Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  But there was something else rather unusual. Why were they being sent over to talk to New Orleans Center? New Orleans was completely out of their sector.

  Yeah, something was definitely up. And with everything that had been going on, with Russia going at the Ukraine, and now, sending Blackjacks and Bears down the coast of Maine, who knows what it could be? But they were being sent west? Toward New Orleans? Didn’t make much sense. Peterson listened intently while his leader checked in with New Orleans Air Traffic Control Center.

  “New Orleans Center, Blade six-four is with you passing nine thousand for three-two-zero.”

  “Blade six-four flight, Night Hawk is active. I say again, Night Hawk is active. Dragonfly is going to control you. Contact them on 251.6. They want you to report up on magic.” The controller sounded hesitant, almost unsure of himself. Even Peterson recognized the uncertainty in his voice.

  There was a long hesitation before Peterson’s flight leader responded to the controller’s instructions.

  “Center, confirm Night Hawk is active?”

  “That’s affirmative, Blade. Night Hawk was initiated approximately seventeen minutes ago. Suggest you contact Dragonfly without further delay.”

  Again a long pause. Lt Peterson carefully watched Major Perry, his flight leader in the other F-16. The Major looked over in his direction. He was close enough that Lt Peterson could see the worried expression on his face. For a long time Major Perry did not respond to the controller’s instructions. Finally, he turned back to face the empty space that lay before him and replied, “Roger N’Orleans, Blades are pushing to Dragonfly. We’ll talk to you guys on our way back home.”

  The controller did not reply.

  Peterson could feel a small bead of sweat begin to roll down his side from under his arm, tickling his ribs as it went.

  Something was wrong. Perhaps terribly wrong. This was no longer a routine exercise in air defense. It was obviously much more than that. By using a few special phrases and carefully selected code words, the controller had made that quite clear.

  For one thing, the southern sector of the United States had been declared a “safe passage” area. That was accomplished when “Night Hawk” procedures had been initiated. This meant that every aircraft in the southeastern United States would now be considered hostile unless they were able to correctly implement their safe passage procedures. This was not a problem for the hundreds of civilian airliners that now dotted the sky. They all were squawking the appropriate computer generated codes that had been given them before they took off. But if any aircraft did not squawk appropriately when they were interrogated by Air Traffic Control’s computers, they would immediately be considered a Bogey, or unidentified aircraft. If they then did not immediately and exactly comply with the controller’s demands, they would be considered a Bandit.

  And it was Lt Peterson’s job to shoot Bandits from the sky.

  Which brought them to the Dragonfly. Dragonfly was the common call sign for an AWACS airborne radar controller. AWACS was an aircraft that was used to communicate with airborne strike packages during a time of war. The E-3 AWACS was a highly modified Boeing 707. On the back of the aircraft sat an enormous rotating radar disk. The huge onboard radar could see for hundreds of miles. Using its radar, the AWACS could do it all, from directing an attack, to finding enemy aircraft, to leading a thirsty bomber into its tanker for gas. And there was one other thing that they were very good at—vectoring fighters to intercept and attack incoming targets.

  Never before had Peterson heard of a practice intercept that was run by an AWACS controller. Usually the AWACS were reserved for special training exercises, and, of course, times of war.

  Finally, there was the fact that the controller had directed the F-16s to come up “magic.” This meant that he wanted them to contact the AWACS on their have-quick secure voice radio. All of their conversations would then be scrambled and free from unwanted listening ears.

  This intercept was not for practice, Lt Peterson realized. This one was beginning to look very real.

  Peterson carefully eyed his leader as they flew to the west and continued to climb through the sky. They were now passing through 18,000 feet. Peterson reached down to reset his altimeter and did a quick scan of his instruments and weapon systems. He tuned in Dragonfly’s frequency on his have-quick radio just in time to hear his leader check in.

  “Dragonfly, Blade six-four is with you.” Lead’s radio sounded slightly garbled from being scrambled and encoded for broadcast.

  “Blade flight, say number and status,” the AWACS controller replied.

  “Blade six-four, flight of two F-16s. Sixty-nine hundred on the gas. Two Heaters, four Rams.” The controller made a quick note in his log. Two F-16s, each armed with two heat-seeking and four radar-guided missiles.

  “Roger, Blade six-four. Turn right heading three-three-five. These are vectors to your Bandit. He is two-hundred-ten miles at your one o’clock. Altitude three hundred feet. You are cleared to engage.”

  A very, very long pause. Peterson watched and listened intently. Sweat now poured down his back. Suddenly he felt very thirsty. He felt for the small water bottle that he kept in the calf pocket of his G-suit and gulped down a quick drink of water before he heard Major Perry respond.

  “Dragonfly, did you say Bandit?! What the—” he cut himself short. Peterson could see his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, then continued. “Dragonfly, what’s going on?” Major Perry demanded. “Who is the target? What do you mean we are clear to engage? Are you telling me we have a Bandit over the middle of the United States? Now, what’s going on?!”

  The controller responded very quickly. His voice was hard. “Blade six-four flight, your instructions are as follows: you are being vectored to your target. Your target is an American B-1 bomber. I say again, your target is an American Bravo-One bomber. The target is considered extremely hostile. The aircraft has been stolen. Its crew is of an unknown origin, as are their intentions. It is loaded with Category Alpha weapons. That’s category Alpha, Blade flight.

  “The renegade bomber is presently flying in a southeastern direction, six hundred knots at three hundred feet. You will engage and destroy by any means available. Do not attempt to make contact with the target. Do not attempt to force the target to divert. Do not try to force it to land. Your mission is simple. To seek and destroy. I say again, to seek and destroy.”

  Inside the AWACS, the controller paused and looked up once again at the two-star general who sat in the observation chair overlooking his controller display. The general nodded his head, giving his approval once again. The controller waited for the Blade leader to reply. After fifteen seconds of silence, he queried the pilot.

  “Blade six-four, did you copy your instructions?” His voice sounded stern and directive. Again he waited. Ten seconds later, Major Perry shot back.

  “Dragonfly, authenticate Bravo, Zulu.”

  A young sergeant at the next console quickly flipped through the code book for the correct reply. She hurriedly pointed to the proper response. The controller glanced at the code book and then said, “Dragonfly authenticates Whiskey, Delta. I say again, Whiskey, Delta. ... Now Blade, do you copy your instructions?”

  This time there was no hesitation. “Blade flight copies all,” the fighter pilot quickly replied.

  “Now listen, Blade,” the controller continued. “We’ve only got one shot at this, so we’ve got to make it good. The only other air-intercept aircraft are your friends up in Vermont, and I don’t think they’re going to make it to this party. So, it’s all up to you.

  “Your target departed from McConnell approximately thirty minutes ago. It has tracked on a southeastern direction since then. You are the only chance that we have to get him now. You are the only thing between him and the Gulf of Mexico. At the speed he is flying, you’re only going to get one shot, so let’s keep things good and tight, okay guys?”

  As the AWACS controller spoke, Lt Peterso
n began to slowly shake his head, rocking his helmet against the back of his headrest. He was nearly numb with disbelief. An American B-1! How could that be? Some terrorist group must have stolen one. Probably Hamas. They were always involved. Now, with a bay full of nuclear weapons, who knows what the rag-heads would do?

  Peterson looked over at his flight leader. Underneath his mask was a determined frown. He watched as the lead F-16 cut through the moisture-laden air. He scanned his eyes down the wing line, examining his leader’s six missiles. Between the two of them, they had twelve missiles and more than eight thousand 20mm shells for their cannons. Two of the world’s best fighters, fully armed and ready for combat. Against a single B-1. Piloted by a couple of rag-head terrorists.

  They would blow the B-1 into a thousand smoking pieces of fine dust.

  Peterson reached down to fine-tune the contrast on his APG-68 radar, then looked at his leader once again.

  It was then that he saw the smoke begin to trail from his leader’s exhaust.

  “Blade lead, this is two,” Dale Peterson said, his voice sounding squeaky and shrill. He swallowed hard before he continued. “Uh, Rick, it appears that you have some smoke coming from your tail.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve been fighting a light compressor stall for the last couple minutes. Every time I adjust the throttle, it stalls again. Could be one of those new fuel controls we’ve been testing.”

  “How’s she doing?” Dale asked as he surveyed his leader’s aircraft, looking for telltale signs of a problem. All the while he was silently pleading to himself. “Come on, baby, hang in there.” He coaxed the other aircraft along. “Falcon, heal thyself,” he commanded, while he made a quick sign of a cross. Lt Dale Peterson was finding a sudden deep need for religion.

  Then he saw it again. Another thin wisp of smoke. This time he could also see Major Perry’s F-16 shudder as its engine sputtered and churned. Peterson started to move forward on the other Falcon, an indication that Perry’s F-16 was slowing down. He pulled back on his own throttle so that he could stay in the proper position.

  “Blade flight, come up squadron common,” he heard his leader command.

  Peterson quickly changed his UHF radio to their squadron’s common frequency. This would allow the two falcons to talk without being heard by the AWACS controllers. As soon as he had the frequency dialed in, he heard Major Perry’s voice.

  “Dale, it looks like you got this one on your own, you lucky dog.”

  “What’s the deal, Lead?” Surely he must be kidding. Major Perry wasn’t going to leave him out here by himself? Dale had only been checked out in the F-16 for three weeks. He wasn’t even checked out in dissimilar air combat tactics. This wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t the pilot, to go chasing a B-1 on his own.

  “This baby just ain’t gonna make it, my boy,” his leader continued. “I’ve got my engine set at eighty percent now, and that’s all that it will give me. I think I can make it back to Biloxi, but that’s as far as I can hope to go.”

  Lt Peterson did not reply.

  “Now listen, buddy,” his leader said. “This is a piece of cake. No big thing at all. You just let Dragonfly drive you into the target. Then set up for the AMRAAM shot while he’s still in your face. Remember, shoot, shoot, look. Fire two missiles and see what they do. That will probably do it. If it doesn’t, give him two more. If the guy is really lucky, he might get through your missiles, but then you always have your guns. “Man, I’m telling you, this is going to be great,” Major Perry continued in an effort to buck up his young wingman. “You are one lucky guy. You’ll be the youngest lieutenant to ever log a combat kill.

  “Now go get her, ol’ boy, and I’ll get your autograph when you get home. Just take it easy and follow the book. You’ll do fine. I know you will.”

  Peterson clicked his microphone twice in reply. His mouth was too dry to form any words.

  The major took a quick glance back at Lt Peterson to see the lieutenant wipe his glove across his face. The major figured he had about a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bomber. Maybe. If he was lucky. Or a little more experienced. Perry turned back and studied his engine instruments, which had continued to gradually decay. He was starting to lose altitude. The cockpit shuddered and rumbled as the wounded engine roared. He cursed once more at his jet, then jammed down hard on his microphone switch.

  Peterson listened as Major Perry coordinated with the AWACS for a clearance and heading to an emergency landing field, then watched in sheer fear and amazement as his flight leader peeled off and turned to the south, heading toward Biloxi, Mississippi.

  Blade six-four was now a flight of just one.

  “Blade two, you still with me?” It was the AWACS controller. Peterson blinked twice and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath as he mustered his voice.

  “That’s affirm, Dragonfly. Blade is with you.”

  “Blade, target is now one-five-zero miles, straight ahead, heading one-three-zero. He must know that we are tracking him, but so far he has made no attempt to jam our radar. He will be breaking your bubble in the next two minutes.”

  Peterson reached down and selected range-while-seareh on his radar, then adjusted the range out to eighty miles. He pulled back his power to begin a descent, then reached down and armed all of his weapons while he waited for the Bone to appear on his radar screen.

  REAPER’S SHADOW

  Richard Ammon let out a long and weary sigh. His hands trembled. His back knotted into taut strands of muscle. He felt exhausted. Ammon knew he would have to pace himself. He had a very long mission. He shook his shoulders and tried to relax as he studied the terrain up ahead.

  After taking off from McConnell, Ammon had initially steered the bomber south toward Texas. After two hundred miles he turned forty-five degrees to the east and took a heading that would steer them toward the Gulf of Mexico. His intention was to get away from the many military installations that dotted the southern States. He was flying at three hundred feet and 550 knots, just under the speed of sound. At this speed and altitude, it would have been impossible to have been tracked by any ground-based radar. They were too low. Virtually invisible to any radar on the ground.

  Unfortunately for Richard Ammon, eight minutes after taking off he had flown directly underneath the nose of an AWACS airborne control aircraft.

  At the time, the AWACS was on a routine training mission and was completely unaware of the crisis. But soon after the bomber had passed unobserved under its nose, the AWACS began to receive a series of urgent commands. At first, there was total confusion as the airborne command center scrambled to understand the scope of the crisis. It took the controllers several minutes to decipher their codes and authenticate all of the messages that had begun to pour in. Precious time was lost as they scrambled through their checklist. But once they got past the initial confusion, the controllers set about to track the low-flying bomber. They immediately tuned the huge orbiting radar that sat on the aircraft’s back and concentrated its electronic energy toward the south. They had little trouble finding the fleeing bomber. It was only sixty miles off its right wing.

  So much for Ammon’s stealthy escape.

  By then, the B-1 was passing through central Arkansas. The Mississippi coast was just four hundred miles to the south. Forty minutes away. Once the fleeing bomber went “feet wet” out over the water, it would simply disappear into the huge expanse of the Gulf of Mexico and its thousands of miles of aqua blue sea.

  Inside the B-1, Ammon was busy as he concentrated on making their escape. He knew the fighters were coming. He knew that by now they would already be airborne, their radars tracking in search mode, hunting the sky, snooping along the terrain in an all-out effort to find him.

  But there would only be a few of them—thank heaven for Cold War military cutbacks—and they wouldn’t know where to look. From Texas to Tennessee, the B-1 could be anywhere. There was simply too much terrain for the fighters to cover. Like a needle in a haystack, the
Bone could just slip away.

  BLADE 64

  Lt Dale Peterson leveled off at twenty thousand feet. He pushed his throttle back up to ninety-two percent to hold his airspeed at four hundred knots and reached down to adjust the tracking file on the target.

  The bomber was now seventy-five miles away and closing very quickly. His radar told him that the two aircraft were approaching head on at over one thousand miles an hour. Over eighteen miles every minute. One thousand five hundred feet every second. Either way you looked at it, the distance between them was closing very quickly.

  Which was good. Peterson’s Doppler radar needed a fast rate of closure in order to pick the low-flying B-1 out from the clutter of the ground and the trees. Speed was the only thing that allowed the Falcon’s radar to see the incoming B-1.

  Peterson stared through his Head-Up Display (HUD) at the terrain that lay below him. Rolling hills heavily forested with tall pine and birch trees. An occasional lake sped underneath his nose, its surface frothing and white from the twenty-knot wind that was blowing at the surface. The towns were scattered and widely dispersed, but Peterson was also getting a very large return on his ground-mapping radar at forty-six miles. He knew that would be the mass of buildings, highways, and homes of Little Rock. Peterson did some quick calculations and realized that he would encounter the bomber as it passed just south of the city.

  “Dragonfly, say bearing and range to the target,” Peterson said to the AWACS controller.

  “Bearing three-five-eight. Range six zero miles. Have you lost the target on your radar?” The controller’s voice sounded alarmed.

  “Negative Dragon. Just checking.” Peterson was tracking the target very easily. It showed up as a solid dark square that was making its way down his screen at a steady and predictable rate.

  Which was the reason that he had asked the AWACS to confirm its location. The Bone was flying very low and very fast, but it was holding true to its original heading as it flew across the rolling hills of central Arkansas.