Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02

by Day of the Cheetah (v1. 1)

  “Storm Two, Sun Devil Three-Two is ready for your final refueling any time,” the copilot aboard the KC-io tanker reported. “Airspeed coming back. Cleared to pre-contact position.”

  “Roger, Sun Devil,” J.C. replied. “Moving to pre-contact.” J.C. pulled the throttles back to eighty percent power and watched as the KC-io moved slowly ahead. Cheetah would get one more refueling as they transited Honduras; then Sun Devil Three-Two would land as scheduled at Tegucigalpa and refuel, and Cheetah would continue on its strike-escort route.

  The refueling went without a hitch. They stayed in contact position right up until the KC-io’s initial approach fix to Ton- contin International Airport at Tegucigalpa, so Cheetah could fill up to full tanks right until the last possible minute—Cheetah had to complete its mission, escort the strike aircraft out of the danger area, then return to La Cieba and land. Every drop of gas was critical.

  “Well, boys, you got another ten thousand pounds courtesy of the people of the great state of Arizona,” the pilot of the KC-io radioed after he had started his approach to Tegucigalpa. “Take care, I don’t want to read about you in the papers.”

  “Likewise,” J.C. replied. “We’ll see you in about three hours if we need you. Over.”

  “We’ll be waiting and ready. Sun Devil out.”

  The channel went dead. J.C. ordered the voice-command computer to reset the radios to the strike mission channelization, with the command radio on the strike-aircraft frequency and a scan on all UHF and VHF frequencies for ground-controlled intercept activity in Nicaragua. At the same time, Powell started a turn toward the east and a rapid descent to five-thousand feet, which would put him about a thousand feet over most of the lush tree-covered mountains of northwestern Nicaragua. They were skirting the northern Nicaragua border, staying deep within the Cordillera Entre Rios valley to avoid Nicaragua’s main surveillance radar site situated on top of a fifty-seven-hundred-foot mountain near Cuyali in the center of the country.

  “Shouldn’t we have heard from them?” J.C. asked a few minutes later. He had fitted a night-vision visor over his eyes to help him pick out the rugged peaks and valleys surrounding them in the rapidly growing darkness.

  “Few more minutes,” McLanahan told him. He had the satellite transceiver unit set on the strike frequency as briefed back at Dreamland; because of the high terrain all around them, UHF or VHF communications would be impossible. “Then all hell will break loose.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t like the old days, Major Kelvin Carter told himself. It was a damned sight better.

  He was sitting in what could best be described as the inside of a computer surrounded by multi-function, multi-color computer monitors, LED readouts and synthesized voices. The cockpit windscreen undulated with laser-drawn images describing search radars, terrain and performance data. The big two-horned yoke and massive center-console throttle quadrant were gone, replaced by static force side-stick controls, a special control stick that did not move but sensed the amount of pressure being delivered and commanded the appropriate input to the flight controls, and electronic mini-throttles.

  He was sitting in what probably was the most advanced electronic cockpit outside DreamStar’s—the cockpit on the upper deck of Dog Zero Two, the second experimental B-52 M-model Megafortress Plus.

  She was a more potent weapon than her predecessor, Old Dog. Every possible system in the aircraft, from flight controls to navigation to weapons, was controlled by computer—and many of those systems could be activated or monitored by voice commands, helping to reduce workload even more. The Megafortress Plus had been virtually rebuilt from the spine up with advanced composite materials, even lighter and stronger than fibersteel.

  But her most outstanding feature was her weapons fit: she had been redesigned to carry almost every missile or bomb in the Air Force inventory. In her role as a defense suppression “super escort” battleship, as on this mission, she carried enough weapons to equip a dozen tactical aircraft—and she could carry those weapons almost eight thousand miles without refueling.

  For self-defense, the Megafortress Plus carried fifty aft-firing Stinger “air mine” missiles, which had a range of almost two miles and could be steered by the fire-control radar operated from the gunner’s position, and six AIM-120C Scorpion air-to- air missiles, three on each wing pylon, for defense against fighter attack. She also carried a wide array of electronic jammers and decoys to confuse or shut down enemy radars. Her terrain-following capability, where she could automatically fly any desired altitude above ground “hands off,” was also a valuable self-protection feature.

  For destroying enemy radars and weapon sites, the Old Dog Two carried four AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow anti-radar drones, two on each wing external pylon, which would home in on enemy radars from long distances. These were planned for use against the four known fixed-radar defense sites along the flight route. For unexpected threats she carried six AGM-88 HARM High-speed Anti-Radar Missiles on a rotary launcher in the aft bomb bay, designed to destroy mobile anti-aircraft guns or missile sites.

  For attacking the KGB airbase itself, she carried four AGM- 130 Striker glide bombs in the forward bomb bay, which could be launched from as far as twelve miles away against the aircraft hangars or other high-value targets at Sebaco. To destroy runway, taxiways and parking ramp she carried two cluster- bomb dispenser drones on the rotary launcher in the aft bomb bay, small winged vehicles that would fly around a preprogrammed or designated spot and scatter (one hundred) twenty-pound bomblets over a wide area, cratering concrete and destroying aircraft or vehicles unlucky enough to be there at the time.

  Twenty-two attack weapons, plus the fifty mini-rockets in the tail—the weapons on Old Dog Two could outfit four or five modern F-15 or F-111 fighter-bombers. The aged B-52 bomber—this particular airframe first rolled off the assembly line in 1963—had been given a new lease on life, ensuring its usefulness in a major combat role beyond the year 2000.

  “One minute to start countermeasures,” the navigator, Captain Alicia Kellerman, reported. The call shook Carter out of his reverie. It was so easy to slip into a sort of hypnotic trance flying this beast—it was as quiet as an airliner and as comfortable as the leather recliner back in his own living room.

  Carter checked the threat radar display projected onto his windscreen after first tearing his attention away from the sight of the iridescent dark green sea rushing past as they skimmed only a hundred feet above the Caribbean. A green dome not far in the distance signified their first electronic barrier, the surveillance and GCI radar at Puerto Cabezas, the large combined Soviet-Nicaraguan airbase on the Nicaraguan northeast coast. They were aiming right for the northern edge of the dome, but because of the interference from the sand dunes and marshes of Punta Gorda they were able to fly just under the radar coverage. But in less than sixty seconds they would lose the protection of even that low spit of land.

  Carter hit the voice-command button on his control stick. “Set countermeasures release switches to consent,” he said in a slight Louisiana bayou accent, reaccented and measured to make it easier for the voice-command computer to understand his voice. It was a humorous problem back in the early years of the project, he recalled—he refused to believe he was the problem when the computer continually rejected his commands during testing.

  “Pilot’s countermeasures release consent.” the computer confirmed. Then to warn the rest of the crew about the move, the computer came on shipwide interphone and announced, “Caution, pilot release consent ”

  “Coming up on SCM point, crew,” Kellerman said.

  “Caution, radar navigator release consent,” the computer said.

  “You’re all a bit early,” the electronic-warfare officer, Captain Robert Atkins, said.

  “If it hits the fan up here,” Carter said, watching the green radar sky slowly inching down on top of him, “I don’t want to be fumbling with switches.”

  “Amen,” radar navigator Captain Paul Scott
chimed in.

  Just then Carter heard, “Caution, electronic warfare release consent. Warning, weapon release consent complete. ” The last safety interlock belonging to Robert Atkins had been removed.

  They were sixty miles from the coastline, about seventy-five miles northeast of Puerto Cabezas. This part of the mission, was almost as crucial as the attack phase. For the next one hundred twenty miles until they reached the Cordillera Isabella mountains in north-central Nicaragua, they were vulnerable to attack—no mountains to hide in, only marshes and featureless lowlands—and they would be in range of the powerful search radar at Puerto Cabezas. Although the exact strength of the defenses was unknown they had been briefed to expect SA-10 air-defense missiles, MiG-29 and MiG-23 fighters to be operating in the no-man’s land before them.

  But at least this sortie had been planned to challenge those defenses. They were not relying on air cover, nor were they taking advantage of overflying friendly territory. This mission was designed as much for effect as well as results—the idea that a large American strike aircraft could make it across Nicaragua and strike a heavily defended target was planned to demoralize and confuse as much as it was to destroy.

  The green radar dome had almost touched them. “I show contact with that search radar any second,” Carter called out. “Clear all weapons for release. Station check and report by compartment when ready.”

  Nancy Cheshire performed the pilot’s station check, choosing not to rely on the computer to check switch positions but doing the checks visually. She was the first female test pilot at HAWC and one of the first ever anywhere, and the public attention she had attracted three years earlier at the beginning of the Megafortress Plus program had threatened to undermine her goal to be the best pilot in the organization.

  “Offense ready,” Scott reported.

  “Defense ready,” Atkins responded.

  “Station check complete, Kel, warning light coming on,” Nancy reported as she hit the EJECT press-to-test button. The last item on the list.

  Carter looked at the small, red-haired woman for a moment, studying her face underneath her lightweight flyer’s helmet. “How you doing over there?” he asked cross-cockpit.

  She looked back at him. “I’m scared to death, Kel.” But she sounded more angry than scared. “And why don’t you ask anyone else if they’re scared?”

  “Because you’re my copilot,” Carter shot back. “That’s all. Hell, I never know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong...”

  His attention was pulled away from his copilot as he watched the green dome descent over his aircraft like some unearthly fog. “Caution, search radar, ten o’clockthe computer reported.

  “I’ve got a second search radar, ten o’clock, estimated range sixty miles,” Atkins reported. “Search and height-finder . . . looks like our shoreline SA-io. Hasn’t found us yet, though.”

  “Take it out, EW,” Carter said. “Jam the search radar—I don’t want to be tracked by anyone out here over water. Kory, send a warning message on the HAWC satellite net. Tell ’em we’re coming.”

  “Roger,” Master Sergeant Kory Karbayjal, the crew gunner and defense systems officer, replied, flipping down the SAT- COM keyboard and punching commands to send the preformatted message out on the satellite channel.

  “Kel?”

  Carter turned to Cheshire.

  “Thanks for asking,” she said, giving the control stick a slight shake.

  Carter nodded, lowered his oxygen visor and checked his system. “Get on oxygen.” She raised her mask.

  “Stand by for missile launch, crew,” Atkins said. “Radar programming complete. I need a hundred feet, pilot.”

  “Rog.” Carter pulled back on the control stick, manually flying the Megafortress Plus a hundred feet higher. “Set.”

  “Rainbow away,” Atkins called out.

  The Rainbow was the AGM-136 Tacit Rainbow air-to-ground missile, a subsonic winged drone aircraft with a small jet engine that could seek out and destroy enemy radars. If the enemy radar was operating, it would home in and destroy it with a one-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead; if it did not detect a radar it would orbit within ten miles of the target area until a signal was detected, then fly toward it and destroy it. So even if the enemy radar was shut off or moved, the missile could still seek out and destroy.

  Carter shielded his eyes from the sudden glare of the AGM- 136’s engine exhaust as the missile appeared briefly past the long pointed nose of the Megafortress Plus, banked left, then disappeared into the darkness. Just then the green-radar warning “sky” projected onto the windscreen changed to yellow.

  “Tracking radar,” Atkins called out over the computerized warning voice. “SA-10, ten o’clock. I’m getting warning messages on UHF and VHF GUARD channels.” The yellow sky seemed to undulate, then disappear and reappear at long intervals, showing the effectiveness of Atkins’s jamming.

  Kellerman activated her navigation radar. “Land fall in two minutes. First terrain, fifteen miles, not a factor at this altitude. First high terrain twenty-five miles, starting to paint over it.” She plotted her position on a chart, cross-checked it with the GPS satellite navigation readout, then turned the radar to standby.

  Carter released his back pressure on his control stick, allowing the terrain-following autopilot to bring the B-52 back to one hundred feet above the Caribbean. The radar warning had changed to solid yellow, then changed briefly to red before being blotted out.

  “Did they get a missile off, EW?” Cheshire called out.

  “No uplink signal,” Atkins replied. “We’re at the extreme outer range of the SA-io. I don’t think they can . . .”

  “There, I see it,” Cheshire said. She pointed out the left windscreen. Just over the horizon was a short glowing line of fire spinning in a tight circle, growing larger and larger by the second.

  Carter jerked the control stick hard left toward the missile. “Chaff, flare.” Atkins hit the ejector buttons, sending bundles of radar-decoying chaff and heat-decoy flares overboard.

  Carter hit the voice-command stud. “Set clearance plane fifty feet.”

  “Clearance plane fifty feet, learning low altitude, clearance plane one hundred feet.” Carter’s turn was so tight that, had the computer set the lower clearance plane, the B-52’s left wingtip would have dragged the water.

  “It’s still coming,” Cheshire called out as Carter rolled out. The B-52 dipped as the lower clearance plane setting kicked in.

  “I can’t find the uplink, something must be guiding it but I can’t find it . . .”

  The glow was getting brighter—Carter would swear he heard the roar of the missile’s rocket-motor as it sped closer and closer, jamming wasn’t working . . . what . . . ?

  “Stop jamming, EW,” Carter suddenly called out. “It must be homing in on the jamming source. Go to standby. Fast.”

  The result was near-instantaneous. The fast-circling flight- path of the missile began to wobble, and the tail flame of the missile’s engine began to elongate just as it burned out. Carter nudged his B-52 as low as he could safely go. It was too late to try to make a turn, too late even for more decoys . . .

  They heard a thud against the fuselage, then silence. The B-52 shook as if a giant hammer had hit it.

  “It missed,” Cheshire shouted, “that was the supersonic shock wave, it missed . . .”

  “It must have been a SA-15 SAM,” Atkins said. “SA-15S . . . they just started deploying SA-15S in the Soviet Union. Now they got them in Nicaragua?”

  Carter forced calm into his own dry throat. “Be ready—our intelligence briefing was obviously missing a few details.”

  But Atkins was still rattled. “SA-15 . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize it. . . they’re not supposed to have SA-15S in Nicaragua ... I could’ve gotten us all killed ...”

  “Snap out of it, Bob.” But Carter understood what Atkins was going through. No one on this crew, including himself, had ever flown a combat mission—a
s a matter of fact, until Dog Zero Two was ready to fly two months ago, none of his crew members had been aboard a military aircraft for several months. After months or years with their mostly deskbound duties at Dreamland they had become more like engineers than combat crew members. Now they were being shot at by the Soviet Union’s most advanced surface-to-air missile. He was sure the rest of the crew was steeling a panic—Atkins was just the first one to let loose.

  “All of you, settle down and pay attention,” Carter called over interphone. “They took a shot and missed. Fly this mission as briefed. But we’ve gotta pull together and back each other up. All of you know your stuff—now it’s time to put it into action. All right. Check your stations and minimize electronic emissions. Nancy, get another power-plant check.”

  The radar sky had turned back to yellow. Carter maintained his new heading for a few moments, then turned back to the right and let the autopilot take control.

  “Do you think we should go back on the same course?” Scott asked. “It’ll be easier to find us that way.”

  “No use in doing that until we get over the mountains,” Carter said. “The faster we get inland the better. Besides, I’ll bet there’s no big secret where we’re heading. The entire Nicaraguan air force is probably waiting up there for us.”

  “Crossing the coast now,” Kellerman announced. Carter checked out the cockpit window—when only fifty feet above the surface, the transition from water to land occurred very fast. He double-checked that the terrain-following system was working properly and set a two-hundred-foot clearance plane.

  “Tracking radar up again,” Atkins said shakily. The yellow sky was back for only a few moments when it completely blanked out again.

  “They get another missile off?”