“We now have about thirty-four thousand pounds of fuel left. Thanks to that phony screaming-ass descent back there that had all those air traffic controllers buffaloed, and the hour-long cruise at five hundred feet above the water, we’ll soon be running on fumes. From our decision point ahead we can divert to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage and have about fifteen thousand pounds of fuel. That’s the absolute minimum amount of landing fuel for a normal B-52. With this plastic monster of ours we can overfly Elmendorf and with favorable winds and a lot of luck divert again to Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks with about three thousand pounds remaining. That figure is significant because that’s the normal tolerance of the fuel gauges we have—we can have six thousand at Eielson—”
“Or we can have zero,’’ Angelina said.
“Exactly. But that plan does give us two available airfields to set this beast down on.”
“Is there another option?” McLanahan asked.
“Yes, Patrick. We can continue on our flight planned route. The only available airfield with a halfway decent runway for us becomes Shemya in the Aleutians. Fuel reserve over Shemya would be about five thousand pounds.”
“Five thousand pounds?” Wendy said. “That’s cutting it close. Are they any—?”
“There are other airfields nearby,” Elliott said, anticipating her question. “All of them are shorter and narrower than Shemya, but we should be able to put down on any one of them. I bring up this option because Shemya has two things that we could use—a fairly isolated runway and fuel. We need the isolation if we ever hope to keep this plane and this mission secret. The decision becomes this—head toward Elmendorf with one good option but an end to our mission, or head toward Shemya with only a few poor options but an outside chance of continuing on.”
“I don’t see there’s an option, General,” Ormack said. “We’ve come this far . . .”
Elliott nodded at Ormack, silently thanking him. To the crew he said, “I guess I’m bringing all this up to give each of you another out, another chance to put this bird down.”
“We’ve given you our answer, General,” Wendy said.
“I know, and I thank you. But you’ve had a few hours to think about it. I’m putting the question again.”
“I’ve got a different question,” McLanahan said. “How’s your leg, General? We can’t complete this mission with less than a one hundred percent effort from everybody—you said so yourself. Are you one hundred percent, General?”
“Of course I am.” Elliott turned and found Ormack looking at him carefully.
“I can handle it, John.”
“He has a point, General. You’re worried about us not having the commitment—but do you have the capacity?”
Elliott paused, then spoke into the interphone. “I won’t deny it, crew. My leg hurts like a sonofabitch. But if I didn’t think I could get this beast to Kavaznya and back again, well, I would have said so back there when we were over Seattle.”
Silence. Then McLanahan spoke. “All right, General. That’s good enough for me.”
“Me, too,” Angelina said.
“And me,” Luger added.
The entire crew voiced their assent.
“All right, then,” Elliott said, “do any of you have any brilliant ideas about how we can get enough gas to finish this mission?”
Downstairs in the lower offensive crew compartment McLanahan gave his partner Luger the thumbs-up sign and spoke into the interphone.
“I have an idea, General,” McLanahan said. “But it may involve breaking some rules.”
“If there was ever a time to break rules, Patrick, this is it. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, we’ll have to call you General Jean Lafitte after this one,” McLanahan said, “but here’s what I had in mind . . .”
Elliott flipped his radio over to HF TRANSMIT, took a deep breath: “Skybird, Skybird, this is Genesis on Quebec. Emergency. Over.”
The command post senior controller on duty in the tiny SAC Command post on the tiny island of Shemya, perched nearly at the tip of the Aleutians, had to restrain himself from spilling his coffee as the emergency call blared through his speaker. Calls over HF, especially emergency calls, were few and far between up here at the extreme northwestern tip of the United States of America. He whipped out a grease pencil and noted the time on the slate of glass covering his desktop.
He switched his radio to HF and keyed his microphone. “Calling Skybird on HF, this is Icepack on Quebec. Spell your call sign phonetically and go ahead with information.”
“We got him,” Elliott said over interphone. Over the high-frequency radio, he said, “Copy you, Icepack. I spell golf, echo, november, echo, sierra, india, sierra, SAC Special Operations. We are one-eight-zero miles east-south-east of your station. We have declared an emergency for a double engine fire and fire in the crew compartment. Massive fuel leaks. Request emergency random refueling with strip alert tanker and emergency recovery at Shemya.”
The deputy controller was furiously writing the information down on a logbook. He opened the classified call signs book.
“Checks,” the controller said to his partner. “Special ops out of Edwards.”
“So what’s he doing way the hell up here?” the senior controller said. “Call the commander.” He checked the weather forecast printout on his console, then turned back to his radio.
“Understand your request, Genesis,” the controller replied. “Shemya is reporting marginal conditions. Can you divert to Anchorage? Repeat, can you divert to Anchorage?”
“Negative, negative,” Elliott replied. “Less than one-five minutes of fuel at present rate of loss. No navigation equipment. Magnetic instruments only. We are only estimating our present position.”
“Understand, Genesis,” the senior controller said and looked over to his NCO partner.
“Got the boss on the line, sir,” the NCO said. The senior controller grabbed the phone.
“Colonel Sands here.”
“Major Falls in the Command Post, sir. Inbound inflight emergency requesting a strip alert tanker.”
“How far out is he?” Sands asked.
“He estimates about one hundred and seventy miles now, sir. He said less than fifteen minutes of fuel.”
“Hell, we might not make it even if we launched right now. Who is it?”
“They’re using a strange call sign, sir,” Falls said. “Genesis. It’s a special ops call sign out of Edwards.”
Sands swore under his breath. Special Operations. An experimental or highly classified mission. But from Edwards? “How’s the runway now?”
“Slick as owl shit, sir. RCR still about ten. Fifty feet either side of centerline is free of ice to about twelve RCR. Taxi ways are about eight RCR.”
“Status of the strip alert bird?”
“In the green, sir,” Falls said, glancing over at his assistant. The NCO cupped his hand over the telephone he was using.
“The crew’s being recalled to the pad, sir,” the NCO reported.
“Have them report directly to their plane,” Falls said. He turned to his telephone. “Crews are responding to their planes, sir.”
“Get an authentication from this Genesis,” Sands said. “I’m on my way.”
“Command post clear.” Falls opened the communications code book, checked that the date and time were good and turned to his radio. “Genesis, this is Icepack control. Authenticate Alpha Echo.”
Elliott turned to Ormack. “They want me to authenticate.”
“We don’t have any code documents.”
“Unable to authenticate, Icepack,” Elliott replied quickly.
Falls winced. What the hell was going on?
“Genesis, we cannot provide strip alert support without authentication.”
“Icepack, this is the senior controller aboard Genesis,” Elliott said over the high-frequency radio. “The communications compartment has been severely damaged. Half the crew is dead or injured. We hav
e no means to authenticate.”
A few moments later Colonel Sands was wriggling his chubby desk-bound body out of his parka. “Status?”
“He said he was unable to authenticate, sir,” Falls said. “Fire inside their crew compartment and communications center, injuries. The senior controller seems to be the one in command.”
“Senior controller? Communications center? Sounds like an AWACS or EC-135—but it’s an Edwards call sign?” Sands picked up the microphone.
“Genesis, this is Icepack. Over.” He bent toward the speaker.
“Go ahead, Icepack. Urgently need strip alert support.”
Sands searched his memory. “I recognize that voice. Where?” He keyed the microphone. “Genesis, say type of aircraft and souls on board.”
“Unable, Icepack.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sands said half-aloud. “What’s going on? Damn . . . that voice.” He thought quickly . . . “Get hold of Anchorage Center, find out where this guy came from.”
“Already did that, Colonel,” the NCO told him. “Nothing. No squawk. Not even radar contact. He’s been outside the ADIZ until now.”
“Then screw him,” Sands said. “This sounds too fishy. We due for an air defense test or something?” Falls shook his head. Sands grimmaced and keyed the microphone. “Genesis, strip alert support is not authorized without proper authorization. Unless you identify yourself, you’ll have to swim back.”
Elliott looked preoccupied as Ormack said, “What do we do now, we’ve only got—”
“Sands!” Elliott suddenly blurted out. “Eddie Sands! That sorry son of a bitch. They stuck his ass in Shemya.” Elliott keyed his microphone.
“We are unable to authenticate . . . scum-maggot. ”
Sands paled as if he had seen a ghost. Slowly he brought the microphone to his lips.
Falls glared at his wing commander as if he had been slapped in the face. Sands angrily jammed the mike button down. “Say again, Genesis.”
“You heard me, slime-worm,” Elliott shot back. “Unable to authenticate.”
To Falls’ immense surprise, a hint of a smile began to creep across Sands’ face.
“Genesis,” Sands said carefully, the smile still working its way across the pudgy face of the Shemya wing commander. “Once more. Is this for real?”
“Affirmative . . . dirt bag.”
Aboard the Megafortress, Ormack looked befuddled. “What . . . ?”
“He’ll have the tanker airborne in five minutes,” Elliott told Ormack, relaxing in his ejection seat. “Crew, prepare for refueling.”
Sands dropped the microphone into Falls’ lap.
“Has the strip alert crew called in?”
“No, sir, I expect them any—”
“Call the vice commander,” Sands said, zipping up his parka. “Tell him he’s got the store. Put me on the strip alert flight orders. Notify Reynolds that I’m coming aboard for his emergency refueling.”
Faster than any of his men had ever seen the pudgy commander move, Sands was out the door. Falls’ partner looked baffled as the full-bird colonel sped down the hallway and into the subzero cold outside. “What the hell?”
“Don’t ask me, Bill,” Falls said.
“What about the old standard operating procedures?”
Falls thought a moment. “We follow them, even if the colonel doesn’t. Notify the interceptor squadron on alert. Tell them the KC-10 is taking off in support of emergency refueling, but that the aircraft they’ll be rendezvousing with is unidentified. The unidentified aircraft is not considered hostile but it has refused or is somehow unable to establish contact with any civilian or military agency.”
“Got it.” The NCO picked up the phone and dialed as rapidly as he could.
McLanahan was announcing: “Eleven o’clock, seventy miles.” Over the newly assigned UHF command post frequency they were using as the air refueling frequency, he said, “Icepack one-oh-one, Genesis has radar contact at seventy miles at your two o’clock position.”
The pilot of Icepack 101, the KC-10 tanker from Shemya, looked to Colonel Sands, who was sitting in the IP jumpseat between himself and his KC-lO’s copilot.
“A new voice,” the pilot, Joe Reynolds remarked. “Sounds like a nav if I ever heard one. I thought there was only one survivor on board?”
“Radar contact at seventy miles?” Sands echoed. “Maybe not as helpless as they said they were.”
“Do we keep on going?” Reynolds asked.
“We keep on going,” Sands told him. “I recognize a voice on board.”
“Precontract check complete,” Ormack said aboard the Old Dog. “All external lights are off right now.”
“Good,” Elliott said.
Just then Wendy Tork reported, “I’ve got search radar contact at eleven o’clock.’’
“That’s the tanker,” McLanahan said. Wendy checked the oscilloscopelike frequency pattern on the frequency video display.
“Confirmed,” she said.
McLanahan flipped on a switch marked BEACON on his radar control panel, checking that the radar manual tuning frequency remained on the preset “doghouse” beacon frequency range. The tiny dot representing the tanker on his radar changed into a line of six tiny rectangles in a one-two- three dot pattern. “I’ve got his beacon.” He switched to interplane. “One- oh-one, contact on your beacon. Beacon to standby.”
The six-dot pattern disappeared. “Go back to operate.” The pattern reappeared.
“Positive ID, our eleven o’clock, sixty-five miles.”
“Check on air-to-air TACAN,” the copilot aboard Icepack 101 acknowledged. The mileage on the air-to-air TACAN receiver, which gave the distance between the two aircraft, slowly clicked down.
“What do you hope to find, sir?” Reynolds asked the wing commander alongside him.
“I don’t know,” Sands told him, “but I wouldn’t want to miss whatever it is.”
“But who are these guys? They don’t sound like they’re in trouble to me—“
Sands shook his head. “They sound like they’re in trouble, but not like they’ve told us. We had to launch—but we don’t have to rendezvous with them.”
“Then what—”
“I’m up here to investigate, Joe. Gather information. But I’d be breaking a dozen rules if I allowed this aircraft to join with an unidentified aircraft. If we’d refused to launch they’d have disappeared forever. No, we’ll head toward them. But instead of turning we’re going to buzz right past this joker.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll let the Nineteenth escort them back to Shemya.”
“The interceptors? Are they up there?”
“If I know Falls it’s the first thing he did after we took off,” Sands said.
“But what about their gas? They said fifteen minutes.”
“It’s been fifteen minutes right about now,” Sands said, checking his watch. “Do those guys sound like they’re about to fall into the ocean? Someone’s screwing with us, Joe. Nobody does that with me. We’ll lead these guys back to the base, then find out what the hell’s going on.”
“Inside sixty miles,” McLanahan reported, switching his radar back into search-while-track mode.
“Copy,” Elliott said. “Ready, Wendy? Angelina?”
“Ready,” Angelina said.
“All set, General,” Wendy told him, “but I don’t see the other ones yet.”
“Believe me, they’re coming,” Elliott said. “Hit ’em with just a little at first. When he switches over, blot ’em out.”
“Will do.”
“Sixty miles,” McLanahan called out to the tanker. Part of his transmission was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal.
Sands winced and fumbled for his volume control knob.
“Genesis, you have a loud squeal on your radio,” Ashley, the KC-lO’s copilot, called out.
“Copy,” McLanahan replied. His transmission was almost completely blotted out by noise. “Switc
hing radios.” McLanahan waited a few moments, then said, “How do you copy now, Icepack?”
The noise was almost unbearable. “Genesis, this is Icepack. Your radios seem to be malfunctioning. Do you have FM or VHF capability?” “Roger,” Elliott said. “Switching to VHF now.” On interphone he said, “Okay, Wendy. Shut ’em out.”
Wendy smiled and flicked a transmitter switch to MAX, carefully checking the frequency video display.
“This is Icepack on VHF air refueling freq,” Ashley said. “How copy?”
“Too high, General,” Wendy said, studying the new VHF frequency range on her video display. “Lower. To at least one-twenty megahertz.”
“Icepack, take it over to one-one-two point one-five,” Elliott said. Sands, aboard the KC-10, looked curiously at Ashley who along with Reynolds shared his confusion. Ashley switched frequencies.
“How do you copy, Genesis?”
“Loud and clear, Icepack,” Elliott said. Over interphone he said, “Okay, I got him, Wendy. Take ’em all down.”
“Will do, General.”
“, ?”
“Fifty-five miles, General,” McLanahan told him. “And I’ve got additional radar contact at twelve o’clock, eighty miles, fast-moving. You were right.”
“He’s only following SOP,” Ormack said.
“He’s still a snake,” Elliott said. “He was a snake at the Academy, and he’s still one. Patrick, I’ve got it.”
“Go get ’em, General.”
“Icepack, this is Genesis,” Elliott said over the new VHF frequency.
“Go ahead, Genesis.”
“The name is Elliott, Eddie,” the general began, staring into the twilight. “We’re at fifty-five miles at your one o’clock. You launched without proper authentication, leaving me to believe that you have no intention of rendezvousing with us. You’re going to turn the opposite direction, or fly past us. Either way, it’d be a mistake.”
“Why, General Elliott,” Sands said, grinning. “I figured it was you. What’s a big SAC cheese like you doing in a hell-hole like this?”
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