Which wouldn’t happen for another two minutes and thirty-five seconds. That would be just barely in time. Ammon looked down the airfield at the other bombers. Almost all of them were already on their way to the new parking spots. After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke again into his mask. “I’ll start to taxi,” he said over the intercom. “I’ll go slowly out to the alternate parking area. Most of the other Bones are already on their way. We will be the last in line. Tell me when you’re ready to go.”
“Yes, yes. Just get going,” was all Morozov replied.
Ammon pushed up on his throttles. The Shadow hesitated for just a second. It took a significant amount of power to break the aircraft free from the 400,000 pounds of weight that pressed down on its tires. But finally it began to inch forward, slowly at first, but building up speed as she went.
Ammon steered the aircraft toward the alternate parking area that was situated at the end of the runway. Most of the other B-1s were already pulling into the parking ramp. They began to line up in a long row, facing the runway.
Ammon would taxi as if to follow. Once he approached the parking area, he would push up his throttles and pass it by. It would only take him a few seconds to taxi onto the runway. Seconds later, they would be in the air.
More than seven security police squads, hunkered down inside squat armored personnel carriers (APCs), had been following the progression of the B-1s as they made their way across the airport. They covered the movement of the aircraft from start to finish. As the Bones began to line up in the alternate ramp, all of the APCs pulled back and formed a protective circle around the bombers.
Except for one.
One of the APCs was sitting in the way. Hidden from view behind the last bomber, the three-ton truck, complete with a 50 caliber machine gun and multi-shot grenade launcher, was now situated at the end of the runway, positioned so no aircraft could take off.
The security police were no fools. They knew that the B-1s were only doing an emergency taxi. Fire or no fire, explosions or no explosions, none of the Bones were suppose to get on the runway. It would have been a disastrous breach of nuclear security if one of the bombers took to the air. So, as a final precaution, they stood in the way, a steel barrier to block off the runway.
Inside Reaper’s Shadow, Ammon was busy preparing the aircraft for his takeoff. Morozov began to help him with the checklist.
“Flaps and slats,” Morozov called out.
“Extended and down, set for takeoff,” Ammon replied.
“Wings.”
“Fifteen degrees. Set for takeoff.”
“Fuel panel.”
“Fuel panel set, sequence initiated.”
And so they went, going through some fifty-seven different items in less than two minutes. As they worked through the checklist, they continued to taxi out of the alert parking area and down toward the end of the runway. By the time they had finished the pre-takeoff checklist, they were only a hundred yards from the turnoff that would lead them into the alternate parking ramp.
“How much longer for the MACCS?” Ammon asked once again.
“Another thirty seconds,” Morozov replied.
“Come on baby, be a sweet little girl,” Ammon spoke to the aircraft in a gentle tone, trying to coax her to life. In less than fifteen seconds they would be on the runway. After that, he wouldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. MACCS or no MACCS, he was going to take off.
Ammon taxied past the long row of bombers. Every eye on the airfield immediately turned in his direction as his intentions became very clear. Ammon pointed his nose to the runway as his aircraft began to pick up speed.
“How long?” Ammon demanded, his voiee sounding squeaky and strained.
“Twelve seconds. That’s close enough now. Let’s go!”
Ammon didn’t need to be prodded. He immediately shoved his throttles up to fifty percent power. His aircraft pushed itself forward. He passed the last bomber. The APC finally came into view.
Ammon’s stomach churned in acid. His heart, already up in his throat, began to beat with the force of a hammer. He scanned the taxi-way ahead of him, judging the distance, hoping that there might be enough room to slip by the APC that stood in his way.
It wasn’t going to happen. There simply wasn’t enough space. Not by a long shot. Ammon wasn’t getting onto the runway.
He reached up and slammed on the brakes, throwing himself forward in his seat as the B-1’s computerized anti-lock braking system brought the aircraft to an abrupt stop.
“What are you doing?” Morozov cried out over the interphone. “What’s going on?” From the back cockpit, Morozov had no view out the front of the aircraft.
Ammon didn’t take time to respond. He was sitting just fifty feet from the APC. Ammon could see the driver of the armored truck. They stared at each other with equal displeasure. The driver began to frantically wave his arms, gesturing for Ammon to turn around. At the same time the top hatch of the APC popped open. Two wide-eyed soldiers stuck their heads through the hatch. One of them turned the 50 caliber machine toward the Bone, while the other began to load six grenades into his launcher.
There was just a fraction of a second’s pause while Ammon considered what to do. Morozov yelled into his microphone once again. “Ammon, what is going on!?”
“We’ve got an APC in our way,” Ammon called back.
“Go, man! Just go! Run it over if you have to. Push it off the taxiway. But don’t stop. What are you going to do, just sit here and surrender?”
But Richard Ammon had a better plan. Kicking in the nosewheel steering, he slammed the throttles forward. The aircraft began to shudder as it lurched ahead once again, turning sharply to the right, spinning around on its center axis. Ammon pushed up the outboard engines to a higher throttle setting and touched lightly on the inside brakes. The bomber began to swivel even tighter, spinning on its inside wheels. Ammon felt himself swinging sideways as the nose of the aircraft cut sharply through the air. In a very short time, the aircraft had turned completely around on the taxiway.
“What are you doing, you stupid fool!” Morozov screamed. “Ammon, I swear I will kill you! You coward! Why are you turning around?”
Ammon reached down and turned off his intercom switch, then pushed up his power. He began to quickly accelerate down the taxiway once again. It looked as if he were going back to his original parking spot. One hundred yards ahead of him, the taxiway turned. From there it extended for 13,000 feet, all the way down to the other end of the runway.
Inside the APC was Staff Sergeant Kevin Cutter. He was the squad leader and driver of the armored vehicle. Above him were his gunners. One of them manned the carrier’s grenade launcher, while the other one trained his 50 caliber machine gun on the Bone. Everyone inside the APC was agitated and confused.
When they first noticed the B-1 pass by its intended parking spot and head toward them on the runway, they had all assumed that the aircraft had simply missed its turn off. Some pilots were smarter than others, they had joked. This suspicion seemed to be confirmed when Reaper’s Shadow had came to an abrupt stop and immediately turned around. The soldiers inside the APC tensely laughed. What an idiot! They watched as the aircraft begin to taxi back, fully expecting the bomber to pull quickly back into the parking area.
But what was it doing now? Even as they watched, Reaper’s Shadow was rolling by the other bombers once again. Sgt Cutter watched the nozzles on the back of the Reaper’s engines swing closed as the pilot pushed the throttles forward. The aircraft accelerated quickly. In a few seconds, it would make a right turn down the main taxiway that led to the other end of the runway. What was this idiot pilot trying to do?
Cutter got on his radio and began to bark instructions in a hurried voice. “Break. Break. All sky cops. We’ve got a rambling bomber. I say again, we’ve got a rambling bomber. Looks like he’s heading for the other end of the airfield. Initiate stop gag. I say again, initiate stop gag. Do it now.”
Inside the
cockpit, Ammon could see a half dozen security vehicles converging on the field. They came from all directions, racing toward the lone bomber in an attempt to cut him off or box him in. Half of the APCs were rushing toward the other end of the airfield. There they would form a line to block Reaper’s Shadow from getting onto the runway.
Meanwhile, the other APCs were following the aircraft as she taxied south. With an APC on each wing, and two right behind her, they would force her toward the barricade at the other end of the runway. There they would shoot out her tires. Then, if the bomber didn’t come to an immediate stop, a grenade would be sent up one of her engines. They all hoped that didn’t happen, but either way, they intended to see that the bomber never took to the air.
Ammon watched from the cockpit as the security forces gathered around him. He could see their flashing lights as three of them accelerated to the opposite end of the field. He knew they would be there waiting. He glanced out his window to see another APC following him on his right side. He watched as the driver of the truck pulled right under his wing.
As he approached the right turn on the taxiway, he tapped on the brakes to slow down, then steered abruptly to the right, following the long taxiway that led toward the other end of the runway. He glanced out his side windows once more. Two APCs were staying right with him, tucked tightly up under each wing. Ammon stared ahead, down the long taxiway that lay before him, a narrow ribbon of white cement. It was bumpy and thin, and was never designed to be used as a runway. But that’s exactly what he would use it for now.
As soon as he had his nose pointing down the taxiway, Ammon pushed all four of his throttles up to maximum power. Four small green lights illuminated each of his engine instruments, telling him that his afterburners had all come to life.
Behind him, a huge blue flame extended out from each of his engines as massive amounts of fuel was dumped into the hot engine exhaust. The engines were now burning fuel at a rate of 300,000 pounds an hour. In a burst of power, thrust, and heat, the Reaper’s Shadow accelerated down the taxiway.
Inside his APC, Sgt Cutter watched as the B-1’s engine nozzles swung closed once again. He was following directly behind the huge bomber, so it was easy for him to see the bright blue flame as it began to sprout from the back of the engines.
He knew immediately what the pilot was trying to do. He frantically pulled on his steering wheel and slammed on his brakes in an effort to get out of the way.
But it was too late. Within two seconds of lighting his afterburners, Ammon’s four engines were producing more than 140,000 pounds of thrust. A massive blast of superheated air shot backward from the tail of the four engines. The blast hit the APC at over 2,000 mph, blowing out all of its windows before sending the vehicle tumbling like a leaf in the wind. After rolling three times, the vehicle came to a stop. Sgt Cutter and his gunners slowly crawled out of the broken vehicle and sprawled on the ground, happy just to be alive.
Frantic voices filled every radio channel as the bomber accelerated down the taxiway.
“He’s taking off! He’s taking off! He’s using the taxiway. Stop him! Shoot his tires. Stop him now!”
Inside the Reaper’s Shadow, Ammon was concentrating on his takeoff. He swiveled the massive aircraft back and forth on the tiny taxiway, trying to keep himself pointed down the narrow strip of concrete.
He was accelerating very quickly now, pressed against the back of his seat. He watched his airspeed indicator for an indication of when it was time to rotate and pull his nose into the air.
To his left side, an APC began to fire its 50 caliber machine gun. The gunner ran a stream of blazing shells along the ground in front of the bomber’s eight main wheels. Two of the outboard tires were shot out. They spun themselves off of their aluminum wheels and blew to pieces in less than a second. But by then, the Reaper was at 115 knots and her wings were producing enough lift that she was starting to get light on her wheels. This reduced the amount of weight that the remaining six tires had to carry. The tires held out, supporting the weight of the aircraft with the help of the partial lift from the wings.
One hundred and twenty knots. Ammon heard a click and a buzz as his MACCS finally came to life.
One hundred and thirty knots. All of the armored vehicles had been left far behind.
Ten seconds after lighting his afterburners, Ammon was accelerating through 160 knots. Decision speed. He was committed to the takeoff.
Ahead of him, in the last APC, sitting on the end of the runway, the machine gunner got a good bead on the bomber. It was still seven thousand feet away. About one and one-quarter miles. In another few seconds it would be within four thousand feet. Then he would start to fire.
To his side, one of his buddies manned the grenade launcher. He was not very thrilled at the prospect of trying to shoot down a flying bomber. His launcher was never intended for this purpose. It was designed to kill men on the ground, not shoot a high performance aircraft from the air. But still, he stood there waiting. He figured he would only have enough time to fire two shots at the approaching bomber. All he could do was aim for the engines and hope that he got lucky.
One hundred and sixty knots. Ammon began to pull back on the stick. His nose rotated upward and he felt his wheels drop as the aircraft lifted into the air. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. He reached down and lifted the gear handle. They were fast approaching the end of the runway. There was no way to stop them now.
Then he saw the blaze of smoke as the gunners on the last APC bcgan to fire. He watched the tracers from the 50mm cannon reach upward like long, bony fingers, stretching out to touch the fleeing aircraft with their pellets of steel. He subconsciously winced at the sight of the grenade launcher as it fired off three shells in a fury of smoke.
Ammon screamed into his oxygen mask as he pulled back on the stick.
TWENTY-NINE
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REAPER’S SHADOW
REAPER’S SHADOW HURTLED SKYWARD, LEAVING THE THREE ROCKET-propelled grenades to fall harmlessly back to earth. But the 50 caliber machine gun shells continued to arch upward, following the Reaper’s Shadow as it climbed like a wild dart up into the sky. The gunner ran the tracers forward, tracking just ahead of the B-1’s flight path in a long and continuous burst. The cannon’s muzzle began to glow a faint burnt orange and the smell of burning powder filled the air. But still the gunner pressed against the trigger of his cannon, never once thinking of holding his fire. The aircraft was climbing too quickly. Very soon it would be out of range.
Richard Ammon began to jink and roll in an effort to throw off the gunner’s aiming solution. He kept the throttles in full afterburner and the aircraft continued to accelerate while she climbed. He yanked his stick to the right. The B-1 rolled onto its side and began to pull away from the APC’s blazing gun. By then, Reaper’s Shadow was over the end of the runway and climbing through twelve hundred feet, her nose pulled up at an impossible angle. Any other aircraft would have stalled and fallen from thc sky. But the B-1 continued to climb, her four engines thrusting her skyward.
In the end, it was sheer power that saved the aircraft. The gunner had anticipated that the Bone would fly directly overhead. But he didn’t realize that she had the ability to climb so far, so fast. He had never seen what 140,000 pounds of thrust could do. The bomber came at him far too quickly. And then she started to maneuver, turning and rolling, pushing and pulling, it was like shooting at a drunken mosquito, and although he tried, the gunner just couldn’t quite keep up. His window of opportunity was only eight or ten seconds long. And it wasn’t enough. He fired his last shell as Reaper’s Shadow accelerated away, becoming an ever smal1er dot on thc horizon, leaving the gunner to stare in amazement as the black form of the aircraft melted into the haze of the Kansas morning.
As soon as he was out of range of the gun, Ammon pushed the nose of the aircraft back toward the earth, leveling off at at a mere three hundred feet. He set a cour
se of 160, almost directly south toward Texas. As soon as he could, he went back through his checklist to clean up any items which he might have missed. He knew that he only had a fcw minutes before the fighters moved in.
WICHITA, KANSAS
Three miles from the runway, a deep blue pickup was parked off to the side of the road. Inside the pickup sat Morozov’s friend from the diner. He continually checked his watch, counting the minutes until the appointed time. Beside him sat a MinoIta 35mm camera, with autowind and a 100mm telephoto lens.
The man stared into the distance toward the base. He was growing anxious. He fiddled with his radio, trying to find some country music. He checked his watch once more, then flipped the radio off and rolled down both of his windows. He wanted to hear the explosion if he could. He thumped against the steering wheel, beating out the seconds as they passed.
Then he saw it. A billowing fireball rolled into the air, growing for a moment, then collapsing in on itself. It was quickly followed by a thick black column of smoke. The ground shook and trembled and then the air groaned as the noise from the explosion made its way across the flat grasslands. The smoke rose into the sky, pushing northward as it caught the prairie wind. Six and one-half minutes later, a B-1 roared into the air, passing two miles in front of the parked pickup truck. As it flew in front of the man’s window, he took a series of pictures with his camera.
Forty minutes later, he was on his way to Kansas City International airport. On the way he stopped to make a phone call to a small hotel room outside Washington, D.C.
“Looking good,” he said when the connection went through. “We’re closing down, and I’m coming in. I’ll see you back in Kiev.” The line went dead.
LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE, VIRGINIA
TSgt Barney G. Rolles sat at his desk in the command post, Headquarters, Air Combat Command (ACC), Langley AFB, Virginia. As the duty controller, it was his responsibility to monitor all of the message traffic that was input to the Commander of ACC. The command post received many different types of reports, some as routine as tracking the flights and operational status of each of the fighter and bomber wings under ACC. Some were a little more intriguing. Daily intelligence updates were filtered through the command post, as well as status reports from around the world. Through the command post, the generals of the world’s best fighting Air Force could monitor current events—from troop movements along the Ukrainian border to weather patterns off the English coast, from satellite photos of Russian missile batteries to the position of American submarines under the Arctic icecaps. If it was happening, and if it was important, the information was there to be told.
Shattered Bone Page 30
