by Dale Brown
The F-15 fighter chasing them had been flying nearly two hundred miles an hoter faster than the B-52 in order to catch up with it from behind and get into an ideal firing position; suddenly, it was as if the huge bomber had just frozen in midair. The fighter pilot was now closing on his target at almost six hundred yards a second. The sight of the massive bomber filling his windscreen froze his trigger finger. The fighter pilot was staring into four fifty-caliber machine gun barrels pointed directly at him.
"Six o'clock, two miles," Brake called out, watching his radar. "Two miles and holding… goddamn! one mile, half mile… Fox-four! All guns firing! Call Fox-four!"
Up on the attack observation position, well above and to the right of the bomber, the leader's wingman was watching a perfectly executed IR missile run. Suddenly, something happened. Spoilers and airbrakes and landing gear doors and landing gears began to spring out of nowhere out of the bomber's huge frame, and the distance between the two planes was chopped to nothing in the blink of an eye. The wingman thought he'd see his first midair collision.
At the last second, his partner ducked under the bomber's belly, flying his F- iS a mere three hundred feet over the hills of Wyoming. The Buff's fifty-caliber guns followed him all the way. The wingman could easily visualize the guns spitting fire, the three-inch-long shells plowing into the fighter's canopy and fuselage, the F-IS exploding into a billion pieces and crashing into the green hills below.
"Fox-four, Fox-four for Sabre Three-three, Glasgow," Martin called to the scoring sire.
"Roger, Three-three. Will relay Fox-four." The young operator working the bomb-scoring-site tracking radar looked in amazement at his NCO supervisor.
"Holy shit," the veteran NCO said. "That Buff just shot down a goddamned F-15."
"It's a duck shoot, all right, Sarge," the operator said, chuckling. "But who is shooting who?"
"Dead meat," the F-15's wingman said to himself, peeling off and preparing to start his own run at the B-52, keeping a respectful distance away from the fifty-caliber machine gun turret that, he knew, was now looking for him. Luger and McLanahan could easily hear the wild jubilation of the defensive crew upstairs through the roar of the plane's eight turbojet engines.
"One down, one to go," Brake shouted.
McLanahan manually stepped the automatic offset unit to target Bravo and pushed a small button on a console near his left thigh. Over the interphone, he said, "Pilot, I'm in BOMB mode. Center it up. We're gonna bomb the crap outta them now. Dave, check my switches."
"You got it," Luger said. He compared the bomb com- puter's countdown to the time remaining on his backup timing watch. "Two minutes to bomb release on my watch."
"Checks with the FCI, nay," Houser confirmed, carefully watching as Martin reconfigured the B-52 for normal flight.
"Pilot, fighter at two o'clock, five miles," Hawthorne said. "Break right!"
"Radar?" Houser asked. "Should I turn? This is your bailgame."
"One second," McLanahan said. "S.O.B. `s are jammin' my scope." He leaned forward so close to the ten-inch radar scope that his oxygen mask almost touched it, then tried to refine his crosshair replacement. Luger couldn't see how his partner could possibly make out any radar returns through all the strobing and clutter. When McLanahan was satisfied, he shouted, "Go for it!"
"Breaking right!" Houser shouted. He put the huge bomber in a thirty-degree bank to the right, turning so suddenly that charts and paperwork flew madly around the navigator's compartment.
"Fighter now at twelve o'clock," Hawthorne said. "Mov- ing rapidly to one o'clock… almost two o'clock now."
"We can't hold this turn long, E.W," Martin, the copilot, reminded him. "The corridor narrows to two miles on this bomb run."
"Fighter now at three o'clock!" Hawthorne shouted. Then, as if in reply to the copilot's warning, he said, "Break left. Guns, stand by for Al at five o'clock."
"Roger, E.W," Brake replied.
"Center the FCI, pilot," Luger said. "Coming up on one hundred TO."
"Checks," Houser replied.
"Pilot, accelerate if possible," Brake said. Houser began push the throttles up. "Stand by to chop power again."
"Do it after the bomb run, guns," Luger said. "Pilot, keep the throttles steady."
"Radar?" Houser queried. "This is your run."
"Bring airspeed up as slow as you can," McLanahan said. Shoving it up too fast will screw the ballistics up, not to mention Dave's precious backup timing. He might get upset vith us."
"Standing by," Luger replied, smirking at McLanahan rough his oxygen mask.
"Pilot," Brake yelled, "fighter at seven o'clock, four miles, ving to eight o'clock. Break left!"
"Do it!" McLanahan said. This time, Houser threw the bomber over into about thirty-five degrees of bank. The forty- year-old aircraft shrieked in protest.
"Fighter moving to seven o'clock… now six o'clock.
lot, roll out and center the FCI," Brake said.
The bomber snapped out of the turn and began a slow turn to he right to center the thin white needle in the case of the Flight Command Indicator. Luger, scanning the computer panel before him, pointed to a single glowing red warning light.
`The Doppler is hung up," Luger shouted. The Doppler was the system that provided groundspeed and wind informa- tion to the bombing computersÄwithout it, the computers were useless, transmitting false information to the steering and release systems.
Luger tried recycling the Doppler power switchesÄturning them off and on several times to allow the system to reset itselfÄbut no luck. "Pilot, it looks like the Doppler has gone out. Disregard the FCI. Radar, we need to get out of BOMB mode now!"
"Damned fighters," Martin said.
Luger held up his running stopwatch. "I've got.backup Iming, radar," he said. "Coming up on seventy seconds to release. Pilot, hold the airspeed right here."
Luger was about to read the Alternate Bombing (Nuclear) checklist to McLanahan, but his partner was already accom- plishing the items from memory, disconnecting the computers from aircraft and bombing controls. They were now relying on visual course control, Luger's backup time and heading, and the radar scope to drop the bomb. Instead of the bombing computers sending the release pulse to the bomb racks, McLanahan would send the signal himself with the "pickle." the bombs-away switch.
"Bomb door coming open, guys," McLanahan said. "Al- ternate delivery checklist complete. Dave, check my switches when you get a chance. Where's my coffee cup?"
"D-two switch," Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the manual bomb release "pickle" switch. Luger's gloved fingers flew over the SRAM computer panel, repro- gramming it to take a final position update at the same time the B-52 flew over the bomb target.
"Why did this have to happen to us now," Luger said. "We ought to make a formal complaint about those fighters."
"Relax, nay, relax," McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in his ejection seat, a contented smile on his face. Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and piece of paper off his desk with a flourish.
"Hey!" Luger yelled across the compartment. "What the hell are you doing."
"Nothing partner, nothing," McLanahan said with a grin. "Everything's great."
"Want me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?" Luger asked excitedly, beginning to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.
"No," McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap. "No sweat. Stay strapped in."
"How `bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or something? Anything. Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a trophy!"
"Cool out, nay," McLanahan said.
Luger shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end? Here they were, on an SAC bombing run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan hadn't even glanced at the radar scope since the computers failed.
Finally, McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually. "Five right, pilot," he said. "Nay, how much time on your watch?"
"Coming up o
n sixty seconds," Luger said. He was still looking at his partner in disbelief.
"Okay," McLanahan said. "Disregard your timingÄit's at least seven seconds off. I'm dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract seven seconds from your timing just in case the radar scope goes out or something crazy like that." He studied the radar scope again. "Four more right, pilot."
"Seven degrees right of planned heading, radar," Luger reminded him.
"Not to worry," McLanahan said. "Check my switch positions and get ready for the overfly fix. Copilot, let me know as soon as you pick up any visual timing points. I know there's not many on this target, but do the best you can."
"I'll try, radar," Martin said. "Nothing so far."
"Okay," McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger. "Ready for the overfly fix, Dave?"
"I'm ready," Luger said. "But you're going."
"Two more right, pilot," McLanahan said. "Bob, my man, where are those fighters?"
Fighters! Luger couldn't believe what he was hearing. His partner probably just had the worst of all possible things happen to him on a Bombing Competition sortie, and he was worried about fighters with less than a minute to bomb release.
"Clear for now," Brake replied.
"Al radar is searching," Hawthorne reported. "They'll be around again in a minute."
"Okay." McLanahan said.
"Pilot, hold your airspeed," Luger said over the interplione. "It's drifting too much."
"Relax, nay," McLanahan said. "We're going to nail this one."
"Nine degrees right of planned heading," Luger said, nervously studying his own five-inch scope. He glanced over at his partner. McLanahan was lounging back in his seat, toying with the pickle switch in his left hand.
"1 missed the final visual timing point, radar," Martin said. The crew was suddenly very quiet everyone but McLanahan.
"Okay, double-M," he said. "Thanks anyway."
"I'm going to bypass this overfly fix, radar," Luger said. They were going farther and farther off course, and McLana- han wasn't doing anything about it.
"Take this fix, nay," McLanahan said, his voice suddenly quiet. He gave Luger the thumbs-up signal.
"But.
"Don't worry. nay," McLanahan said. "I have a feeling about this one."
Luger could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target coordinates~ checked them, and prepared for the fix.
"Pilot, I want you to just caress that left rudder," McLana- han said. He leaned forward a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of tiny blips tracking down his scope. "One left. Maybe a half left."
"A half a degree?" Houser said.
"Just touch it," McLanahan urged quietly. "Ever so gently… a little more… just a touch more… hold it. That's it… still zero drift, nay?"
"No Doppler," Luger replied. "The winds and drift are out to lunch. So is the ground speed and backup timing. I'm working strictly off true airspeed and last known reliable winds." Luger shook his head, bewildered. What was going on? Was McLanahan doing all this for show? Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!
"Okay. Never mind. I forgot. Coming up on release, nay… stand by.
Luger looked over at McLanahan's radar. The cathode-ray tube was a mass of arcs and spokes driving through it from the jamming. How could his partner see anything in that mess? McLanahan reached down and flicked the frequency-control knob, and thespikes and streaks of jamming cleared for a few seconds. He smiled.
The D-2 switch was nestled gently, casually, between McLanahan's fingers, his thumb nowhere near the recessed button. "Caressing that rudder, Gary?" was all he said.
Suddenly McLanahan's thumb flashed out, too fast for Luger to see it, and the BRIC flashed once as the last bomb fell into space. Luger counted three seconds to himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the SRAM computer. Three seconds after bomb release, at their altitude and airspeed, should put them right over the targetÄif McLanahan had hit the target.
To Luger's immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the SRAM panel.
"It took the fix," Luger said, his voice incredulous.
"We nailed `em, guys!" McLanahan shouted.
"Sure, sure," Luger said. McLanahan was carrying the act a little too far. They were eight degrees off planned heading and seven seconds short of planned timingÄthat equated to at least a ten-thousand-foot miss, and probably even a worse missile score. The bad present position update, combined with the bad velocities the SRAM computer would derive from the fix, would nail the lid down on Bomb Comp for crew E-0SÄwith them inside the coffin. "Tone!" The high-pitched radio tone came on.
Luger flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.
"Missile counting down… doors are already open… missile away. Missile two counting down. missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed…"
"Missile away, missile away," Martin called to the bomb scoring site.
"Very good, boys," McLanahan said, finally opening his eyes. "Nay, you have nayigatiOn. I'll call post-release informa- tion, and then I'm going to take a piss. Guns, don't let us get shot down. Not now, after all that work."
"Go take your piss, radar," Brake replied. "You're as safe here as if you were in your mother's arms. Or Catherine's arms. Whicheyer."
"Wait a minute, radar," Houser said. "Before you un- strapÄwhich, I might add, is illegal as hell while we're low- level but par for the course for youÄhow about those releases? How far off track were we?"
"Not sure," McLanahan replied. "Might have been two or three hundred feet."
"Keep dreaming," Martin said. "It looked close, but not that close."
"C'mon, really," Houser said.
"I took into account all the turns and the changes in airspeed," McLanahan deadpanned. "I was waiting for the Doppler to go out, you know. I knew it would."
"Case of beer says you pitched it long," Martin said. "Thanks for the confidence, double-M," McLanahan re- plied, "but you're on." He turned to Luger. "What do you think, nay?" he asked.
"I think… I think you're way off, radar," Luger said.
Martin laughed. "Want to call it off, radar?"
"It was a shack," Luger said. "Zero-zero. Perfect. Better than the others. I don't know why… but it was."
OVER THE SKIES OF KAVAZNYA, KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, SOVIET UNION
Two thousand miles to the west of where the Strategic Air Command was holding its annual bombing competition, a drama of a different sort-this one carrying consequences far more serious for the crew members involved-was playing itself out. Two types of surveillance machines-one a U.S. Alpha Omega Nine Satellite traveling in a geosynchronous orbit at an altitude of twenty-two thousand three hundred miles, the other a U.S. RC- 135 surveillance aircraft flying at an altitude of forty thousand feet-were following courses that would bring them roughly over the same part of the globe in a matter of minutes. The RC- 1 35, with a crew of twelve men and women, had penetrated the Soviet Air Defense Zone to gather data on a strange radar that had begun tracking the aircraft as it passed within a hundred miles of the Soviet coast on its way home from Japan to Alaska.
Suddenly the world got very bright.
The pilots aboard the RC-135 were bathed in an eerie red-orange glow for several seconds, wiping out their night vision.
They felt as if they had stepped inside the core of a nuclear reactor-every inch of their bodies felt warm and viscous, as if their skin was about to melt away.
When the red-orange illumination disappeared, the cabin went to black.
Several tiny spotlights and some engine gauges operating off the aircraft's batteries could still be seen, but everything else snapped off. The roar of the engines began to subside.
"All of the generators went off-line," the RC-135s co-pilot 3p, said.
"We've lost engines two, three and four," the pilot said "Airstart checklist. Fast.
"Crew, this is the pilot. We are starting engines. Check your oxygen, check your stations, report in by compartment damage
and casualties."
All departments reported in with only minor equipment malfunctions.
The pilot gave an order to code a message to SATCOM. Suddenly the aircraft's reconaisance officer came on the interphone. "Radar target-tracking signal strength is increasing."
The pilot pushed on the yoke, forcing the RC-135s nose steeply downward. "That last shot was aimed at something else, now it's us… We're going down to one thousand feet."
"Pilot," the RSO said, "signal strength increasing… blanking out my-" He never finished his report.
An intense beam of orange-red light slashed across the top and sides of the RC-135.Once it had pierced the aluminum skin of the jet, the beam found little resistance. It tracked precisely along the center of the aircraft, instantly superheatin the heavy oxygen atmosphere and creating a huge bubble Of plasma. The resulting explosion turned the two hundred million dollar aircraft into flecks of dust in a fraction of a second. The beam ignited the vaporized fuel that erupted from the disintegrated airplane and added the force of fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the detonation.
As fast as it had begun, it was over. The fireball grew to three miles in diameter, then hungrily feeding on itself in the intense plasma field, dissolved into the black Siberian night.
WASHINGTON.D.C
General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood at ramrod attention as the President of the United States entered the White House Situation Room, the emergency alternate conference center and shelter. The President was followed closely by Marshall Brent, the Secretary of State, and Kenneth Mitchell, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Trailing behind them was a man in civilian clothes but with a short military haircut. He carried a black leather briefcase.
The President, wearing a blue and red athletic warmup suit, glared at Curtis as he sat down at the head of a large oblong table. His thick brown hair was tangled, and beads of sweat dropped from the ends and trickled down his neck. Curtis went over to the steel vault-like door and checked that it was locked.
The President unzipped the warmup suit half-way and picked up a telephone on the table in front of him.
