by Dale Brown
That explanation was as good as any, and Rebecca accepted it. “Boston Center, Thunder Zero-One flight of two would like to cancel IFR at this time.”
The controller’s mike opened, there was a short hesitant silence; then: “Ah, roger, Zero-One flight. Can you accept MARSA at this time?” MARSA stood for Military Accepts Responsibility for Separation of Aircraft, and it legally allowed military flights to fly in close proximity to one another.
“Thunder Zero-One accepts MARSA with Zero-Two.”
“Roger,” the controller said, a puzzled tone still in his voice. “I don’t know what it is, but you military types are dropping off the screens all over the place. Squawk 1200, maintain VFR hemispheric altitudes, monitor GUARD, frequency changed approved, good day.”
“Zero-One copies all, good day.” Fogelman set 1200 in the IFF Mode 3 window, which allowed the air traffic controllers to track the bombers and to maintain separation from other planes, but they were not under radar control. It was “see and avoid” for the rest of the day. Rebecca descended to 17,500 feet, the proper altitude for visual-flight-rules aircraft going eastbound. “Okay, they want us to use SATCOM for any more messages,” she told Fogelman, “so you can set the backup radio to SATCOM’ and I’ll keep the primary radio in the command post freq. I’ll—” Just then she noticed that the present-position readouts and all flight-data readouts had zeroed again. “Looks like your INS just rolled over.”
“Fuck,” Fogelman muttered. “Just my luck. I draw a piece-of-shit INS my first day of Hell Week.” Furness didn’t have the heart to tell him it was probably his system management that screwed the INS up. Both INS units seemed to have taken themselves off-line, so he shut down both of them, selected the satellite navigation system for the autopilot and system position and velocity reference, switched INS2 to ATTITUDE mode, then turned INS1 on and began an inflight alignment. The INS would use global positioning system present position, speed, and altitude to begin coarse alignment. It would take twice the effort to maintain the navigation system, and it might never tighten down completely. Fogelman still had a lot to learn about the navigation system—it worked better if just a few quality radar fixes and GPS comparisons were put in, rather than a lot of poor or mediocre radar fixes.
The common post frequency was buzzing a few minutes later as the two bombers overflew the base—Rebecca tried to check in with them, but received only a hurried “Thunder control, unable at this time, out,” when she requested an update on their landing time or to check if they had contacted Zero-Two and Zero-Three in the low-level route. “That’s weird … I guess the exercise must be heating up,” she said on interphone. “Some sort of big-time readiness test or something, I bet. Getting a late takeoff and two aborts to start the ball rolling didn’t help.”
“These exercises are a waste anyway.” Fogelman sighed. He had been working hard on the navigation system, punching fixes in every ten minutes or so—far too many, in her opinion. “We practice too much and don’t spend as much time flying and dropping real bombs. If they had only two mobilization exercises a year and spent the money they’d save on live bombs and flying time, we’d get more out of these reserve weeks. At least that’s how it seems to me.”
“You’re probably right,” Furness agreed, “but mobility is what we do. That’s our mission.”
“Come on, Furness,” Fogelman said. “Everyone talks mobility, but do you think they’d ever deploy RF-111s? They’d need half the airlift in the inventory to take our support gear—and that’s not including the photointel trailers. Sure, we might deploy to England, to the old F-111 bases in Lakenheath or Upper Heyford, or deploy to Guam, but nowhere else. We’re playing the numbers game, that’s all. We’re keeping F-111s in the inventory just to show that we’re not getting complacent about national or global defense. The F-15Es, the B-1s, the B-2 bombers, the B-52 or ship-launched cruise missiles—those guys get all the glory. We just get to play mobility.”
“Well, well, Fogman really does have an opinion about national defense issues,” Furness chided him, “even if it is motivated by laziness and a total give-a-shit attitude. You really have given this some thought, haven’t you?”
“All I care about,” Fogelman said, unaffected by either Furness’ compliment or her backhanded barb, “is doing my job and getting my ass on the ground. You know what your problem is?”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
“You got this romantic notion about flying and this job,” Fogelman said. “You’d sacrifice your business, your personal life, all the real stuff in your life, for the Reserves. Do you think they care about your sacrifice? The Reserves will keep on taking until you got nothing left—no career, no job, no future. Then, just when you’ve hit bottom, they’ll RIF you, just like they did back in ’92. You think they’re going to let any female Reserve flyer under the rank of colonel make it to retirement? They’ll kick your butt out or make life so miserable for you that you’ll quit before you collect all your retirement points. Meanwhile you’ve lost your charter business and your commercial license, you’re older, and you’re out of work. Thank you very much, Air Force Reserves. I’m not being cynical, just realistic.”
Furness admitted he had a point—the tough-ass dude in the bar the other night, obviously in the military and working nights as a maintenance man to make ends meet, came to mind—but she didn’t tell Fogelman that. “The solution to that, Mark,” she decided, “is to work harder at both jobs. I can make Liberty Air work, and I can make it to 0-6 in the Reserves.”
“If you say so.” Fogelman clucked. “Just remember who told you first. You got maybe five more years in the flying game before they put you out to pasture—and that’s if they will still allow women in combat past the five-year evaluation period that ends in ’98. You might make it to light colonel and might even make ops officer, but get in your Air War College and squadron commander in five years? I don’t think so. All the good slots go to active-duty ass-kissers. And you need to get a command position in a tactical unit before they’ll make you a full bird. I hate to say it, but you got screwed when you accepted a Reserve commission. You’d be better off if you just concentrated on getting Liberty Air to go regional, rather than blowing half your time flying these fucking planes. Doesn’t that make sense?”
Before she could answer, activity on the primary radio halted their conversation, and he had his head back in the radarscope again. But she had to give Fogelman a bit of credit—he was smarter than he ever let on. If she was given the choice of building her military career or building Liberty Air into a regional carrier, which should she choose?
Liberty Air, of course. There was no other choice, really. She was already stretching herself to the limit by pulling fourteen days of Reserve duty a month—what would she do when it was time to make the big push for squadron commander? Spend an extra week, without pay, working on base? Go full-time to Air War College in residence—for six months? That would kill Liberty Air Service for sure. Even Ed Caldwell, who was the closest thing to a steady guy she’d had in years, wanted her to make a choice and settle down with him.
Sure, there was something to be said for being one of the few top women combat soldiers in the country, even a dash of celebrity. And nothing beat flying the RF-111G Vampire bomber. It was an aviator’s wet-dream. But as irritating and aggravating as Fogelman could be, his points were ones she had tried to push out of her mind in the past. But she knew he was calling a spade a spade. She had put in time with the military, a lot of time, and Liberty Air offered her the chance to finally build a life for herself. Some security. Some recognition and respect outside of the military. But it couldn’t be done if she was going to try and climb the military Reserves ladder as well. She tried to toss the thought out of her head … for now. But soon, very soon, Rebecca knew she was going to have to seriously weigh the direction she wanted her life to take … and her commitment to the Reserves.
It took about an hour to reach the specified coordinates, a
nd another hour to reach Johnson and Norton and have them join up on them in the overwater restricted area. On the way to the destination, they got the latest weather advisories from Boston Air Route Traffic Control Center. Their nearest alternate airfield, Brunswick Naval Air Station in Maine, was getting light snow showers, and Plattsburgh itself might be snowed in too in about four hours. Their last suitable alternate base, Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire, would probably go down in about six hours.
By the time they reached point FREEZ, they were out of radio range of both military and civilian stations. Just to make matters worse, everyone’s AFSATCOM satellite communications units in the four-ship cell did not seem to be working—the units were functioning and messages seemed to be going out to the satellite, but no messages were coming in. That meant no coordination for a landing site and aerial refueling. When they tried the high-frequency (HF) radio, they heard absolutely nothing but static. “Anything in the weather briefings about sunspot activity?” Furness asked Fogelman.
“Huh?”
“Sunspots,” Rebecca said. “They wipe out HF messages by electrifying the ionosphere so radio waves can’t bounce off.”
“I didn’t hear anything briefed to us about sunspots,” Fogelman said. She wondered if he ever listened to weather briefings. Furness sent the rest of the flight out to loose-route formation, set best-endurance airspeed to conserve fuel, and set up a monitoring system on the UHF, AFSATCOM, and HF radios for any instructions from anybody.
Right away, she was feeling more and more uncomfortable with this setup. Problem number one was the weather. After just a few minutes, Furness found she had to bring the other flight members closer and closer in, nearly right back into fingertip formation, so they could stay in visual contact with one another. This immediately began taxing Paula Norton’s flying skills—she was a pretty good stick, but long minutes in fingertip formation tended to make her a bit erratic. Rebecca had kept her in her original position in the number-three position, but as the wingmen drew in closer and the weather got worse, the planes at the farther ends tended to shift more, amplifying the other planes’ movements, so she put Norton in the number-two position, right on Furness’ wing. If they had to go “lost wingman” in the clouds, Rebecca wanted Paula to stay with her as long as possible.
Rebecca made the decision to start heading back toward Plattsburgh after nearly an hour orbiting in the warning area. Johnson and Norton had already been down on the low-level navigation route—Johnson had dropped his “beer can” bombs, while Norton still had her GBU-24 laser-guided bomb—and they were getting close to their fuel reserves. It would take nearly thirty minutes for a tanker from Pease or Plattsburgh to get out to them in the warning area for a refueling, and that was too close a call—if a plane couldn’t take on gas, they’d have an immediate fuel emergency. She was going to get an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) clearance from Boston Center and head back to Plattsburgh before the weather totally crumpled. Exercise or not, things were getting a little too disorganized and dangerous, and it was time to get on the ground and regroup.
Just as they headed inbound from point FREEZ and were about to contact Boston Center for their clearance, they heard: “Unknown rider, unknown rider, off the Kennebunk VOR zero-five-zero-degree radial, niner-five nautical miles, this is WINDJAMMER on GUARD, authenticate kilo-bravo and stand by.” The message was repeated several times. They knew exactly who WINDJAMMER was: that was the collective call-sign for the northeast sector of the Air Force Air Defense Zone. The radar controllers that continually scanned the skies for intruding aircraft had locked on to them.
Furness quickly used her left MFD and set the backup radio to GUARD, the international emergency frequency, and said, “Mark, look up that authentication.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Fogelman said, quickly flipping back to the proper date-time-group page. Air Defense required unknown aircraft to respond immediately or they would scramble fighters—some of those fighters coming from their own sister squadron, the 134th Fighter Interceptor Squadron at Burlington. Once they discovered you were a friendly, the shit would hit the fan from headquarters on down. No one wanted to be caught busting the Air Defense Identification Zone. “Reply Zulu,” Fogelman finally said.
“WINDJAMMER, this is Thunder Zero-One flight of four, authenticates Zulu,” Furness radioed on the backup radio. On the primary radio, she said, “Thunder Flight, fingertip formation, monitor GUARD on backup. Zero-Two, try to contact Boston Center on the primary radio and get us a clearance back to Plattsburgh.”
“Two, wilco.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Thunder Zero-One, this is WINDJAMMER,” the air defense controller came back. “Check your IFF for all proper codes, recycle your beacons, and stand by for authentication. Acknowledge.”
Furness and Fogelman looked at each other, puzzled. Fogelman hit the CFI, or Channel Frequency Indicator, button on his control and display unit, which gave him a readout of all the beacons and transceivers on the plane. “I got mode one on and set, although I don’t know what for,” he said, reading off the currently activated radios and their frequencies. “Mode three is squawking 1200, and altitude readout Mode C is on. Mode two and four are standby.” Mode two and mode four were special identification codes required for tactical aircraft in a battlefield situation. They were never used in peacetime and could be set only on the ground, usually by the crew chiefs before every flight if required. Mode one was a military-unit-identification beacon interrogated only by allied nations and naval vessels; modes three and C were standard civil-air-traffic-control beacons used to transmit flight data and altitude.
“Better turn mode four on,” Furness said, “and hope Sergeant Brodie set it right.” Fogelman used the CDU and made sure the correct codes were on. It was unlikely that mode two was set properly, but if WINDJAMMER wanted it on, they would turn it on.
But it didn’t seem to work. “Thunder Zero-One, this is WINDJAMMER on GUARD, codes not received, turn right heading zero-four-zero, clear of United States warning and prohibited airspace. Acknowledge.”
“WINDJAMMER, Zero-One, we cannot turn,” Furness replied. “Altering course may cause a fuel emergency. We are talking with Boston Center at this time, requesting an IFR clearance, type aircraft Romeo-Foxtrot-One-Eleven-Golf, slant-Romeo, flight of four, direct Plattsburgh at sixteen thousand feet, cargo code yellow-four. We are VFR at this time. How copy?” Usually flight plans were filed only with an air-traffic-control facility, not with a military surveillance site, but this guy didn’t seem to realize who they were, so it would be best to let him copy their information down and get it into the system however possible. The “yellow-four” code, indicating they were carrying explosive ordnance on board, usually got a lot of attention from anyone who recognized the nomenclature, so a flight plan should be ready ver—
“Thunder Flight, this is WINDJAMMER on GUARD, your request cannot be accepted at this time,” the air defense controller said. Furness’ mouth dropped open. Was this guy serious … ? “You must alter course and turn away from the coastline until proper identification procedures and clearances are obtained. Turn right immediately to heading zero-four-zero, maintain VFR at seventeen thousand five hundred feet or above, with all lights on and landing gear extended. Acknowledge.”
What kind of idiot was in the control tower? she wondered. Rebecca mashed the mike button on the throttle quadrant in total anger: “WINDJAMMER, I am not going to lower my landing gear. We were sent to warning area W-102 VFR as part of a Bravo exercise conducted by Thunder control. We were told to expect refueling support and further instructions at a later time, but some aircraft formations are low on fuel and we need to proceed back to base. If this is part of the exercise, then terminate immediately or we’ll declare an inflight emergency and file a written report with the FAA. Over.”
The “unknown rider” warning was then repeated several times, with hardly an opportunity in the broadcasts to in
terject a response. “Christ,” Furness mused on interphone, “it’s like they don’t know who the hell we are. I hate to risk busting the air-defense identification zone, but I think we’re lost in the system, and with the HF and AFSATCOM out, we’ve got no way to communicate with the command post as long as we’re out over water.” On interplane frequency, she radioed to Johnson: “Two, any luck with Boston Center?”
“Negative,” Johnson replied. “They can hear us, I think, and I can hear them talking, but it sounds weird, like there’s been an accident and they’re clearing out the airspace or something. It’s pretty confused, but I don’t think they want to talk to us. What are we going to do, Lead?”
“What’s your fuel look like?”
“About an hour left, with minimum reserves,” Johnson replied. “We’ll have about five thousand over the fix, probably less.” Five thousand pounds of fuel “over the fix,” or at the initial approach fix for an instrument approach and landing, was the absolute minimum for any chosen destination—that would allow enough fuel for perhaps two or three bad-weather landing attempts. “Maybe we should think about Pease instead, or go to Navy Brunswick.” Even though they had the National Guard tankers there, Pease, a former Strategic Air Command bomber base and home for the FB-111, was now a civilian airport, and they might not take kindly to RF-111 bombers with bombs and lasers aboard landing beside the tourists and vacationers.
“Brunswick it is,” Furness said. On interphone, she told Fogelman, “Mark, call up Navy Brunswick on the computer and give me a heading, then squawk ‘Emergency’ and keep trying to raise someone on GUARD frequency on the backup radio. This bullshit’s gone on long—”
Just then, on the radar threat-warning receiver, a bat-wing symbol appeared at the top of the scope, with a fast, insistent deedledeedledeedle audio warning over the interphone. Fogelman was working on calling up Navy Brunswick’s destination number and didn’t call it out—the warning receiver gave spurious signals occasionally, and this one certainly seemed like a phantom signal. A bat-wing symbol was an enemy-airborne-radar warning, showing the presence of a radar that matched the pulse-repetition frequency and wavelength of a Russianor Chinese-made fighter. The symbol drifted around at the top of the scope for a few seconds, moving slowly eastbound—the AN/APS-109B Radar Homing and Warning System could not determine the range to the threat, only approximate “lethal range”—then disappeared. “That’s weird,” Furness said. “Friendly radars don’t make that warning.”