The Warbirds

by Richard Herman

  “Damn,” Waters muttered. His internal warning sensations had turned into alarms. The action light from behind the green door flashed for his attention.

  “Colonel…”

  Waters cut him off and keyed the communication circuit for the green door. The operator’s information was sketchy, “Sorry, Colonel. I can’t break out what is being said, but the lines between the Soviet Embassy and Libyan Headquarters are hotter than hell.”

  The colonel broke the connection and patched his interphone into a conference line to talk to his translators and radio technicians. “Has anyone got unusual flight activity inside Libya or approaching their airspace?” The replies were negative. He punched up Carroll’s circuit for a private conversation. “Bill, I think the Libyans are getting ready to scramble interceptors. I can only see one logical target—Grain King. You’re an expert on these people, am I reading this wrong?”

  “It’s hard to tell, sir. They don’t react like we do. It’s a possibility…”

  Which was enough for Waters to act on. He cut him off and called the flight deck. “Pilot, this is Waters. Go to Rose Orbit. Climb as high as possible. Now. Words why later.” Everyone looked at one another, knowing that Rose Orbit was the optimum location for downlinking with Washington, D.C. RC-135s were required to maintain radio silence—their job was to monitor and gather information for analysis later on the ground, and not to talk to the world.

  One of Waters’ most important duties was to protect the capabilities of his reconnaissance platform from compromise, and if the Soviets monitored communications from the RC-135 that coincided with the actions of the Libyans, they would soon figure out what the bird could do. Waters knew a normal high-frequency radio transmission as well as an ultra-low-frequency message transmitted through the trailing wire antenna that stretched two miles behind the aircraft would be picked up immediately.

  That only left an Apple Wave, which had never been used operationally.

  The colonel rapidly drafted a message outlining the situation. He could anticipate some searching questions about breaking radio silence, probably be subject to an official enquiry, and worst of all, have to personally debrief Sundown Cunningham. Screw it, he thought, remembering when he had met the troublesome general at Red Flag. Maybe he could retire before that. Besides, he was willing to take the chance if other airmen were in danger and he could do something about it.

  A computer technician fed the colonel’s message into a computer bank. The computer encoded the message into a one-time use code, then split it into several parts. All of the parts would be transmitted simultaneously; however, the second part would start its transmission a fraction of a second after the first and on a slightly different part of the frequency wave and so on until all parts of the message were being transmitted at once. But before that happened, the computer would send a series of command signals to the aircraft’s power sources and to the phased array antenna that punched the message into the atmosphere. Huge amounts of power were needed to overcome any jamming attempts by an enemy, to narrowly focus and to bend the beam over the horizon. Relays in junction boxes would open and close at the command of the computer, readying circuits that for a few seconds drew electrical power from other equipment on the aircraft.

  Less than five seconds after the computer technician had finished typing the message into the computer, two ready lights flashed at the colonel’s panel. Waters read the soft copy of his message spat out by the computer’s printer. The computer had encoded, then decoded, the message before printing it out, accomplishing two things: first, the computer signaled that it had completed its self-tests, and second, it verified that it had properly encoded the message. It was up to Waters to check the most fallible element—human error in writing the message and inserting it into the computer.

  There were no typographical errors, and as he had determined, it was not a bad message to end a career with. He pushed the TRANSMIT button. At least he had given the generals enough information to make a timely decision. He had done his part, he hoped the command network would do theirs.

  Every light on the RC-135 dimmed or went out, the two radar sets automatically went to standby, drawing less power than a hundred-watt bulb, and the big computer went into a reduced operating mode, using only the power needed to control the transmission and keep its memory banks alive. Only the electronic counter-measures warning gear remained alive. A sharply focused burst of radio energy drilled the message over the horizon. The entire sequence took less than ten seconds before all systems on the aircraft reverted to normal.

  If the Soviets monitored the Apple Wave, they would never decode the message, but they would soon make the connection between Grain King and what the RC-135 could do. Every module commander knew that possibility as well as General Cunningham.

  Muddy Waters knew that he was in big trouble unless he was absolutely right.

  16 July: 1327 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0927 hours, Washington, D.C.

  Master Sergeant John Nesbit jerked the message out of the high-speed printer. He had studied and been forced to learn the various types of messages, their format, sources and priority for handling. This was the first time he had seen an actual Apple Wave. The fact that it was being used indicated that the sender judged the message to be of critical importance.

  Nesbit also knew better than to hesitate. He pushed the “Immediate Action” button for Colonel Blevins, wishing Colonel Gomez was on duty. This will certainly get Ramrod’s attention…

  Blevins was out of the cab and at the coffee bar when he saw the summoning lights come on. He sat his coffee cup down and waddled up the stairs to the cab.

  Nesbit handed Blevins the message as soon as the puffing colonel cleared the door. Blevins scanned the message, then reread it slowly:

  USAF C-130, CALL SIGN GRAIN KING ZERO THREE, TRANSITING SOUTHERN LIBYAN AIRSPACE ON APPROVED FLIGHT PLAN ENROUTE TO ALEXANDRIA SOUTH AIR BASE. CURRENTLY MONITORING INCREASED COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN INTERCEPTOR FIGHTER UNITS AND HEADQUARTERS TRIPOLI. ACTIVITY INDICATES PROBABLE LIBYAN INTERCEPTION OF GRAIN KING.

  “What in hell,” Blevins exploded. “Some fool has used an Apple Wave because the Libyans are talking to each other and have OK’d a UN flight over their country?” He sat down and reread the message for the third time, ready to ignore its significance and file a security violation against the sender for a possible compromise.

  Then he remembered Tom Gomez’s changeover briefing. Glancing at his watch, he picked up a phone and pressed the button for the analysis section. “Send up Captains Marshall and Williamson ASAP.” He had asked for the two best analysts on the shift, two officers that Blevins disliked for their ability and did not trust because of their informality.

  The two captains ran up the stairs to the cab. The entire staff of the Watch Center had seen the Immediate Action lights and the hurried reaction of the analysts confirmed something was about to break. A computer technician banged his head on a console, moaning, “Not on a Friday.”

  Blevins handed the captains the message without a word. They stood side by side reading it.

  “I’ll call up the boards, Don, if you’ll search the status file. OK.” Don Williamson and Sara Marshall were a well-rehearsed team, each intuitively understanding the other. Their casual approach to their duties irritated Blevins, but he had to use them because he didn’t stay current with the masses of information they dealt with each day. The colonel had discovered from past experiences that if he tried to interfere with the way they did their job, the two officers would only do exactly what he told them. And if he missed anything important, they would never mention his oversight.

  Blevins stopped Sara Marshall before she left. “I may have to notify the battle staff. How soon before you can tie this into the big picture with an assurance and coordinate with the Defense Intelligence Agency?”

  The captain halted and turned to look at the portly colonel, “No idea, sir. No one’s been working this. It may be hours before we get anythin
g definite, and it takes days to coordinate with DIA.”

  Blevins turned to Williamson and asked for an assurance.

  Williamson took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This one is going to go down fast, Colonel. I doubt that we can work up an assurance before it happens.”

  “Before what happens, Captain?”

  Sara looked at Don and raised an eyebrow.

  With a shrug the junior male partner told him, “Like the Apple Wave says, the Libyans will intercept the Grain King. That in itself is not a hostile act, but knowing the Libyans, they’ll most likely try to shoot it down. Other than that, they might force it to land at one of their bases and intern the crew.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe that,” Blevins snapped.

  “It’s not bullshit, Gene.” Tom Gomez’s voice cut through the air.

  Blevins twisted to look at him, puzzled that he was still in the Center. Why hadn’t he gone home after the shift changed? How had he entered the cab unobserved? How did he know what was going on? The too-innocent look on Nesbit’s face told him the answer to his last two questions.

  ““If I were in your place I’d do two things,” Gomez continued. “First, relay the situation to the base at Alexandria South and have them bring two fighters up to cockpit alert. Second, call the heavies now.”

  “But we need to coordinate this information first, I need an assurance, goddamnit.”

  “You don’t have time for that,” Gomez told him.

  The decision had been made for him. Blevins hated Gomez for taking it from him and made a promise to himself to even the score.

  As the on-duty Watch Center commander, Blevins had the authority to change the alert status of fighters at Alexandria South. He could even launch those fighters into a holding orbit. It was justifying his actions after the fact that frightened Blevins. Reluctantly, he turned to Nesbit. “Establish an open channel to Alexandria South. Have them bring two fighters to cockpit alert status immediately. Keep the channel open but do not, repeat, do not relay any other information to them at this time.”

  Blevins straightened his shoulders. He scanned the generals’ meeting schedule to find out what was slated for the morning. What he saw was not reassuring: a meeting of the Contingency Budgeting Committee was in progress. He believed the generals would not like having that one interrupted.

  Reluctantly, Blevins called the Emergency Actions Cell in the War Room. “This is the Watch Center commander. A situation is developing that requires the presence of the battle staff in the Watch Center. Notify the appropriate individuals this is a Priority Three. Standing by to authenticate.” The Emergency Action Cell challenged Blevins with a two-letter code. The colonel studied the page with the authenticator table that Nesbit handed him and gave the proper two-letter response and hung up the phone. If he was lucky, only the generals assigned to the battle staff would respond and not the Air Force chief of staff, General “Get-the-Hell-out-of-Here-by-Sundown” Cunningham.

  Gomez regarded Blevins. The colonel was having a hard time controlling the quiver in his voice. “Relax, Gene. This is not a Priority One. It’s only a Three, a potential incident involving Air Force resources within six hours. You did it by the book.” Gomez almost felt sorry for Blevins.

  16 July: 1343 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1543 hours, Alexandria, Egypt

  The controller in the command post at Alexandria South Air Base saw the incoming light on the teletype bank flash. In quick succession the sergeant hit the wing commander’s page button and unlocked the cover on the highly classified teletype. Colonel Shaw’s voice came over the intrabase radio before the message started to print. “What’s up, Barry?” he asked.

  “Sir, I have a priority message coming in that requires your immediate attention.”

  “I’ll be right there,” the colonel answered.

  The controller read the message as it started to scroll out of the printer and immediately hit the button sounding the scramble horn in the alert area and the squadrons.

  Shaw came through the door of the command post, followed by two anxious deputies. Colonel Sam Hawkins, his DO, whose hawklike nose matched his personality, was right behind him. He was closely followed by a shorter, heavyset man, Colonel Clayton Leason, his deputy for Maintenance (DM). The wing commander read the short message and handed it to his deputies.

  “Fun and games,” Shaw said, “telling us to bring our crews up to cockpit alert doesn’t tell us much. Any ideas?”

  Sam Hawkins rubbed the back of his neck. “Beats me. Intel hasn’t said anything is brewing. But that’s not unusual, they never have a clue.” He didn’t think much of Intelligence.

  “Barry”—Shaw turned to the NCO sitting at the main console—“patch the landline into the loudspeaker so we can talk to the crews when they get plugged into the drop cords.” The colonel was referring to the long, extension-like cords that hung from the ceiling of each bunker and connected their helmets to a secure telephone landline running to the command post. The crews could sit in the cockpit and talk directly to the controller without using their aircraft’s radio. Without an engine start to run the F-4’s cooling system, heat buildup limited ground use of their radios to ten minutes.

  “Stinger One-One is up.” Fairly’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

  “Stinger One-Two is up,” Jack answered in quick succession.

  Shaw picked up the controller’s phone and keyed the transmit button. “Roger, Stinger flight. We received a flash message bringing you up to cockpit alert. Other than that, we don’t know what’s going down. This is not an exercise. You’ll have to be pretty flexible on this one.”

  “If we could get some ordnance besides a gun on these birds,” Fairly replied, “we might be more flexible.”

  Shaw wanted to give his crews more to fight with, but he had been denied permission by higher headquarters to upload the alert birds with the most effective air-to-air ordnance he had. Hell, he thought, this is what I get paid for. AIM-7 radar missiles could be uploaded, but that was a time-consuming process. If missile rails were already on the planes, AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles could be uploaded much quicker. “Do the birds have missile rails on them?” Shaw asked his deputy for Maintenance.

  A sober look was on the DM’s face. “We’re not allowed to upload the alert birds.”

  “Do the alert birds have missile rails on them?” he repeated, anger in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” the DM admitted, not happy with what was coming next.

  Shaw made his decision. “OK, get the missiles on the way. Upload the AIM-9s first. Hurry.”

  “But we haven’t practiced emergency missile loading,” the DM protested. “It’ll take about an hour to break the missiles out of the dump, form a convoy, and move them to the alert pad. Then it’s another fifteen minutes to upload the AIM-9s.”

  “Then do it faster,” Shaw warned, his anger rising. Christ, he had directed Maintenance to start training on emergency missile uploads months ago.

  The wing commander mashed the transmit button on the telephone: “Stinger One-One and One-Two, AIM-9s are on the way, followed by AIM-7s. If you are scrambled before the missiles are loaded, go without them.”

  “Control, Stinger One-Two,” Jack answered. “I’ve been running some numbers in my head. With two wing tanks, we’ve got about two hours and twenty minutes flying time to play with. That gives us a cruising radius of maybe six hundred nautical miles. A tanker for inflight refueling would be helpful if they send us out over the Mediterranean for escort.”

  His adrenaline was flowing. For the first time in months he felt that maybe all the trivia, paperwork and “square filling” they endured might be worth it. A slight smile creased the corners of his mouth as he thought about the party and “punishment” that had gotten him onto alert.

  Shaw knew he should have thought of inflight refueling, but hadn’t. He was impressed with Locke’s quick thinking. He wondered if he could get the Strategic Air Command tanker
unit on his base to respond quickly enough and get one of their two KC-135s airborne. They’d probably dig in their heels and claim they had no requirement to support the alert birds—that nothing was on the schedule. Still, he’d try. “I’ll see if I can pry them loose,” he told Jack. “You know how SAC is.”

  16 July: 1430 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1430 hours, over the Sahara

  “Grain King Zero-Three, Tripoli Center.”

  “Go ahead, Tripoli. This is Grain King,” Toni answered, handling the radios on the C-130 while the navigator and loadmaster racked out. She had ordered them to get some rest; both were well into their twelfth hour of crew duty. The radio call woke Belfort from his troubled nap in the navigator’s seat. Tripoli Center read out a new flight clearance for the C-130 while Toni and Dave copied it down.

  “Copy all, Tripoli.” Toni acknowledged the new clearance automatically. “Dave, what’s that going to do to us?”

  Belfort was bent over his work table, studying the chart and scratching new numbers into his log. “They’ve given us a new route with a dogleg going due north instead of letting us go direct to Alexandria South. That will take us right into northeastern Libya. Hold on a minute.” The navigator worked quickly. “The dogleg will add almost thirteen minutes to our en route time and cut our fuel reserve to twenty-five minutes.”

  “Why would they do that?” she asked.

  “Probably to get us on an established airway to enter Egyptian airspace. That’s pretty routine. But I’d like to get Sid on the ground and into a hospital ASAP.”

  Toni looked worried. “McCray, how’s Captain Luna doing?”

  “No change,” the loadmaster replied. “He’s conscious, the bleeding has stopped. He seems OK.”

  She made her decision. “Thirteen more minutes shouldn’t make too much difference. We’ll go with the clearance. Couldn’t get it changed to go direct anyway if they want us on an airway. Hell, we have to do a lot of things we don’t want to do on these missions. Like airlifting food into every little village like the one where they clobbered Sid. They ought to be using trucks to deliver this stuff, like in Ethiopia, not C-130s.”