Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (3 page)

 
          
“Pilot,”
Hawthorne
said nervously, “this is not a simulation .
. .”

 
          
“Glasgow
Bomb Plot, Glasgow Bomb Plot, Sabre Three-three, India Papa, Alpha sierra,”
Martin radioed.

 
          
In
a small trailer complex located at a municipal airport fifty miles from the
ground-hugging bomber, a set of four dish antennas swung southward. In a few
seconds, they had found the speeding B-52 and had begun to track its progress
toward the target on a mapping board. Other antennas began emitting jamming
signals to the B-52’s radar, and other transmitters simulated surface-to-air
missile site tracking radars and antiaircraft guns. The scoring operator
insured that they had positive lock-on, then turned to his radio.

 
          
“Sabre
Three-three,
Glasgow
clears you on range and frequency and copies your IP call.
India
band is restricted. Do not jam
India
band radar. Range is clear for weapon
release.” Just then, the scoring operator noticed two extra targets on his
tracking display. He immediately called his range supervisor.

 
          
“They’re
at it again, sir,” the operator explained, pointing to the two newcomers.

 
          
“Those
National Guard hot-dogs,” the supervisor muttered as he studied the display. He
shook his head, then asked, “Has the next competition plane called IP yet?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” the operator replied. “Sabre Three-three, a Buff out of Ford.”

 
          
“Ford,
huh.” The supervisor smiled at the mention of the B-52’s nickname. Once,
decades earlier, calling a B-52 a “Buff”—short for Big Ugly Fat Fucker—was a
sign of respect. Not any more. “You got a positive track on the Buff? No chance
of the fighters interfering with the bomb scoring?”

 
          
“I
don’t think so, sir.”

 
          
He
thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Let ’em go. I like watching a duck shoot.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” the operator said.

 
          
Mark
Martin switched to interphone. “We’ve been cleared onto the range, crew.
Patrick, you’re cleared for weapon release.”

 
          
“Rog,
double-M,” McLanahan replied. He opened the plastic cover of the
release-circuits-disconnect switch and closed the circuit. “Let’s go bombin’!”
he yelled.

 
          
“
India
band restricted, Mike,” Martin called down
to
Hawthorne
over interphone.

 
          
“Copy,”
Hawthorne
replied. “Crew, we are under attack.
Airborne interceptors at
two o’clock
and closing fast.”

 
          
“Mike,
are you sure they’re on us?” Houser asked.

 
          
“Positive.”

 
          
“Mark,
switch radio two to the fighter control frequency and—”

 
          
“We
can’t do that,” Luger said. “We need both radios on plot frequency.”

 
          
“Well,
we’ll call the site and tell them to chase the fighters off the bomb range,”
Houser replied, irritation showing in his voice. “They can’t do this.”

 
          
“Bob
can take ’em,” McLanahan said. “Go get ’em, guns.”

 
          
“You’re
crazy, radar,” the gunner replied. “It’ll mean maneuvering on the bomb run ...”

 
          
“Shoot
the bastards down,” McLanahan said. “Let’s give it a try. If it gets dicey,
we’ll call a safety-of-flight abort.”

 
          
“Now
you’re talkin’,” Brake said, turning to his equipment.

 
          
“Are
you sure, Pat?” Houser asked. “This is your bomb run . .

 
          
“But
it’s
our
trophy,” McLanahan said. “I
say let’s stick it to ’em.” “All right,” Houser replied, flipping switches on
the center instrument console. “I’m taking steering away from the computers.”

           
“The fighters are moving to
four o’clock
,”
Hawthorne
reported. “They’re staying out of cannon
range so far.”

 
          
“Infrared
missile attack,” Brake said, studying his tracking radar and waiting for the
fighters to appear. “Simulated Sidewinders.”

 
          
“Coming
up on the SRAM launch point,” Luger said.

 
          
“We’re
going to need to maneuver in a few seconds,” Brake warned. “I’ve got a
safe-in-range light and missiles for launch,” Luger said. “We

 
          
can’t
maneuver until after these missile launches. Guns, give me a few more seconds .
. . Tone!”

 
          
“Fighters
now
four o’clock
,
three miles and closing rapidly . .

 
          
Luger
pressed the MANUAL LAUNCH button. The missile computer began its five-second
countdown. “Missile counting down,” Luger called out. “Doors coming open . . .”

 
          
It
had been hard at first to spot the B-52 down there at low level, the pilot
aboard the lead F-15 thought. Radar lock-on had been intermittent at high
patrol altitude with all the ground clutter, and then it was nearly impossible
because of the heavy jamming from the Buff. Visually, the Buffs camouflage made
it difficult to spot and hard to keep in sight if there were any distractions.

 
          
Now,
though, with its huge white bomb bay doors open, it was like a diamond in a
goat’s ass. The pilot waved his wingman off to the observation position and
began his roll into IR (infrared) missile firing position. At three miles, with
the B-52’s eight big jet engines spewing out heat, an infrared lock-on would be
easy and he’d be out of range of the Buffs little pea-shooter guns. No sweat.
An easy kill. On its bomb run, the Buff wouldn’t do much jinking, and it had to
jam the ground-based threats, too.

 
          
“Missile
away, missile away for Sabre Three-three,” Martin called to the bomb scoring
site.

 
          
“Acknowledge
tone break,” the site replied.

 
          
“Missile
two counting down,” Luger began.

 
          
“
Six o’clock
, two miles,” Brake said nervously.

 
          
“Missile
two away,” Luger said. “Bomb doors closed. Clear for evasive action.”

 
          
“Pilot,
chop your power!” Brake yelled. “We’ll suck this cocky bastard in.”

 
          
Houser
responded immediately, bringing the throttles back to idle. Simultaneously,
Martin raised the airbrakes to maximum up and dropped the gear. The airspeed
suddenly and rapidly decreased from three hundred and fifty to two hundred
knots. On the tail gunner’s radar scope, the result was exhilarating and
immediate. For the fighter pilot, it was a nightmare come true.

 
          
The
F-15 fighter chasing them had been flying nearly two hundred miles an hour
faster than the B-52 in order to catch up with it from behind and get into an
ideal firing position; suddenly, it was as if the huge bomber had just frozen
in midair. The fighter pilot was now closing on his target at almost six
hundred yards a second. The sight of the massive bomber filling his windscreen
froze his trigger finger. The fighter pilot was staring into
four fifty
-caliber machine gun barrels pointed
directly at him.

 
          
“
Six o’clock
, two miles,” Brake called out, watching his
radar. “Two miles and holding... goddamn! One mile, half mile... Fox-four! All
guns firing! Call Fox-four!”

 
          
Up
on the attack observation position, well above and to the right of the bomber,
the leader’s wingman was watching a perfectly executed IR missile run.
Suddenly,
something
happened.
Spoilers and airbrakes and landing gear doors and landing gears began to spring
out of nowhere out of the bomber’s huge frame, and the distance between the two
planes was chopped to nothing in the blink of an eye. The wingman thought he’d
see his first midair collision.

 
          
At
the last second, his partner ducked under the bomber’s belly, flying his F-15 a
mere three hundred feet over the hills of
Wyoming
. The Buffs fifty-caliber guns followed him
all the way. The wingman could easily visualize the guns spitting fire, the
three-inch-long shells plowing into the fighter’s canopy and fuselage, the F-15
exploding into a billion pieces and crashing into the green hills below.

 
          
“Fox-Four,
Fox-Four for Sabre Three-three, Glasgow,” Martin called to the scoring site.

 
          
“Roger,
Three-three. Will relay Fox-Four.” The young operator working the bomb-scoring-site
tracking radar looked in amazement at his NCO supervisor.

 
          
“Holy
shit,” the veteran NCO said. “That Buff just shot down a goddamned F-15.”

 
          
“It’s
a duck shoot, all right, Sarge,” the operator said, chuckling. “But who is
shooting who?”

 
          
“Dead
meat,” the F-15’s wingman said to himself, peeling off and preparing to start
his own run at the B-52, keeping a respectful distance away from the
fifty-caliber machine gun turret that, he knew, was now looking for
him.

 
          
Luger
and McLanahan could easily hear the wild jubilation of the defensive crew
upstairs through the roar of the plane’s eight turbojet engines.

 
          
“One
down, one to go,” Brake shouted.

 
          
McLanahan
manually stepped the automatic offset unit to target Bravo and pushed a small
button on a console near his left thigh. Over the interphone, he said, “Pilot,
I’m in BOMB mode. Center it up. We’re gonna bomb the crap outta them now. Dave,
check my switches.”

 
          
“You
got it,” Luger said. He compared the bomb computer’s countdown to the time remaining
on his backup timing watch. “Two minutes to bomb release on my watch.”

 
          
“Checks
with the FCI, nav,” Houser confirmed, carefully watching as Martin reconfigured
the B-52 for normal flight.

 
          
“Pilot,
fighter at
two o’clock
,
five miles,”
Hawthorne
said. “Break right!”

 
          
“Radar?”
Houser asked. “Should I turn? This is your ballgame.”

           
“One second,” McLanahan said.
“S.O.B.’s are jammin’ my scope.” He leaned forward so close to the ten-inch
radar scope that his oxygen mask almost touched it, then tried to refine his
crosshair replacement. Luger couldn’t see how his partner could possibly make
out any radar returns through all the strobing and clutter. When McLanahan was
satisfied, he shouted, “Go for it!”

 
          
“Breaking
right!” Houser shouted. He put the huge bomber in a thirty- degree bank to the
right, turning so suddenly that charts and paperwork flew madly around the
navigator’s compartment.

 
          
“Fighter
now at
twelve o’clock
,”
Hawthorne
said. “Moving rapidly to
one o’clock
. . . almost
two o’clock
now ...”