“Clear One-Three to the wing,” the pilot aboard the B-l requested.
“Clear to the right wing, One-Three,” the lead B-l replied. The B-l that had just completed its refueling slowed, dipped its right wing, and slid out of view of the KC-10 boom operator. Just as he cruised out of view, the boom operator got another glimpse of the pylon full of missiles slung under the Excalibur's wings.
“Refueling complete,” the boom operator radioed to the copilot. He swiveled his headphone microphone away from his lips and wiped sweat from his face and neck. Refueling a B-l was always hard—even though they were steady platforms, their dark NATO camouflage made it hard to find their open receptacles, even during the daytime.
But these two B-ls were different—very different. Their dark gray coloring was gone, replaced by dull jet-black surfaces. Even with the electrofluorescent aiming grid on the Excalibur''s nose, the boomer had been very reluctant to extend the nozzle into that dark, shapeless void. He knew he had only about a six-foot margin for error before he stuck the nozzle into the bomber’s radome—or, worse, through its windscreen. Even though he had been a boom operator for fifteen years and six feet was a lot of free space to work with, there was always the possibility of error. Two planes flying twelve feet away from each other, traveling at almost three hundred and eighty miles an hour—well, it was easy to screw up.
The copilot was giving the offload report to the two bombers: “Kelly One-Two flight, you received a total of one hundred and seventy thousand pounds, about equally divided. Clear to tactical frequency. Clear us for a right climbing turn.”
The lead B-l aircraft commander, Colonel Bruce Canaday, checked his left window. “See One-Three out there, Bill?” Canady’s copilot checked his right window. At that moment, the second B-l slipped into fingertip position about twenty feet from his leader’s right wingtip, its position lights and anticollision beacon popping on.
“Got him. He’s in fingertip.”
“Gascap flight, clear for a right climbing turn. Thanks for the gas.”
“Gascap flight copies. Good luck, you guys.” Canady watched as the huge KC-10 tankers banked to the right and flew above and out of sight of the B-ls.
“Kelly flight, post-refueling checks,” Canady radioed to his wingman.
“Two,” came the reply.
“Ed, got the post-refueling message ready?” Canady asked his offensive systems operator. The radar navigator had just finished composing the coded message for transmission via AFSATCOM, notifying the Joint Chiefs of Staff that they had received their last scheduled refueling before approaching the continent of Asia.
“Ready to go.”
“Send it. Did we get our hourly ‘go’ message?”
“Received the last one five minutes ago,” the navigator replied. “I’m expecting the first fail-safe message any minute.”
Just then his Air Force Satellite Communications printer clattered to life. The navigator transcribed the phonetically coded message into a codebook, then passed it to the defensive systems operator, the DSO, across the narrow aisle from him.
Together, the officers carefully decoded the tnessage, then rechecked it.
“We got it,” the navigator said. “Cleared tp proceed on course to the second fail-safe point. We can expect the Strike’ message within the hour.”
“Confirmed,” the defensive systems officer added.
Canady didn’t reply. He did a quick station check of his instrument panel, then was silent.
“I’m still betting we get terminated,” the copilot said.
“I’m hoping so,” Canady said. He switched to interplane radio. “One-two flight, cleared to route formation when post-AR checks are complete.”
“Post-AR checks complete, moving to route.” The second Excalibur banked slightly right, moving out to approximately a half-mile beside his leader. It was much less strenuous on the pilot to move away from the leader then stay in close formation for long periods of time.
“Confirm receipt of Golf, Tango, Sierra, Oscar, Pappa,” the navigator radioed to the wingman’s nav, checking to be sure the other aircraft had received and decoded the same ‘go’ message.
“Copied and confirmed,” from the second nav.
“Status, One-Three?”
“One-Three is in the green,” from the second Excalibur.
“One-Two is in the green too,” Canady replied. Both bombers were one hundred percent ready—no malfunctions, no abnormal readings, no fuel shortages. The mission would be canceled if either bomber had a serious malfunction.
“Copy.” To the crew Canady said: “Two good bombers, guys. So far we’re a go. Nav, I’m ready to do a TFR check whenever you are.”
“Rog.” The nav opened his checklist to the INFLIGHT TERRAINFOLLOWING RADAR SYSTEM CHECK section, running the automatic terrain-following autopilot self-test.
As the two pilots and the navigator began the systems check, the defensive systems operator began another electronic countermeasures equipment check while listening to the high-frequency radio. As he flipped through transmitters and receivers, running self-tests on the mostly automatic equipment, an “S” symbol blinked on at the top of his computergenerated threat receiver scope.
The intermittent signal caught his eye, but he ignored it—the symbol did not return, and it wasn’t accompanied by an audio warning tone. Probably a glitch or a stray signal from the second B-l. He continued his checks.
A few minutes later the “S” reappeared—this time with a fast, high- pitched warning warble. The defensive systems officer put away his checklist and took all of his electronic gear out of their “self-test” modes back into STANDBY.
“Pilot,” the DSO called over the interphone, “where’s the wingman?”
The pilots were beginning to check the second TFR channel. “On our wing,” the copilot answered irritably. “We’re doing a TFR check. Can it—”
The DSO flipped over to the interplane frequency on his radio panel. “One-Three, say your position.”
“Route,” came the terse reply.
“Behind us?”
“That’s where ‘route’ usually is.”
“Do you have us in sight?” asked the DSO, his voice betraying excitement. He hesitated, then switched all of his transmitters from STANDBY to TRANSMIT.
“Affirmative,” the pilot of the second B-l replied.
“I see him too, Jeff.” That was from the second Excalibur’s DSO. Something was out there . . .
“Pilot, defense has search radar, twelve o’clock, extreme range but closing slowly.”
“Roger.” Canady wasn’t too concerned. The nearest land at twelve o’clock, other than pack ice, was six hundred miles away. “Probably a glitch. Did you say closing, Jeff?”
“His signal is getting stronger,” the DSO reported. “I can count a twelve-second antenna sweep now. Moving just to the left of the nose.”
“Moving? Jeff, recycle your equipment and see if it—”
“The other DSO sees it, too, Colonel. Either we both got the same glitch, or it’s a—”
At that instant the computer verified the signal, changing the symbol on the threat scope from “S” to a batwing-like symbol with a circle inside it.
“Airborne early warning aircraft, ” the DSO said. “Right off our nose.” “A what?"
“A radar plane. Long-range airborne surveillance.”
“Well, what the hell is it doing up over the goddamned North Pole?” the copilot asked. “We’re thousands of miles from any military base.”
“It’s locked onto us,” came from the DSO. “He’s got us.”
“Maybe it’s one of ours,” the copilot said. “It can’t be Russian—we’re only a hundred miles north of Barrow. Maybe we should cruise toward him and take a look, or try to raise him on—”
“Like hell.” Canady reached down to the center control console and flicked the running lights on and off, signaling his wingman to rejoin him without using the radios. His copilo
t watched his signal, then searched the sky out of his right window. A moment later the second Excalibur bomber appeared out of the semi-darkness and rejoined on Canady’s right wingtip, tucked in so close the copilot was sure their wingtips were overlapping. “Two’s in,” the copilot said.
“Jeff, could he have seen both planes?”
“Probably. Depends on his range, but I’d say yes.”
“Those S.O.B.s found us. Out here a thousand miles north of nowhere, we run smack into a surveillance plane . . . well, we don’t have to let him get a visual identification on us.”
Canady pushed his stick right and inched the throttle up. The copilot immediately checked that their wingman was turning with them.
“He must’ve anticipated you’d be turning,” the copilot said. “He’s right with us.”
“The signal’s turning left toward us.” Canady moved the throttles up to full military power.
“Approaching Mach One,” from the copilot. “Wing sweep.” Canady pulled the wingsweep handle aft, and the Excaliburs long, graceful wings disappeared from view, sweeping back until they nearly merged with the B-l’s dark, sleek fuselage.
“Are we putting any distance bet wen him and us?” Canady asked.
“No,” the DSO said. “He’s got the cutoff on us.”
“Mach One,” the copilot reported. There was no difference in the feel of the plane; only the airspeed and Mach indicator tapes told them they were flying faster than the speed of sound. Canady’s copilot checked for the wingman out his window.
“One-Three’s moved out a little to get out of the shock barrier,” he said, “but he’s still with us.”
“Signal is moving to ten o’clock,” the DSO said. “We’re getting some space between us, but he’s heading perpendicular to our course. He’ll get a solid visual on us.”
“Mach one point five.”
“If he didn’t know who we were before, he can take a good guess now,” Canady said.
“One-Three’s still with us.”
“Signal almost abeam us now.”
Canady looked out his left cockpit window. There, about ten miles off their left side, was a large white transport-like aircraft with a big disk-like radome mounted on top of its fuselage.
“I can see it. Ten o’clock,” Canady said. “It looks like an E-3 AW ACS. Can it be one of ours?”
“Look at the tail,” the DSO said. “T-tail or conventional?” Canady had to strain to see it as the Excalibur whisked past.
“T-tail,” he said. “And . .. escorts. He’s got escorts, two fighters on his wings.”
“Russian Mainstay surveillance plane,” the DSO said, his voice cracking. “Looks like a C-141 with a radome on top, right? It’s the Russian version of our AWACS. It pulls double-duty as a tanker, too.”
“He’s going to pull his double-duty right on our ass,” Canady said. “Nav, cleartext a message over SATCOM. Tell them we have a Russian AWACS and two fighter escorts behind us. Give our position and flight data and ask for instructions.”
“Already sent.”
“We can’t keep this up for long, Colonel,” the copilot put in. “We’re behind on the fuel curve and we don’t have authorization to cross the second fail-safe point. If we start a second orbit, that Mainstay will catch up to us with its fighters.”
Canady unbuckled his oxygen mask and pounded his instrument panel in frustration. “DSO, can you see those fighters behind us?”
“No. All I see is the AWACS—but the fighters won’t need to turn on their radars to find us. If the AW AC can see us it can vector in the fighters better than the fighter pilots.”
“Can you jam that AWACS’ radar?”
“At this range, yes, barely.”
“If we ducked down to low altitude, could he follow us?”
“The Mainstay has good look-down capability,” the DSO said. “We might lose him if we combine jamming and a hard, fast descent ...” “But then what?” the copilot interrupted. “We’re still an hour from landfall and we’re still not authorized to cross the second fail-safe point. He’s got two fighters to look for us, and the fighters have plenty of fuel. We’re behind the fuel curve as it it is.”
“To hell with the fuel and the second fail-safe point,” Canady said. “I won’t risk being caught or shot up by those fighters. I’ll keep it at Mach one point five until we reach land, then throttle back and hide in the terrain radar ground clutter.”
“Or we can engage those fighters and the AWACS,” the radar nav said. Everyone else grew quiet. He had voiced the unthinkable—attempt a dogfight with the Russian fighters. The Excaliburs were the first American strategic bombers to be fitted with air-to-air missiles—the attack would be completely unexpected.
“If we have to, we will,” Canady said. “Arm the Scorpion missiles, DSO. Let’s have them ready ...”
Canady looked out his left cockpit window. Illuminated by the faint glow of the sun just below the horizon was a Russian fighter, cruising directly cockpit-to-cockpit across from Canady, so close to the Excalibur that the Russian pilot and his back-seat weapons officer could clearly be seen. Canady noted the red star on the MiG-31 Foxhound's vertical stabilizer and the four air-to-air missiles slung under its wing. Even traveling over a thousand miles per hour, the massive Russian fighter kept up easily with the Excalibur, flying in perfect side-by-side formation,
“A MiG-31,” the copilot said. “Right beside us.” He turned and looked out his right-side window. “The other one is off One-Three’s right wing.”
“Nav . . .”
“I’m sending it now,” the radar navigator said, typing in a new uncoded emergency message into the satellite communications terminal.
“They got us,” Canady said quietly. Silence from the crew, which felt naked, vulnerable. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Their protective camouflage, their weaponry, their terrain-following capability, even their speed was useless.
“Priority messages from the B-ls, sir.” Jeff Hampton rushed into the Oval Office with a long computer printout strip. At a stern glance from General Curtis, Hampton gave the message to him.
“Well, General?” the President said irritably, taking a sip of coffee.
“First message is a coded post-refueling message, sir. They completed their last refueling successfully. Next message acknowledges the first failsafe order, authorizing them to proceed to—”
The President saw the color drain from Curtis’ face. “What is it?”
“Seven minutes ago . . . oh, goddamn . . . two more messages transmitted in the clear—they didn’t code them. First message indicates the formation was spotted by a Russian Mainstay airborne warning and control aircraft one hundred three miles north-north-west of Point Barrow, Alaska.”
“Spotted by a what?”
“A Russian radar plane.” Curtis walked over to a map of the Northern Hemisphere. “Here—just a few miles away from the first orbit point. That Mainstay is a copy of our E-3A AW AC surveillance plane. It can scan hundreds of miles around itself, track planes at high or low altitude, vector fighters—”
“Did the Russians actually see the B-ls?”
“They . . . yes, visual sighting was made.” Curtis began to read the last message, then reached out his hand and held onto the back of a chair.
“I don’t believe it,” the President said. “General, you told me there wouldn’t be any Russian planes within two thousand miles of that orbit point.”
“Mr. President . . .”
“What? There’s more?”
“Yes sir, the . . .” General Curtis didn’t know if he could read it. “. . . the Excaliburs were intercepted by two Russian MiG-31 Foxhound fighters.”
“What!”
“. . . shortly after being spotted.” Curtis’ face had turned even whiter. The President dropped back into his leather seat.
“Did the fighters attack?”
“No.” Curtis looked again at the message. “This last report says the fighters were shado
wing the bombers. The B-ls tried to outrun them but couldn’t. Last reported speed was Mach one point five, still four hundred miles from the second fail-safe point. The fighters are still with them.” The President bent over his desk. “General, how can those fighters be so far from Asia?”
“The Mainstay is a tanker, too,” Curtis said. “It can sustain two fighters like that for five thousand miles.” He paused, then turned and walked back to the President’s wide cherry desk.
“Sir, there has to be a leak somewhere. First, the timing of the attack on Ice Fortress, then the attack on Dreamland, and now these B-ls being spotted so fast. It can’t be coincidence—”
“Yes, I agree, but that’s not the problem now. We’ve got two bombers up there headed for Russia, and two fighters alongside them ready to blow them out of the sky.”
“Sir, I’ve got an—”
“We have to recall the bombers. Those fighters could take them out any time—”
“Yes, sir, but if they were ordered to do so they would have done it already.”
“They could be waiting for orders from Moscow.”
“That’s possible, but Canady and Komanski, the commanders aboard those Excaliburs, are the best in the business. They just won’t let the fighters take them out. The Excaliburs have the new Scorpion air-to-air missiles, advanced jammers, and better camouflage, plus they’re just as fast as a Foxhound at high altitude and faster at low altitude.”
“Curtis,” the President said, shaking his head in disbelief, “you’re not suggesting that the Excaliburs fight off those MiGs and continue.”
“No, sir, but . . . they shouldn’t be recalled, either.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Sir, the objective is still the neutralization of that laser site—”
“Without starting a war, may I remind you.”
“Yes, sir. Like we agreed, limited resources, precision bombing, little or no collateral damage. The B-ls are now essentially neutralized. They probably could escape the Foxhounds, but they wouldn’t have the fuel reserves to continue their mission. Plus the Russian air defenses are alerted. All the Russians need to do is draw a straight line from the bombers present position to Kavaznya and look along that line to find two B-ls.” “So?”
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