“Why, thanks, General—”
“But, there’s always a first time,” Elliott said, smiling. “Wait until Anderson hears it was a lowly lieutenant keeping Mentzer out of the project.” Briggs groaned. “Anyway, I’m keeping him out of this phase of the project until we get it straightened out.”
“Then can I get out of this loony bin?” McLanahan asked, only half jokingly.
“Mentzer only builds them,” Elliott said. “He can’t drop them. You can. Better than anyone else in the country.”
“Great.” McLanahan glanced at Briggs. “Hal, my friend, there had better be some beer around this dustbowl, or I’m gonna get real cranky studying tonight.”
“You can count on me,” Briggs replied.
On the way outside, McLanahan noticed Wendy Tork standing alone between her barracks and the briefing room. He excused himself and walked over.
“I didn’t recognize you at first—with the glasses and all.”
“How is the King of Bomb Comp,” Wendy said, placing her hands on her hips.
“Can’t complain,” McLanahan said, smiling. “Well, actually I can . . . This Colonel Anderson seems to be really bad news. I’d like to drop him out of the Old Dog’s bomb bay instead of one of those Striker bombs.”
“Maybe you’ll get your chance,” Wendy said, smiling. “But they don’t give trophies for that, do they?”
“Not the last I heard,” McLanahan said. He shifted his feet uncomfortably, trying to think of what to say next. “So,” he said finally, “why didn’t you tell me when we met what a crackerjack electronics warfare operator you were? I thought you were some sort of technician.”
“You didn’t ask,” Wendy said. “Besides, you seemed busy basking in your own limelight. I figured you weren’t interested.”
“But I was, ” McLanahan said, realizing as he said it that he was much too emphatic. “I mean . . . sure I was interested.” God, he was making a mess of this.
Wendy began walking toward the women’s barracks and McLanahan fell into step with her. “Hey,” he said, “you’ve got to explain your ECM gear to me. It was the most confusing part of that damn manual. I think I need some expert advice. Tonight ...”
Wendy stopped a few yards short of the barracks and folded her arms over her chest. “Tonight?”
“If it wouldn’t be much trouble,” McLanahan said quickly. Wendy hesitated a moment while giving him an appraising look. “All right,” she said finally, “tonight it is. See you after dinner.”
“Fine,” McLanahan said. He waved to her as she disappeared inside the barracks. This may not be a bad TDY after all, McLanahan thought to himself.
9 The United Nations
Ian McCaan, Secretary-General of the United Nations, had just called the meeting of the United Nations Security Council to order when Gregory Adams spoke:
“Mr. Secretary-General,” Adams said, “information has been brought to the attention of the government of the United States concerning the incident described in the specification of charges against the government of the Soviet Union. I have been instructed by my government to allow the ambassador from the Soviet Union to enter a plea in response to the charges in lieu of presenting evidence to the Security Council.”
McCaan looked confused. “Am I to understand, Ambassador Adams, that your government is dropping its charges against the Soviet Union?”
“Allow me to explain, Mr. Secretary-General,” Dmitri Karmarov interjected. “My government has been in careful negotiations with the American government since the charges were first preferred against us in the emergency session. The charges concern a highly sensitive research and development facility in the Soviet Union, which my government would rather not discuss even in closed Security Council session. Therefore, we have taken steps to enter into negotiations with the United States directly.”
“I wish to make it clear,” Adams immediately added, staring directly at Karmarov, “that the charges against the Soviet Union still remain. I am prepared at any time to present my evidence against the Soviet Union in this forum.”
“That is understood, Ambassador Adams,” Karmarov said. “As part of the agreement between our governments, I would like to make the following statement:
“The government of the Soviet Union pleads nolo contendere before the Security Council of the United Nations in response to the charges brought against us by the government of the United States. The Soviet Union acknowledges, incomplete evidence notwithstanding, that activity at the Kvaznya research facility may have caused a situation to develop in which an American aircraft in the vicinity may have experienced difficulties of an unknown type or severity. It is not known for certain if such difficulties resulted in the loss of the aircraft.
“The government of the United States acknowledges that their RC-135 intelligence aircraft was within the Air Defense Identification Zone at the time of question,” Karmarov continued, “without proper identification, without a properly filed flight plan, and without clearance from any Soviet controlling agency. The United States has not confirmed that the plane was on a spy mission, which my government condemns, but—”
“But that doesn’t mean any—” Adams interrupted.
“I was going to say,” Karmarov said, his voice rising, “that the military air defense operators on duty did not take the proper action in the case of such an intrusion, nor did they warn the aircraft of ongoing activity that may have serious effects on aircraft in the area.
“In the spirit of peace and international harmony, therefore, the government of the Soviet Union has agreed to cooperate in the investigation into the causes of the loss of the American spy plane. In return, the United States has consented to let the Soviet Union enter a plea of no contest to its charges until that investigation is completed. As to the matter of possible interference with free-flying aircraft and the alleged negligence of Soviet military operators, we request that the Security Council reserve judgment until a complete analysis of the controller’s transcripts and records can be completed.”
Karmarov put his head down over his notes and, reading quickly and unemotionally, continued: “The Soviet Union extends its regrets to the family of those lost near our shores. We assure all concerned that we will do everything in our power to resolve the matter. Thank you.”
The Russian translator barely was able to spit out the last few sentences trying to keep up with Karmarov. The Russian put his notes down and glanced at the assembled ambassadors.
Ambassador Braunmueller, the representative from East Germany, stood and held out his hands to Karmarov. “Your statement, Comrade Ambassador,” he said, “was magnificent. The Soviet Union’s willingness to cooperate with the investigation and their openness is to be commended.”
“They haven’t admitted to anything . . .” Adams said, but he was drowned out by Braunmueller’s booming voice.
“Mr. Secretary-General, I move that final judgment be reserved until the full results of the investigation are presented.”
“Seconded,” another ambassador said.
“I, too,” McCaan said, “am impressed and heartened by the spirit of cooperation exhibited by the Soviet Union. I call for a vote.”
Adams abstained. As he expected, the vote was unanimous.
“Nemine contradicente, ” McCaan announced. “Let the record show the vote is unanimous. The plea of nolo contendere is to be officially entered. The matter involving the charges against the government of the Soviet Union is hereby suspended indefinitely.
“The government of the United States is hereby requested by the Security Council of the United Nations to respect the spirit of cooperation exhibited by the Soviet Union by cooperating fully with their government in the investigation of the aircraft disaster and not to retaliate or otherwise impose any restrictions or sanctions against the Soviet Union because of this incident.”
* * *
McLanahan was alone inside the bomber, inside the plastic-skinned, stifling Old Dog. Hal B
riggs was with him, watching the activities in the downstairs compartment and taking notes, but effectively McLanahan was alone with the bomber and its equipment.
They were flying three hundred feet above the high desert and looming mountain ranges of Nevada. McLanahan was studying the radar scope, which was now in TTG, or Target Tracking and Guidance mode, searching for attacking fighters. If he spotted any fighters, he would put a circle cursor on it and tell Compos that he was tracking a target. The computer would feed range, azimuth, elevation, direction, and airspeed information to the Scorpion air-to-air missiles, and with that information a hit was almost guaranteed.
But the scope was blank and had been for several minutes, and Wendy Tork in the electronic warfare section had reported no airborne interceptor radar signals. McLanahan could feel a cold, prickly sensation on his neck. The mountains were too damn close.
He glanced at his chart. Some of the highest mountain ranges in southern Nevada were right off the nose, and he felt uncomfortable not monitoring their position by radar, even though the automatic terrain-avoidance system had proved its reliability.
Well, damn the fighters, McLanahan thought to himself. If the aircraft hits a mountain, the fighters won’t matter.
He punched a button, thinking about the twenty-first century equipment guiding their two-hundred-ton bomber. The blank track-while-scan radar scope changed into a mapping display of the terrain within thirty miles of the Old Dog. Guided by a ring of satellites and by a tiny “game- cartridge” of terrain elevations, the Old Dog was automatically diving and climbing, attempting to hug the ground as close as possible. The satellites, orbiting in geosynchronous orbits twenty-three thousand miles above the Earth, told them exactly where they were; the Inertial Navigation System, INS, told them where they were going; and the computer, ROM, Reading Only Memory, terrain-data cartridge told them how high the terrain was.
A computer fed all this to the autopilot, which told the Old Dog—what a damn stupid name, McLanahan thought—when to climb or dive, and the autopilot would climb or dive in time to keep the plane within a few feet of the selected clearance plane setting. Simple.
Except it wasn’t working.
His terrain-mapping scope was almost blank, but for a completely different reason. A five-mile-long ridge loomed ahead, its treelined crest still seven hundred feet above the Old Dog’s altitude. The ridge cast a dark shadow behind it, as if the radar beam was a headlight being blocked by an oncoming brick wall.
McLanahan knew that if the shadow behind the ridge got larger instead of smaller they’d eventually plow into the ridge. At over seven hundred feet per second, the two-hundred-ton bomber would smear itself right up and over the ridge and scatter pieces of itself for tens of miles beyond. The radar altimeter readout on the video display was flashing, warning that the aircraft was below the desired terrain clearance altitude.
McLanahan glanced at the flight instruments. The vertical-velocity indicator was showing a climb, but it didn’t seem like a very steep one. The ridge was now only three miles away, and the shadow beyond blotted out all else right to the edge of the scope.
“High terrain, three miles,’’ McLanahan reported over the interphone.
“I’ve lost TTG signals, navigator,’’ Campos radioed to McLanahan.
He quickly glanced at the annotations he had placed on the chart the night before. “Elevation eight thousand feet,’’ McLanahan said. “Blank scope. Not painting over it. Also a blinking radar altimeter.”
The terrain-avoidance computer was not designed to follow the contours of the surrounding hills and valleys as it would in the B-l Excalibur or the FB-111. The B-52 didn’t have enough power. The terrain-avoidance system anticipated the terrain ahead of the aircraft’s flight path and chose a safe altitude to clear it, as close to the pilot-selected clearance plane setting as possible. Approaching a ridge, the altitude should not be less than the selected altitude—it should be more. Much more. And the Old Dog should be climbing a lot faster . . .
“Pilot, climb!” McLanahan ordered. The VVI suddenly jumped, nearly tripling its former climb rate, and the throttles were jammed to full military thrust. The airspeed, however, bled off rapidly as the Old Dog traded altitude for airspeed, crawling skyward.
The radar scope was blank. The ridge was less than one mile off the nose . . . eight seconds before impact . . .
The radar altimeter indicated less than a hundred feet as the Old Dog ballooned over the ridge, at near minimum low-level safe airspeed. The automatic flight control system immediately commanded nose-down as the ridge line dropped behind them, but McLanahan didn't start to breathe again until they had regained the two hundred knots lost in the emergency climb and were safely clear of terrain.
“Clear of terrain for fifteen miles,” McLanahan reported.
“Ground position freeze,” Colonel Anderson said over the interphone. The digital readouts and radar images froze on the screen. McLanahan sat back in the Old Dog's ejection seat, wiping sweat from his forehead and palms, and took a gulp of Tab.
“What the hell was all that, McLanahan?” Anderson shouted over the interphone. McLanahan backed the volume of the interphone panel down a notch in anticipation of yet another yelling match. Harold Briggs, sitting in the newly installed navigator's seat beside McLanahan, slid off his headset.
“What was what, sir?”
“All those calls, goddammit! Terrain this, terrain that. That's not your job.”
“What do you mean, it's not my job. My first responsibility is to keep the plane out of the dirt.”
Harold Briggs made an obscene gesture directed at Anderson. He felt fairly safe doing so, because Anderson and Ormack were in a B-52 simulator some two hundred miles away and were tied electronically into the computer simulation aboard the Old Dog. At the same time, Wendy Tork was at a research computer terminal twenty miles from Anderson, participating in the same exercise, and Campos and Pereira were sitting at a fire control test bench elsewhere at Dreamland, also linked to the computer controlling the test. Briggs and McLanahan were inside the Old Dog itself, still in its hangar at Groom Lake, watching and responding to the computer-generated battle scenario.
“There’s a multimillion dollar computer that can do that faster, easier, and better than you ever can, McLanahan,” Anderson said. “Why do you need to call out terrain elevation when if I wanted that useless piece of information I can just call it up on the screen? And I can see the damned radar altimeter blinking. I don't want you garbaging up the radios with all that stuff.”
“I was calling to your attention, sir,” McLanahan said over the voice/ data link, “the fact that we were fifty feet lower than the goddamned set clearance when we still had seven hundred feet to climb. If the system was working right, we should have started the climb three miles earlier to cross that ridge line at two hundred feet. As it was, we barely had enough airspeed to cross the ridge at a hundred feet, and then we ballooned over it another thousand feet and almost hit initial buffet to a stall. The radar altimeter should never be blinking, and sure as hell not so close to a mountain.”
Anderson had no reply to that, but someone else chimed in:
“Excuse me, Captain,” Campos interjected, his voice sounding hollow and metallic over the secure voice-data transmission line, “but please understand the situation here. Right now you have two attackers off the nose, just within radar range. You must spend less time in mapping mode and much, much more time in TTG mode. The Scorpions can be launched off threat detection signals from the receiver unit, but without range, elevation and tracking data the chances of a hit at long range are slim. We’re relying on using the main radar to guide the Scorpions. ”
“Besides,” Lieutenant Colonel Ormack added from Edwards, “this is only a practice run. The elevation data in this simulation isn’t plotted as accurately as the operational cartridge. There’s bound to be some belly- scrapers. We’re trying to nail down procedures, McLanahan—and until we get to the target
area, your procedure is to help guide the defensive missiles. Let the computers keep us out of the dirt.”
McLanahan rubbed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.
“This is such bullshit,” he said to Briggs.
“Hang in there, buddy. You’re really running this show, and they all know it.”
“Like hell,” McLanahan said. “I’m a passenger. Extraneous material.” “You mean ‘dead weight,’ ” Briggs said.
“Thanks for the clarification.”
“Okay,” Anderson radioed over to the widely separated crew. “We’ll back up five minutes and do the leg over again. This time, McLanahan, find the damn fighters before they find us.”
McLanahan called up the prerecorded flight plan and waypoint readouts and watched as the present position coordinates slowly scrolled back to the beginning of the low-level navigation leg.
“You want to see what a collision with the ground looks like, Hal?” McLanahan said. “Just keep watching the scope.”
“I saw,” a voice behind them said. McLanahan whirled around to see General Elliott sitting in the back of the navigator’s compartment, taking notes and listening to the interphone conversations from the instructor nav’s station.
“Hello, General Nightmare,” McLanahan said. “How are we doing? I think we suck big-time.”
“Patrick,” the general said, “I don’t want to undermine Anderson’s authority—he’s a great pilot and a genuine asset to the project—but follow your own instincts, your own training. Everyone but you is trusting all this gadgetry with their lives because they don’t know any better. Both Anderson and Ormack could see the terrain warning signals in the cockpit and they both ignored them. Keep an eye out for the terrain and for fighters as you see fit.”
The general paused, looking around the tiny compartment measuring his words, then said, “I’ve watched your work, Patrick. You seem to know when the fighters are near before the warning receivers do. You switch in TTG mode before Wendy tells you there are fighters, and you switch into mapping mode and call terrain just in time to avoid a mountain.”
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