by Dale Brown
“The Nevada Air Guard, eh?” Mortonson remarked. “The Reno B-1 bomber unit? Not only do they not deserve an upgraded unit, they probably deserve to be disbanded. What’s the latest on that crash investigation?”
“The investigators are now saying crew error and possibly a dummy missile hit them,” Hammond replied. “The crew was performing a ‘scram’ maneuver, which is a tight turn to get away from a ground threat. The finding is unofficial right now because we have a lot of new information, but it’s been demonstrated in two different B-1 simulators.”
“How did it happen?”
“A flight manual procedural ‘Warning’ violation,” Hammond responded. “The final report will be out in a few days, sir, but it appears the pilot initiated a steep bank turn over sixty degrees during a high-G low-altitude maneuver — in fact, he may have exceeded ninety degrees. The bank automatically causes the terrain-avoidance system to do a fail-safe fly-up. At the same time, the crew is trying to slow the bomber down…”
“Slow it down? Why? Isn’t going slower dangerous?”
“No, because the B-1 turns faster at a slower speed,” Hayes explained. “It’s called cornering velocity. Every crew computes that speed for the altitude and gross weight it’ll be at during the bomb runs. If they decelerate to cornering velocity, they can turn faster without fear of stalling.” He paused, considering, then added, “They’d have the bomber at max Gs and throttles idle. This crew popped their speedbrakes to slow down faster. Deploying speedbrakes also decreases roll efficiency, which is why bank angles are limited by procedure to forty-five degrees.”
“The theory presented by the unit said that several of the little papier-mâché rockets the Navy uses to simulate surface-to-air missile launches flew into the speed-brakes, causing them to not fully retract,” Hammond went on.
“And?” Mortonson asked.
“It was confirmed by Navy range officers,” Hammond said. “They didn’t expect the B-1 to make that tight turn, thinking they were firing well clear of the plane. Several of the rockets came close enough to the bomber so that they might have hit it. Combine that with low speed, crossed-up flight controls adding more drag, and low altitude, and you have your accident. The papier-mâché rockets would leave no trace, so there was no evidence at the crash scene. Engineers are going over this scenario, and so far we think it’s the most likely explanation.”
“The bottom line is, our crews screwed up,” Mortonson repeated bitterly. “That is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.”
“It happens to the best crews, sir,” General Hayes said somberly. “In the heat of battle, the crews react. Most times their training takes over, and they come out of it okay. This time it didn’t happen.”
“That doesn’t cut it, General,” Mortonson said. “Losing planes in combat is one thing. Losing a two-hundred-million-dollar bomber in a training exercise in good weather is not acceptable.”
“Fly low and fast, and even one small mistake can be deadly,” the chief of staff said. Hayes had lost too many good friends in aircraft accidents — he knew that it could happen even to the best of the best. “The crews train hard. And these were the best Air National Guard bomber crews in the force — and one of the best in the entire world. They were aggressive…”
“They screwed up, General,” Mortonson emphasized. “I don’t care how aggressive they were or how many trophies they’ve won. Something happened. Someone lost it. In war, I can understand that — but in peacetime, no. We have rules, don’t we, General? We have rules of engagement? The crews are briefed not to push it to the edge, right? Train hard, I know, but they aren’t encouraged to be unsafe just to win a training exercise, are they, General?” When Hayes hesitated, the secretary of the Air Force looked as if he was going to explode in rage. “Well? Are they?”
“The crews are briefed on the rules of engagement, yes, sir,” Hayes responded. “But both sides play it as if it’s the real thing. They use every bit of their skills and experience to win…”
“So I noticed,” Mortonson said. “Reminds me of you and Samson, pulling that stunt today with that plasma-yield weapon. You do anything you think you need to do to win. Well, I think you’ve screwed yourselves this time with that kind of thinking.
“General, this is not a failure of our crews — it’s a failure of our training, which is a failure of command,” Mortonson went on. “After the stunt you pulled out in the Navy test range, I’m not surprised that our crews have the same attitude. Win at all costs, right, General? Forget the regulations as long as the bombs are on target, right?”
“Sir, I am the senior uniformed officer of the United States Air Force,” General Hayes said. “I am responsible for each and every man and machine under me, and I include the Air Guard and Reserves. If you need a sacrificial lamb, sir, I’m your man.”
“General, I goddamn guarantee that all of our necks are on the chopping block right now,” Mortonson said. “Your head will just be the first one to roll.” He knew he should fire Hayes right now, do it before Congress and the White House questioned why he waited so long. But he realized he couldn’t do it. Hayes was wrong, dead wrong… but he was wrong for all the right reasons.
And he did have Coronet Tiger. The real antiballistic missile systems — the airborne laser, the Navy’s Aegis Tier Three, and the space-based laser called Skybolt — were all many years in the future. Congress was so frustrated with the delays, failures, and cost overruns that they were ready to either cancel the entire program or, worse, buy an inferior system.
This Lancelot system might save their bacon, even from something as serious as setting a subnuclear device off in the Navy’s face.
Mortonson thought for another moment, then asked, “Why a Guard unit, General? Why not an active-duty unit?”
“Money, sir,” Hayes replied. “Right now this project is totally off the books, buried in HAWC’s black research budget. Brad Elliott bounced enough checks and wrote enough IOUs to get a handful of his creations flying — it’s the way he always did things. But Terrill Samson doesn’t want to play it that way. He knows it’s not his job to create tactical units — his job is to test hardware. If he gets full authorization, he’ll turn over his technology and weapons to whatever unit we want and provide training for that unit. Otherwise, he’ll put it all back on the shelf where it came from.”
“If we decided to deploy an active-duty antimissile squadron, we would need to either convert a unit or stand up a new unit, both of which will take time and money,” said Mortonson.
“With the Air National Guard, we use the states to help fund the program, sir,” Hammond pointed out. “The states will pay the bulk of the costs — the physical plant, the personnel costs, and the cost of daily training and upkeep. We give the states the planes, pay for the upgrade equipment, and we pay the costs of certifying each unit to our standards. If the President federalizes the unit, we pay the states a fixed fee. It’s a good deal all around.”
“But the main reason General Samson suggested using the Air Guard is performance,” said Hayes. “The bottom line is, the Air Guard guys are good. Their personnel are as well trained and as knowledgeable as any active-duty unit. The unit that lost the plane won the last Bomb Comp trophy. They are the best around.”
“Why the hell is that?”
“It’s a completely different world in the Air Guard, sir,” General Hammond said. “Flying for the Guard is treated as a special privilege, like belonging to a special club. It’s more competitive because there are fewer slots, so they only take the best of the best. Each candidate is handpicked by the adjutant general and the governor. To weed out candidates, most units require their members to be longtime residents of the state, so you really have to make a long-term commitment to the unit. Some Guard members serve with the same unit and fly the same planes for years. They don’t get uprooted every few years or worry about promotion or reassignment like the active-duty troops do. They have to compete every year to keep their jobs, so t
hey’re aggressive. They take pride in their units on an entirely different level than the active-duty force does, because they represent their hometown and their state.”
“You know about all the criticism we’re getting about Guard and Reserve units flying these planes, don’t you?” Mortonson asked Hayes. “Part-timers can’t handle sophisticated war machines. What do you think? Should we do away with the Air National Guard bomber program?”
“You know that talk is all bullshit, sir,” Hayes replied. “These guys are only replacement units, not frontline fighters. They train hard and work hard, but they’re not the equivalent of the active-duty force. They exist to give us a reserve fighting force that can be mobilized and ready to fight in a matter of weeks or months. It’s a trade-off. We don’t spend as much money keeping their men and machines in the inventory, but we don’t have those forces available quickly or at such a high state of readiness.”
“You’ve given me the politically correct reply, Victor,” Mortonson said, “but I want to hear what you think. Is it a good idea to let part-timers fly the fast jets?”
“They’ve been flying the fast jets for years, sir,” Hayes replied. “The Reserve forces account for about one-third of all the missions flown by the Air Force. In some missions, like air defense, they account for one hundred percent. There’s only two weapon systems they don’t fly, the stealth bomber and stealth fighter, and that’s because we don’t have that many of those to begin with.”
Mortonson glared at Hayes. “Dammit, General,” he said, “are you ever going to give me a straight answer? Do you think it’s a wise move, a wise investment, to have the Guard and Reserves flying planes like the B-1 bombers?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Hayes replied resolutely. “I believe in the concept of the citizen soldier. I’d rather see talented, highly trained crews get out of the active-duty force and fly in a Guard or Reserve unit for a few years than be sucked into the civilian market where we can’t use their skills. The Guard and Reserves preserve a good bit of the hundreds of thousands of training dollars we spend per crewman — if he didn’t fly in the Guard or Reserves after active duty, we’d waste all the investment we made.”
Mortonson carefully considered that argument. “Point taken,” he said, nodding. “That’s too big an issue to handle right now anyway. General, I’m not going to consider your antiballistic missile squadron idea at this time. We’re going to have our hands full trying to convince the Joint Chiefs, SECDEF, and the President that we’re not a couple of maverick nutcases ready to plunge the world into a nuclear holocaust…”
“Sir, before you say no, here’s what we have right now,” Hayes said quickly. “We’ve got weapons, avionics, training materials, and spares ready to equip two more planes. The gear is already bought and paid for. If Terrill Samson gets authorization and funding, he can put together two more Lancelot planes within three months, and ten more within a year. Let’s find a couple of airframes and some crews and give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, we haven’t wasted anything. If it does work and you want to proceed, we’re already in motion.”
Mortonson hesitated — another good sign, especially for a guy known to make snap decisions. “These will be Air National Guard assets?”
“We’ve already got several candidates lined up,” General Hammond said, “and we can begin the selection process immediately. All we need is a go-ahead.”
Mortonson hesitated once again, then nodded. “All right. Put it together for four airframes only. But be prepared to put it all back on the shelf if SECDEF or the White House says no.” Both Hayes and Hammond nodded. “Speaking of the Air National Guard, what’s the current status of that Nevada Guard unit?”
“They are fully operational, with five manned planes, one plane without a full crew, and one spare,” General Hammond responded. “The five crews are reserve mission capable, which means they can be called up, used as replacements, or trained to full combat-ready status within sixty days. They begin their unit requalification course in a few weeks.”
“If they pass it, they stay — if they don’t, we pull the plug on them,” the secretary of the Air Force said flatly. “We don’t have the money to waste on ineffective units, even if the state is putting up a bunch of money to support them.”
“Sir, I think this Nevada Air National Guard unit might be exactly the guys we’re looking for with this new antiballistic missile intercept squadron,” Victor Hayes suggested. “The mission demands an experienced and hard-charging crew…”
“No way, Victor,” Mortonson interrupted, waving a hand in dismissal. “Frankly, I’m hoping for the sake of our budget that they don’t pass their requalification test. Putting seven B-1 bombers on ice will save us billions per year. It might send a message to the rest of the force too — shape up, or you’ll find yourselves unemployed.”
“I think it’ll definitely send a message, Mr. Secretary,” Hayes said. “I think the message will say, ‘Don’t be aggressive, don’t risk it, because if you screw up, you’ll be shit-canned.’ Sir.”
“My message about shaping up or you’ll find yourself unemployed applies to the commanders as well as the airmen, General Hayes,” Mortonson said acidly. “It should probably go double for you and General Samson. You take risks, you’d better be prepared to accept the consequences. That is all.”
CHAPTER TWO
SOUTH ROCK BOULEVARD, RENO, NEVADA
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
Although the Nevada Air National Guard had a very nice all-ranks dinner club in Reno — in fact, one of the finest in the nation — few of the members of the 111th Bomb Squadron used it except for official social functions. Years earlier, back when the Air National Guard flew the RF-4 Phantom, the squadron members had “adopted” a run-down little bar and casino on South Rock Boulevard near the old Cannon Airport, now the Reno-Tahoe International Airport.
The bar’s real name was the Quarry, because it had been built near a small quarry used to provide sand and gravel for the concrete for Reno’s new airport’s runways, but no one used it. It was known to all as Target Study. It provided a convenient and convincing excuse or explanation to someone asking about a squadron member’s whereabouts, as in “He’s at target study” or “I’ll be at target study for the next couple of hours.” Because it was close to the airport, it also made for a fine place for crew members to wander up onto the roof and watch the planes come and go.
It was the first time since his accident that Rinc had been back in the place. Out front, there were six tables, a few booths, a couple of card tables, a few slot machines and video poker machines, and the bar. The place had become decorated over the years with photos, memorabilia, books, signs, and other items from the Air National Guard flying units in Reno, and from visiting flying units from around the world. Every new guest was required to sign his or her name on the walls — most chose the bathroom of the opposite sex. Signatures and messages at the bar itself were reserved for VIPs or high-ranking officers. Anyone uninformed enough to wear a tie or bring a hat into the place had it snipped off or removed and tacked up on the rafters, and there was a huge collection of these trophies overhead.
Behind the bar, up on the shelf next to the expensive liquors, Rinc knew there was a full set of B-1B tech orders, and he had no doubt they were in inspection-ready condition. There were also tech orders of all the planes the Nevada Air Guard had ever flown since its inception in 1946: P-39, P-40, P-51, T-33, and F-86 fighters, RB-57, RF-101, and RF-4 tactical reconnaissance fighters, and C-130 Hercules cargo planes, all in equally perfect condition. In the back was a billiard room with slot machines, movies, newspapers, and computers. It was off limits to all but Aces High personnel of all ranks.
Martina — no one knew her last name — was out front behind the bar as usual. She virtually came with the place, and she was most definitely in command here. Martina weighed more than 260 pounds and could have just as easily been the bouncer. Rumor had it that pilots paid off big bar tabs by sneaking Ma
rtina onboard their planes. She supposedly had over a hundred hours in the RF-4 Phantom, although it seemed impossible she could ever have squeezed herself into the seat.
“Hey, Rodeo,” she said, greeting Seaver as if she had just seen him the day before. She poured him a large glass of diet cola. Martina knew the flying schedule just as well as the crews did, and she always knew when a guy was within twelve hours of a sortie and would stop serving him alcohol. Woe to any flier who tried to argue with her.
Rinc was looking the place over, drinking in the welcome atmosphere. There was no air-conditioning, and it was stuffy and musty-smelling, but it still felt cozy, much like his dad’s old ham radio room in the basement of their house when he was a kid.
His eyes were drawn to the back of the bar and the “Snake Eyes” board. Fifty-three years of photos of dead members of Aces High were pinned up there — and yes, he saw they had added the pictures of his dead crewmates to the array. In fact, it was a crew photo, their Fairchild Trophy shot taken in front of their plane…
… with Rinc’s picture cut out of it.
He was frozen in place. It was logical that he be cut out of the picture — after all, he wasn’t dead — but they had left the pictures of the surviving crew members, and why his squadronmates had chosen that particular photo to use on the memorial wall made him uneasy. All the other pictures were individual shots, even in cases where multiple crew members had been lost. It was as if he were worse than dead — he was excluded, ousted. They had made a point of eliminating him, as if to remind him that he had survived an accident that he had no right to survive.
Rinc hadn’t yet selected a seat, but Martina made the choice for him by bringing his cola and a bowl of pretzels over to a booth. She picked the one farthest from the door to the back room. He looked at the closed door, then at Martina. Her expression answered all his questions: yes, some members of Aces High were back there; yes, the commander, Rebecca Furness, was there — and no, he wasn’t welcome.
