Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 Page 6

  “Three for three, General,” Patrick McLanahan said matter-of- factly. “The Wolverine autonomously located four preprogrammed targets, attacked three, reattacked one, and was on its way to nail the fourth one before the F-22s got it. Pretty good hunting, I’d say.”

  “Unbelievable,” Samson finally muttered. “I don’t believe what I just saw.” Even in the EB-52B Megafortress bombers wide cockpit, Lieutenant General Terrill Samson’s big frame barely seemed to fit—his shoulders were slightly slumped, his knees high up on the instrument panel. Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, a former B-52 and B-1B bomber pilot and wing commander, was commander of U.S. Air Force’s Eighth Air Force, in charge of training and equipping all of the Air Force’s heavy and medium bomber units. The Air Force general was in the modified B-52 s left seat, piloting the experimental bomber. Copiloting the EB-52 Megafortress was Air Force Colonel Kelvin Carter, a veteran bomber pilot and a former EB-52 test pilot at HAWC, the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. Retired Air Force Colonel Patrick McLanahan was seated behind and to the right of Samson in the aft section of the upper crew compartment in the OSO, or offensive systems officer’s, console, and to McLanahan’s left in the DSO’s, or defensive systems officers, seat was Dr. Jon Masters, president of a small high-tech satellite and weapons contractor from Arkansas.

  The EB-52B Megafortress was a radically modified B-52 bomber, changed so extensively from tip to tail that now its size was the only sure point of comparison. It had a long, pointed, streamlined nose that smoothly melded into sharply raked cockpit windows and a thin, glass- smooth fuselage. Unlike a line B-52, the Megafortress’s wingtips did not curl upward while in flight—the plane’s all-composite fibersteel skeleton and skin, as strong as steel but many times lighter, maintained an aerodynamically perfect airfoil no matter how heavily it was loaded or what flight condition it was in. A long, low, canoe-shaped fairing sat atop the fuselage, housing long-range surveillance radars for scanning the sea, land, or skies for enemy targets in all directions, as well as active laser anti-missile countermeasures equipment and communications antennae. The large vertical and horizontal stabilizers on the tail were replaced by low, curving V-shaped ruddervators. A large aft-facing radar mounted between the ruddervators searched and tracked enemy targets in the rear quadrant; and instead of a 20-millimeter Gatling tail gun, the Megafortress had a single long cannon muzzle that looked far more sinister, far more deadly, than any machine gun. The cannon fired small guided missiles, called “airmines,” that would fly toward an oncoming enemy fighter, then explode and scatter thousands of BB-like titanium projectiles directly in the fighter’s flight path, shelling jet engines and piercing thin aircraft skin or cockpit canopies.

  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 twen
ty-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.

  “Sandusky, this is Saber flight,” the pilot of the lead F-22 radioed. “No fair. We can’t chase you guys down that low without busting the ROE. How about one pass at Phase Three?” Phase Three was the most realistic, most dangerous level of combat exercise: 1,000 feet between aircraft, no lower than 200 feet above the ground, max closure rate of 1,000 knots, unlimited bank angles. Samson said nothing; Carter considered that silence as permission and agreement from the aircraft commander.

  McLanahan didn’t ask if Samson wanted to play, didn’t wait for any comments from anyone else. “Saber flight, this is Sandusky, acknowledged, Phase Three, we’re in.”

  “Saber flight’s in, Phase Three, fight’s on.”

  “They’re coming around again,” McLanahan said. “I’ve got a sliver valley off to the left. Take it right in between those ridges. I’ll dial it down to COLA—they’ll lose us for sure.” cola stood for Computer-generated Lowest Altitude, where the terrain-avoidance computer would sacrifice safety to choose the lowest possible altitude—it could be as low as just a few dozen feet above ground, even in this rocky, hilly terrain. “We’ll pop up through that saddle to the south before the valley ends and swing all the way around behind them. They won’t know what the hell happened.” But instead of turning right, McLanahan felt the EB-52 start a climb. “Hey, get the nose down, sir, and give me a right turn, there’s your track.”

  “I said eno
ugh, Patrick,” Samson said. He punched off the attack computer from the autopilot and started a slow climb, straight ahead down the wide valley. It did not take long for the kill—the F-22 fighters roared on them at supersonic speed, radars locked on, and passed less than 600 feet overhead. The sonic boom sent a dull shudder and a loud thunderclap through the bomber. Samson switched his number one radio to the range safety frequency and keyed the mike: “All players, knock it off, knock it off, knock it off. Sandusky is RTB.” The F-22s could be seen rocking their wings in acknowledgment as they climbed out of sight.

  Patrick McLanahan punched in commands to give Samson steering cues to the range exit point, then stripped off his oxygen mask in exasperation. “What in hell was that, General?” he asked. “You don’t give up during a chase like that! ”

  “Hey, McLanahan, you may be a civilian, but you watch your mouth and your attitude,” Samson said angrily, his head jerking to the right. “It wasn’t a chase, McLanahan, it was showboating. We weren’t scheduled to go low, and we sure as hell weren’t fragged to do terrain avoidance or do lazy eights around mountains like that!”

  “I know we weren’t,” McLanahan said, “but we got the gas, the TA system was up, we got the fighters, and they wanted to play.”

  “We didn’t brief it, we didn’t plan it, and I’ve got two civilians on board,” Samson interjected angrily. “Yes, you’re a civilian, McLanahan. I know you can do the job, I know you’re every bit as capable as an active- duty crew member, but you’re still just a civilian observer. Hell, McLanahan, I’m not qualified in this contraption, and I haven’t flown terrain-avoidance missions in ten years, let alone been chased by Lightnings at five hundred AGL! It was dangerous.”

  “It’s nothing you haven’t done before, General,” McLanahan said. “I know you’ve gone over the Mach at one hundred AGL in the B-1B, and you’ve shook off fighters in a B-52 down low before, too.”