Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (9 page)

           
The most striking changes in the
Megafortress were under its long, thin wings. Instead of eight Pratt &
Whitney T33 turbofan engines, the EB-52 Megafortress sported just four
airliner-style General Electric CF6 fanjet engines, modified for use on this
experimental aircraft. The CF6 engines were quieter, less smoky, and gave the
Megafortress over 60 percent more thrust than did the old turbofans, but with
30 percent
greater
fuel economy. At
nearly a half-million pounds gross weight, the Megafortress could fly nearly
halfway around the world at altitudes of over 50,000 feet—unrefueled!

 
          
The
Megafortress was so highly computerized that the normal B-52 crew complement of
six had been reduced down to four—a pilot and copilot; a defensive systems
officer, who was in charge of bomber defense; and an offensive systems officer,
who was in charge of employing the ground and anti-radar attack weapons and who
also acted as the reconnaissance, surveillance, and air intelligence officer.
The OSO’s and DSO’s stations were now on the upper deck of the EB-52, facing
forward; the lower deck was now configured as an expanded avionics bay and also
included a galley, lavatory, and seats and bunk area for extra crew members who
might be taken aboard for long missions.

 
          
“Jon’s
only intervention was to redesignate the first target again so the Wolverine
could reattack,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan was not nearly as tall as
Terrill Samson, but he, too, was broad-shouldered and powerfully built—he just
seemed to fit perfectly in the EB-52 bomber’s OSO’s seat, as if that’s where he
always belonged. It was as if McLanahan had been born to fly in that seat, or
as if the controls and displays had been sized and positioned precisely to fit
him and him alone—which, in fact, they had. “The upgraded missile has a
rearward sensor capability for autonomous bomb damage assessment. With a
satellite datalink, an operator—either on the carrier aircraft, on any other
JTIDS-equipped aircraft in the area, or eventually from a ground command
station thousands of miles away—could command the Wolverine to reattack.”

 
          
“That
twenty-G turn, evading the AMRAAM,” Samson remarked, his voice still quivering
with excitement, “. . . it was breathtaking. It looked like a cartoon, some
kind of science-fiction-movie thing.”

 
          
“Not
science fiction—science
fact,”
McLanahan said. “The Wolverine has thrust-vectored control jets instead of
conventional wings and tail surfaces, and a mission-adaptive fuselage controlled
by microhydraulics—the entire body of the missile changes shape, allowing it to
use lifting-body aerodynamics to turn faster. In fact, the faster it goes, the
tighter it can turn—just the opposite of most aircraft. All moving parts on the
missile are driven by microhydraulic devices, so a simple five- hundred-psi
pump the size of my wristwatch can power three hundred actuators at over ten
thousand psi—theoretically we can maintain control at up to thirty Gs, but at
that speed the missile would probably snap in half or the pressure might cook
off the explosives in the warheads. But no fighter or missile yet built can keep
up with the Wolverine.”

 
          
Samson
fell silent again in amazement. McLanahan turned to his left and looked at the
man seated beside him and added, “Good job, Jon. I think you watered his eyes.”

 
          
“Of
course we did,” Masters said. “What did you expect?” He tried to say it as
casually and as coolly as McLanahan, but the excitement bubbling in his voice
could not be disguised. Unlike the other two men in the cockpit with him, Jon
Masters shared only their dancing, energetic eyes and boundless enthusiasm—he was
as thin as they were broad, with a boyish, almost goofy-looking face. Jon
Masters, the designer of the incredible AGM-177 Wolverine cruise missile along
with dozens of other high-tech military weapons and satellites, was aboard to
watch his missile do its stuff; in case anything went wrong, he could also
abort the missile s flight, if necessary. That was also a Jon Masters
hallmark—rarely, if ever, did the first operational test of one of his missiles
or satellites work properly. This test appeared to be a welcome exception.

 
          
McLanahan
commanded the EB-52 bomber into a right turn back toward the exit point to the
RED FLAG range. “A little professional modesty might help sell a few Wolverines
to the Air Force, Jon,” McLanahan pointed out. McLanahan, retired as a colonel
from the Air Force after sixteen years in service, was now a paid consultant to
Sky Masters, for which he performed a number of tasks, from test-pilot duties
to product design.

 
          
“Trust
me on this one, Patrick,” Masters said, slouching in his ejection seat and
taking a big swig out of his ever-present squeeze bottle of Pepsi. “When it
comes to the military, you’ve got to yell it to sell it. Talk to Helen in
marketing—her budget is almost as big as the research-and- development budget.”

 
          
“Dr.
Masters has a right to be proud,” General Samson said, “and I’m proud to back
him and the Wolverine project. With a fleet of Wolverine missiles in the
inventory, we can locate and kill targets with zero-zero precision from
standoff range and at the same time virtually eliminate the risk of sending a
human pilot over a heavily defended target area, and eliminate having to send
in special forces troops on the ground to search for enemy missile or radar
sites.”

 
          
“It
also breathes new life into the heavy-bomber program,” McLanahan added. “I know
there’s been a lot of congressional pressure to do away with all of the
‘heavies,’ especially the B-52s, in favor of newer fighter-bombers. Well, load
up one B-52 with twenty-six Wolverine missiles, and it’s like launching a
squadron of F-16 or F/A-18 fighter- bombers, except it cuts costs by
nine-tenths and doesn’t put as many pilots at risk.”

 
          
A
tone in all their headsets stopped the conversation. Two bat-wing fighter
symbols had appeared at the bottom of McLanahan’s supercockpit display, and
they were closing fast. “Fighters—probably the two F-22s, gunning for
us,
” McLanahan said. “I’ll bet they’re
pissed after missing the Wolverines.”

 
          
“Let
’em come,” Masters said. “We won—we already blasted the places they were assigned
to protect.”

 
          
“The
exercise isn’t over as long as we’re inside the range, Doctor,” Kelvin Carter
said in a loud, excited voice, pulling his straps tighter and refastening his
oxygen mask in place with a quick thrust. “We accomplished the mission—all we
gotta do now is
survive”

 
          
Masters
literally gulped on interphone. “You mean . . . you mean we’re going to try to
outrun
those fighters?
Now?”

 
          
“We
didn’t brief an air-to-air engagement,” Samson pointed out. “We shouldn’t be
doing this.”

 
          
“Well,
go ahead and get us clearance for air-to-air,” McLanahan suggested. “We own
this airspace. Got it, Kel?”

 
          
“Rog,
Patrick.” Carter clicked open the range safety channel. “Saber One-One flight,
this is
Sandusky
. Wanna play?”

 
          
“
Sandusky
, this is Saber leader. Roger, we’re in and
we’re in. Payback time for the bomber pukes. Phase One ROE?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
Phase One, we’re ready,” Carter replied. “Phase One” ROE, or Rules of
Engagement, were the safest of three standard aerial- combat exercise levels
with which all aircrews entering the RED FLAG ranges were familiar: no closer
than two miles between aircraft, no closure rates greater than three hundred
knots, no bank angles greater than forty-five degrees, no altitudes below two
thousand feet above the ground.

 
          
“Roger,
Sandusky
, this is Saber One-One flight of two, Phase
One, fight’s on.”

 
          
“I
don’t believe this, I don’t believe this,” Masters said excitedly. “Two
Lightning fighters are gunning for «j.”

 
          
“It’s
all part of the tactics of standoff attack defense, Jon,” McLanahan said. “If
you can destroy the missile’s carrier aircraft, you’ve destroyed the enemy’s
ability to launch more cruise missiles. Tighten your straps, everybody. General
Samson, get out of here, please.”

 
          
Carter’s
fingers flew over his instrument panel, and seconds later the electronic
command bars on Samson’s center multifunction display snapped downward.
“Terrain-avoidance mode selected, command bars are active, pilot,” he said to
Samson. “Let’s go, General!”

 
          
Masters
suddenly became very light in his seat, as Samson engaged the EB-52 bomber’s
autopilot and the big bomber nosed over toward the earth. The sudden negative
Gs made the young scientist’s head spin and his stomach churn, but he was able
to keep from blowing lunch all over his console as he tightened his straps and
finally managed to focus over his console toward the cockpit—and when he did,
all he could see out the front cockpit windows was brown desert. Masters could
feel his helmet dangling upward as the negative Gs threatened to float the
helmet right off his head, and he hurriedly fastened his chin strap and oxygen
mask.

 
          
“Thirty
miles and closing,” McLanahan reported.

 
          
“They
can’t see us on radar, right?” Masters squeaked on intercom in his high, tinny
voice. “Not this far out, right?”

 
          
“It’s
daytime, Jon—we’re sitting ducks,” McLanahan said. “Stealth doesn’t help much
if they can see you without radar. We’ve probably been leaving contrails,
too—might as well have been towing a lighted banner. We’ve still got fifteen
thousand feet to lose before they get in missile range. Clear right. Ready for
combat
mode.” Samson heeled the EB-52
bomber into a steep right bank, spilling lift from the bomber’s huge wings and
increasing their descent rate. He kept the bank in for about twenty seconds.

 
          
“Wings
level now,” Carter said. “Five thousand to level... command bars moving . . .
four thousand . . . three thousand . . . two thousand to go . . . command bars
coming to level pitch . . . one thousand . . . command bars indicating climb .
. . descent rate to zero . . . command bars are terrain-active. Take it around
that butte, then come left and center up.”

 
          
“Take
it to max power, General,” McLanahan urged. “We’re not going to make it to the
butte before they’re in missile range.” Samson pushed the throttles to maximum
power and saw the warning lights illuminate on his cockpit warning
indicators—max power was only supposed to be used for takeoff or go-arounds,
usually with the landing gear down. “Get your finger off the paddle switch,
sir—let the terrain- avoidance system do its job.”

 
          
“Jesus,
McLanahan,” Samson gasped, as they sped toward the rocky mountains. He found he
had been unconsciously “paddling off” the terrain-avoidance autopilot with his
right little finger, flying higher than the autopilot wanted—the command bars
were a full five degrees below the horizon. “No one said anything about flying
TA on this flight.”

 
          
“We
can’t let those fighter jocks get us, sir,” McLanahan said. “Let the TA system
take it. Get the nose down.”

 
          
They
heard a slow-pitched
deedle deedle
deedle!
warning tone. “Radar lock!” McLanahan shouted. “Simulate MAWS
activated!” The MAWS, or Missile Active Warning System, used a laser emitter
tied to the threat receivers to blind incoming enemy missiles—MAWS could also
blind a pilot. “Left turn, take them around that butte! ” Samson released the
paddle switch, letting the bomber tuck down to an even lower altitude, then
pushed the stick left and aimed for the north side of the butte. “Tighter,
General,” McLanahan shouted. “We’ve got to make them overshoot!”

 
          
“I’m
as far as I can go.” But he felt the bomber heel even more sharply to the left,
as Carter pushed the stick over even more, pulling to tighten the turn. It
seemed as if the entire left side of the cockpit windscreen was filled with the
towering gray slab of rock, although they were not yet at forty-five degrees of
bank. “McLanahan ... dammit,
enoughl
”
“They’re overshooting—they’re breaking off!” McLanahan said. “Hard right,
center up! ” On the supercockpit display, the two F-22 fighters had broken off
the pursuit, climbed, and arced west to get away from the butte. Samson hauled
the control stick to the right, a brief thrill of fear shooting through his
brain as he felt the bomber mush slightly at the cross-control point—the stick
was full right, the bomber was still turning left, and he was out of control
until the bomber started to respond—but a few moments later the autopilot was
back in control and they were wings-level, flying 2,000 feet above ground down
a wide valley.