveled the wings. As

  she did so, she felt the rumble of the aft set of bomb-bay doors

  swinging up into the bomb bay, i and a Striker missile was

  ejected into the slipstream. The missile dropped two hundred

  -

  11

  172 DALE BROWN

  feet, wobbily stabilized itself, then ignited its first-stage rocket

  motor. Just as the bomb doors slid closed, another electrical

  spike drove through the EB-52's electrical system, sending the

  good systems back into reset.

  The Chinese Sukhoi-33 pilot had just rele
ased the trigger on

  his fighter's cannon after a three-second burst from the left

  rear quadrant at about a half-kilometer distance when he saw

  the big 2,900-pound missile ignite its rocket motor. The mis-

  sile shot straight ahead, climbed almost straight up, then

  looped backward and down right toward him! He got off a

  quick one-second burst at the bomber before dropping decoy

  chaff and flares and breaking hard right away from the missile

  and plugging in full afterburner power.

  Guided by the Striker's onboard radar, the Striker missile

  heeled sharply, ignoring the tiny clouds of chaff dropped by

  the fighter. With incredible precision, the Striker missile lined

  up on the Sukhoi-33's tail and cruised in. The Chinese pilot

  made a last-ditch dodge to the left, but even the high-

  performance jet was no match for the speed of the big Striker

  missile at full thrust. The explosion completely vaporized the

  fighter-nothing recognizable was left to hit the water.

  "I'm blind again," McLanahan shouted on interphone. He

  started to roll the trackball across the screen to highlight the

  target-again, nothing. "I think I lost my system, Nancy," he

  said. "I'll try a reset. Let's hope this last asshole runs out of

  gas or-"

  Suddenly, Cheshire screamed, "Fighters! Twelve o'clock!

  Right in front of us! Launching missiles! My God!" She could

  clearly see the twin trails of air-to-air missiles leaving the wing

  hardpoints of the plane in front of them, streaking directly

  toward them-it was as if the missiles were aiming directly

  for her! It was like watching a demonstration video of an air-

  to-air-missile launch. Nancy Cheshire closed her eyes and

  waited for the impact, waited for the explosion, waited for

  death ...

  ... so she didn't see the missiles streak just a few dozen

  yards overhead, past the Megafortress, and hit the last Chinese

  Sukhoi-33 carrier fighter, seconds before it opened fire on the

  EB-52 from close range.

  When she found herself still alive, Cheshire opened her

  eyes. There before her, making a graceful left turn to parallel

  her course, was another EB-52 Megafortress! The second Me-

  FATAL T ER RAI N 173

  gafortress, paired with hers, had come off the refueling anchor

  when the shooting started and had just arrived in the area. "Oh

  my God, it's Kelvin and Diane's crew," Cheshire breathed.

  "When the shooting started, I forgot all about them coming

  on station. They must've just come off the tanker and headed

  right down here when they heard the shooting start."

  I IWhat a beautiful sight," McLanahan said to Cheshire. He

  was behind her again, checking on Elliott. "Get on their

  wing-it looks like they're headed back to the air refueling

  anchor."

  "You got it," Cheshire agreed. "How's Brad?"

  Elliott's oxygen blinker looked OK, so he was breathing;

  McLanahan checked for any signs of chest trauma or bleeding,

  and found nothing. Elliott's eyes were closed, but when

  McLanahan gently touched his eyelids, the veteran three-star

  aviator opened his eyes. "Quit fucking with me, nav," Elliott

  groused.

  "Are you okay, sir?"

  "I feel like I've got a two-thousand-pound bomb on my

  chest," he responded. "The windblast must've knocked the

  wind outta me."

  "Any other pain? You're not having a heart attack on me,

  are you, sir? You took one hell of a slam by that windblast

  when the cockpit windscreen let go."

  "Hey, I'll compare EKGs with you any day, Muck," Elliott

  grumbled, trying to sit up against the starboard bulkhead. "We

  okay? 11

  "Kelvin Carter showed up and saved our bacon right at the

  nick of time," McLanahan said. "We're on his wing, heading

  back to the anchor."

  Elliott nodded. He looked a little pale, and his oxygen

  blinker showed a slightly shallow, labored breathing pattern.

  McLanahan removed a flight glove and tried to take Elliott's

  pulse, but he shook McLanahan's fingers off his wrist. "Get

  away from me and help Cheshire fly the beast," Elliott said.

  "I'm fine. It's her flying you need to keep an eye on now."

  "Har har," Cheshire said.

  "Brad. . ."

  "Get out of my face, nav. I'm fine," Elliott said.

  Deciding that there was nothing more he could do for his

  friend and aircraft commander now, McLanahan nodded. He

  retrieved both his and Elliott's flight jackets and covered the

  174 DALE BROWN

  pilot up with them. "I'll check on you in a few," he said.

  "You better not wake me up trying to play nurse," Elliott

  said, giving his young protdg6 a thumbs-up. "Get back to your

  seat. And Muck ... I mean, Patrick?"

  leah, Brad?"

  'We had to take on those Chinese warships, didn't we?"

  Elliott asked. "We had to help defend those ships, didn't we?"

  The pain in his eyes was obvious-but whether it was from

  his injuries or from having doubts about his actions, Mc-

  Lanahan couldn't tell.

  "We had to do something, Brad-we're not out here flying

  around for nothing," McLanahan replied.

  The smile in Elliott's eyes seemed to light up the cockpit,

  despite the windblast damage. "You're damned right, Muck,"

  Elliott breathed behind his oxygen mask. "You're damned

  right."

  THE WHITE HOUSE CABINET Room,

  WASHINGTON, D.

  TUESDAY, 3 JUNE 1997, 1927 HOURS ET

  "Mr. President, there is no one on Capitol Hill more aware of

  the need for extreme security than me," the new Senate Ma-

  jority Leader, Barbara Finegold, said, as the group settled in

  for the meeting in the White House West Wing's Cabinet

  Room, "but eventually you have to release some information

  to the congressional leadership. Now might be the perfect time

  to do it. "

  ' 'Senator, as I told you before this photo op began, there is

  nothing else I can tell you," the President said, with a forced

  smile. "I have procedures I need to follow too, and I have to

  wait on the results of the security review."

  I see," Senator Finegold said, letting out an audible ex-

  asperated breath. The seating had been rearranged after the

  press had departed, so now Finegold, the forty-eight-year-old

  former Los Angeles mayor and third-term senator from Cali-

  fornia, was seated across from the President, instead of two

  seats from him as in the official press photos. On her side of

  the table was House Minority Leader Joseph Crane and several

  FATAL TERRAIN 175

  other prominent House and Senate Democrats. Seated to Pres-

  ident Martindale's right was Vice President Ellen Whiting,

  Secretary of Defense Chastain, House Majority Leader Nich-

  olas Gant, Senate Minority Leader Michael Fortier, and White

  House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale; on the President's left was

  Secretary of State Hartman, Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman

  Admiral George Balboa, National Security Advisor Philip

  Freeman, CIA director Layne W. Moore, and A
ttorney General

  Robert M. Procter.

  "Great meeting, everyone, thank you," the President said.

  Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale stood, a signal for the rest of the

  President's advisors to start heading for the door, but the Pres-

  ident said, "We have a few minutes more. Any other questions

  I can answer for anyone?" Hiding his impatience, Hale stood

  beside the door and listened intently to every word.

  "Mr. President, I'm afraid this might require some Senate

  Arms Services Committee hearings to determine exactly what

  happened in the Persian Gulf," Finegold forged on, "and to

  respond to the question brought up by the media and by several

  well-known military experts as to exactly how the radar sites

  in Iran were destroyed. If it's true that the only way those sites

  could have been bombed was by an American stealth bomber

  secretly flying all the way across China and Afghanistan, as

  has been speculated, I think the congressional leadership needs

  and has a right to know."

  "You certainly have the right and the authority to call such

  hearings," the President said. Although Kevin Martindale had

  been successful in regaining the White House by a slim mar-

  gin, he had not been as successful in helping to keep a majority

  in the Senate, and Barbara Finegold was a powerful and wor-

  thy adversary. Tall, dark, immensely popular, with a fashion

  model's face and figure, she was already being touted as a

  shoo-in for her party's presidential nomination in the year

  2000, outstripping the former administration's vice president

  and a host of other male candidates. "We will cooperate all

  we can-"

  "But the White House would insist on closed-door hear-

  ings," Secretary of Defense Chastain interjected. "All records

  would be placed in the highest classification level possible."

  "Given the current events concerning China," Secretary of

  State Hartman added, "we think that's the most prudent ave-

  nue to take."

  176 DALE BROWN

  "Fine-I agree," Finegold said. "Then you agree to co-

  operate in committee hearings?"

  "I might remind the President that the Pentagon's security

  review on the events in the Persian Gulf hasn't even been