Flight Of The Old Dog pm-1

by Dale Brown

"I'm sorry," he said. He reached for the refrigerator door, then stopped, reconsidering, and sat back in his chair and looked at McLanahan. "Listen, there's very little I can tell you. But I do know this. I was authorized to make that fucking little airpatch out there look like Entebbe. I was authorized, Patrick. Authorized to do any damned thing It was at that moment that McLanahan noticed the Uzi strapped to Briggs' waist.

  NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  It was late in the evening when Harold Briggs escorted McLanahan from his small, musty billeting room to another building a few hundred yards away. McLanahan realized that all his movements-from the time he landed on that long long jet flight from Spokane till now-were intended to keep his location a secret.

  Why Briggs and the others were trying to keep his location a secret from him, he couldn't figure-but they had only partially succeeded.

  Although he had been taken from the jetport to his room at night through the back door, and although they had apparently tried to erase all traces of his location, he stumbled across the words "NELLIS AUX 5" engraved on the side of a desk in his room. The Learjet they had picked him up with at Spokane, he knew, had a range of about a thousand miles at the speed their pilot was flying-the pilot had kept the engines at full bore the whole way And if that hadn't been enough, the dry, cold evening and the roar of high-performance jets-not airliners, but military fighters-screaming in the distance gave it away.

  Well, so what?He was at Nellis or one of the myriad of airfields, stations, training camps, or ranges in the vicinity. He hoped more answers were on the way when, after an entire day of nothing to do, Briggs knocked on his door and told him they were going to meet the project coordinator McLanahan and Briggs now sat alone in a small briefing room. They had been sitting in the same room for twenty minutes.

  McLanahan was about to turn to Briggs and ask how much longer it would be when the door opened and in stepped…

  " General Elliott!" McLanahan said. He sprang so quickly to his feet that he felt as though he had left some part of himself back in the chair.

  "At ease, Patrick," General Elliott said, smiling. He took McLanahan's hand and shook it. "Welcome to my nightmare."

  McLanahan was too stunned to clasp hands. Elliott recognized this and steered him to his chair again.

  Elliott wore a flightsuit with three subdued stars on each shoulder and subdued Strategic Air Command insignia on the arms and front. The squadron patch read -3 ACCS," the Airborne Command and Control Squadron from SAC Headquarters. He also wore a.45 automatic pistol strapped to his waist, and carried a large chart-carrying case and three Thermos bottles.

  Elliott flipped his wooden chair around and sat down on it with a tired thud. He studied McLanahan's still-surprised face.

  "Relax, Patrick. You'll have your explanation in a moment."

  McLanahan blinked at the words. Was his mouth hanging open or something?He took a deep breath and wiped moisture from his palms.

  "Coffee?" Elliott asked, extending separate Thermoses to McLanahan and Briggs. "Actually, Hal, there's Coke in yours.

  I know you'd prefer a beer but… " Briggs nodded and smiled. "I understand, sir."

  "All right," Elliott said, "here we go. This entire conversation is top secret. It is restricted to just us. No one else at all. I have no assistant, aides, or staffers that need to know what's been discussed. I don't have to ask if the room's secure, because it's my room and my compound and I know it's secure.

  That's the way this project is being run.

  By the way, Hal, you're in on this because I want you to realize all that's happening from here on in. I think you'll be able to operate better when you've got the complete picture.

  Patrick, Hal here has been on my security staff for a year now.

  He was assigned to security units for the Pentagon and at SAC until I grabbed him. Now he works for you. He'll make sure that foul-ups like the one we had at Spokane don't happen again.

  McLanahan tried to keep his face from reddening but failed.

  "This job is very simple, Patrick," Elliott began. "We run a highly classified research and development center here at Dreamland. I'm sure that's little surprise to you; during all the Red Flag sorties you've flown I'm sure you've heard speculation about Dreamland, wondered why you'd get your butt kicked so hard for overlying it. Well, that's why.

  Most every new design for a fighter, bomber, or missile built in the past ten years probably had its first tryout here at Dreamland.

  He paused for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. "We've got another plane that we'd like to test-fly. We'd like you to run it through its paces. Test out the avionics, make some practice bomb runs, wring out the aircraft as much as you can. Much of the equipment you'll be testing will eventually be installed in selected B-1 aircraft."

  McLanahan looked puzzled. "That's it?"

  "You'll be plenty busy, I assure you, Patrick," the general said.

  "We're on a very tight schedule. We could be…

  well, let's just say our data might be needed at any time. The more information we have to pass on, the better.

  McLanahan shrugged his shoulders. "Sounds fine to me," he asked. "But you sure went through some very strange gyrations to get me here. I've got a feeling I still don't know the entire story."

  "I hate to sound overly cryptic, Patrick," Elliott said, smiling, "but you know all you're supposed to know right now. You may figure out more as the project progresses. But I must remind you-your location, your duties, everything you see and do, is classified top secret. No one outside this room-I don't care how high their clearance or rank-is to know what goes on here. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir," McLanahan asked. "One question, though."

  Shoot."

  "Why me?"

  Elliott smiled, finished his coffee, and stood. "Simple.

  You're the best. I can't pass up a guy who's won as many Bomb Comp, trophies as you."

  McLanahan wasn't satisfied with Elliott's answer but nodded anyway.

  "Want to see her?" Elliott asked.

  McLanahan looked puzzled. "See what?"

  "The ship," Elliott asked. "Your ship. The Old Dog."

  "Old Dog?" McLanahan rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  "Good recruiting technique, General. I'm supposed to get excited about a plane called the Old Dog?"

  "You will," he said.

  "Is this thing for real?" Briggs asked. McLanahan would have posed a similar question had he been able to speak; instead, he stood dumbstruck, staring at the massive form of the Megafortress.

  They did a walk around inspection of the airplane. General Elliott let them walk at their own pace, answering all their questions.

  "It can't be the same airplane," McLanahan said finally, running his fingers across the slippery skin. "This can't be a B-52."

  "A wolf in sheep's clothing," Elliott asked. "I assure you."

  Briggs entered the bomb bay and McLanahan followed him in a moment later.

  "Expecting trouble, General?" McLanahan remarked. He examined the missiles. "Scorpions!Eight… no, ten of them!On a B-52!

  They've just come out with these things.

  They're not even modified for the F-15 yet. And you've got twelve more on the wings. I don't believe it."

  Briggs read the lower missiles on the rotary launcher.

  "HARM. What's HARM?"

  "Antiradiation missiles," McLanahan asked. "Homes in on and attacks radar-guided antiaircraft gun and missile sites. "He looked at Elliott, and the young man's gaze caused the general's smile to fade a bit. "Trouble and a half, I'd say."

  "Nine-tenths of everything on the Megafortress is geared toward self-defense and target penetration," Elliott explained.

  "That has been my number-one priority. This is just a test-bed aircraft. Over the past few years, we've just kept on adding refinements to it. Building a better mousetrap, I guess. "He patted the bomber's smooth skin. "We're going to incorporate the data we get from our best sorties in
to several other types of aircraft, notably the B-1.

  "Let's go inside," Elliott said finally. "The technicians are doing a simulated flight on the avionics right now. It'll give you a chance to see your new gear operate downstairs. "They received clearance from the guards surrounding the huge bomber and climbed inside. Out of instinct, McLanahan immediately climbed into the left seat and scanned the instrument panel before him-his hand even positioned itself on the crosshair tracking handle as if drawn there by magnetism. Briggs, standing behind them near the aft bulkhead door leading to the forward wheel well, merely stood and gaped at the cramped compartment.

  "Simple, direct, high-speed, highly accurate navigation equipment," Elliott asked. "Satellite global navigation, with position accuracy down to twenty feet, time down to the hundredth of a second, and groundspeed down to the quarterknot. Plus an inertial navigation system with a ring-laser gyro with heading accuracy to the tenth of a degree after twelve unupdated hours.

  McLanahan rested his hands near the computer terminal, studied the keyboard and the video monitor, and then said, "You took the second navigator's seat out. Where's he going to sit?"

  "Second navigator?" Elliott was genuinely startled. "Patrick, I just explained to you. This thing has automatic accuracy a navigator only dreams about. You can handle it yourself.

  Why do you need someone else?"

  "What if all this stuff is destroyed?What if it dumps?" a "Dumps?"

  Elliott looked insulted. "You can't dump this 10 6 stuff. If you turn off all the power, the ring-laser gyro has a 1121 half-hour backup battery. Once power is restored, the gyro realigns in ninety seconds back to original specifications. And it'll take one satellite cycle-about ten minutes-for the GPS to find itself and start navigating again. It doesn't dump."

  "Well, sir," McLanahan said, "I don't know. "He studied the controls on the left side and the small rack of relays and boxes behind him.

  "You kept the original radar set, is that right, sir?"

  "Yes," Elliott said, looking puzzled. "It's interfaced with the defensive weapons more, with target tracking modes and-" "But I still have radar crosshairs?" he interrupted. "Fixtaking capability?Wind runs?Altitude calibrations?"

  "Yes, Yes," Elliott said impatiently. "You can still update the inertial navigation set with the radar set, and you can put a memory point wind into the system, but you don't need-" McLanahan didn't let him finish. He simply reached down to the radar controls near his left knee and, with both hands, pushed three buttons simultaneously.

  The results were dramatic. Instantly, a relay behind McLanahan's ejection seat smoked and sputtered, every circuit breaker of the few remaining above McLanahan's head popped, and the entire lower deck compartment went completely dark.

  "What the hell Elliott shouted.

  A technician from the cockpit upstairs dashed over to the hatch connecting the upper and lower decks and shined a flashlight on the enraged three-star general.

  "What happened down there?" he asked timidly.

  "How the hell should I know!" Elliott asked. "Get down here and-' "The BNS a/c exciter power circuit breakers are popped down here," McLanahan said calmly from the darkness.

  Briggs could be heard breathing in the background. "You'll find the BNS right TR control circuit breaker popped on the right load central panel upstairs, along with the RDPS power supply breakers number one, two, the plus six hundred volt, and the negative three hundred/negative one-fifty volt breakers down here. That smell is the left BNS control system relay. No replacement is usually carried in the spares box.

  "Everything tied into the BNS radar is dead, General," McLanahan said.

  "I can swap around components and bring the radar back, but it won't bring back all the associated equipment including the inertial navigation set and these monitors and keyboard. The satellite system is still operational and it may know where it is, sir, but it can't tell you because there's no screen. I've also erased the navigation waypoints stored in the computer memory, and I'll bet the cartridge reader is dead, also. No automatic navigation."

  "God damn it!" Elliott said.

  "General, may I make a suggestion, sir…"Briggs said.

  "Do it and you'll be guarding a commissary warehouse in Iceland, Briggs!" the general snapped. "Masuroki, get the damn power back on.

  "But I don't…"

  "Reset the power cart first before it drops off the line completely," McLanahan offered, "Then reset the circuit breakers. The ECM and fire-control stuff will need to be turned off and rewarmed up before you do that. That takes thirty minutes-and with all the stuff you've added, probably closer to an hour. I'll need a new relay down here."

  He made a little pause, then added, "And a right ejection seat. And a sextant.

  And a nav- "That's unrealistic, Patrick," Elliott said as Masuroki scrambled to restore power. "You're not going to hit all those controls all at once like that."

  "That simulates about a half-dozen ways to overload the BNS left control relay, General," McLanahan asked. "A little moisture, a bad wire, some sort of voltage spike or surgepoof!"

  General Elliott thought of the skimpy intelligence data Curtis had shown him-the last words of the crew of the downed RC- 1 35.The awesome power of the strange radar they had encountered… the thought made him wince in the cramped darkness of the Megafortress.

  "All right, all right, hotshot," Elliott said, exasperated. "I guess I got a bit carried away with my toys down here. Let's get out of here.

  You'll be spending enough time in this beast, anyway.

  As they climbed down the ladder, Briggs turned to the general and said, "I think you found the right dude for the job, General.

  "Yes," Elliott agreed. He was silent for a moment, then said, "But I'm worried about exactly what the job will turn out to be."

  It was the largest group of people McLanahan had been with since arriving at Spokane Airport-how many days ago?It had only been three days, and only one since first seeing the Megafortress, but it seemed like he had been cooped up in that desert for an eternity. Most of the time since seeing the bomber had been spent in intense study of the handtyped notes and tech orders on the avionics and performance capabilities of the bomber and the Striker glide-bomb. It was incredibly simple to operate-highly sophisticated, but simple.

  They were in another windowless, stifling, nearly empty office.

  McLanahan and Hal Briggs had joined a room crowded with eight people already there waiting for General Elliott. The most surprising additions were four women. Two were obviously security guards, but the third was a middle-aged woman in jeans and a safari jacket who stood beside an older gentleman, and the fourth was a much younger woman, perhaps in her late twenties, who stared at the newcomers in surprise.

  The others took quick glances at the two newcomers and promptly ignored them.

  A few moments later, General Elliott entered the room, now wearing civilian slacks and a short-sleeve shirt but still sporting the huge.45-caliber automatic under his left armpit.

  "I think it's about time we were introduced to one another," General Elliott said immediately, "although you've all been working with each other for the past few weeks and may in fact have run into each other quite often while working on the Old Dog. Colonel Anderson.

  A tall, dark-haired man in a green SAC flightsuit turned and faced the group. He had taken the front and center chair and had leaped to attention when Elliott entered the room.

  "Colonel James Anderson," he said in a deep, resonant voice. "Deputy commander of the 4135th Test and Evaluation Center, Strategic Development and Testing, Edwards Air Force Base.

  "Colonel Anderson brings a wealth of experience from several different weapon systems to Dreamland," Elliott said.

  "He has been the singlernost important source of ideas and our premier trouble-shooter. The Old Dog wouldn't be where it is right now without him.

  "Thank you, sir," Anderson said. He returned to his seat and with narrow, piercing eyes scanned the
others around him.

  He looked right past McLanahan, disregarding him.

  McLanahan pegged him immediately: the huge silver ring, dwarfing his wedding band; the jump wings beneath his command pilot wings; his thin waist and chin-zoomie. Air Force Academy grad. A Colorado Cuckoo.

  Not exactly a navigator lover, either.

  The man next to Anderson stood. He was a bit shorter, less chiseled and much younger version of Anderson, but he had nodded politely to Briggs and McLanahan earlier and he seemed friendly. "Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack, from the engineering and development section at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base."

  "The man responsible for a lot of the Old Dog's new tricks in the cockpit," Elliott added. "He's made his job as co-pilot a million times easier-obviously selfishly motivated. He's released the co-pilot to help out with bomber defense and crew coordination. He's also racked up a few thousand hours in several aircraft as well. The deputy project officer. "Anderson gave Mac a prou no an a quick um s-up as he sat down.

  The younger civilian woman then stood up. Everyone else in the room looked around and past hen-everyone but McLanaban and Harold Briggs.

  She was of average height, with dark hair tied in a scholarly bun atop her head. Her eyes and face were dominated by huge, thick glasses, but, McLanahan thought, she was pretty in a-well, teacherly sort of way. She could not have been much older than McLanahan himself. She looked familiar.

  "Doctor Wendy Tork," she said briefly, brandishing the word doctor like a sword in front of the SAC officers.

  "Strategic electronic defense engineer, Palmdale, California.

  McLanahan nearly bolted out of his seat. No, it couldn't be, he thought. He turned and met the friendly smile of the woman he had met in the hospitality bar back during the Bomb Comp Symposium. He could barely keep his jaw from swinging open.

  "One of the country's foremost experts on electronic countermeasures, counter-countermeasures, Stealth technology, and radar," Elliott said.

  "The electronic warfare operator."

  "Holy shit," McLanahan said under his breath. He continued to stare at her, studying her, trying to imagine her in a flightsuit. Then out of a flightsuit. Both seemed weirdly difficult in their present circumstances…