Battle Born pm-8

by Dale Brown

  “Sounds like you’ve been watching a lot of X-Files lately,” someone quipped.

  The formation spent nearly another hour in the anchor while Patrick got on the secure voice SATCOM and coordinated their arrival. Now they had barely enough fuel to make it to Nellis Air Force Base with legal fuel reserves, and that base was only sixty miles away. They couldn’t legally land back at Reno even if they wanted to without an emergency air refueling. They were indeed committed to their decision.

  If any air traffic control agencies were surprised about their flying into the world’s most restricted airspace, they kept their comments to themselves. But they heard the same warnings from all the civil controllers several times; one controller violated Furness and ordered her to contact Los Angeles Air Route Traffic Control Center upon landing, even giving her the telephone number. Furness replied with a curt “We don’t need no stinkin’ vectors, Center,” and ignored all other directives.

  The approach was completely routine, if flying into a hornet’s nest could be considered routine. If they still had their electronic countermeasures gear on, their threat-warning receivers would be alive with surface-to-air missile tracking radars and height finders, including Hawk and Patriot antiaircraft systems. As they got closer, Furness and Seaver could see several missile emplacements. The Patriot launchers weren’t pointed directly at them — they didn’t need to be — but the I-Hawk and British-built Rapier missile batteries tracked them all the way. It was like looking right down the barrels of a triple-barreled shotgun. They were aimed at an immense dry lake bed, with hard-baked sand stretching as far as they could see. Majestic multicolored mountains ringed the valley, some still with snow at the highest peaks.

  The scenery was magnificent — and they would have enjoyed it more if they weren’t so afraid of messing up and getting shot down by their fellow Americans.

  As they followed the glideslope down and got closer to touchdown, more and more details became obvious. The runway emerged from the dry lake like a mirage. Several vehicles were parked on the dry lake — a disconcerting mixture of fire trucks and Avenger mobile antiaircraft weapon systems, as if their soon-to-be hosts were eager to both hurt them and help them.

  At one point in the approach, Patrick said, “We’ve got traffic at our three o’clock, boys.” Rinc leaned forward in his seat and saw an F-22 Raptor fighter just off the right wingtip. He knew that the F-22 with its thrust-vectoring nozzles could turn and shoot its 20-millimeter cannon right from where it was, without having to maneuver or line up behind the Bone. He saw no missiles, but he remembered that the F-22 carried its missiles internally. He strained a look in his rearview mirror and saw another F-22 fighter sitting off the third Bone’s wingtip. It was very impressive to get such a welcome, but it was even more impressive when you considered that the F-22 was in production only and wasn’t scheduled to become operational for almost five years. This place had four of them, manned, fueled, and presumably armed, available for a simple escort mission.

  The runway felt concrete-hard but sandy as Rinc touched down. He stayed off the brakes completely until he saw several armored vehicles arrayed before him nine thousand feet down the runway, blocking it and showing him where to turn off. Patrick had the after-landing and before-shutdown checklists ready to go. Security vehicles, all with roof-mounted machine guns — some with grenade launchers or antiarmor missile launchers at the ready — lined the taxiways. Yep, there was no doubt where they were supposed to go — just taxi in between all the security vehicles with the guns pointed at them.

  They were taxiing right at the Bone’s twenty-knot taxi speed limit, but it seemed much faster because of the lack of any outside references — it was as if they were in a dune buggy speeding across the desert. “Bitchin’ place you got here, General,” Rinc said. “Lots of room to stretch out. Good hunting and fishing?”

  “You may find out, Major,” Patrick said.

  “So this is Groom Lake, right?” Rinc asked. “The supersecret military base. Looks pretty ordinary to me. I’ve seen the four-meter Spot recon photos in the mission planning software too — it looks like Plant 42 at Palmdale. How many folks do you think are taking our pictures from those hills right now?”

  “None,” Patrick said. “Our security guys rounded up all the trespassers before we came in. The closest UFO watcher was eight miles away, and we got him. We let them come close to the base once in a while so we can learn their ingress routes, which makes it easier to find them and shut them down when we need to. There were a few satellite overflights we had to avoid too — one Russian, one Chinese.”

  “Somebody had to have seen us, General,” Rinc said. “How can you hide four Bones making a straight-in approach to nowhere?”

  “If we were worried about just being seen, Colonel, we would’ve had a tanker come up and refuel us, then land at night,” Patrick replied. “We fly all sorts of airplanes in and out of here every day. The spies and looky-loos aren’t interested in the old Bones — they’re interested in what new planes we got here. But the real research these days isn’t on new platforms — it’s on new expendables, like missiles and bombs.”

  “I thought Eglin tests that stuff.” Eglin Air Force Base, near Fort Walton Beach, Florida, was the home of the Air Force Research Laboratory’s Munitions Directorate, the headquarters of most weapons development in the Air Force.

  “We get everything here, from airframes to avionics to software to bullets,” Patrick said. “We test it all before it goes to places like Eglin or Edwards or Langley, before they write the tech orders or train the instructors or technicians. We test it — and then, after it’s fielded, we try to make it better. That’s what we’re going to do with you.” Patrick pointed out ahead. “There’s your parking spots. You’re on the far left. Keep your speed up and zip right in.” On interphone, Patrick said, “Hold on, crew. We’re going to make a hard stop.”

  In the distance they saw a row of ten large sand-colored hangars, all by themselves seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The security vehicles positioned themselves to herd the Bones into individual hangars. They kept up a fast pace, so when Rinc did taxi inside his hangar, the stop was dramatic. Most of the switches were already positioned, and they didn’t need the auxiliary power unit, so it was quick and simple to shut down the engines.

  Moments after shutdown, after the entry hatch was motored open, Patrick called out, “Just shut off the battery and leave everything. Step on out.” Seaver, Warren, and Long did as he said. They were surprised to see a young black officer in desert camouflage with a flashlight, a submachine gun attached to a harness on his chest, and a big.45-caliber automatic pistol holster on his hip, standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder waiting for them to come down. “Afternoon, sir,” he said, flashing them a smile. “Welcome to Elliott.”

  The high-powered air-conditioning system inside the hangar was already working to pull the last bit of exhaust and heat from the structure. Security guards were searching McLanahan, and they quickly set to work searching Furness, Seaver, and the others. The guards then asked them to take an arm out of their flight suit sleeves and uncover a shoulder. Using a pneumatic hypodermic, the black security officer shot something into their shoulders, then clipped vinyl-covered bracelets onto their wrists. “What the hell are you doing?” Furness asked. “Is that an anthrax vaccine or something?”

  “Wiring you folks for sound,” said the officer cheerfully. “Welcome to the club.”

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, my security chief,” Patrick said. “Hal, meet…”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Furness, Nevada Air National Guard. Nice to meet you.” Briggs shook hands with Furness, then introduced himself to Dewey and Seaver. Furness studied the gun he wore on his chest harness. It was an MP5K, or “Kurz” (short) model, a very small, close-range submachine gun, so small that it was originally intended to replace an aviator’s personal survival weapon. The submachine gun, with one 15-round magazine already locked in
place, was attached to the harness with a quick-release strap, which kept it ready for action while keeping the hands free. Parachute cord connected the folding stock with the harness, so as soon as Briggs drew and elevated the gun to firing position, the stock would unfold and he’d be ready to fire. “I know all of you — probably in disgusting detail.”

  “Hal was in charge of the security evaluation at the 111th,” Patrick explained. “He likes doing his homework. Explain what the microtransceivers do, Hal.”

  “You’ve just been injected with a subcutaneous microtransceiver, and those wristbands are the power source and antenna,” Briggs explained. “The devices do a number of things. Basically, they’re like a dog’s electronic ID tag. The microchip has coded information on you. The bracelet is the power source and transceiver — the microchip is inert without it. We can monitor your location, track you, talk with you, give you directions, monitor body functions, and a number of other things.”

  “Who the hell said I wanted you to shoot a microchip into my arm?” Furness asked.

  “You did—‘Commander,’” Patrick said. “I told you the level of intrusion into your life here is intense, and you didn’t believe me. Well, now your body and your men’s bodies are wired for sound, and someone will be listening and monitoring you — for the rest of your lives.” He glanced at Rinc Seaver and added, “Think about that the next time you’re alone with someone special. Big Brother is not just watching — he’s listening and tracking you too.”

  Seaver smiled. “Cool,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. He couldn’t see or feel the microchip.

  Furness looked ready to explode. “You’re shitting me!”

  “Attention in the area!” someone called out. The guards remained at port arms, but everyone else snapped to attention.

  “As you were,” another voice boomed. Furness turned and saw an immense black three-star general in a flight suit, garrison cap, and spit-shined flying boots stride over to the group. McLanahan and Briggs saluted as he walked over to them. “Nice to have you back, General,” he said to McLanahan. “It should make it a little easier to keep you under some kind of restraint, I hope.”

  “Nice to be home, sir,” Patrick said with a sly smile. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Fur-ness, commander of the 111th Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard. Colonel Furness, this is Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake.”

  Samson returned Furness’s salute, then they shook hands. “I hear good things about you, Colonel,” Samson said cheerfully. “I look forward to seeing some good stuff from you. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Samson was introduced to Rinc Seaver. “Major,” Samson said coolly. Seaver tried to match him stare for stare, but quickly wilted under the sheer physical presence of the big man.

  Samson turned his attention back to McLanahan, for which Seaver was grateful. “Patrick, I know I signed off on the concept, but I didn’t expect you to hijack four Nevada Air National Guard B-1 bombers and their crews,” Samson said. “We’ve got some phone calls to make. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to leave you all in the hands of Colonel Briggs, who will escort you to your quarters. But I have a few things to say first:

  “I know General McLanahan has probably told you this already, but I’m going to reiterate it for you: you are now part of our nation’s most top-secret weapons research facility. What you do here will decide the shape of the United States Air Force and the American military for the next twenty to fifty years. Our team members here understand and respect the awesome responsibility we place upon them, and they protect the technology and information here as closely as their own lives.

  “Nonetheless, we don’t rely on that — if we want to keep an eye on you, we do it, however and whenever we want. That’s the price you pay for agreeing to be part of what goes on in this place. You will find your work here enjoyable and stimulating — many say eye-popping.

  “However,” and he paused and looked them all in the eye before continuing, “you will find your life here sucks. If you thought the worst assignment in the Air Force was in the Aleutians or Greenland, think again. And if you thought you’ve already encountered the worst, most hard-assed commander to work for, think again. I am that man.”

  Samson walked up to Rinc Seaver and looked him straight in the eye as he addressed them all. “I’ve received reports about this unit, about your activities in and out of the cockpit, about your performance — and about your attitude,” he said in a cavern-deep voice. “You’re supposed to be the best of the best. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Your past successes don’t matter anymore. This base is filled with the best of the best, the top one-half of one percent of this nation’s engineers, scientists, technicians, and aviators. We fly jets and operate weapon systems that will make history in future conflicts. You’ll have a chance to prove yourselves, I guarantee that. But I don’t let anyone come near my new weapon systems unless they prove to me that they can work as a team. Your trial starts now. Questions?”

  “I have one request, General,” Rinc Seaver said.

  “Major?”

  “We’re going to need a hand receipt for those planes, sir,” Rinc said.

  Samson’s eyes flashed in anger — but then he smiled, an evil crocodile smile. “Sure, Major,” he said. “Got a pencil?” Before Furness could react, Samson grabbed Seaver by the left shoulder of his flight suit, grasped the left sleeve near the pencil pocket, and ripped the sleeve clean off in one quick, fluid motion, making it look as effortless as tearing a sheet of paper. Rinc did not react; it was as if he had expected the big man to do it.

  Samson reached down to the shards of Nomex and retrieved a black grease pencil. “I guess this will have to do,” he said. “Now I need something to write on.” He grabbed the top of Seaver’s flight suit and ripped it open with a quick snap. Pieces of zipper and fire-retardant fabric went flying in all directions. On Seaver’s white T-shirt, he wrote, “Four (4) each B-1B Lancer bombers,” then signed his name and dated it. Rinc stood at attention, eyes caged, fixed straight ahead the entire time.

  “There’s your hand receipt, smart-ass,” Terrill Samson said, sliding the grease pencil behind Seaver’s right ear. “Anything else I’ve overlooked, Major?”

  “No, sir,” Rinc replied.

  “Good. Thank you for the reminder. I hate to leave the paperwork until the last minute. Colonel Briggs.”

  “Sir!”

  “Get this paper-pushing clown and these other crewdogs out of my sight. And get Major Seaver a new flight suit — he’s out of uniform.”

  “Yes, sir,” Briggs said, not trying to hide his smile. “If you’ll follow me, folks.” Furness saluted Samson, received a salute in return, and walked away with Briggs. Seaver did not even attempt to pick up the tattered pieces of his flight suit.

  Patrick watched his boss’s face as the guardsmen were escorted to a waiting van to take them to their quarters. Samson was scowling, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you, sir?”

  “What I would’ve enjoyed more is kicking him in his fucking ass,” Samson said. The thought of doing that made him grin. “But unfortunately, he’s on the right track. Those planes aren’t ours yet — they belong to the state of Nevada. We can’t touch them without their permission.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir,” Patrick said. “But if Air Combat Command wants those planes for spare parts, or if Nevada wanted to sell them to another Guard unit, I may have set you up for a food fight with them.”

  “If you get me written authorization to modify those planes, Patrick, I’ll deal with ACC,” Samson said. “Even if the Air Force decertifies the unit, the planes still technically belong to Nevada, and they’re free to loan them out to anyone with Class One resource facilities — including us.” He turned to Patrick and said warmly, “But you knew all this, didn’t you? That’
s why you brought them here. You knew that once they were in our hot little hands, it would take a papal edict to dislodge them from here. And if Nevada gives us the go-ahead — sweetened with some money for upkeep and personnel, no doubt — there’s not a thing anyone can do about it.”

  “Even though we may have possession now, sir,” Patrick said, “we can’t hold on to them forever. We need to water some eyes. As soon as I get permission from the governor to play with his planes, I’d like permission to start installing the Lancelot kits in two planes.”

  “Approved,” Samson said. “You have permission to get the other two ready for modification as well. How long before we can test-fly the first two birds?”

  “Two months — three at the outside.”

  “Make it no more than two, and you might have a chance,” Samson said. “Even better, if we can deploy two bombers as part of an air task force participating in this Korea conflict or revolution or whatever is happening, we might get approval to convert the entire unit — maybe even get funding for an entire wing. But you gotta dazzle them, Patrick. Hit ’em between the eyes with all the magic you can.”

  “I’ll get on it right now, sir,” Patrick said. “Sorry you have to go nose-to-nose with Air Combat Command. I suppose we could’ve done this another way — requested use of the planes through official channels. The Pentagon is going to think we’ve all flipped our lids.”

  “It’s the spirit of Brad Elliott, Patrick,” Terrill Samson said. “It’s funny — a lot of the brass, in and out of uniform, understand that already. I don’t have to tell them. Carry on.”

  OVER THE YELLOW SEA

  THAT SAME TIME

  The American E-3C Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane, call sign “Guardian,” had been on patrol now for six hours. It had topped off tanks just a few minutes earlier. Since no more tankers were available, this was going to be its last patrol — four more hours on station, then a couple of hours’ flying time to Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, with enough fuel for two hours’ reserves over the high fix. Normally, it would be on station for eight hours, refuel at Kunsan Air Base in South Korea, then go on another eight-hour patrol until relieved. But needless to say, no one was landing in South Korea for a while.