Which caused the Lieutenant to wonder. Why wasn’t the bomber maneuvering away from the fighter? Why wasn’t it trying to hide behind some of the higher terrain? So far it had made no attempt to jam his radar. It was as if the B-1 didn’t even know he was there.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“We have contact with the bomber,” Chad Wallet said to the President in a whisper. “It is flying southeast, toward the Gulf. We have two ... I mean one ... of our F-16s out of Florida inbound to the target.”
Allen looked up from the huge conference table in the White House situation room with a blank face. The room was cramped and very noisy. Surrounded by the banks of telephones and computer screens, he felt awkward and out of place.
As Wallet strode up to him to give him the news, Milton Blake stood by the President’s chair, anxious to hear every word. Weber Coy, the CIA director, was also standing nearby.
“How did they find him?!” the President asked, turning toward Milton Blake. “You told me he would just slip away. So how did they find him so quickly?”
Wallet glanced around the room to make sure that no one could hear them, then answered the question. “Apparently there was an AWACS radar plane that happened to be on a routine training mission near the bomber’s planned escape route. When the Shattered Bone message went out, the AWACS was brought into the loop. As luck would have it, they were almost directly on top of the bomber, and they have continued to track him as he’s flown to the south.”
“‘As luck would have it,’ huh? That is so much B.S.,” Allen replied. “I don’t believe in tooth fairies, and I don’t believe in simple luck. So, what’s the deal with this bomber? This ... the cutting edge of our military technology ... the best warplane that we have, and already, it’s being tracked by an airborne radar?”
Allen frowned at his security advisor. “Milton, you told me you had considered every angle. So I’m wondering, what do you plan to do now?”
REAPER’S SHADOW
“Ammon, we’ve got a small problem,” Morozov broadcast over the intercom. Richard Ammon immediately began searching the sky, expecting Morozov to announce an incoming fighter.
“What do you have?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the sky.
“The airborne threat warning computer seems to have taken a hike. It’s giving me all sorts of sporadic and wild indications. I’ve tried several times to reset it, but so far no luck. I’m not sure if I know how to straighten out its logic.”
Ammon’s mind raced. That was the computer that searched the sky, looking for any sign of a hostile fighter’s radar. Without it, they were blind. They would never see what hit them. They could have a whole squadron of F-16s flying right on their tail and never even know they were there.
“Come on Morozov, that system is our baby! Do something. Do anything. Just get that thing back up on-line.”
Ammon continued to search the sky up ahead, his eyes darting from cloud to cloud as he searched for American fighters. He racked his brain, trying desperately to think of how to reboot the defensive systems computer. But he had no idea. None at all. That was supposed to be Morozov’s area of expertise.
Morozov continued to flip through the operator’s manual for the ALQ-161 defensive system computer. He scanned his fingers down the trouble-shooting guide. He read quickly and tried everything he could think of, but nothing seemed to work. The computer continued to bounce around, giving spurious and incorrect information.
For a long time, Ammon didn’t say anything as he frantically searched the sky for incoming fighters. He craned his neck from side to side, looking for a contrail or the quick flash of a wing. He paid particular attention to the bright haze that circled the sun, knowing that was where the fighters would most likely come from. He squinted into the sunlight, fully expecting to see the white tail of an incoming missile.
But he saw nothing but hazy, gray sky dotted by an occasional cotton-white cloud. In the distance, on the horizon, he could barely make out the dark shapes of a few high-rise buildings. Little Rock lay directly ahead.
BLADE 64
Peterson watched the target track down on his radar. How could this be? It was almost too easy. It almost didn’t even seem right.
The bomber was now fifty-two miles away. It was still heading southeast. Same speed. Same altitude. If this kept up, it would be like shooting a blind deer with a machine gun. Not very sporting, but a kill just the same. The boys in his squadron were going to be very proud of their newest pilot.
Peterson flicked at the coolie hat on the top of his stick. A small cursor glided over his radar screen toward the target. When the cursor was superimposed over the black square, Peterson pushed up a small switch on the top of his throttle. His HUD immediately indicated that two AMRAAM missiles were armed and ready to fire. A light growl in his headset indicated they had locked on to their target. The bomber was just moving inside of fifty miles. From this altitude, that was nearly an optimum range. Peterson listened to the missile trackers for just a second to ensure that they had a good solid lock, then cleared his voice and said, “Dragonfly, confirm Blade is cleared to fire?”
The controller inside the darkened AWACS looked up at the general once again. The general nodded his head at the controller without taking his eyes off the radar screen. The controller keyed his microphone switch and replied, “Blade, you are cleared to engage.”
Lt Peterson pressed the “fire” switch with his finger. He felt the two missiles as they dropped off of their rails. His eyes narrowed to a slit as the powerful missiles ignited their motors, filling his cockpit with a dazzling strobe of white light. For a fraction of a second, the missiles hung in midair, suspended. Then they began to pull ahead of the fighter as they quickly accelerated away, leaving a trail of white smoke and turbulent air.
THIRTY-TWO
___________________
__________________
OVER ARKANSAS
THE MISSILES ACCELERATED TO MACH IN LESS THAN TEN SECONDS AND tracked straight to the target. Steered by a miniature radar within their nose cones, the missiles honed in on the low flying bomber, seeking the scattering protons of radar energy that reflected and bounced back from the aircraft’s wings and tail.
Every second that passed brought the missiles 5,600 feet closer to Reaper’s Shadow. The missile’s onboard computers were constantly updating the geometry that made up the intercept solution. It was beginning to look like a near perfect tracking scenario. No rough terrain for the target to hide from. No blazing sun reflecting off white hot desert sands. A huge rate of closure to home in on. And the target was not even attempting to maneuver away.
In the Reaper’s tail lay an extremely sophisticated radar-detecting antenna. Its purpose was to detect and gather any radar signals that were beamed onto the bomber. It quickly sensed the energy from the AMRAAM missile’s radar and sent a signal to the ALQ-161 defensive system’s computer. The computer received the signals and began to process the information. It analyzed the wavelength, frequency, and strength of the signal, then sorted through two and half million bites of information in its attempt to identify the source of the radar.
In less than a second it had its answer. The radar in question was classified as non-threatening. Its source was more than 93 million miles away. The bouncing protons were nothing more than scattered energy from enormous sun spots. Nothing to be concerned with at all.
As part of its redundant safety features, the computer was programmed to analyze the signals once again. The whole process started over. Gather data, send to computer, analyze features, compare against memory banks. Conclusion. The source of the energy was a Russian Bad Dog acquisition radar, found only on the newest Russian Naval destroyers.
This conclusion obviously failed the computer’s logic test. The process began once again. Sometime during this third and final circuit, the computer realized that it could no longer tell the difference between a radar signal and a piece of Swiss cheese.
Three seconds l
ater, the computer shut itself down.
Which is why the threat warning tones were not screaming through the earphones in Ammon’s helmet as the missiles tracked in on his bomber.
On the panel in front of Morozov’s face, a caution light flickered on. “Ammon, we’ve lost the system!” Morozov shouted. “It just completely shut itself down!”
“Come on, Morozov, you’re supposed to be the expert. Do something! Get it back on-line. We need that system. Do something, now!”
Morozov continued in his desperate attempt to reset the defensive systems. But all to no avail.
The two missiles were now only thirty miles away. Passing through twelve thousand feet, they looked down on their target. They were twenty-eight seconds from impact.
The bomber flew over a small lake. For just a second the missiles lost their radar return as the radar signal was bounced and scattered by the swelling waves. But still they continued to track downward, their computers analyzing the bomber’s last known position and airspeed to predict where the aircraft should be. Four seconds later, the Bone passed over the U-shaped earth dam that formed the lake and proceeded down a small valley of tall birch and white pines. The AMRAAM missiles immediately picked up their target once again, only eighteen feet from where they predicted it would be.
Just fourteen miles to go. The missiles were now passing through five thousand feet. At this angle, the first missile would impact the root of the bomber’s left wing. The second missile would impact on the top of the bomber, directly behind the cockpit. Of course, the AMRAAMs wouldn’t wait until they impacted the bomber to detonate. Their fifty pounds of high explosives would explode as soon as they got to within eighty feet of the bomber.
Inside his F-16, Lt Dale Peterson was screaming into his mask as he coached the missiles on.
“Go, my sweet little ladies!” he cried. Oblivious to everything around him, he stared at his radar screen as the missiles tracked in on their target. “Come on ... come on ... go and get her!” he screamed into his mask, as if cheering a football team on.
Inside the AWACS, the controller was doing much the same thing. The two-star general leaned forward in his seat, his hands clutching his armrest, his expression firm as granite.
Ten seconds. Fifty-six thousand feet lay between the bomber and the missiles. The controller pushed back against his seat and waited for the impact.
REAPER’S SHADOW
Ammon saw the missiles when they were still nine miles away. They burst through a steel-gray cumulonimbus cloud, their white-hot engines condensing the air that trailed them into a thin contrail, giving the effect of a long, thin arrow that was pointing directly at the bomber. Even at this distance, Ammon could see the glint of the twelve-foot missiles. They were directly before him, closing at an incredible speed.
For nearly a full second, Richard Ammon stared in a stupor of fear. It took a while for his mortal brain to comprehend the threat.
The warheads began their final fusing countdown.
Adrenalin pulsed through Ammon’s body. His heartbeat tripled in an effort to flood his brain with oxygen. Time seemed to slow and stretch itself out. When he finally began to react, his actions were purely instinctive, born from years of intensive training, for there was simply no time now to think.
“Missiles, twelve o’clock!” he screamed while rolling the aircraft up onto its side. “Chaff! Jamming! Flares!”
Morozov immediately began dispensing silvery bundles of chaff and kicking out streams of red-hot flares. At the same time, he selected manual on his electronic countermeasures display and began to radiate white electronic noise in every direction. No sense trying to be discreet about his jamming. It was obvious the Americans knew where they were. So he filled the electronic spectrum with random bursts of energy, hoping to destroy the incoming missiles’ tracking solution.
Meanwhile, Ammon continued to roll away from the missiles, doing everything he could to put some distance between them and his Bone. He pushed the aircraft even lower, hand flying the machine to tree-top level as he screamed across the rolling hills. He kept his throttles in full afterburner, pushing through a thick wall of compressed air and accelerating through the speed of sound. He thrashed across the forested terrain in a howl of fury, the thrust from his engines blowing the branches off of trees and scattering their limbs in a thin trail of splintered wood and toasted leaves.
But still the missiles closed in on their target.
For a fraction of a second, Morozov’s jamming started to work. The missile’s guidance systems lost track of their target as Morozov filled their receivers with a huge burst of electronic noise. But the AMRAAMs were not easily fooled. Their receivers immediately attempted to burn through the thick wall of electronic jamming as their tiny guidance computers sorted through banks of logic algorithms in an attempt to keep locked onto the target.
The missiles made several attempts to burn through the jamming. No good. The radar noise was simply too thick. There was nothing to see but a huge blanket of electronic clutter that obliterated their radar return.
The guidance computers then made a quick decision. Since the target was jamming their radars, they would target the jamming instead. It was that simple. The computer’s logic was very straightforward. The target had disappeared. An electronic transmitter had appeared where the target should be. The transmitter was jamming their radar. The transmitter was now the new target. The transmitter would be the thing they destroyed.
Through it all, the countermeasures and jamming, the chaff and the flares, the missiles never deviated more than ten feet from their desired course toward their target. They were now flying level at three hundred feet, closing in on the bomber from its left side.
BLADE 64
Lt Dale Peterson suddenly fell silent. The missiles and the target had begun to merge upon his screen. He lifted his eyes and looked out into the horizon. Even from this distance, he expected to see the rising fireball. He strained his neck and pushed forward in his seat to get a better view down the nose of his F-16. He stared across the rolling hills, with their tree-lined rivers and highways, as he waited for the seconds to pass.
Inside the AWACS, the controller reached up and adjusted his screen. As the Bone threw out multiple bands of electronic noise, his screen became blotchy with intermittent patches of sparkling fuzz. In addition to the jamming, the B-1 was also approaching the edge of his radar coverage. The controller keyed in a series of instructions at his console to command his computer to try and filter out and clean up his radar picture. He desperately hoped that he could keep a good radar return for at least a few more seconds. It was the only way he would have to confirm whether or not the Bandit was really destroyed.
REAPER’S SHADOW
Ammon was giving up hope. The missiles loomed larger than ever. Like blazing poles of fire they pursued him, matching his every pitch and roll with considerable ease. They were almost upon him. Only seconds to go.
Then he saw them. Directly ahead, little more than two miles, there stood a huge set of high-tension, high-voltage power lines. At least a dozen of the wires were strung across the small valley on their way toward the substations that lay on the outskirts of Little Rock. They glistened from their silver towers, thick and shiny, suspended seventy-five feet in the air. Ammon was flying a little lower than the wires and he had to look upward through his windscreen to keep them in sight. Big red balls were suspended from the middle of the silver threads to warn low-flying aircraft of their menacing presence.
Richard Ammon threw his stick to the right. The aircraft immediately banked to ninety degrees as he pulled around to parallel the wires. The strands of high-voltage wires slipped under his wing as the aircraft bellied up to the towers. Ammon knew that his only hope lay in putting the wires between himself and the missiles.
But he was going too fast. At this speed his turn radius would swing him past the set of high-voltage wires and into the path of the missiles. He had to stay on his side of the wi
res. He immediately yanked his throttles back to idle and extended his speed brakes in an attempt to slow down. The aircraft decelerated quickly, throwing Ammon forward against the harness of his ejection seat.
“Keep jamming!” he screamed to Morozov as the aircraft turned and slid up against the wires. “Light up the sky!” he cried as the B-1 rolled out and flew past one of the steel-framed towers, missing it by less than a wing span.
Morozov reached up and slammed the power switch on his jamming computer. The computer immediately increased the jamming. Enormous bursts of energy emitted in every direction. The Bone was illuminating the invisible radio spectrum with a hundred thousand watts of flashing power. It blazed and strobed and flashed and burned, coaxing the missiles forward, beckoning them on, pulling them toward the aircraft, the only possible source of such amazing electronic power. The electronic haze spread for miles, immediately turning both the AWACS’ and the F-16’s radar screens to little more than round scopes of white strobing fuzz.
As Morozov threw his power switch to maximum, Reaper’s Shadow was just beginning to fly down another small valley. It paralleled the high strands of wire. Ammon turned away from the wires to put some distance between himself and the cables.
The missiles sped along, cutting toward the bomber from its left side, oblivious to anything but the aircraft. They flew directly into the strand of three-inch cables. The copper wires immediately cut the missiles into fractured pieces, detonating the high explosive warheads in the process. There was an enormous explosion. The cables fell, strobing the air with arcing bolts of white lightning as the missiles exploded around them. A burst of vaporized metal and plastic filled the air, sending a billowing cloud of black smoke skyward to be dissipated by the southern winds.
A bright flash reflected into his cockpit from the blazing explosion. “Stop jamming! Stop jamming!” Ammon cried into his mask. Morozov flipped his jamming switch to off.
Shattered Bone Page 33