“Nine-tenths of everything on the Megafortress is geared toward selfdefense and target penetration,” Elliott explained. “That has been my number-one priority. This is just a test-bed aircraft. Over the past few years, we’ve just kept on adding refinements to it. Building a better mousetrap, I guess.” He patted the bomber’s smooth skin. “We’re going to incorporate the data we get from our test sorties into several other types of aircraft, notably the B-l.
“Let’s go inside,” Elliott said finally. “The technicians are doing a simulated flight on the avionics right now. It’ll give you a chance to see your new gear operate downstairs.”
They received clearance from the guards surrounding the huge bomber and climbed inside. Out of instinct, McLanahan immediately climbed into the left seat and scanned the instrument panel before him—his hand even positioned itself on the crosshair tracking handle as if drawn there by magnetism. Briggs, standing behind them near the aft bulkhead door leading to the forward wheel well, merely stood and gaped at the cramped compartment.
“Simple, direct, high-speed, highly accurate navigation equipment,” Elliott said. “Satellite global navigation, with position accuracy down to twenty feet, time down to the hundredth of a second, and groundspeed down to the quarter-knot. Plus an inertial navigation system with a ring- laser gyro with heading accuracy to the tenth of a degree after twelve un-updated hours.”
McLanahan rested his hands near the computer terminal, studied the keyboard and the video monitor, and then said, “You took the second navigator’s seat out. Where’s he going to sit?”
“Second navigator?” Elliott was genuinely startled. “Patrick, I just explained to you. This thing has automatic accuracy a navigator only dreams about. You can handle it yourself. Why do you need someone else?”
“What if all this stuff is destroyed? What if it dumps?”
“Dumps? Elliott looked insulted. “You can’t dump this stuff. If you turn off all the power, the ring laser gyro has a half-hour backup battery. Once power is restored, the gyro realigns in ninety seconds back to original specifications. And it’ll take one satellite cycle—about ten minutes— for the GPS to find itself and start navigating again. It doesn’t dump. ”
“Well, sir,’’ McLanahan said, “I don’t know.’’ He studied the controls on the left side and the small rack of relays and boxes behind him. “You kept the original radar set, is that right, sir?”
“Yes,” Elliott said, looking puzzled. “It’s interfaced with the defensive weapons more, with target tracking modes and—”
“But I still have radar crosshairs?” he interrupted. “Fixtaking capability? Wind runs? Altitude calibrations?”
“Yes, yes,” Elliott said impatiently. “You can still update the inertial navigation set with the radar set, and you can put a memory point wind into the system, but you don’t need—”
McLanahan didn’t let him finish. He simply reached down to the radar controls near his left knee and, with both hands, pushed three buttons simultaneously.
The results were dramatic. Instantly, a relay behind McLanahan’s ejection seat smoked and sputtered, every circuit breaker of the few remaining above McLanahan’s head popped, and the entire lower deck compartment went completely dark.
“What the hell . . .” Elliott shouted.
A technician from the cockpit upstairs dashed over to the hatch connecting the upper and lower decks and shined a flashlight on the enraged three-star general.
“What happened down there?” he asked timidly.
“How the hell should I know!” Elliott said. “Get down here and—”
“The BNS a/c exciter power circuit breakers are popped down here,” McLanahan said calmly from the darkness. Briggs could be heard breathing in the background. “You’ll find the BNS right TR control circuit breaker popped on the right load central panel upstairs, along with the RDPS power supply breakers number one, two, the plus six hundred volt, and the negative three hundred/negative one-fifty volt breakers down here. That smell is the left BNS control system relay. No replacement is usually carried in the spares box.
“Everything tied into the BNS radar is dead, General,” McLanahan said. “I can swap around components and bring the radar back, but it won’t bring back all the associated equipment including the inertial navigation set and these monitors and keyboard. The satellite system is still operational and it may know where it is, sir, but it can’t tell you because there’s no screen. I’ve also erased the navigation waypoints stored in the computer memory, and I’ll bet the cartridge reader is dead, also. No automatic navigation.”
“God damn it!” Elliott said.
“General, may I make a suggestion, sir . . . ?” Briggs said.
“Do it and you’ll be guarding a commissary warehouse in Iceland, Briggs!” the general snapped. “Masuroki, get the damn power back on.”
“But I don’t . . .”
“Reset the power cart first before it drops off the line completely,” McLanahan offered. “Then reset the circuit breakers. The ECM and fire-control stuff will need to be turned off and rewarmed up before you do that. That takes thirty minutes—and with all the stuff you’ve added, probably closer to an hour. I’ll need a new relay down here.” He made a little pause, then added, “And a right ejection seat. And a sextant. And a nav—”
“That’s unrealistic, Patrick,” Elliott said as Masuroki scrambled to restore power. “You’re not going to hit all those controls all at once like that.”
“That simulates about a half-dozen ways to overload the BNS left control relay, general,” McLanahan said. “A little moisture, a bad wire, some sort of voltage spike or surge—poof!”
General Elliott thought of the skimpy intelligence data Curtis had shown him—the last words of the crew of the downed RC-135. The awesome power of the strange radar they had encountered ... the thought made him wince in the cramped darkness of the Megafortress.
“All right, all right, hotshot,” Elliott said, exasperated. “I guess I got a bit carried away with my toys down here. Let’s get out of here. You’ll be spending enough time in this beast, anyway.”
As they climbed down the ladder, Briggs turned to the general and said, “I think you found the right dude for the job, General.”
“Yes,” Elliott agreed. He was silent for a moment, then said, “But I’m worried about exactly what the job will turn out to be.”
It was the largest group of people McLanahan had been with since arriving at Spokane Airport—how many days ago? It had only been three days, and only one since first seeing the Megafortress, but it seemed like he had been cooped up in that desert for an eternity. Most of the time since seeing the bomber had been spent in intense study of the handtyped notes and tech orders on the avionics and performance capabilities of the bomber and the Striker glide-bomb. It was incredibly simple to operate—highly sophisticated, but simple.
They were in another windowless, stifling, nearly empty office. McLanahan and Hal Briggs had joined a room crowded with eight people already there waiting for General Elliott. The most surprising additions were four women. Two were obviously security guards, but the third was a middle-aged woman in jeans and a safari jacket who stood beside an older gentleman, and the fourth was a much younger woman, perhaps in her late twenties, who stared at the newcomers in surprise. The others took quick glances at the two newcomers and promptly ignored them.
A few moments later, General Elliott entered the room, now wearing civilian slacks and a short-sleeve shirt but still sporting the huge .45- caliber automatic under his left armpit.
“I think it’s about time we were introduced to one another,” General Elliott said immediately, “although you’ve all been working with each other for the past few weeks and may in fact have run into each other quite often while working on the Old Dog. Colonel Anderson.”
A tall, dark-haired man in a green SAC flightsuit turned and faced the group. He had taken the front and center chair and had leaped to atten
tion when Elliott entered the room.
“Colonel James Anderson,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “Deputy commander of the 4135th Test and Evaluation Center, Strategic Development and Testing, Edwards Air Force Base.”
“Colonel Anderson brings a wealth of experience from several different weapon systems to Dreamland,” Elliott said. “He has been the single most important source of ideas and our premier trouble-shooter. The Old Dog wouldn’t be where it is right now without him.”
“Thank you, sir,” Anderson said. He returned to his seat and with narrow, piercing eyes scanned the others around him. He looked right past McLanahan, disregarding him.
McLanahan pegged him immediately: the huge silver ring, dwarfing his wedding band; the jump wings beneath his command pilot wings; his thin waist and chin—zoomie. Air Force Academy grad. A Colorado Cuckoo. Not exactly a navigator lover, either.
The man next to Anderson stood. He was a bit shorter, less chiseled and much younger version of Anderson, but he had nodded politely to Briggs and McLanahan earlier and he seemed friendly. “Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack, from the engineering and development section at Wright Patterson Air Force Base.
“The man responsible for a lot of the Old Dog’s new tricks in the cockpit,” Elliott added. “He’s made his job as copilot a million times easier—obviously selfishly motivated. He’s released the copilot to help out with bomber defense and crew coordination. He’s also racked up a few thousand hours in several aircraft as well. The deputy project officer.” Anderson gave Ormack a proud nod and a quick thumbs-up as he sat down.
The younger civilian woman then stood up. Everyone else in the room looked around and past her—everyone but McLanahan and Harold Briggs. She was of average height, with dark hair tied in a scholarly bun atop her head. Her eyes and face were dominated by huge, thick glasses, but, McLanahan thought, she was pretty in a—well, teacherly sort of way. She could not have been much older than McLanahan himself. She looked . . . familiar.
“Doctor Wendy Tork,” she said briefly, brandishing the word doctor like a sword in front of the SAC officers. “Strategic electronic defense engineer, Palmdale, California.,,
McLanahan nearly bolted out of his seat. No, it couldn’t be, he thought. He turned and met the friendly smile of the woman he had met in the hospitality bar back during the Bomb Comp Symposium. He could barely keep his jaw from swinging open.
“One of the country’s foremost experts on electronic countermeasures, counter-countermeasures, Stealth technology, and radar,” Elliott said. “The electronic warfare operator.”
“Holy shit,” McLanahan said under his breath. He continued to stare at her, studying her, trying to imagine her in a flight suit. Then out of a flight suit. Both seemed weirdly difficult in their present circumstances . . .
He looked around and noticed Anderson’s disgusted, exasperated expression as the colonel studied Tork. Well, McLanahan thought, he likes women even less than navigators, I guess. Heads swiveled around in his direction, so McLanahan decided he was next and sheepishly stood.
“Captain Patrick McLanahan, B-52 radar navigator from Ford Air Force Base,” McLanahan said. “This is Lieutenant Harold Briggs.”
“Mornin’,” Briggs said with a big smile. The icy glare he got from Anderson made him wish he hadn’t said that, and he zipped his smile away.
Everyone in the small, stuffy room gave them a cursory nod but little else.
“Thanks for the intro, former buddy,” Briggs whispered to McLanahan.
“If I gotta sweat in front of Anderson, so do you,” McLanahan whispered back.
“The best in the business,” Elliott said proudly. “Without a doubt the most gifted, knowledgeable, and professional bombardier in the United States military. Probably in anyone's military. The Old Dog’s radar navigator.”
“Where’s Mentzer, general?” Anderson said sharply.
“I had a problem with Joe’s background investigation, James,” Elliott replied. Anderson gave Elliott an exasperated, impatient look.
“General, forget that,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll vouch for the man, dammit. He modified and tested both the Striker TV-guided bomb and the new sub-atomic munitions. He’s the perfect man for the job.” Anderson glared at Tork when he said man.
“Sorry, James,” Elliott said. “Captain McLanahan, however, has recently convinced me of the need for an additional crewmember downstairs. If Mentzer’s clearance comes through—well, we’ll discuss it.”
“Another crewmember?” Anderson said. “A navigator? The Old Dog doesn’t need another navigator.”
“Patrick has demonstrated otherwise, Colonel.”
“What we need, General,” Anderson said, “is the man who built the Striker and the decoy drones, the man who helped—”
“Colonel Anderson.” Elliott had lost all trace of good-naturedness in his voice, although his expression was still light and easy. “Joseph Mentzer is not available at this time. When he is, I’ll inform you. Until now, Captain McLanahan is the radar navigator. All right, Colonel?” The emphasis on Anderson’s rank suppressed the last spark of resistance, and Anderson fell silent.
“Last but certainly not least,” Elliott said, nodding to the last man and the woman beside him.
“Thank you, General,” the man said. “I am Doctor Lewis Campos, retired Air Force. This is my assistant, Doctor Angelina Pereira. We are weapons design consultants representing several industries—actually, a mix of several military-industrial complexes.”
“And a duo with loads of imagination,” Elliott added. “Designers of the defensive armament aboard the Old Dog—the guns, missiles, rockets. Lew Campos will be the gunner in all of the tests we conduct.”
“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Elliott said. “From now on, you’ll be working very closely with one another to gather the information we need. All of you, with the possible exception of Patrick, are intimately familiar with your own devices and equipment—and Captain McLanahan has demonstrated a knowledge of his own systems that would rival anyone here. But it’ll be most important that you all learn to work with each other to insure the success of these tests.”
Elliott was silent for a moment. Then: “Some of you are not military people. You’ve worked in military centers, designing military weaponry, working closely with other military members, but you never planned on actually flying or participating in operational tests yourselves. We simply don’t have the time to train flight test engineers or military personnel to your level of expertise.
“I am heartened by the fact that all of you are volunteers, but that doesn’t bind you to a seat aboard the Megafortress. If any of you, either now or later on, feel you cannot handle the rigors we’ll place on you, see me in private and you’ll be released.”
There was a sort of relieved nod from everyone—everyone except Anderson.
“Colonel Anderson, the floor is yours.”
Anderson nodded thanks to General Elliott, then swung on the rest of his newly assembled crew like a disgusted drill sergeant at an induction.
“The routine is simple, ladies and gentlemen. Our mission is to collect data on avionics, weaponry, hardware, and software aboard the B-52 India model for use in other specialized military aircraft. Very simple.
“To do this, we study. Every waking minute, every free moment, you will spend studying the missions and the scenarios faced in each one. You will not concentrate only on your own specialty. You will be intimately familiar with the duties and responsibilities of every member of this crew.
“When the plane is available to fly, we spend all afternoon, from thirteen hundred hours until eighteen hundred hours, in mission planning. The crew briefing will be three hours prior to takeoff*. All of our flights will be night sorties to help insure security, and they will be four hours in duration. There will be three hours debriefing following the sortie, then eight hours crew rest before duty begins the next day.
“When the plane is not
available, we will use the simulator. Simulator sessions are five hours long, and there will be five hours for mission planning and briefing and three hours for post-briefing.”
Anderson started to pace in front of his assembled crew, staring each one down.
“This is not a scientific laboratory, an office, or a boardroom,” he said. “This is a classified tactical unit on an urgent assignment. Because of the need for speed and accuracy, we will consider this field conditions from here on. There will be no leave, no absence, no sick call, no vacation, no days off*. You will have no visitors, receive no calls from your other place of employment, or work on any other project save this one. Am I understood?”
No reply.
“You are expected to be familiar with the entire contents of the I-model technical order by noon tomorrow. Then, we will meet here and talk about the plane and its characteristics. Questions?”
Again, no reply.
Anderson turned to Elliott. “General?” Elliott shook his head.
“You will be sorry,” Anderson said menacingly, “if you come here tomorrow and you don't know your shit. Dismissed.”
The Old Dog’s crewmembers filed out, everyone afraid to speak or make any comment with Anderson anywhere within earshot. Elliott, McLanahan, and Briggs were the last to leave.
“That man,” Briggs said, “is one intense sonofabitch.”
“I can see working with him is going to be a real blast,” McLanahan said. “Thanks for the great assignment, General.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, smiling. “I hope you’ve been studying. You’re starting out with two strikes against you already.”
“I know,” McLanahan said. “I’m a nav—and I’m not Mentzer. Who is Mentzer, anyway?”
“An aerospace engineer who has worked closely with Anderson for five years,” Briggs replied.
“But he had a clearance problem?”
“Hal here unearthed some . . . discrepancies in Mentzer’s background before he came to Dreamland,” Elliott said. “Too many overlapping jobs. Our Hal here is the suspicious type—but I haven’t gone wrong yet trusting his instincts.”
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