by Dale Brown
A “normal” rig for a recreational parachuter always includes a special altimeter device to deploy an emergency parachute once the jumper passes a preset altitude in case the main chute fails. A device that worked on essentially the same principles in the Whiplash jumpers’ gear deployed their MC-5 ram-air parachutes based on a preprogrammed glide course. Sending GPS data as well as altimeter readings to their combat helmets, the “smart rigs” turned the Whiplash team members into miniature airplanes. They steered the boxy, rectangular chutes through the swirling winds, their bodies lurching as counterweights as they fought through the difficult fall. All seven men came down within ten yards of each other — a tight squeeze between the equipment and the work area, though if this had been an exercise at Dreamland or the Military Free Fall Simulator at Fort Bragg, Danny would have made them repack and jump again.
Stowing his chute quickly, the captain cleared his rucksack off the work area and recalibrated his smart helmet’s com set, waiting while it searched for the tactical communications satellite deployed by Raven. That took only about five seconds, but by then the others were already pumping fuel into the ’dozers, which seemed to have come down okay. Danny walked over to the pile of rubble created by the AGM-86s.
There were rocks all over the place. Annie had promised a fairly even pile.
But the ridge itself was gone, and the pockmarks from the explosion seemed a few inches deep at most. They’d have it flattened and meshed in no time.
“All right, get the ’dozers, let’s go,” yelled Danny. “The rest of you guys, get the equipment squared away and then get ready for the mesh. Should be here in thirty minutes.”
“You sure we can get it all down, Cap?” asked Bison.
“Timetable’s tight.”
“Bison, if you had a problem, you should have spoken up before,” said Danny.
“No sir, not a problem.”
“He’s just trying to slow things down because he’s got the latest time in the pool,” said Powder.
“What pool?”
“We bet on how long it would take,” admitted Bison sheepishly.
“You guys get to work before I make you take out hammers and pound these boulders into dust,” Danny told them.
Liu fired up his bulldozer first, moving it off the thick planks of its landing crate. The sergeant had claimed that he had worked two summers with a construction firm; as improbable as that seemed — Liu stood perhaps five-six and weighed 120 soaking wet — he had demonstrated at Dreamland that he knew how to work the ’dozer, slamming the levers around like an expert. He pushed ahead now, angling the rocks straight off a shallow cliff at the right side of the strip.
Egg had trouble getting his ’dozer started.
“Hey, use it or lose it,” shouted Powder from the ground as Egg fumbled with the ignition.
“What’s the story?” shouted Danny.
“Something’s screwed up with the engine,” said Egg.
He pulled off his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt, then pushed back his cap on his bald head as he studied the machine. He looked more than a little like an owl in cam-mies.
“Pull out the doohickey,” said Powder.
“Shut up,” snapped Egg. He leaned over the front of the ’dozer, looking in the direction of the engine.
“Loose wire or something?” Danny asked.
“You got to pull the doohickey out. It’s basically a Volkswagen with a big ol’ blade on it,” said Powder.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Danny asked Egg, who by now was strung over the front of the machine.
“Got me, Cap.”
“Can I try?” Powder asked.
Danny was about to order him to help square away the rest of the gear when Egg jumped down. “You want to try it? Go ahead, fucker. Be a wise guy.”
“Captain — if I get it going, can I drive it?”
“Go ahead,” insisted Egg before Danny could say anything. “Come on, know-it-all. Let’s see you start it up.
This is a diesel. It’s not a Volkswagen. It’s a bull-fucking-dozer.”
“Bull-fucking-dozer,” laughed Powder, clambering into the seat.
“He’ll never get it going,” Egg told Danny. “No way he’s going to. I think the—”
The rumble of the second ’dozer coming to life drowned out the rest of what the team’s heavy equipment expert had to say.
Chapter 32
Aboard Quicksilver, over southeastern Turkey 1413
Zen eased the Flighthawk back behind the Megafortress then gave the verbal command, “Trail One,” telling the computer to put the plane into a preprogrammed escort course behind the mothership. They had refueled just before approaching the target area; assuming things went well on the ground, they’d have nothing to do for the next two hours. A pair of MH-60 Pave Hawk helicopters were en route out of Incirlik, escorting Chinooks carrying runway mesh. O’Brien and Habib, meanwhile, had finished testing the combat configuration on Quicksilver’s Deep Drink sensor suite and were scanning Iraq for signs of trouble.
The Deep Drink gear, which was carried by Raven as well as Quicksilver, could be divided into two broad cate-gories. The first was a set of radar receivers and jammers.
A passive-detection system swept six bands and was capable of finding radars five hundred miles away, depending on their strength and profile. A high-powered detector could analyze A-J radar bands simultaneously, delivering real-team target data directly to GPS-based munitions or to B-1 and B-2 bombers equipped to receive it. And there was a combination repeater-transponder-noise jammer that worked like the ALQ-199 ECM unit.
Deep Drink’s second set of capabilities were based around a wide net of wires and dishes embedded in the Megafortress’s skeleton, turning the plane into a giant radio antenna, a combat version of an E-3 Elint gatherer. A dozen intercepts could be processed at once, with Quicksilver’s onboard computer able to handle one channel of 64-byte coding on the fly. The Deep Drink gear included what its designers called “hooks” to allow the data to be transmitted via a broadband satellite network back to an NSA or military analysis center, but neither the satellite nor the transmission system had made it off the drawing boards yet.
Additionally, Quicksilver carried IR detectors designed to monitor missile launches. With a little bit of fine tuning they could pick up the flare of a shoulder-launched SA-3
from a hundred miles away. The gear was stowed in the bay normally used for Stinger antiair mines on other EB-52s, including Raven.
O’Brien took the radar detection duties, while Habib began making and plotting intercepts. Zen, meanwhile, clicked his own radio through American frequencies, listening in as a pair of patrol planes cruised south of them, just over the Iraqi border. F-16 jocks, they mixed irrever-ent banter with terse instructions and acknowledgments, flying a simple “racetrack” or extended oval the length of their patrol zone. An AWACS control aircraft flew about a hundred miles to the northwest of Quicksilver, scanning for radars in the area as well as watching for enemy aircraft. Zen hailed them all, asking how things were going.
“Quieter than my mom’s bedroom,” said one of the Eagle jocks. “Where are you from, Flighthawk One?”
“Edwards,” answered Zen. It was SOP to mention the large base just south of Dreamland rather than Dreamland itself.
“Meant where’d you grow up, homeboy,” answered the pilot. “I’m guessing Virginia.”
“Spent a lot of time there,” said Zen.
“You northerners are all alike,” said the other pilot, who had a deep Georgia twang.
“Who you calling a northerner?” countered the other pilot.
“What are you flying there, Flighthawk?” asked the Georgian. “And what’s your location?”
“I’m in Turkey, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Zen.
The pilot’s undoubtedly sarcastic response was overrun by the AWACS controller.
“Gold Flight, break ninety!” he yelled.
Before either plane could acknowledge or the controller could explain further, O’Brien cut over the interphone. “SA-2 radar active in box alpha-alpha-six.
Refining calibration.”
They’d divided Iraq into squares or boxes for easy reference; AA-6 referred to a northeastern portion about 150
miles from Quicksilver—and maybe seventy from the F-16s. But the next thing Zen heard was the shrill anguish of the AWACS controller, screaming over the open mike.
“Oh my God, they’re gone. Oh God, they’re gone.”
Part III: High Top
Chapter 33
Whiplash Forward Operating Area “High Top,” Turkey 28 May 1997
1640
Danny Freah knelt down behind the theodolite, trying to make sure the ridge beyond the runway was low enough for the Megafortresses to land. If he was reading the device’s screen right — and while it was extremely simple, that was not guaranteed — there was about three meters of clearance, well within parameters. They were running close to an hour behind schedule but at least they had the mesh down. They’d run into some troubles with the helicopters that had delivered it, but they’d probably set a world’s record getting the rough strip ready.
To Danny, it looked like a hell of a lot of space. According to the surveying instruments, new and old sections together stretched exactly 1,642.7 feet. Not counting the slight bump — more like a six-inch ramp — between new and old sections, and a stubborn group of pockmarks and bumps about forty yards from the northern end, it was as flat and level as any runway in the States.
There was a ton of work to do yet — widen the turnaround, finish out the parking section, set up a command area and better perimeter posts, augment the lights, maybe even add cable and a swimming pool. But it was time to land the planes.
“Hey, Cap, ready to rock,” said Clark, one of a pair of combat air control or CCT specialists who’d come in with the helicopters. “Landing lights, strobes, cloth panels — we could put a 747 in here if you want. Get kinda squished at the far end, but it would land pretty.”
Danny nodded, following the controller across the parking area toward a set of sandbags where Clark and Sergeant Velis had set up a radio to talk the airplanes in.
Clark grabbed a pair of chemical light sticks and a portable radio, then trotted toward the end of the runway.
He would direct the first plane in to the parking area.
“Hey, Cap! Thanks for letting me work the ’dozer,”
shouted Powder as Danny sat on one of the sandbag piles, the only available seating. “What I’m talkin’ about!”
“I’m surprised you gave it up,” Danny told him.
“Only until the planes land, Cap. Most fun I had with my pants on ever.”
“Yeah, well, keep them on,” said Danny, reaching into his pocket for a candy bar, which was all the dinner he’d have tonight.
Chapter 34
Aboard Quicksilver, over southeastern Turkey 1730
“ Quicksilver reads you fine, High Top ground,” Bree told the controller as she orbited the freshly meshed field.
“I have a visual on the field. Looks real pretty.”
“Ground acknowledges,” said the controller, all business. “Dreamland Hawk?”
“Dreamland Hawk One reads you fine, High Top ground,” said Zen. Unlike their usual procedure at Dreamland, here the Flighthawk would remain airborne until the other planes were down, providing additional protection in case of an attack. While that was unlikely — two flights of fighters were patrolling the sky above and to the south — the apparent loss of two more F-16s over Iraq provided a potent reminder that nothing could be taken for granted.
CentCom had reacted to the loss of the two planes by ordering more retaliatory raids. But they were caught in a catch-22—more raids exposed more planes to danger.
Everyone was on edge, and even the Megafortresses had been challenged by fighter patrols as they flew into south Turkey.
The ground controller turned his attention back to Major Alou and Raven, which was up first in the landing queue. They ran through a quick exchange of vitals about the airstrip, wind, and weather conditions, along with the basic instructions on where the controller wanted him to put the plane once they landed. The exchange was somewhat pro forma, as the Megafortress could compute her own data and adjust accordingly, but the routine itself was comforting. The well-trained CCT on the other end of the radio did his job with the high precision a pilot could appreciate; it boded well if things got complicated down the line.
“Raven on final approach,” said Chris as their sister plane pushed in.
Quicksilver was about a mile away and roughly parallel to the runway, opposite Raven as it settled down. Zen had brought Hawk One into a chase pattern behind and above Raven to feed Alou additional video view if he needed it. Breanna had the feed displayed on her console; she watched as Alou came in a bit high to avoid the rocks at the approach end, then flopped down onto the mesh grid, chutes deployed, thrusters in reverse. Dust spewed as the plane shuddered onto the ground. Raven began drifting to the left about ten yards after her wheels hit; Alou held it for the next twenty then seemed to overcor-rect. In the last fifty yards the plane moved sharply back to the left, jerked right, then disappeared beneath a massive cloud of dust and smoke.
“Shit,” said Breanna.
The video veered into the countryside as Zen brought the Flighthawk around quickly. Breanna jerked her attention back to the sky in front of her. The radar plot showed one of the Pave Hawks crossing ahead.
“Hold pattern, all aircraft,” said the controller sharply.
“We’re all right,” said Major Alou. “We’re okay.”
The Flighthawk video showed the dust clearing. The Megafortress had come off the far edge of the runway, clipping its wing against some of the rocks. The ground people were running toward it as Hawk One passed overhead.
“Raven, please hold your pattern,” said the CCT.
“Raven.”
“Going to have to recalculate our fuel,” said Chris Ferris.
Breanna grunted in acknowledgment as she widened their orbit, waiting for the people on the ground to sort things out. Two of Raven’s sixteen tires had blown and the wing had been lightly damaged, but otherwise the plane was fine. No one aboard had been hurt, assuming the pilot’s bruised ego didn’t count.
“My fault,” Alou told Breanna as the Megafortress was rigged to one of the bulldozers so it could be towed off the runway. “The wind kicked up crazy and pulled the drogue chutes. The computer didn’t know how to compensate and I had to fight it. Then the wind kicked out again and I lost the runway. That tooth to the east between the hillsides — it’s like a blowpipe.”
Breanna could imagine. Crosswinds were always a complication for any airplane when landing or taking off.
The Megafortress’s main asset was also its greatest weakness — it was an immense and heavy airframe. Sharp gusts of wind on landing could make a pilot’s life difficult even on the best runway.
“I say we dump the chutes,” said Chris.
“I don’t know if we can stop in time without them,” said Breanna.
“Chop ’em at the tooth.”
They worked the numbers — they’d run off the end of the runway, maybe even the mountain.
“What if we drop the other Flighthawk?”
The lighter load would lessen the plane’s momentum as it landed, making it easier to stop. Still, the computer calculated they’d need another fifty yards without the chutes.
“Burn off more fuel. Dump it even,” said Chris, working the calculations. The most optimistic — which had them running out of fuel during the final approach — left them ten yards too long.
“We can all eject,” joked Breanna.
“Still leaves us ten pounds too heavy,” answered Chris.
“I think we’re better off just losing the computer,” said Breanna. “We’ll figure the chutes will pull us and compensate.”
>
“I don’t know, Bree. If they couldn’t handle the cross-wind with the computer’s help—”
“The computer routines weren’t set up with the chutes,” said Breanna. She’d made up her mind. “We can cut it lower too, so we don’t put quite as much strain on the tires. I think they lost them on the touchdown. That hurt their steering.”
“I don’t know, Bree.”
“I do. I’ve landed in forty knot winds in an old B-52.
It’ll be easier than that.” She clicked her com setting to talk to Zen. “Jeff, we want to lighten our load. Can you launch Hawk Two?”
“What’s the game plan?”
Breanna explained quickly.
“I don’t know, Bree.”
“What don’t you know?”
“You guys are going to land on that postage stamp without any help from the computer?”
She’d expected Chris to object — though highly skilled, her copilot was by nature extremely cautious. But Zen was ordinarily the opposite, and routinely chafed against the computerized autopilot systems that helped him fly the U/MFs — even though he’d helped develop the damn things. If anyone should be in favor of turning off the training wheels, it should be him.
“I can do it with my eyes closed,” she said.
“Your call, Captain,” said her husband.
“Thank you, Major,” she said. “Tell me when you’re ready to fuel Hawk Two. I’d like to top off One as well.”
“Hawk leader acknowledges.”
* * *
Zen checked the Sitrep on his viewer, waiting for Quicksilver to finish its climb to 26,000 feet. Before he started working with the Megafortress fleet, he’d had a typical fighter jock’s attitude toward big planes and their pilots: basically they were airborne trucks, slow and easy to control. But the airborne launches and refuels had taught him to appreciate exactly how difficult a large aircraft could be to control. Its vast weight and wing surfaces, complicated flight systems, and powerful engines made for a complicated minuet. The dancers at the helm had their hands full, even with the sophisticated flight computers that helped control the Megafortress. Landing the big jet on the smooth surface in the shadow of Glass Mountain was one thing, landing on this mountaintop metal-covered sand trap quite another.