Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (27 page)

 
          
Maraklov
got into the front seat of the cab.

 
          
“Well,
well, General Big-Shot,” Moffitt greeted him.
“Do- briy vyechyer
... looks like you have some sort of a problem—”

 
          
“Stuff
it, Moffitt.” He turned toward Kramer, sitting in the back seat of the cab with
a copy of the Wall Street
Journal.
“They’re
deactivating the DreamStar project. In two days.” Kramer appeared not to have
heard him. “Did you hear what I said?”

 
          
“I
do not think he believes you,
tovarisch,
” Moffitt said.

 
          
“Speak
English, asshole. Better yet, keep your trap shut. Kramer, listen to me. We’ve
got to get DreamStar out of Nevada.”

 
          
He
did not look up from his paper.

 
          
Maraklov
grabbed the newspaper away from Kramer and crumpled it up. “What the hell’s
wrong with you, Kramer?”

 
          
“With
me? Nothing is wrong, Captain—except I have just conveyed your previous message
to Moscow, how you have countermanded their order. Now, you tell me that you
were wrong and that the KGB’s original plan must be implemented. Am I now
supposed to happily embrace your idea?”

 
 
          
“Hey,
I just found out about this today. The damned project director was screwing
around in the simulator and got himself hurt. He filed his report—”

 
          
“And
the Joint Chiefs canceled the project,” Kramer interrupted, “overriding the Air
Force’s recommendation for lower levels of activity.”

 
          
“You
know
about this?”

 
          
“We
heard about the Pentagon’s recommendation over the weekend,” Kramer said. “Our
superiors contacted us immediately, wanting us to explain the disparity between
your contentions and the announcement. I could offer none.”

 
          
“Why
the hell didn’t you tell me?”

 
          
“We
needed time to evaluate the situation,” Kramer said. “Besides, your phone was
not working.” He had had it off the hook all weekend, afraid of contact with
anyone that might have seen Kramer and Moffitt at his apartment. “But it did
not matter. We knew you would contact us tonight.”

 
          
“Well,
this new development changes things, makes your original plan not only
necessary but, if I can pull it off, one that will give us a significant
advantage. They stop, we go on . . . I think it can be done. I’ll need
refueling support, somewhere in Mexico. I won’t know exactly where or when, so
you’ll have to be flexible. Arrange for a transport plane carrying fuel and
supplies. You said you had some private company in Mexico, nothing connected
with the KGB or anything governmental . . .”

 
          
“It
can be done.”

 
          
“If
I get a refueling I can fly either to Cuba or Nicaragua. I think Nicaragua
would be safer, further from the U.S., less organized. After landing in
Nicaragua we can make preparations to fly it to Russia with an escort.”

 
          
“So
now you believe you can get this aircraft out of Nevada successfully,” Kramer
said. “You were sure that you could
not
do
this before.”

 
          
“They’re
talking about mothballing my fighter. I’m not going to let them do that. No
way. I’ll crash the thing before they take it away from me.” He immediately
wished he could take back those last words.

 
          
Kramer
was silent for a few moments, then: “The Command is concerned about you, about
your motivation. They believe that you do not seem to care who has control of
the fighter as long as
you
have it.
This worries them—”

 
          
“They
don’t have to worry about a damn thing. Just make sure they have a tanker in
Mexico when I get there, and make sure they have a secure, protected place to
keep it in Cuba or Nicaragua or any other damn place I make it to. I’ll get the
fighter to Russia in one piece. You can bet on that ...”

 
          
High
Technology Advanced Weapons Center (Dreamland), Nevada

 
          
Wednesday, 17 June 1996
,
0400 PDT (0700 EDT)

           
“GOOD MORNING,
ladies and gentlemen,” Brigadier General John
Ormack, the deputy commander of the High Technology Advanced Weapons Center,
began. “This is the operational test flight briefing for Mission Three Sierra,
first full-crew operational combat test flight of the B-52 M-model Megafortress
Plus bomber.

           
“Our landmark mission today consists
of an AIM-120 air-to-air missile test engagement, AGM-132C Tacit Rainbow III
antiradiation cruise missile test launch, and AGM-98 air-to-ground laser-guided
missile weapon release.”

 
          
To
an outsider it hardly seemed like something to cheer about. To those assembled in
the briefing room, it was something to applaud. That was especially true for
those seated at the place of honor in the front row—General Bradley Elliott,
Patrick McLanahan, Wendy Tork, and Angelina Pereira, surviving members of the
original Old Dog’s B-52 flight crew. Ormack himself had been the copilot aboard
the first flight of the original Megafortress and the project director for the
newly redesigned Megafortress Plus. He seemed to have grown younger since their
amazing mission eight years earlier—many members of his Megafortress Plus
project half his age had difficulty keeping up with him.

 
          
“The
purpose of this mission is twofold,” Ormack went on. “First, it’s the final
operational check flight for this B-52 after extensive repairs, and second,
it’s an operational evaluation of the Megafortress Plus weapon system, pending
development authorization. The Megafortress Plus system seeks to provide
long-range strategic defense suppression and attack using heavily armed B-52
bombers. These B-52S would carry air-to- air missiles, anti-radar weapons,
cruise missiles, shorter-range standoff missiles, gravity bombs, and a wide
array of electronic jammers and countermeasures to destroy or disrupt all kinds
of enemy defenses, thereby allowing other strategic or tactical attack aircraft
to transit the forward edge of the battle area and complete their missions.

 
          
“HAWC
has four B-52S undergoing modification to Megafortress, including one”—Ormack
motioned to a tall officer in the rear of the conference room—“commanded by
Major Kelvin Carter, that will act as backup aircraft for this test.” Carter’s
copilot, a young female captain named Cheshire, gave Ormack a look. “You
included, Captain Cheshire,” Ormack added quickly.

 
          
“Can
it, Cheshire,” Carter whispered to his copilot.

 
          
“Then
don’t you be hogging all the glory,” she whispered back, trying to keep a
straight face.

 
          
“Roll
call for Mission Three Sierra: aircraft commander will be myself,” Ormack went
on. “Colonel Jeffrey Khan will be copilot, and in the instructor pilot’s seat
upstairs will be Mr. George Wendelstat from the House Armed Service Committee,
acting as safety observer. Welcome, Mr. Wendelstat.” Several in the room
wondered how they’d manage to shoehorn Wendelstat in through the entrance
hatch.

 
          
“Rounding
out Dog Zero One’s flight crew is radar navigator Major Edward Frost, navigator
Major Linda Evanston, electronic warfare officer Dr. Wendy Tork, and fire
control officer Dr. Angelina Pereira. Good luck to us all.”

 
          
McLanahan
had to choke down his feelings. It seemed so strange for him to be left out of
the crew roster for the Megafortress’ first combat-exercise flight. But it was
no longer his project. He had safely flown the Old Dog from Nome back to
Dreamland eight years ago, and had not stepped inside her since. It was like
being reunited with an old friend who didn’t recognize him any more.

 
          
The
huge flat-screen liquid-crystal monitor behind Ormack changed to a digital time
face. “Time hack, coming up on twelve-oh-four Zulu in fifteen seconds ... five,
four, three, two, one, hack. One-two-zero-four Zulu.’’

 
          
This
day had been years in the making—two years of redesigning and computer testing
by the engineers after the plane had returned to Dreamland; three years of
rebuilding by a battalion of workers, and three years of experimentation and
testing by the engineers and test flight crews. Now, the first newly redesigned
B-52 bomber called the Megafortress Plus was ready to break its cherry.

 
          
A
weather map came up on the screen and Lieutenant Colonel Jacobsen, HAWC’s staff
meterologist, stepped to the podium. “Good morning, General Elliott, General
Ormack, ladies and gentlemen. You picked a wonderful day for this flight.” A
regional surface weather map came on the screen. “Strong high pressure dominates
the region. This high pressure dome has reduced visibilities in the restricted
areas in the past few days, but some overnight breezes have pushed most of the
gook out of the way. You can expect clear skies, perhaps some scattered thin
stratus at twelve thousand feet.

 
          
“For
the air-to-air portion of your flight: no significant weather in R-4808 Pahute
Mesa launch area. Possibly a few puffy clouds on the east side of mountain
ranges but otherwise no restrictions to visibility. Winds forecast at twenty
knots from the north at fifteen thousand feet. For the air-to-ground portion of
your flight, excellent weather conditions will persist. Visibility may be as
low as twenty miles on the surface, with winds light and variable. Bombing
range area will be ‘severe clear,’ possibly some hazy conditions, temperature
seventy- eight degrees. Good luck and good hunting.”

 
          
Ormack
took over as the screen changed again. “Status of the chase aircraft are as
shown. Everyone’s in the green as of this hour. Please report maintenance
delays to job control on present channel eight. Colonel Towland is the
operations controller in the command post and he will reassign backup aircraft
as necessary.”

 
          
The
screen changed to a detailed high-resolution map of the restricted areas around
Dreamland. The map was put into motion by computer, drawing the flight path of
the Megafortress as Ormack spoke: “Route of flight is as follows: we will
launch via coded message and follow the Groom Victor One departure to Angel
intersection. Once at Angel, we will orbit as necessary at thirty thousand feet
until one-five hundred Zulu time, then proceed downrange toward the intercept
area.

 
          
“Once
in the intercept area two AQM-175 tactical dome aircraft launched from China
Lake Naval Weapons Center will be directed by airborne controllers to engage
the B-52. The Megafortress will carry two AIM-120 Scorpion missiles in wing
pylon canisters and will engage the drone aircraft at will. The engagement will
continue for one hour or until the drones are destroyed. Flight crew personnel
and airborne controllers will follow standard rules of engagement for safe
separation of aircraft. All flight crew personnel will take directions from the
airborne controllers. If not destroyed, the drones will be recovered by parachute,
and the Megafortress will proceed to the missile drop zone.”

 
          
The
screen changed again. “The Tacit Rainbow anti-radiation loiter missile drop
test will be at twelve thousand feet, in roughly the same area as the intercept
zone. A simulated Soviet SA-14 surface-to-air missile site will engage the
B-52... Dr. Tork?”

 
          
Wendy
Tork came to the podium. She was wearing a bright orange flight suit and black
leather zip-up flight boots—even the baggy flight suit looked dynamite on her.

 
          
“Good
morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Wendy began, her energy contagious even at the
early hour. “We will be testing the new array of strategic and tactical
pulse-Doppler electronic countermeasure jammers aboard the Megafortress Plus,
as well as the Tacit Rainbow mod three anti-radar loiter missile. The purpose
of this flight is to evaluate the Megafortress’ capability to penetrate
sophisticated Soviet coastal defenses using its own assets, and at at the same
time create penetration corridors for other aircraft using the Tacit Rainbow
antiradiation missile. These will lay the groundwork for fleet modernization of
existing B-52 aircraft as well as develop new capabilities for follow-on
aircraft such as the B-i Excalibur and B-2 Panther Stealth bomber.”

 
          
A
high-resolution photo of the anti-radar missile flashed on the screen. “First
developed ten years ago, Tacit Rainbow is a small winged aircraft with a
one-thousand-pound-thrust turbojet engine, a ring laser gyro inertial
navigation unit and coupled autopilot, a broad-band programmable seeker head
with multi-pulse and digital radiation capability, and a one-hundred-pound
high-explosive warhead. The missile is released within fifty miles of a known
or suspected enemy surface-to-air missile site. The missile orbits the area
using its inertial autopilot until it detects emissions from the nearby enemy
radar. The missile then leaves its orbit and homes in on the radar and destroys
it. The missile can orbit for as long as four hours and has a small enough
radar cross-section to avoid detection by hostile anti-air units. A B-52 bomber
can carry as many as twenty-four of these missiles, although we see these Tacit
Rainbow missiles carried with a mixed load of offensive missiles and gravity
weapons aboard Navy and Air Force strike aircraft...”

 
          
Patrick
realized how much he envied these men and women. And listening to these
briefings and organization of the Megafortress Plus project tended to
underscore his own apparent failure with the DreamStar project, now on hold
mostly because he failed to keep tighter control on his test pilots and to
recognize the need for more complete and useful test standards and security.

 
          
He
was in charge of nothing right now except cleanup. Sure, he had been given the
Cheetah program, but that was already a thriving project nearing operational
deployment. He was just another caretaker, marking time.

 
          
His
eyes automatically sought out Wendy’s, and he found her looking in his
direction. They exchanged faint smiles. She had been watching him off and on
the whole time. Better snap out of it, you stupid mick, he told himself. She’ll
have enough on her mind without worrying about you.

 
          
The
briefing ended and the flight crew moved toward the exits and the bus ready to
take them to the flight line. McLanahan went to each crewmember and wished him
or her a good flight.

 
          
“You
should be going with us, Patrick,” Angelina Pereira said, giving him a very
unmilitary hug. “This is your plane. You belong on her. You and General Elliott
too.”

 
          
She
was wearing the same orange flight suit as Wendy, and she too looked dynamite
in it despite being fifteen years older than Wendy. Her hair was more gray then
he remembered, but her eyes still sparkled. Angie would always be a handful for
any man—she had married and divorced twice since the Old

 
          
Dog’s
first mission. He could still see her in the denim jacket she had worn when she
climbed aboard the Old Dog eight years earlier, and he could remember her
gratitude when the Russian caretaker at Anadyr Airbase in Siberia gave her a
full-length sealskin coat in exchange for her denim jacket, even though at the
time the jacket was covered with General Elliott’s blood. That coat today had
to be worth at least five thousand. She would not have parted with it for five
million.

 
          
He
could also remember her dropping into marksman’s crouch as she fired on that
same Russian airbase caretaker after he discovered who they were and ran off to
warn the militia. One minute she was eternally grateful to the guy; the next
she was trying to blow him away. She was one tough lady, all right.

 
          
“Not
this time, Angelina,” Patrick said with a half-hearted smile. “But I’ll have
the fire trucks and the champagne ready to hose you guys off when you land.”

 
          
“It’s
your project as well as ours.”

 
          
“Not
any more. Besides, you guys did all the work ...”

           
“No, you did. Back over Russia.”
Like him, she had been thinking back to the Old Dog’s first mission. “Even
though you won’t fly with us your name’s still on the Old Dog, on the crew
nameplate. It’ll be there as it’s flying.”