Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01

by Flight of the Old Dog (v1. 1)

  Now, the laser had taken another life, and the President was looking at what he feared most—a direct assault against Kavaznya. In the U.S.S.R

  Assembled were his National Security Council, his Cabinet and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They had already held a hastily formed meeting of their own. Now it was time for them to present the plan they had come up with.

  “Let’s have it, General,” the President said, prompting the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Wilbur Curtis nodded and stood.

  “Yes, sir,” the general began. “Two B-1B Excaliburs from the new Tenth Bombardment Wing at Ellsworth Air Force Base will execute this mission. Yesterday they were flown from Dreamland, where they were undergoing design modification, to Ellsworth, where each was armed with two AGM-130 Striker TV-infrared-guided bombs. Per your order, sir. It’s the largest non-nuclear standoff weapon in our arsenal. It uses a small strap-on rocket motor to glide as far as fifteen miles from a low-altitude release, and it has the explosive power of one ton of TNT. The bombardier can steer it to its target using a TV eye in the nose, or it can lock-on to a target with an infrared seeker.”

  “Two Strikers, General?”

  “An added insurance factor, sir. Two weapons targeted for the same point. If the first weapon fails to detonate, the second, impacting five seconds later, will take out the target. If the first works, the second bomb will be destroyed in the blast. The second aircraft insures destruction of the primary target and has the additional task of air defense suppression.”

  There was a rustle of uneasiness, even from those who had been in on the entire Kavaznya crisis from the start. This was not an exercise or simulation Curtis was talking about.

  “The bombers have been equipped with the standard coded switch and permissive-action-link security arrangements,” Curtis continued. “Those are the electronic switches between the weapons and the bombardiers’ control panels. We’re treating the Strikers just like nuclear weapons—no prearming or launch possible without a coded strike message from you, sir, transmitted via satellite communications or normal UHF traffic and entered into those switches. Two of the most experienced Excalibur crews will fly the missions—both senior Standardization-Evaluation crews. They’ve been briefed and are standing by.

  “The aircraft will follow the routing as shown,” Curtis said, pointing to the large computer-drawn chart. “From Ellsworth, they’ll fly through Canada and then through Alaska. They’ll be refueled by two KC-10 tankers out of Eielson Air Force Base, then proceed northward to the Arctic Ocean. They’ll orbit just north of Point Barrow, in their SNOW-TIME exercise orbit area, and wait for your first authorization message. The SAC Green Pine communications center at Point Barrow will relay the message.

  “They will not be allowed to prearm the weapons at this point. If they are ordered to remain in this orbit area, it will appear to any outside observers as just another SNOWTIME arctic defense exercise. SAC holds them several times a year. Both the Russians and the Canadians are accustomed to our bombers orbiting the Arctic Ocean on training missions.

  “If they receive the first strike authorization, the aircraft will continue southwest to approximately sixty-seven degrees north latitude, escorted by the second group of KC-10 tankers. They will orbit in open airspace over the Chukchi Sea, north of Siberia, and wait for the second strike authorization message—if we haven’t transmitted both messages at the same time. If they receive the second authorization, they finish their final refueling and head toward the target.’’

  “How accustomed are outside observers to bombers orbiting so close to Russia?’’ Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston asked. “That’s not one of our usual operating areas.”

  “True, sir,’’ Curtis replied. “But the B-ls will still be well outside Russian radar coverage and still well within international airspace. It’s unlikely they will even be spotted. If the Russians do detect them, they may be suspicious, but we feel it’s unlikely they will mount any counterforce. Air defense forces are extremely light this far north.’’

  “Any chance of that laser attacking the B-ls?’’ the President asked. He still could not believe the explanation he had been given for why the laser had managed to knock out Ice Fortress. By timing their attack when they did, the Russians had managed to hit the space platform when the X-ray satellite launch cylinder was open and exposed. Had they waited only a few hours later, all the X-ray satellites would have been armed and the cylinder would have been closed.

  “No chance, sir.’’ The President looked skeptical.

  “The Soviets have to find a target before they can hit it, sir. The B-ls won’t be in range of the main tracking radar at Kavaznya until much later, within twenty or thirty miles of the target—they’ll be terrain-masking in the mountains along the Kamchatka peninsula until then—and by the time the radar does spot them they’ll be within range of the Striker glide-bomb.’’

  “But the orbiting mirror?’’

  “They used the orbiting mirror against an ICBM four hundred miles up,” Curtis said. “An ICBM with its motors running and red-hot climbing through the atmosphere is an easy target to be tracked by infrared-seeking satellites, and the Soviets have a data-link setup with the laser to attack ICBMs tracked by satellite. An aircraft flying only seven miles high can’t be tracked accurately by an enemy satellite. They can’t hit what they can’t see. But if they somehow did fire the laser against the B-ls, we feel the dissipation of heat from shooting through the atmosphere, then reflecting the beam down through the atmosphere again would dilute the energy sufficiently for the aircraft to escape. No, sir, the B-ls are safe from the laser until close to Kavaznya. Then, the standoff range of the Strikers will keep them away from the laser. The laser should be destroyed before it can get a shot off.”

  Curtis now moved his pointer down into Asia. “Our people encounter little resistance or even chance of detection until fairly close to the target. They drop to low altitude just prior to crossing the north coast of Sibera, just before entering high-altitude warning radar coverage around the town of Ust-Chaun, but they can return to high altitude all across eastern Siberia to save fuel until approaching the northern edge of the Kamchatka peninsula. They drop to terrain-following altitudes down the Korakskiy and Sredinny mountain ranges to the target.”

  Curtis changed the slide, showing a greatly enlarged overhead photograph. “This is the latest satellite reconnaissance photo we have of Kavaznya, Mr. President, taken early last year. The B-l’s primary target is here.” Curtis switched to an even more highly magnified view.

  “This is the mirror housing, a large dome maybe forty feet in diameter from which, the CIA believes, the laser beam is projected into space. Two Strikers will be programmed to impact here. Another glide-bomb is programmed for the main laser tracking radar, and another is programmed for Ossora Airfield north and east of Kavaznya.

  “As you can see, sir, the mirror housing is very isolated—the rest of the complex, except for the nuclear power plant, is underground. The nuclear power plant is considered an alternate target. If the crew experiences—” “TVb, ” the President said. “Not the power plant, for God’s sake. We might as well drop a nuke on them if we destroy a nuclear power plant. I won’t be blamed for another Chernobyl. No alternative target. If the B-ls can’t attack the mirror dome, they don’t go.”

  Curtis, not altogether happy with that, nodded, then again switched to a map of the North Pacific. “After their attack, the B-ls get back into the mountains and stay there at terrain-following altitudes until they exit low altitude radar coverage, then cross the water toward Alaska. Possible landing sites are Attu, Shemya, Elmendorf, and Eielson.

  “After landing, they’ll refuel and return to Ellsworth . . . undoubtedly they will be regenerated and put on hard SIOP strategic nuclear alert.”

  “If the base still exists,” someone muttered.

  The President stared at the sortie chart. “It seems too . . . easy,” the President muttered.

  “I be
g your pardon, Mr. President?”

  “It seems too simple,” the President said, not much louder. Curtis strained to hear. “Where are the defenses? You’ve told me for years about stiff Russian air defenses. Here . . . there’s no threat?”

  “The target area is still heavily defended, the defenses include—”

  “The Excaliburs can make it, General?” the President interrupted. “They can get in?”

  Curtis turned to Lieutenant-General Bradley James Elliott, who stood and faced the President.

  “General Elliott,” the President said. “Good to see you again. Well, what’s your opinion, Brad? Can they make it?”

  “I think so, sir. With the new equipment we’ve tested at Dreamland and built into these B-ls, they should stand a hell of a chance. At low altitude, the Russians won’t even see the Excaliburs until forty, fifty, maybe sixty nautical miles from the target. At nine miles a minute, the Excaliburs will be on top of them before fighters could ever launch—and at two hundred feet in the mountains it’ll be impossible to find them. If they are attacked the Excaliburs have the fuel reserves for a supersonic sprint across the target, and they have specialized jammers, antiradar missiles, and even flying decoys to handle surface-to-air missiles. But the Strikers will be launched fifteen miles from the laser facility, so the B-l’s can stay in the mountains all the way.”

  The President looked away and stared at the enlarged photograph of Kavaznya, then turned back to his advisers.

  “I know what you’re thinking. This attack, the last thing any of us have wanted even to consider, now looks as if it will happen . . . our repeated attempts in the past few days to move the Soviets from their inflexible position have failed. Diplomatic channels remain open and it’s still my hope that Secretary Brent will somehow get a commitment from the Soviets that will let me order these B-ls to scrub their mission. But if he doesn’t and I am forced to give the strike order, I want it very clear to everyone that what we will be conducting is, in a real sense, a police action. Every effort has been made to control and contain the scope of this mission. We do not want war with the Soviets. We do not want a nuclear exchange. But we must face the fact that the existence of the laser facility and the Soviet Union’s policy of a peacetime quarantine of Asia will eventually cripple our ability to defend ourselves against attack or to mount a second strike in reprisal. We must, it seems, take this action now, with its inherent risks, to avoid the certainty of far greater risks later . . . General Curtis, go over the fail-safe procedures again.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs stood. “Sir, we need a direct order from you to launch the two bombers, a second one to allow them to proceed past the established SNOWTIME arctic exercise orbit area they usually operate in, and we need a third, separate order to allow the bombers to cross the fail-safe point and prearm their missiles. The third message is their authorization to strike.

  “Bombers will continuously monitor SATCOM and HF radios for coded recall or termination instructions, and they can be recalled at any time. They cannot proceed on their missions unless they have two one- hundred-percent operable missiles and an aircraft that meets their tactical doctrine specifications. Our communications satellites will be programmed to automatically transmit a recall message every half hour unless we instruct them not to. So if communications are disrupted the mission will automatically terminate.”

  The President nodded, looked around the room. No one else offered any comment or suggestion. After an unendurably long moment, the President reached down and opened the red-covered folder prepared for him the day before. He broke the seal and reviewed the document inside authorizing the first step of Curtis’ plan.

  * * *

  Patrick McLanahan was sitting alone in the semidarkness of his cramped, rickety wooden barracks room when he heard a faint knock on the door. He smiled and opened it.

  Standing in the doorway, wearing a dark gray flight jacket, flight suit, and insulated winter flying boots just like his own, was his partner, Dave Luger. Luger had his hands thrust in his pockets and was scuffling the sand around with his toes.

  “Ready to go, Muck?” he said, still poking around in the dirt.

  McLanahan glanced at his watch and looked at the sky. “Oh-seven- hundred hours,” he said. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?” Luger checked his watch and shrugged.

  “What difference does it make?” Last two days, there hasn’t been any reason to be on time. All we’ve been doing is sitting on our behinds.”

  McLanahan had turned to pick up his jacket, which was slung over the bedpost behind him. “Wait a minute,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “What am I hearing? Is this the same guy who has been bitching for the past two months about the hours we’ve been putting in? The same guy who every night for three weeks threatened to strangle me for arranging it so he’d be brought here to Dreamland?”

  Luger fell into his ever-familiar gunfighter’s slouch. “Yeah, well, I still don’t have fond memories of Lieutenant Briggs barging in on me while I was with Sharon to say that I was going to be taking a little trip. And having that prima donna Anderson on my ass fourteen hours a day hasn’t been any picnic either. But ever since those B-ls lit out for Ellsworth two days ago, it’s been boring as hell. I mean, what the hell is there to do if you’re not in the simulator or out on a training jaunt?”

  “Not a damn thing,” McLanahan said as he closed the door to his room and locked it. Actually, that wasn’t true, he thought. He had been able to spend more time with Wendy these past couple days, and was thankful for that. It was the first real chance he’d had since she came back with the other civilians working on the project to get past that stony facade she put up and find out what she was about. Before these past two days, even in their late-night study sessions together, she had stayed detached. Now, after spending some relaxed hours with her, he understood better the reason for her detachment. She wanted first and foremost to be accepted as a professional, as someone who could step into any man’s role and perform with maximum efficiency. He guessed she’d had a tough time in this male-dominated Air Force world, and that concealing a part of herself—the part that was soft and feminine—had after a while become an automatic defense. He couldn’t help comparing her to Catherine, whose privileged upbringing had made her much more self-assured and outgoing and yet . . . well, less interesting . . .

  “Hey, Pat,” Luger said as they walked to the briefing shack, “why do you suppose Elliott called a meeting this morning? Think he’s going to give us our walking papers?”

  “Maybe it’s more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  McLanahan continued walking. They were nearing the women’s barracks. “Well, it seems to me that we wouldn’t have spent all that time testing out that equipment on the Old Dog, and then installing equivalent systems in those B-ls, if the B-ls weren’t being used for something. Maybe something big. Take that terrain cartridge we were testing before the B-ls left. Well, Bill Dalton, the nav for Zero-Six-Four, said something about it corresponding to an area over the Sarir Calanscio Desert in Libya. That’s complete bull. Those planes will be flying through the mountains.” Both men were silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. “Hey, there’s Wendy and Angelina,” Luger said, spotting the two coming out of the women’s barracks. He waved to them and the four joined up a few yards short of the briefing shack.

  “I see we’re not the only ones who’re late,” Angelina Pereira said with a smile. She was the only one of them not wearing a flight suit.

  Nice lady, McLanahan thought to himself. Nice and tough. She reminded him a little bit of his mother. He nodded toward Luger. “Dave here had to get his beauty sleep. Good buddy that I am, I decided to wait for him.”

  Wendy looked worried. “Pat,” she said, “do you have any idea why General Elliott called us together?”

  McLanahan shrugged. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough,” he said as he opened the door to the shack.

 
***

  General Bradley Elliott removed a pair of sunglasses and looked out over his captive audience. He wore a thick green nylon winter-weight flight jacket over a set of standard starched Air Force fatigues with subdued green and black name tags, a subdued Strategic Air Command patch, and subdued black stars on his collar. He propped himself on a desk at the front of the room and twirled his sunglasses absently.

  “Well, I’m glad that all of you have seen fit to put in an appearance,” Elliott said. “Even if a bit late.” He looked at the four stragglers who had just entered the room.

  “I’ve called all of you here,” he said, “to provide some explanation for the events of the past two days, and of the past few months. As most of you have surmised, the improvements and modifications we made in those two Excaliburs were not implemented on the off chance that they might prove of use at some future date. They were carried out with a definite purpose in mind.”

  Elliott paused to stare at the faces around the room. Directly in front of him, Colonel James Anderson sat straight in his chair. To his immediate left was Lewis Campos, his forehead shiny with sweat. At the back of the room, Patrick McLanahan sat staring at the floor, his legs straight out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Elliott said, “approximately twenty-five minutes ago two B-ls—the B-ls you’ve worked on these past few months— took off from Ellsworth Air Force Base. They are launching as part of a possible strike force on an area in the Soviet Union.”

  There was a collective gasp from those in the room. McLanahan felt suddenly sick to his stomach. He looked over at Luger and shook his head.

  “I said possible. They’ll orbit in narrowing circles near Russia while the politicians still work for a negotiated solution. If there isn’t one, the B-ls go in . .

  “A negotiated solution to what?” Lewis Campos asked, his voice rising above other whispered comments.

  “Quiet down, people,” Elliott said, opened his locked briefcase, extracted a series of photographs and handed them to Colonel John Ormack, who passed each to his left.