Battle Born

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Battle Born Page 43

by Dale Brown


  "Unidentified aircraft, this is your final warning!" the Korean voice repeated. "Slow and lower your landing gear now or we open fire!"

  "Warm up a Scorpion missile, Patrick," Nancy Cheshire said. "We've got no choice-it's him or us." "I'd rather not shoot the bastard down, Nance-he may have shot at us, but he's a good guy." instead, Patrick activated the laser radar once more, got a fix on the MiG-29, then designated a Wolverine cruise missile against it. "Doors coming open . . , missile away! Get ready for a mil power TERFLW descent, Nance!"

  "You got it, boss," Nancy said happily, quickly configuring her autopilot switches. Patrick opened the bomb doors and commanded the ground-attack cruise missile against the MiG-29.

  The Wolverine-powered cruise missile normally had a fifty-mile range, but this time it was heading up against a MiG-29 fighter, so its range was considerably less. But it was enough. Patrick and Nancy watched on the supercockpit display as the Wolverine missile flew closer and closer to the MiG. About two miles away, the MiG's infrared search and track system must have detected the missile on a collision course, and it did a spectacular snap-turn to the right, followed by a roll and a steep dive away from the missile. The little cruise missile tried to follow, but it quickly lost track of the MiG and crashed harmlessly into the Sea of Japan.

  At the same instant the MiG-29 did its wild evasive maneuver, Nancy rolled the EB-1C inverted and pulled. The bomber plummeted toward the sea in a steep thirty-thousand-foot-per-minute dive. She pulled the power to idle to keep from overstressing the plane. At five thousand feet above the ocean, she rolled upright, engaged the terrain-following system, and pushed it to full military power. They leveled off smoothly two thousand feet above the ocean, accomplished a systems check, then stepped it down until they were two hundred feet above the dark waves.

  Nancy made a turn south to parallel the Korean coastline, in case the MiG tried to pursue them along their last known track, while Patrick scanned the skies around them with the laser radar. "The MiG is fifteen miles at our five o'clock, heading southeast," he reported. "I don't think he's got us. Good job, Nance.

  Let's work our way back to our patrol orbit and see if we can catch any more Nodongs tonight!"

  "It stinks that we had to take a shot at a good guy and waste a perfectly good Wolverine just so we wouldn't get shot down ourselves," Nancy said. "But I guess he's just doing his job. And we actually got two missiles tonight! Awesome!"

  The rest of the evening was relatively uneventful. The Megafortress crew stayed in their patrol orbit over central Korea for another hour, easily skirting all of the search radars and fighter patrols over Korea. By this time there was a general air defense alert over the entire region, but the Megafortress crew was easily able to evade all searchers. There were no more missile launches from either side. They then broke off and hooked up with a KC-135 tanker over the Sea of Japan, 150 miles west-northwest of Kanazawa, Japan. With full tanks, they returned to their patrol orbit until an hour before sunrise, then headed back toward Japan and terminated their first successful night of antiballistic missile patrol.

  They refueled again with the tanker, then flew to their "due regard" point, the coordinates in their military flight plan where they would again be back in radar contact. The Japanese military air traffic controllers on the island of Hokkaido, where the Megafortress crew checked in, might have suspected that the unidentified aircraft near Korea was this mysterious B-l with the "Fortress" call sign, but there was nothing they could do but let the plane go on its way unmolested. Once it crossed the "due regard" point outbound outside Japanese airspace, its business was its own. As long as it crossed the proper point inbound at the proper time and squawked the proper transponder codes, it was a legal return flight and could come back without question with a valid flight plan and full air traffic control service.

  With their identity confirmed and their flight plan reactivated, they continued on uneventfully and a little over two hours later set down in Adak, Alaska. Total flight time: twenty-one hours. They had taken off from Dreamland just after sunset and were landing just before arctic sunset-the sun would be up again in a couple of hours.

  The ground crews immediately prepared the Megafortress for relaunch, while the flight crew made their way to the hangar where their new headquarters had been set up. David Luger himself picked up Nancy and Patrick from the plane, fed them sandwiches and drinks, escorted them to maintenance and intelligence debrief, and then to the conference room where they could sit and relax and talk about the sortie.

  Waiting for them on a secure satellite videoconference hookup was Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, calling from Dreamland. "Helluva job, you two," Samson said proudly. "Congratulations. How do you feel?"

  "We need to get some more-comfortable chairs in that plane," Nancy said. "And we need to get the microwave oven and hot cup working again too."

  "Why bother, Nance? You never unstrap or even lower your oxygen mask anyway," Patrick said with a smile. To Samson, he said, "What's the word from Korea, sir?"

  "The word, thank God, is 'what the hell happened?' " Samson replied. "Both China and Korea observed the exact same thing: two ballistic missile launches originating in southern Chagang Do province, followed by two large explosions, one a nuclear burst, high in the atmosphere. Very little damage and few injuries to anything or anyone on the ground. No response from China this time, no further action by

  Korea except to declare an air defense emergency. Japan claims it intercepted and attacked a bomber over the Sea of Japan and chased it away. Officially, they did not speculate on its identity. Unofficially-well, my phone's been ringing off the hook. State Department. Pentagon. Gold Room. Oval Office. They all wanted a briefing."

  "And?"

  "And I told them we had a winner on our hands, and we needed to fully implement it." Samson beamed. "They virtually handed me a blank check. We got tankers, manpower, weapons, whatever we need ready to go. It's our show too. No argument this time-Pacific Command was never even considered. The operation stays black all the way-we still don't want to send any more carriers or combat aircraft into the region until things cool down. Except for the two carriers already stationed around Korea, we'll be the only other combat unit in the entire northern Pacific. So just tell me what you need, Patrick, and it'll be on its way."

  "The first thing I'll need, sir," Patrick said, "is the 111th Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard, and their planes, modified and flown up here as quickly as possible."

  "What?" Samson asked incredulously. "After what you went through with that bunch, you still want to use them? You can have their planes, Patrick-that'll be a no-brainer. But the Nevada Air National Guard?"

  "Sir, they are still the best Bone drivers in the business," Patrick insisted. "When I did my evaluation of that unit, I was thinking like a BUFF or B-2 bomber guy-low, slow, and fly the blue line. I realized that once we got over Korea, Operation Battle Born won't work if we fly that way. This mission calls for crews who can think and react like close-air-support attack planes, not bombers. They have to drive down the enemy's throat to do this mission. Those guys are the best because they fly like that all the time-they don't know any other way."

  "Then you got 'em," Samson said. "What else do you need? Tanker support, AWACS, fighter cover?"

  "We need Takedown," Patrick replied.

  "You need who?"

  "Takedown-that's the Navy version of Coronet Tiger," Patrick said. "Brad Elliott originally got Coronet Tiger from the Navy, and they still have patrol planes modified with the system-on P-3 Orions, I believe. We need that plane, plus its support teams. I also need the Grand Island."

  "You mean the USS Grand Island? The cruiser we almost fried testing Lancelot?"

  "Yep," Patrick said. "We need someone to watch our backsides and to provide some air defense support. Besides, they know a lot of our secrets anyway-might as well make them part of the team."

  "Well, that might be a tough sell, but I'll do it," Sa
mson said with a smile. "What's the plan?"

  "I plan on flying missions or manning the VC with other crews flying the EB-1 until someone orders me to stop," Patrick said. "I'll send Dave back to base to supervise the retrofit of the four Bones at Dreamland, and I'll send Nancy and Wendy out to Patuxent River to supervise the Takedown flight crew setup. In less than seventy-two hours, we'll be fully operational here. I just hope this region doesn't blow up in our faces before then."

  111TH BOMB SQUADRON HEADQUARTERS,

  RENO-TAHOE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

  RENO, NEVADA

  THE NEXT DAY

  The news about Korea was so nonstop and so shocking that, even after just a few days, it seemed as if it was already old news. Rebecca Furness was hardly paying attention to the TV tuned to CNN in her office as she took pictures, plaques, and other assorted memorabilia off the walls and stacked them neatly in boxes.

  At first, it did appear as if the Korean people's revolution was going to hold. Led by the United States, foreign troops started moving off the Korean peninsula within hours of the formal request. At several times, Russian, Chinese, and American transport and cargo vessels shared the same waters, packed full with troops, dependents, and equipment. In fact, it appeared as if all three nations had actually increased their naval presence in the region-given the opportunity to sail plenty of vessels into Korean waters, all nations did so with gusto. All of the ships operated near each other without protest or problems. It all led the world to believe that a peaceful transition to democracy was actually possible in Korea.

  But then the missile attacks and the destruction of a major Korean city reportedly by a Chinese ballistic missile snapped the world back to reality. Tensions were high again in the blink of an eye. American military forces, already at a high state of alert, were placed on an even more advanced stage of readiness, as far advanced as possible without actually flying aircraft or sending ships to Korea or appearing as if they threatened China or Russia.

  There was little talk from China-all of the bellicose language coming from Asia was from the Korean communist government-in-exile. President Kim Jong-il was on CNN almost hourly, loudly proclaiming that President Kwon of United Korea wanted nothing more than to precipitate a superpower conflict so Japan and Korea could emerge as leaders of a new Asian power bloc.

  All the other noise on CNN came from President Kevin Martindale's critics, who slammed him mercilessly. He was not tough enough with the Chinese or Koreans; he should never have relinquished the lost Korean or Japanese bases; he should send more troops or more aircraft carriers into Asia; and on it went for a dozen other perceived deficiencies. Half his critics wanted war with the Chinese-the other half wanted Martindale out of the White House and then war with China.

  When the news came over CNN that China and Korea had exchanged missiles, Rebecca thought the world was going to end in the next thirty minutes-about the time it would take long-range sub-launched ICBMs to fly from Asia or Siberia to North America, or vice versa. She had never in her life felt so powerless. She stopped her packing and watched, mesmerized, as the reporters and anchors tried to keep on reporting developments in northeast Asia, even as they, too, knew that their planet could be on fire at any moment.

  When the thirty minutes came and went, Rebecca felt enormous relief. Maybe cooler heads were going to prevail here. Maybe everything would be all right. But then President Kim or some Chinese government official would get on the air and promise death, and her panic would start all over again.

  "You know," she heard a familiar voice say, "this is a really shitty office." She turned and saw Rinc Seaver standing in her doorway, watching her.

  Rebecca looked around, then nodded. Her office was a former storeroom on the top floor of the General James A. May hangar at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. It wasn't the normal unit commander's office, but she chose it and fixed it up because it overlooked the flight line and had better access to the maintenance teams downstairs, which were the lifeblood of any flying unit. "I've had bigger ones, nicer ones," she said. "But it's not the size that matters, it's what you do with it."

  "Are we still talking about offices, Beck?" Rinc said with a smile.

  "I don't know," she said. "Maybe not."

  "I would certainly prefer to talk about us."

  She favored him with a smile in return, then motioned to the TV. "Have you been watching this? It's incredible. One second I feel okay, and the next I think I can hear the nukes flying in."

  "I can't watch it anymore," Rinc said. "It's driving me nuts, especially since I can't do anything about it. Besides, I'm concerned about other things-other persons" He stepped over and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Hi, stranger," he said.

  "Hi yourself."

  She did not exactly return his kiss, and he could feel the tension in her body. His shoulders slumped as she turned away and began packing boxes again. "Either I'm losing my touch, or I'm losing you" he said.

  "I'm just distracted . . , pissed off . . , frustrated . . , take your pick," Rebecca said. "I'm a fulltime guardsman, Rinc. This was my job. I've never been fired from a job before in my life. And this was my first combat-coded command, something I've wanted since I started pilot training."

  "I know," Rinc said. "What's more, we lost our unit when we were doing our jobs better than anyone else. It sucks."

  Rebecca looked at Rinc. "You seem in a pretty good mood. Oh yeah, that's right-you still have a job."

  "You can have one too, if you want," Rinc said. "The company is thinking about putting another plane on the line. I talked to them about splitting hours. They provide decent benefits, we get the use of the planes at cost in case we set up some type of rating instruction, and we get to stay in town and . . ."

  "I tried that once before-I found I didn't like it," Rebecca said. "I like military flying better. I like command even more."

  Rinc shrugged. "Why not accept the offer while you look around for another position?" he suggested. "We could use you, and we'd still be together."

  "I don't think so."

  "You don't think so, which? The 'we could use you' part or the 'we'd still be together' part?"

  "Rinc, sometimes you . . , dammit, sometimes men can be so frustrating," Rebecca said. "I just lost my job. I'm hurt. You just lost your job. You don't seem to care. I don't see you for weeks after your accident. I'm hurt. You don't see me for weeks after your accident, and it's no big deal. Does it ever become a big deal for you?"

  "Beck, we got tossed out of a job-we didn't receive a death sentence, we didn't get a red 'A' painted on our foreheads, we are still breathing," Rinc said. "We can overcome everything else. Life goes on. We press on."

  "Well, I lost some things that were special to me," Rebecca said. "My command, my career, my future."

  "But you can have that again. I'm offering you all of it. My bosses want you. I want you. The business is expanding, and there's a future for you there if you want it."

  "Pushing another flying service? Forget it. I did that, back in New York. It wasn't for me. I've worked hard to get my light colonel's leaves and my own command,

  Rinc-I can't just leave it and go to work for someone else." She reached out and held his hand. "The California Air National Guard tanker wing is looking for a commander down in Riverside. They want to interview me. I think I've got a really good shot at it. KC-135Rs, maybe KG-10s in the future. Lots of missions, high visibility, lots of money."

  "And what do I do? Fly Stratobladders? No thanks," Rinc said. "I've put in my time in support squadrons. I'm part owner of a good business here in Reno, and I get a stick and throttles and windows in my planes, even the little piston-powered ones. Why would I give that up?"

  "How about for me?" Rebecca asked, a little crossly. "Do it so we can stay together. Start a branch of your flying service down, there. Fly for the airlines-you have lots of experience, a commercial license, an Airline Transport Pilot rating. Get a corporate position. Or just come down and be with me.
You're a young guy. You can do anything you want. I don't have as many opportunities as you, Rinc. When I find a good one, I have to go for it." She could tell that not only was he not considering the idea, he was decidedly uncomfortable even thinking about it. "Or does the idea of following a woman's career totally gross you out?"

  "It's not that . . ."

  "Bullshit. What is it, then? My age?"

  "Hey, I've never thought of you as an 'older woman,' " Rinc said angrily. "You know that. You're as sexy and vibrant and hot as any college hard-body."

  "Then what's the problem?" Rebecca asked. "C'mon, Rinc. Give it a try."

  "I don't know," Rinc said. Rebecca sensed that he was wrestling with an even greater dilemma than just their future together. "It's just . . , well, I was getting a little tired of the Air Guard scene. I was looking forward to settling down and taking it easy with this little flying service in Reno."

  "Well, don't fly for the Guard," she said. "Do other stuff."

  "But I'd be exposed to it all the time, being with you. I'm not sure if I want that."

  "Why, for Christ's sake? You don't have to have anything to do with the Guard, except maybe a few social-type functions. You can handle that. Besides, if you're doing your corporate or airline thing, you'll probably be on the road most of the time anyway."

  "Yeah, but I'll be involved because you'll be involved."

  "So? I still don't get it." She looked at him for several long moments; then: "What is it, Rodeo? Tell me." He remained silent, his eyes darting back and forth as if reliving some horrible event in his life. Now she studied his face intently, reading the thoughts and emotions that seemed to cross it-and not liking what she was sensing. "It's not that you don't want to be around me, Rinc," she said in a quiet, strained voice, "is it? You don't want to be around the Air Guard. Why?" Still no response. "Rinc, you gotta tell me. It's about the accident, right?"

 

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