“Roger, EW,” Houser said. The fighter-intercept exercise area was still over eighty miles away, Houser thought. Hawthorne must be picking up signals from some other airplane engaging the fighters. He put the EW’s warning out of his mind.
Hawthorne tried to say something else, but he was quickly interrupted as the action of the B-52’s bomb run began.
“Copilot, call IP inbound,” Luger said. McLanahan had switched offsets and was now peering intently at a radar return that was almost obscured by terrain features around it.
“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 ...”
“We can’t hold this turn long, E.W.,” Martin, the copilot, reminded him. “The corridor narrows to two miles on this bomb run.”
“Fighter now at three o’clock!” Hawthorne shouted. Then, as if in reply to the copilot’s warning, he said, “Break left. Guns, stand by for AI at five o’clock.”
“Roger, E.W.,” Brake replied.
“Center the FCI, pilot,” Luger said. “Coming up on one hundred TG.” “Checks,” Houser replied.
“Pilot, accelerate if possible,” Brake said. Houser began to push the throttles up. “Stand by to chop power again.”
“Do it after the bomb run, guns,” Luger said. “Pilot, keep the throttles steady.”
“Radar?” Houser queried. “This is your run.”
“Bring airspeed up as slow as you can,” McLanahan said. “Shoving it up too fast will screw the ballistics up, not to mention Dave’s precious back-up timing. He might get upset with us.”
“Standing by,” Luger replied, smirking at McLanahan through his oxygen mask.
“Pilot,” Brake yelled, “fighter at seven o’clock, four miles, moving to eight o’clock. Break left!”
“Do it!” McLanahan said. This time, Houser threw the bomber over into about thirty-five degrees of bank. The forty-year-old aircraft shrieked in protest.
“Fighter moving to seven o’clock . . . now six o’clock. Pilot, roll out and center the FCI,” Brake said.
The bomber snapped out of the turn and began a slow turn to the right to center the thin white needle in the case of the Flight Command Indicator. Luger, scanning the computer panel before him, pointed to a single glowing red warning light.
“The Doppler is hung up,” Luger shouted. The Doppler was the system that provided groundspeed and wind information to the bombing computers—without it, the computers were useless, transmitting false information to the steering and release systems.
Luger tried recycling the Dopper power switches—turning them off and on several times to allow the system to reset itself—but no luck. “Pilot, it looks like the Doppler has gone out. Disregard the FCI. Radar, we need to get out of BOMB mode now!”
“Damned fighters,” Martin said.
Luger held up his running stopwatch. “I’ve got backup timing, radar,” he said. “Coming up on seventy seconds to release. Pilot, hold the airspeed right here.”
Luger was about to read the Alternate Bombing (Nuclear) checklist to McLanahan, but his partner was already accomplishing the items from memory, disconnecting the computers from aircraft and bombing controls. They were now relying on visual course control, Luger’s backup time and heading, and the radar scope to drop the bomb. Instead of the bombing computers sending the release pulse to the bomb racks, McLanahan would send the signal himself with the “pickle,” the bombs-away switch.
“Bomb doors coming open, guys,” McLanahan said. “Alternate delivery checklist complete. Dave, check my switches when you get a chance. Where’s my coffee cup?”
“D-two switch,” Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the manual bomb release “pickle” switch. Luger’s gloved fingers flew over the SRAM computer panel, reprogramming it to take a final position update at the same time the B-52 flew over the bomb target.
“Why did this have to happen to us now,” Luger said. “We ought to make a formal complaint about those fighters.”
“Relax, nav, relax,” McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in his ejection seat, a contented smile on his face. Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and piece of paper off his desk with a flourish.
“Hey!” Luger yelled across the compartment. “What the hell are you doing.”
“Nothing partner, nothing,” McLanahan said with a grin. “Everything’s great.”
“Want me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?” Luger asked excitedly, beginning to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.
“No,” McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap. “No sweat. Stay strapped in.”
“How 'bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or something? Anything. Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a trophy!”
“Cool out, nav,” McLanahan said.
Luger shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end? Here they were, on a SAC bombing run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan hadn’t even glanced at the radar scope since the computers failed.
Finally, McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually. “Five right, pilot,” he said. “Nav, how much time on your watch?”
“Coming up on sixty seconds,” Luger said. He was still looking at his partner in disbelief.
“Okay,” McLanahan said. “Disregard your timing—it’s at least seven seconds off. I’m dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract seven seconds from your timing just in case the radar scope goes out or something crazy like that.” He studied the radar scope again. “Four more right, pilot.”
“Seven degrees right of planned heading, radar,” Luger reminded him.
“Not to worry,” McLanahan said. “Check my switch positions and get ready for the overfly fix. Copilot, let me know as soon as you pick up any visual timing points. I know there’s not many on this target, but do the best you can.”
“I’ll try, radar,” Martin said. “Nothing so far.”
“Okay,” McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger. “Ready for the overfly fix, Dave?”
“I’m ready,” Luger said. “But you’re going . . .”
“Two more right, pilot,” McLanahan said. “Bob, my man, where are those fighters?”
Fighters! Luger couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His partner probably just had the worst of all possible things happen to him on a Bombing Competition sortie, and he was worried about fighters w
ith less than a minute to bomb release.
“Clear for now,” Brake replied.
“AI radar is searching,” Hawthorne reported. “They’ll be around again in a minute.”
“Okay,” McLanahan said.
“Pilot, hold your airspeed,” Luger said over the interphone. “It’s drifting too much.”
“Relax, nav,” McLanahan said. “We’re going to nail this one.”
“Nine degrees right of planned heading,” Luger said, nervously studying his own five-inch scope. He glanced over at his partner. McLanahan was lounging back in his seat, toying with the pickle switch in his left hand.
“I missed the final visual timing point, radar,” Martin said. The crew was suddenly very quiet—everyone but McLanahan.
“Okay, double-M,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”
“I’m going to bypass this overfly fix, radar,” Luger said. They were going farther and farther off course, and McLanahan wasn’t doing anything about it.
“Take this fix, nav,” McLanahan said, his voice suddenly quiet. He gave Luger the thumbs-up signal.
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry, nav,” McLanahan said. “I have a feeling about this one.”
Luger could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target coordinates, checked them, and prepared for the fix.
“Pilot, I want you to just caress that left rudder,” McLanahan said. He leaned forward a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of tiny blips tracking down his scope. “One left. Maybe a half left.”
“A half a degree?” Houser said.
“Just touch it,” McLanahan urged quietly. “Ever so gently ... a little more . . . just a touch more . . . hold it. That’s it. . . still zero drift, nav?”
“No Doppler,” Luger replied. “The winds and drift are out to lunch. So is the ground speed and backup timing. I’m working strictly off true airspeed and last known reliable winds.” Luger shook his head, bewildered. What was going on? Was McLanahan doing all this for show? Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!
“Okay. Never mind. I forgot. Coming up on release, nav . . . stand by . . .”
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