Air Battle Force (32 page)

“What?”

“You youngsters are so predictable. That was one of the first responses I programmed into the voice-recognition software,” Jon Masters said gleefully. Jon was only a few years older than the “youngsters,” so he knew them very well.

“Can we get on with it?” Rebecca asked. “This thing is giving me the creeps.”

“Roger,” Zane said happily. “Vampire, APU start.”

The checklists ran quickly and smoothly, and in a fraction of the time it normally took to get ready for engine start, the Vampire bomber was ready. They had to wait for Long and Pogue to finish their checklists, done in a more conventional manner. The bombers were then towed to an elevator and hoisted to the second level, where they started the engines and performed a before-takeoff check; shortly thereafter the two bombers were raised to the surface.

“So how do I taxi this thing, boss?” Zane asked.

“You don't. The computer does,” Daren replied.

“O-kay. Vampire, taxi for takeoff,” Zane spoke.

“Laser radar is on and radiating, very low power, short range,” Patrick reported. Just then the Vampire bomber's throttles slowly advanced, and the plane crept forward.

It was slow going, but eventually the Vampire taxied itself out of the hammerhead and onto the end of the runway.
“Vampire in takeoff position, eleven thousand four hundred feet remaining,”
the computer reported.
“Partial power takeoff performance okay.”

“The LADAR maps out the edges of the runway and automatically puts you on the centerline, then measures the distance to the first set of obstacles—in this case, the edge of the overrun,” Jon Masters explained. “The laser radar also measures nearby terrain and samples the atmosphere and plugs the information into the air-data computer for takeoff-performance computations.”

“So what the heck do
I
do?” Zane asked.

“You get to choose the type of takeoff,” Patrick McLanahan said.

“Can't I make my own takeoff?”

“The computer can make about a dozen different takeoffs: max performance, minimum interval, unimproved field, max altitude, partial power, noise abatement—you name it,” Masters said. “You just tell it which one and it'll do it.”

“So can I, Doc, so can I,” Zane said. “How do I work this thing?”

“Rest your arm on the armrest,” Daren said. Grey did. “Vampire, cockpit adjust,” Daren spoke. In an instant the cockpit flight controls rearranged themselves to fit Grey's hands. “In the virtual cockpit, the controls come to
you
—not the other way around.”

“I love it!” Zane exclaimed happily. The rudder pedals did the same, and when it came time to flip a switch or punch a button, all he had to do was extend a finger. The control panel came to his finger, then moved again so he could clearly see the display, then moved out of the way so he could “look” out the window or “see” other instruments. Zane experimentally “stirred the pot”—moved the control stick in a wide circle to check the flight-control surfaces—and watched the control-surface indicators move.

“Not so hard,” Rebecca said. “You're banging the control surfaces around too much.”

“Keep in mind that you don't have any control-stick feel,” Daren pointed out. “You have to use the indicators and the flight instruments to tell you how you're doing—no ‘seat of the pants' flying. Use your cameras on the takeoff roll, but if you go into the clouds, transition quickly to your instruments.” Daren got takeoff clearance from the air base's robot “control tower”: “You're cleared for takeoff, VAC.”

“Here we go, boys and girls,” Zane said. He put his hands on the “throttles” and slowly pushed them forward—too fast. He moved them more slowly, stopping just as he advanced into zone-one afterburner, then released brakes as he slowly advanced them further into zone five.

He felt as if nothing were happening—and then, before he realized it, the computer said,
“Vampire, rotate speed, ready, ready, now
.” Zane wasn't ready for it. He pulled back on the stick—nothing happened. He pulled back more . . . still nothing—and then suddenly the nose shot skyward.

“Get the nose down, Lieutenant,” Rebecca warned. “You overrotated.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Zane said. He released some of the back pressure.

“Too much!” Rebecca shouted. “Nose up!” They were less than fifty feet aboveground. Zane pulled back on the stick—and started another PIO, or “pilot-induced oscillation.” Rebecca cried out, “I've got it!”

“Let Zane fix it, Rebecca,” Daren said calmly. “Nice and easy with the controls, Zane,” he said softly. “There's a slight delay in the datalink—be ready for it. Put in a control movement, then keep an eye on it. Everything you see is delayed slightly from what the plane's doing. Use your instruments, but be aware of the delay.”

“Vampire, configuration warning,”
the computer announced.

“You wanted to do the takeoff, Zane. You're the one who has to remember to clean up the plane,” Daren said.

“Shit, yeah,” Zane muttered. “Vampire, after-takeoff checklist.” Immediately the landing gear started retracting, lights turned themselves off, the air-traffic-control transponder activated, and the mission-adaptive flight controls changed from takeoff to en route climb configuration.

“After-takeoff check complete,”
the computer reported seconds later.

“This is totally cool,” Zane said. He experimentally turned the plane side to side. “Once you get used to the delay, it's not bad at all.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rebecca said nervously as she watched her bomber do its random gyrations. “It figures you young kids would enjoy it—it's like playing a big video game, right, Zane?”

“Yes, ma'am. How about we see if it'll do a roll?”

“You do and I'll court-martial you—and then I'll kill you.”

“Enough fun. Let's fly this thing like it was meant to be flown,” Daren said. “Vampire, activate flight plan one, standard en route climb.”

“Vampire, flight plan one activated,”
the computer responded.

Zane released his grip on the stick, and the autopilot took over, immediately reducing the throttles out of afterburner, reducing the climb rate, and turning to the first waypoint.

“Two's airborne, tied on radar,” John Long reported.

Daren watched in utter amazement. “I simply can't believe this,” Daren said incredulously. “I'm sitting here flying a three-hundred-thousand-pound supersonic attack bomber from a trailer on the ground in the middle of nowhere in northern Nevada. It's unbelievable.”

“It's totally cool from here,” Jon Masters said. “It's better than a video game. It's hard to believe that's a real machine out there. We should—” Just then he noticed a flashing message on a computer screen. “We got a fault in the primary datalink computer,” Masters said.

“What happened?” Patrick asked.

“Master computer fault. It automatically shifted control to the secondary computer,” Jon replied. “We got an automatic reboot of the primary computer. It'll take a couple minutes to come up.”

“How about we put this thing on the ground now, boys?” Rebecca asked. “We'll let the wingman take over.”

“We've got four redundant, independent operating computers driving the datalink and aircraft controls, plus an emergency system that will force the aircraft to execute a direct return to base, no matter what systems are damaged,” Masters said. “The system did exactly what it was supposed to do—hand off control to another good computer, restart itself, and then, if it checks out, wait in line for a handoff.”

“
Another
handoff? You mean we could lose
more
computers?”

“We plan on the worst and hope for the best, General,” Masters said. “Aha . . . the first computer came back up, so we've got four good computers again. We're back in business.”

“Doctor, you're not exactly filling me with confidence,” Rebecca said. “Everyone remember: This is my wing's bird. I signed for it, and I decide when this test mission ends.”

“Roger, ma'am,” Zane said. “Now, just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride.”

That evening

Only his tracked vehicles had the capability to go across the open desert, so Jalaluddin Turabi had no choice but to split up his force. He divided his group into three: Two would encamp along the Kizyl-Tabadkan highway, divided by fifteen kilometers, ready to move toward each other if trouble appeared; the third force, led by Turabi himself, would trek across the desert to the crash site. Because of weather and their upcoming battle at Gaurdak, helicopter support would not be available until dawn—Turabi was effectively on his own. He had some working night-vision goggles, and the weather was improving, so he decided to start out in the relative coolness and cover of night and head toward the crash site, using only a compass and prayers to guide him.

It took an hour to travel the first twenty kilometers, driving an old Soviet-era MT-LB multipurpose tracked vehicle they'd captured in Kerki. He deployed an even older GSh-575 tracked vehicle—actually a ZSU-23/4 self-propelled antiaircraft-gun system, with the antiaircraft guns unusable and deactivated long ago—out three hundred meters ahead of the MT-LB as a scout; this vehicle managed to throw a track every five to ten kilometers, which made for even slower going. Several times Turabi ordered his men to abandon the vehicle and hide when his scout heard jet aircraft nearby, but they were never able to pinpoint its location after the echo of the roar of their own engines faded away. Nerves were on edge.

About three hours before dawn, they reached the place where Turabi thought the smoke had come from, but there was no sign of a crash. There was nothing else to do but start a search pattern. Using both tracked vehicles, they set up a search grid and moved out, crisscrossing the desert with soldiers on foot continually moving the grid in different directions, overlapping slightly at the ends.

After an hour they still hadn't come across the wreckage. “This is insane,” Turabi muttered after he received the last report. “I swear to God I saw a crash out here. I have traveled the deserts for most of my life—I do not imagine such things.” He turned to his senior sergeant, Abdul Dendara. “What am I missing here, Abdul?”

“If you saw smoke, sir, there has to be surface wreckage. Aircraft or weapons that bury themselves in the sand don't release enough smoke to spot from a distance,” Dendara said. “I checked to be sure the men were probing underneath the sand. There was a short but pretty strong storm that came through here yesterday—the wreckage could be lying just under the surface.” He looked around. Of course, in the darkness, there was little to see. “No landmarks, no exact position—maybe we're not at the right spot, sir.”

Turabi swore under his breath, pulled out his map, and examined it in the subdued red beam of his flashlight. “All right. Let's shift five kilometers to the south and do another grid search. We search for one more hour, then we pack up and head back to join up with the rest of the battalion.”

Turabi radioed for the MT-LB, which picked him up a few minutes later. Following his compass, he steered the driver south, then started to set up another grid-pattern search. It would take several minutes for the other members of his detail to move to the new position, so he decided he would need to get out there and start searching himself if he ever wanted to finish this grid and get back to Kerki by dawn. He fixed a bayonet onto his AK-47 assault rifle and started probing the sand with his red-lensed flashlight, looking for evidence of debris.

He soon realized how difficult this search really was. He knew he could step within centimeters of a critical piece of evidence and never see it, or he could step on a land mine and be legless in an instant. He knew he had to use every sense he possessed, and maybe even some kind of extrasensory perception, to accomplish this task. He waved the MT-LB away from him so he wouldn't be distracted by its engine noise, diesel exhaust, and the occasional shouts of the men on board.

Finally it was relatively quiet. Turabi's night vision improved, and soon he could start seeing objects on the ground that were not directly in the flashlight's beam. He could still smell the armored personnel carrier's exhaust smoke, and he picked up his radio to order the MT-LB farther away.

But he stopped, the radio a few centimeters from his lips, his finger on the push-to-talk switch. Yes, he could still smell engine exhaust—but he was upwind of the MT-LB now. He shouldn't be able to smell it. It had to be something else. He used his nose like an automatic direction finder triangulating on a radio beacon, steering himself to the source of the smell.

Minutes later he saw it: a mass of metal, blackened and lumpish but definitely an aircraft engine. It was a cruise missile turbojet engine, not more than forty or fifty kilos, about the size of a bedroll. He'd found it! He swept the flashlight beam around excitedly. There were other pieces of debris nearby, too—including a large fuselage piece. It was here! He slung his AK-47 onto his shoulder, put the walkie-talkie up to his lips, and keyed the mike button. “Dahab Two, this is One. I found some wreckage of a small aircraft or cruise missile. I'm a half klick south of the new grid locus. Join on me and—”

At that instant he heard a faint
fwoooosh!
sound. He dropped to one knee, the flashlight replacing the radio in his left hand, held far out to his side, and his Tokarev TT-33 in his right hand. The muzzle of the Tokarev followed the flashlight beam turned in the direction of the sound. Nothing. No sounds of footsteps running on desert sand, no vehicle sounds. He quickly extinguished the flashlight and picked up the radio: “Dahab, Dahab, alert! Someone else is out here!”