Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (64 page)

 
          
There
was no time to test the aerodynamic qualities of the fuel tank with
DreamStar—no way to determine if DreamStar could even fly with the tanks
installed. The tanks could fail to feed properly, feed unevenly, rupture the
wing tanks, hit the aircraft on jettison, or flutter so badly that even a
normal takeoff would result in a crash. There just was no time to test it. The
flight would have to go as scheduled in spite of the risks.

 
          
DreamStar’s
anterior fins were replaced, and the aircraft put back together as best they
could after being partially dismantled shortly after landing. The plan was to
use DreamStar’s own self-diagnostic computer routines to check the aircraft and
direct the aircraft maintenance technicians to the problems.

 
          
As
always, Maraklov activated the radios first. “How do you read, General?”

 
          
General
Tret’yak stared at Musi Zaykov as the machine like words came over his
headphone. He keyed his microphone:
“Kto
dyela?”

 
          
“This
is Maraklov, General.”

 
          
“Colonel,
are you all right? Your voice sounds different.”

 
          
“My
voice is altered by computer. I don’t think I can speak in Russian. I have
several faults that need inspection. The most serious is a left primary-bus
short-circuit. The technicians will have to open the left number-four access
panel. The bus-module is on the center electronics rack. I will deactivate the
system when the panel is open.”

 
          
“
Azhidan’yah
Tret’yak said. “Wait,
Colonel, I do not understand you.” There was a slight pause as Tret’yak passed
the headphones to Zaykov.

 
          
“Andrei?”

 
          
“Yes,
Musi.”

 
          
Zaykov
stared in surprise when she heard the voice. “Andrei, is that
you
. . . ?”

 
          
“No
time to talk,” Maraklov said. “Relay these instructions exactly to the chief of
maintenance. I can’t start my engine until this problem is corrected.”

 
          
Zaykov
copied Maraklov’s instructions down on a clipboard, read them back to verify
them, then gave the clipboard to the chief of aircraft maintenance. He read the
instructions several times, then finally called to his assistant to get someone
to begin removing the left access panel.

 
          
“They
are removing the wrong panel,” the computer-synthesized voice told Zaykov. Musi
called to the workers to stop, then directed them to the correct panel. She had
to repeat the instructions to the assistant crew chief, who told the crew
chief, who issued the same orders back down the chain to the workers. They did
not begin the job of removing the fasteners until told by their superior.

 
          
“Left
primary bus-power is off,” Maraklov said after issuing the mental command to
redirect the power from the external power cart away from the left primary
circuit. “That maintenance chief would be out on his ass in the States. Five
minutes to open one access panel—we’ll be here all morning.”

 
          
Sarcasm
did not transmit well through ANTARES, but Zaykov nodded her understanding.
“They are all afraid to touch the aircraft,” she said. “They’re afraid you will
electrocute them. The chief has to order them to do the simplest task.”

 
          
“At
this rate I’ll be forced to make the crossing in daylight,” Maraklov said.

 
          
“They
should be finished in a few minutes.”

 
          
“But
that’s only the first of about a dozen major items that need to be inspected
before I can launch. It’s almost sunrise now. I’ll have half the U.S. Navy on
top of me before I can fly a hundred miles, and in daylight with two external
tanks I’ll be a sitting duck.”

 
          
“Our
headquarters is coordinating with the Nicaraguan navy in sweeping the
Caribbean
for any American ships that might get in
your way,” Zaykov said. “So far, they report no American ships closer than six
hundred miles, except those in the
Canal Zone
and
Puerto Rico
. Besides, we have been informed by
Moscow
that the Americans have agreed not to take
any action for five days. They will be totally unprepared for this.”

 
          
“Never
mind all that,” Maraklov said, “just make those idiots out there work as fast
as they can. Every minute I sit on the ground in this hell-hole is another mile
closer the Americans can get. . .

One Hundred Miles Southwest of
the
Cayman Islands

Saturday, 20 June 1996
, 0500 CDT

 
          
“Dragon
Five-One flight, this is
Georgetown
radar,” the cheerful British voice announced over the command radio.
“Welcome to the
Cayman
Islands
. Stand by
for frequency assignments.”

 
          
“Now
this is what I call a summer camp,” Major John Coursey said happily, taking
another sip of orange juice. Coursey was one of twelve F-16 ADF pilots from
Howard Air Force Base in
Panama
taking part in an operation they had come
to know simply as Barrier. Coursey was the leader of Dragon Blue, one of four
three-ship cells in the huge fighter formation. The twelve fighters were all
from the 107th Fighter Interceptor Group, New York Air National Guard, from
Niagara Falls
International
Airport
, deployed to
Panama
in one-month rotations. They were all
serving their annual training commitment, which for F-16 pilots was always more
than the standard Air National Guard two weeks per year.

 
          
“One
week in
Panama
is heaven,” Coursey said over the scrambled interplane frequency, “but
a secret mission to the
Cayman Islands
is a
real
hardship.”

 
          
“Cut
the chatter, Blue flight,” came the order from the squadron commander,
Lieutenant Colonel George Tinker. “Okay, listen up. Red, Yellow and Gold stay
on me for recovery. Blue, Georgetown Radar will clear you to an orbit just
outside their airspace, blocking altitudes from five to thirty thousand. You’re
required to squawk modes and codes even though you’re outside their airspace,
but you are cleared to strangle if you get into a situation. Get together with
your tanker for refueling, then set up a high- and mid-CAP as directed by
Barrier Control. Watch your fuel. No one goes below three thousand pounds over
the high fix at
Georgetown
. Everyone got it?”

 
          
“Don’t
drink all the margaritas down there, boss,” Coursey said.

 
          
“No
screwing around, Blue Leader,” Tinker radioed back.

 
          
“We’re
expecting some brass on board Barrier Control for this one.” Barrier Control
was the 767 AWACS radar plane that would be controlling the fighters from its
more protected orbit point closer to the
Cayman Islands
.

 
          
“Blue
Lead copies. We’ll look pretty for the brass.”

           
“You’d better. Dragon flight minus
Blue, come right and start descent. Blue flight, watch your gas, and good
hunting.”

           
“Blue flight is clear,” Coursey
reported as he watched the three groups of F-16 Falcon air-defense fighters
execute a tight echelon turn to the right as they began their approach into
Georgetown
, the capital city of the
Cayman Islands
.

           
Coursey sucked in his breath.
Against the crystal-blue shimmering backdrop of the
Caribbean Sea
, the large formation looked
spectacular—especially to a desk-bound accountant from
Tonawanda
,
New York
, for whom the biggest excitement in life lately was having the
Delaware Avenue
monorail going into downtown
Buffalo
arrive on time. The Air National Guard was
the country’s biggest secret, he told himself—he was getting a great Caribbean
vacation paid for by Uncle Sam, and all he had to do was fly one of the hottest
jet fighters in the world.

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Four flight, this is
Georgetown
radar. Squawk mode three code zero-zero-one-four, mode C on, and have
your wingmen squawk standby,” the juicy sounding controller from the
Grand Cayman
said.

 
          
“Anything
you say, babe,” Coursey was feeling altogether the hot pilot. He knew his
wingmen would check that their mode three identification beacons were in
standby—they were placed in standby so collision alerts between fighters in the
formation would not continually show on radar—so he double-checked his IFF
settings and got himself comfortable.

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Four flight, you are cleared to orbit as required within one-zero-zero
nautical miles of BRAC intersection as requested, in the block from five
thousand to thirty-five thousand feet. Contact me on this frequency if you
require assistance. Clear to switch to tactical frequencies.
Georgetown
radar clear.”

 
          
Coursey
was about to ask her for an after-hours phone number but it was time to get
things organized. “Roger,
Georgetown
. You have a nice day, now. Dragon flight, push blue.”

           
“Two.”

           
“Three.”

           
“Blue” was the assigned common
scrambled UHF frequency to be used by Coursey’s flight, the AWACS known as Barrier
Control, and King 27, their KC-10 tanker out of Homestead AFB, Florida.

 
          
“Dragon
flight, check,” Coursey called out a few seconds after switching frequencies.

 
          
“Two.”

 
          
“Three,”
his wingmen responded.

 
          
“Station
check, report with fuel status.” Coursey took a fast look at Dragon Five off
his right wingtip. The big centerline fuel tank on the F-i6s made the sleek
bird awkward looking, not to mention the huge decrease in performance and
range— those tanks would be the first to go if they engaged any hostiles out
here. Each F-16 carried two AIM-132B European-built infrared-guided ASRAAM
(Advanced Short-Range Air-to-Air Missiles for close-range “dogfighting”
engagements) and two AIM-120C AMRAAM (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles
for longer-range attacks), along with five hundred rounds of twenty-millimeter
ammunition. They were loaded and ready, but out here, flying quietly and
peacefully over the sparkling blue
Caribbean
,
trouble seemed a zillion miles away.

 
          
“Let’s
hear it, Dragon flight.”

 
          
“Two’s
in the green, four and five hundred all safe, eight thousand.” He had called
out his overall status, his armament number and status, and his fuel remaining.

 
          
“Three’s
in the green, four and five hundred safe, seven- point-seven.”

 
          
“Looks
like everyone’s thirsty here,” Coursey said. The large external fuel tanks on
the three fighters’ bellies were all empty—they were usually empty shortly
after a heavy gross- weight takeoff—and the internal fuel loads were also
depleted by half. They all had about an hour’s worth of fuel left, plus the
required forty-five minutes reserve. “Lead’s got eight-point- one, four and
five hundred. Break. King Two-Seven, this is Dragon Five-Four Flight of three
on tac blue, over.”

 
          
“Dragon
flight, this is King Two-Seven, read you loud and clear,” the KC-10
air-refueling tanker radioed back. “We’re receiving your position beacons,
codes verified. We’re seventy miles north of your position on a heading of
two-zero-zero, altitude twenty thousand feet. Over.”

 
          
“Copy,
Two-Seven,” Coursey replied. “You’ve got three receivers at nineteen thousand
feet, onload as briefed, point parallel auto rendezvous. Weapons all report
safe and ready for refueling. We’ll do a few orbits out here to stay in our
assigned block, then turn northbound at thirty miles.” “Copy, Dragon.”

           
Coursey began some gentle
standard-rate turns in order to burn some time without going outside his
assigned airspace. A few moments later he heard, “King Two-Seven at fifty
miles.” “Copy. Dragon flight, take route spacing, stand by for auto
rendezvous.” The two members of Coursey’s formation stayed in formation but
increased the distance between aircraft to almost a mile. Dragon Four started a
turn to the north, and Coursey watched to make sure his wingmen were staying with
him.

 
          
“Thirty
miles . . . twenty miles, stand by for turn . . .”

 
          
At
seventeen miles, on the dot, Coursey’s F-16 Falcon started a left turn and
gentle climb. A few moments later one of Coursey’s wingmen called, “Tally ho,
ten-thirty position.” Coursey stared harder toward the crystal-blue horizon and
finally spotted the huge green converted DC-io airliner in the distance.

 
          
“Lead’s
got a tally.”

 
          
It
appeared as if the F-16 formation was on a collision course with the huge
tanker, but in auto-mode it always looked like that. Coursey pulled his
throttle back to ninety percent and pegged his airspeed at four hundred twenty
knots. By the time the computer-controlled turn was done, the tanker was
looming over the lead F-16 fighter’s nose like a storm cloud, and the autopilot
beeped to remind the pilot that the rendezvous was completed.

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Four flight, this is King Two-Seven boom operator, radio check.”

 
          
“Dragon
lead’s loud and clear.”

 
          
“Two.”

 
          
“Three.”

 
          
“Loud
and clear up here. Dragon Five-Four cleared to the contact position; Two-Seven
is ready.”

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Four moving up on auto.”

 
          
The
tanker’s nozzle was aligned less than a thousand feet ahead. Coursey punched
off the autopilot and moved the throttle to eighty percent, which, after his
years of experience he knew would give him the three-hundred-knot refueling
speed he wanted; tiny speedbrake deflections would take care of any excess
speed. He opened the air-refueling receptacle on the F-i6’s spine and checked
the status indications on his heads-up display. They showed ready for
refueling.

           
“Dragon Five-Four stabilized
pre-contact and ready,” Coursey reported.

 
          
Coursey
carefully guided his fighter under the KC-io’s broad belly, following the rows
of director lights arranged along the tanker’s bottom, until he received a
steady yellow light— which placed the front glare-shield right on the tanker’s
UHF antenna blade.

 
          
“Stabilize
...” Behind Coursey’s canopy the twenty-foot boom extended its tubular nozzle,
and like some alien mating ritual the boom operator extended the nozzle into
the F-i6’s receptacle. Coursey’s HUD indicated
CONTACT.

 
          
“Contact
Five-Four.”

 
          
“Contact
Two-Seven,” the boom operator replied. At that, the copilot on the KC-io
activated the refueling boost pumps and began transferring fuel. When the boom
operator’s flow panel showed a positive transfer rate, he reported, “Taking
fuel.”

 
          
“Give
me five thousand and we’ll cycle,” Coursey said. Each fighter in the formation
would take on a token load at first to confirm that their refueling systems
were working; once all fighters could take fuel, they would spend more time on
the boom and fill to full tanks. Five thousand pounds of fuel took only thirty
seconds to transfer. Coursey disengaged from the tanker and swung out to the
left to let Dragon Five-Five in on the boom.

 
          
The
pilot aboard Five-Five, a young lieutenant who had just finished F-16 training
and then reported directly into the Guard, had a bit more trouble completing
the rendezvous. On his first attempt he moved no closer than ten feet from the
extended nozzle.

 
          
“Forward
ten, Dragon Five-Five,” the boom operator prompted. Coursey could see the F-16
inch closer, but he always pulled off too much speed or ducked down away from
the nozzle.

 
          
“Forward
twelve.”

 
          
Impatience
got the better of him. This time he shoved in too much power and overcorrected.
The F-16 slid under the KC-io so far that the vertical stabilizer looked as if
it was going to scrape against the refueler’s boom pod.

 
          
“Breakaway,
breakaway, breakaway,” the boom operator called out. Not exactly an emergency
situation but the KC-io’s response was automatic—the boom shot full up into its
retracted position, the engines went to full power, the tanker began a steady
climb. Dragon Five yanked off his power and slid out of sight. Coursey and
Dragon Six stayed on the tanker’s wingtip as it pulled ahead.

 
          
“Two-Seven,
this is Dragon Leader, Dragon Five-Five is well clear,” Coursey radioed to the
tanker, trying to keep Five in sight. “Cancel breakaway. Clear Dragon Five-Six
to the contact position, and clear Dragon Five-Five to the right wing.
Five-Five, take a breather and try to relax.”

 
          
“Dragon
Five-Five, clear to Dragon Five-Six’s right wing,” the boom operator said. The
F-16 that had balked its hookup reappeared, sliding under Dragon Five-Six and
moving into position on Six’s right wingtip.