Leadership Material (patrick mclanahan)

by Dale Brown

  The Iranian pilot in command of the Blackjack-E bomber looked at the Russian copilot in surprise. "What is happening?" he asked in English, their common language.

  "Ignore it!" the Russian shouted. "We are on the attack run, and we still have many American warships to contend with. Stay…"

  "Attention, attention, all air-defense units, this is Abbass Control," they heard in Farsi, "implement full air-defense configuration protocols, repeat, full air-defense protocols, all stations acknowledge." The message was repeated; then, in Farsi, Arabic, and English, they heard, Warning, warning, warning, to all aircraft on this frequency, this is the Islamic Republic of Iran Army Air Defense Network, full air-defense emergency restrictions are in effect for the Tehran and Bandar Abbass Flight Information Regions, repeat, full air-defense emergency restrictions are now in effect. All aircraft, establish positive radio contact and identification with your controller immediately. All unidentified aircraft in the Tehran and Bandar Abbass Flight Information Regions may be fired upon without warning!"

  "What should we do?" the Iranian bombardier asked. "Should we ask…?"

  "We maintain radio silence!" the Russian shouted. "The Americans can home in on the briefest radio transmission! Stay on the attack run!"

  "Our Mode Two-should we transmit?" the defensive-systems officer asked. The Mode Two was an encrypted identification signal. Although it could only be decoded by Iranian air-defense sites, transmitting any radio signals was dangerous over enemy territory, so they had it deactivated.

  "No!" the Russian responded. "Pay attention to the attack run! Ignore what is happening…"

  Just then, they saw a bright flash of light far off on the horizon. The weather was ideal, cloudy and cool, with no thunderstorms predicted. That wasn't lightning.

  "Did you get the transfer-alignment maneuver yet, bombardier?" the Russian systems officer instructor asked.

  "I… no, I have not," the Iranian bombardier replied, still distracted by what was happening over his own country. The transfer-alignment maneuver was a required gyroscopic routine that removed the last bit of inertial drift from their missiles' guidance system.

  "Then get busy! Program it in and inform the crew. You had better hurry before…"

  "Birjand Four-Oh-Four flight, cancel takeoff clearance!" the Blackjack crew heard on the emergency channel in Farsi. "Maliz Three, hold your position, emergency vehicles en route, passing on your right side. Attention all aircraft, emergency evacuation procedure in effect, report to your shelter assignments immediately."

  "Shelter assignments?" the defensive systems officer shouted. "It sounds like one of our bases is under air attack!"

  "I don't understand what you're saying!" the Russian copilot shouted. "But ignore any radio messages you are hearing. They could be fake messages. Stay on the attack run!"

  But the defensive-systems officer couldn't ignore it. He switched his radio over to the tactical command frequency: "Abbass Control, Abbass

  Control, this is Lechtvar, we copy your emergency reports, requesting vectors to last-known position of enemy aircraft. We are able to respond. Over." No response, just more emergency messages. "Abbass Control, this is Lechtvar, we are en route to your location, sixty miles southwest, request you pass vectors to enemy aircraft, we can respond! Over! Respond!"

  "Damn your eyes, I said stay off the radios!" the Russian pilot shouted. "Don't you understand, the Americans can track your transmissions! Now get back on the attack run! That's an order!"

  But just then they heard in English on their own tactical command frequency: "Attention, Iranian Blackjack bomber, this is your old friend from the Strait from last week. Do you recognize my voice?"

  The Iranian pilot of the Blackjack-E was stunned. It was the same voice that had contacted them, the unidentified American military flight!

  "Calling Abbass Control," they heard an Iranian voice say in English, "this is an official military frequency. Do not use this frequency. It is a violation of international law. Vacate this frequency immediately."

  "Abbass Control, this is Lechtvar," the Iranian Blackjack pilot called. "We copied your emergency evacuation messages. Give us vectors to the enemy aircraft and we will respond immediately."

  "Lechtvar, this is Abbass Control, negative!" the confused controller replied after a few moments. "We detected some unidentified aircraft, and then a flare was set off over the Strait. But there are no Iranian installations under attack and no one has implemented any evacuation procedures. Clear this channel immediately!"

  The Blackjack crew finally realized they had been tricked. The crew was stunned into embarrassed silence. The Russian crew members cursed loud enough in Russian to be heard without the interphones- they realized that their chances of surviving this mission suddenly went from very good to very poor. The bombardier directed the transfer-alignment maneuver, a forty-five-degree left turn followed by two more turns back to course-all missiles were fully functional and…

  "Hey, Blackjack. We know you're up here listening to us. We'll have you on our radar any second now. You'll never finish your attack. Why not forget about the carrier and come get us? We're waiting for you."

  It was impossible! The mystery plane was back-and they knew all about their mission! How was that possible? How could they…?

  Suddenly, the radar-warning indicators blared a warning-an enemy airborne radar had swept across them. Seconds later, with sixty seconds to launch, the radar-warning receiver indicated a radar lock. They had been found! The Blackjack's radar jammers were functioning perfectly, but they were unable to keep the enemy tracking radar from completely breaking lock-it changed frequencies too fast and changed in such a broad range that the Blackjack's trackbreakers could not quite keep up.

  "Got ya, Blackjack," the American said. "You're not as stealthy tonight as last time. You must be carrying some heavy iron tonight. Got some more air-to-air missiles loaded up tonight? Maybe a few big an-tiship missiles? Why don't you just jettison all that deadweight and come on up here and let's you and me finish this thing, once and for all?"

  "We must break off the attack," the Iranian defensive-systems officer shouted. "If they have us on radar, they can vector in the other fighters. We'll be surrounded in seconds."

  "Process the launch!" the Russian mission commander shouted. "Ignore this American bastard! He did not attack us before-perhaps he cannot stop us."

  As if they could hear their interphone conversation, the American said, "Hey, Blackjack, you better bug out now. I just relayed your position to my little buddies, the F/A-18 Hornets from the Midway. They're not very happy that you've come to try to blow up their ship. In about two minutes you'll have an entire squadron of Hornets on your ass."

  The Iranian pilot could no longer contain his anger. He opened the channel to the GUARD frequency and mashed his mike button: "You cowardly pig-bastard! If you want us, come and get us!"

  "Hey, there you are, Blackjack," the American said happily. "Nice to talk to you again."

  "You know who I am-who are you?"

  "I'm the pig-bastard at your two o'clock position and closing fast," the American replied. "I'll bet my interceptor missiles are faster and have longer range than your attack missiles-I'll reach my firing point in about ten seconds. You don't want to die flying straight and level, do you? C'mon up here and let's get it on."

  "You will never stop us!" the Iranian shouted.

  "Oops-I think I overestimated our firing point. Here they come." And just then, the radar-warning receiver blared a shrill MISSILE LAUNCH warning-the Americans had fired radar-guided missiles!

  The Russian pilot reacted instinctively. He immediately started a shallow climb and a steep right bank into the oncoming missiles. "Chaff! Chaff!" he shouted; then: "Launch the Kh-29s! Now!"

  "We are not in range!" the bombardier shouted.

  "Launch anyway!" the Russian ordered. "We will not get another chance! Launch!" The bombardier immediately commanded the Kh-29 missiles to launch. The
missiles all had solid lock-ons, and with the slightly greater altitude, the Kh-29s had a little greater range… it might be enough to score a hit.

  "They launched missiles!" Patrick shouted. The Megafortress's attack radar, a derivative of the APG-71 radar from the F-15E Eagle, immediately detected the big Kh-29 missiles speeding toward the Midway. "I got four big missiles, very low altitude, going supersonic. Wendy…?"

  "I got 'em," Wendy Tork reported. The APG-71 weapon system had immediately passed targeting information to Wendy's defensive system, and all Wendy had to do was launch-commit her AIM-120 Scorpion missiles. "We're at extreme range-I'm going to have to ripple off all our Scorpions. Give me forty right and full military power."

  As Brad Elliott followed Wendy's orders, the fire-control computers went to work. Within twenty seconds, eight Scorpions fired off into space. At first they used the Megafortress's attack radar for guidance, but soon they activated their own active radars and tracked the Russian missiles with ease. All four Kh-29 missiles were shot down long before they reached the Midway.

  "Splash four missiles," Wendy reported. "But we're in trouble now-we used up all our defensive missiles." And, as if the Blackjack crew heard them, Wendy saw that the Iranian attack plane was turning very, very quickly-heading right for them. "We got a big, big bandit at fifteen miles, low. He…" Just then, the EB-52C's threat-warning receiver issued a RADAR WARNING, a MISSILE WARNING, and a MISSILE LAUNCH warning in rapid succession. "Break right!" Wendy shouted. "Stingers coming on-line! Chaff!"

  The Soviet-made R-40 missiles were well within their maximum range, and the Blackjack's big fire-control radar had a solid lock-on. The Megafortress's rear-defense fire-control radar locked on to the incoming missiles and started firing Stinger airmine rockets, but this time they couldn't score a hit. One R-40 missile was decoyed enough for a near miss, but a second R-40 scored a hit, blowing off the left V-tail stabilator on the Megafortress and shelling out two engines on the left side.

  The force of the explosion and the sudden loss of the two left engines threw the Megafortress into a jaw-snapping left swerve so violent that the big bomber almost succeeded in swapping nose for tail. Only Brad Elliott's and John Ormack's superior airmanship and familiarity with the EB-52C Megafortress saved the crew. They knew enough not to automatically jam on full power on all the operating engines, which would have certainly sent them into a violent, unrecoverable flat Frisbee-like spin-instead, they had to pull power on the right side back to match the left, trade precious altitude so they could gain some even more precious flying airspeed, recover control, and only then start feeding in power slowly and carefully. The automatic fire-suppression systems on the Megafortress shut down the engines and cut off fuel, preventing a fatal fire and explosion. They lost two hundred knots and five thousand feet of altitude before the bomber was actually flying in some semblance of coordinated flight and was not on the verge of spi-raling into the Persian Gulf.

  But the Megafortress was a sitting duck for the speedy Blackjack bomber. "His airspeed has dropped off to less than five hundred kilometers per hour," the defensive-systems officer reported as he studied his fire-control radar display. "He has dropped to one thousand meters, twelve o'clock, ten miles. He is straight and level-not maneuvering. I think he's hit!"

  "Then finish him off," the Iranian pilot shouted happily. "Finish him, and let's get out of here!"

  "Stand by for missile launch!" the defensive-systems officer said. "Two missiles locked on… ready… ready… launchl Missiles…"

  He never got to finish that sentence. A fraction of a second before the two R-40 missiles left their rails, three pairs of AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles from three pursuing F/A-18 Hornet fighters from the USS Midway plowed into the Blackjack-E bomber, fired from less than five miles away. They had used guidance information from the as-yet-unknown but friendly aircraft, so were able to conduct the intercept and lock on to the enemy attack plane without having to use their telltale airborne radars. The Sidewinders turned the Blackjack's four huge turbofan engines into four massive clouds of fire that completely engulfed, then devoured the big jet. The pieces of Blackjack bomber not incinerated in the blast were scattered across over thirty square miles of the Persian Gulf and disappeared from sight forever.

  "Hey, buddy, this is Dragon Four-Zero-Zero," the lead F/A-18 Hornet pilot radioed on the UHF GUARD channel. "You still up?"

  "Roger," Brad Elliott replied. "We saw that bandit coming in to finish us off. I take it we're still alive because you nailed his ass."

  "That's affirmative," the Hornet pilot replied happily. "We saw the hit you took. You need an escort back to King Khalid Military City?"

  "Negative," Brad replied. "That's not our destination. We've got a tanker en route that'll take us home."

  "You sure, buddy? If you're not going to KKMC, it's a long and dangerous drive to anywhere else."

  "Thanks, but we'll limp on outta here by ourselves," Brad replied. "Thank for clearing our six."

  "Thank you for protecting our home plate, buddy," the Hornet pilot responded. "We owe you big-time, whoever you are. Dragon flight, out."

  Brad Elliott scanned his instruments for the umpteenth time that minute. Everything had stabilized. They were in a slow climb, less than three hundred feet a minute, nursing every bit of power from the remaining engines. "Well, folks," he announced on interphone, "we're still flying, our refueling system is operable, and we've still got most essential systems. I want everyone in exposure suits. If we have to ditch, it's going to be a very, very long time before anyone picks us up. Might as well get up and stretch a bit-at this airspeed, it's going to be a real long flight back to Diego Garcia."

  "The good news is," John Ormack interjected, "the weather report looks pretty good. I can't think of a nicer place to be stuck at fixing our bird."

  "Amen," Brad Elliott agreed. He waited a few moments; then, not hearing any other comments, added, "You agree, Muck, Wendy? Can you use a few weeks on Diego while our guys fix us up? Patrick? Wendy? You copy?"

  Patrick let his lips slowly part from Wendy's. He returned once more for another quick kiss, then drank in Wendy's dancing eyes and heavenly smile as he moved his oxygen mask to his face, and replied, "That sounds great to me, sir. Absolutely great."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time, energy, dedication, and professionalism," Major General Larry Dean Ingemanson said. He stood before the last assembly of the entire promotion board in the Selection Board Secretariat's main auditorium. "The final selection list has been checked and verified by the Selection Board Secretariat staff- it just awaits my final signature before I transmit the list to the Secretary of the Air Force. But I know some of you have planes to catch and golf games to catch up on, so I wanted to say 'thank you' once again. I hope we meet again. The board is hereby adjourned." There was a relieved round of applause from the board members, but most were up and out of their seats in a flash, anxious to get out of that building and away from OSRs and official photographs and sitting in judgment of men and women they did not know, deciding their futures.

  Norman Weir felt proud of himself and his performance as a member of the board. He was afraid he'd be intimidated by the personalities he'd encountered, afraid he wouldn't match up to their experience and knowledge and backgrounds. Instead, he discovered that he was just as knowledgeable and authoritative as any other "war hero" in the place, even guys like Harry Ponce. When it came to rational, objective decision-making, Norman felt he had an edge over all of them, and that made him feel pretty damned special.

  As he walked toward the exits, he heard someone call his name. It was General Ingemanson. They had not spoken to one another since Ingemanson accepted the Form 772 on McLanahan, recommending he be dismissed from the active-duty Air Force. Ingemanson had requested additional information, a few more details on Norman's observations. Norman had plenty of reasons, more than enough to justify his decision. General Ingemanson accepted his additional remarks with a s
erious expression and promised he'd upchannel the information immediately.

  He did warn Norman that a Form 772 would probably push the candidate completely out of the running for promotion, not just for this board but for any other promotion board he might meet. Norman stuck to his guns, and Ingemanson had no choice but to continue the process. McLanahan's jacket disappeared from the panel's deliberation, and Norman did not see his name on the final list.

  Mission accomplished. Not only strike back at the pompous prima donnas that wore wings, but rid the Air Force of a true example of a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing officer.

  "Hey, Colonel, just wanted to say good-bye and thank you again for your service," General Ingemanson said, shaking Norman's hand warmly. "I had a great time working with you."

  "It was my pleasure, sir. I enjoyed working with you too."

  "Thank you," Ingemanson said. "And call me 'Swede'-everybody does." Norman said nothing. "Do you have a minute? I'm about ready to countersign your Form 772 to include in the transmission to the Secretary of the Air Force, and I wanted to give you an opportunity to look over my report that goes along with your 772."

  "Is that necessary, sir?" Norman asked. "I've already put everything on the 772. McLanahan is a disgrace to the uniform and should be discharged. The Reserves don't even deserve an officer like that. I think I've made it clear."

  "You have," Ingemanson said. "But I do want you to look at my evaluation. You can append any rebuttal comments to it if you wish. It'll only take a minute." With a confused and slightly irritated sigh, Norman nodded and followed the general to his office.

  If Norman saw the man in a plain dark suit sitting in the outer office behind the door talking into his jacket sleeve, he didn't pay any attention to him. General Ingemanson led the way into his office, motioned Norman inside, and then closed the door behind him. This time, Norman did notice the second plain-clothed man with the tiny silver badge on his lapel and the earpiece stuck in his right ear, standing beside Inge-manson's desk.