by Dale Brown
The Deep Drink gear, which was carried by Raven as well as Quicksilver, could be divided into two broad categories. The first was a set of radar receivers and jammers.
A passive-detection system swept six bands and was capable of finding radars five hundred miles away, depending on their strength and profile. A high-powered detector could analyze A-J radar bands simultaneously, delivering real-team target data directly to GPS-based munitions or to B-1 and B-2 bombers equipped to receive it. And there was a combination repeater-transponder-noise jammer that worked like the ALQ-199 ECM unit.
Deep Drink’s second set of capabilities were based around a wide net of wires and dishes embedded in the Megafortress’s skeleton, turning the plane into a giant radio antenna, a combat version of an E-3 Elint gatherer. A dozen intercepts could be processed at once, with Quicksilver‘s onboard computer able to handle one channel of 64-byte coding on the fly. The Deep Drink gear included what its designers called “hooks” to allow the data to be transmitted via a broadband satellite network back to an NSA or military analysis center, but neither the satellite nor the transmission system had made it off the drawing boards yet.
Additionally, Quicksilver carried IR detectors designed to monitor missile launches. With a little bit of fine tuning they could pick up the flare of a shoulder-launched SA-3 from a hundred miles away. The gear was stowed in the bay normally used for Stinger antiair mines on other EB-52s, including Raven.
O’Brien took the radar detection duties, while Habib began making and plotting intercepts. Zen, meanwhile, clicked his own radio through American frequencies, listening in as a pair of patrol planes cruised south of them, just over the Iraqi border. F-16 jocks, they mixed irreverent banter with terse instructions and acknowledgments, flying a simple “racetrack” or extended oval the length of their patrol zone. An AWACS control aircraft flew about a hundred miles to the northwest of Quicksilver, scanning for radars in the area as well as watching for enemy aircraft. Zen hailed them all, asking how things were going.
“Quieter than my mom’s bedroom,” said one of the Eagle jocks. “Where are you from, Flighthawk One?”
“Edwards,” answered Zen. It was SOP to mention the large base just south of Dreamland rather than Dreamland itself.
“Meant where’d you grow up, homeboy,” answered the pilot. “I’m guessing Virginia.”
“Spent a lot of time there,” said Zen.
“You northerners are all alike,” said the other pilot, who had a deep Georgia twang.
“Who you calling a northerner?” countered the other pilot.
“What are you flying there, Flighthawk?” asked the Georgian. “And what’s your location?”
“I’m in Turkey, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Zen.
The pilot’s undoubtedly sarcastic response was overrun by the AWACS controller.
“Gold Flight, break ninety!” he yelled.
Before either plane could acknowledge or the controller could explain further, O’Brien cut over the interphone. “SA-2 radar active in box alpha-alpha-six.
Refining calibration.”
They’d divided Iraq into squares or boxes for easy reference; AA-6 referred to a northeastern portion about 150 miles from Quicksilver—and maybe seventy from the F-16s. But the next thing Zen heard was the shrill anguish of the AWACS controller, screaming over the open mike.
“Oh my God, they’re gone. Oh God, they’re gone.”
III
High Top
Whiplash Forward Operating Area
“High Top,” Turkey
28 May 1997 1640
DANNY FREAH KNELT DOWN BEHIND THE THEODOLITE, TRYING to make sure the ridge beyond the runway was low enough for the Megafortresses to land. If he was reading the device’s screen right—and while it was extremely simple, that was not guaranteed—there was about three meters of clearance, well within parameters. They were running close to an hour behind schedule but at least they had the mesh down. They’d run into some troubles with the helicopters that had delivered it, but they’d probably set a world’s record getting the rough strip ready.
To Danny, it looked like a hell of a lot of space. According to the surveying instruments, new and old sections together stretched exactly 1,642.7 feet. Not counting the slight bump—more like a six-inch ramp—between new and old sections, and a stubborn group of pockmarks and bumps about forty yards from the northern end, it was as flat and level as any runway in the States.
There was a ton of work to do yet—widen the turnaround, finish out the parking section, set up a command area and better perimeter posts, augment the lights, maybe even add cable and a swimming pool. But it was time to land the planes.
“Hey, Cap, ready to rock,” said Clark, one of a pair of combat air control or CCT specialists who’d come in with the helicopters. “Landing lights, strobes, cloth panels—we could put a 747 in here if you want. Get kinda squished at the far end, but it would land pretty.” Danny nodded, following the controller across the parking area toward a set of sandbags where Clark and Sergeant Velis had set up a radio to talk the airplanes in.
Clark grabbed a pair of chemical light sticks and a portable radio, then trotted toward the end of the runway.
He would direct the first plane in to the parking area.
“Hey, Cap! Thanks for letting me work the ‘dozer,” shouted Powder as Danny sat on one of the sandbag piles, the only available seating. “What I’m talkin’ about!”
“I’m surprised you gave it up,” Danny told him.
“Only until the planes land, Cap. Most fun I had with my pants on ever.”
“Yeah, well, keep them on,” said Danny, reaching into his pocket for a candy bar, which was all the dinner he’d have tonight.
Aboard Quicksilver,
over southeastern Turkey
1730
“QUICKSILVER READS YOU FINE, HIGH TOP GROUND,” BREE told the controller as she orbited the freshly meshed field.
“I have a visual on the field. Looks real pretty.”
“Ground acknowledges,” said the controller, all business. “Dreamland Hawk?”
“Dreamland Hawk One reads you fine, High Top ground,” said Zen. Unlike their usual procedure at Dreamland, here the Flighthawk would remain airborne until the other planes were down, providing additional protection in case of an attack. While that was unlikely—two flights of fighters were patrolling the sky above and to the south—the apparent loss of two more F-16s over Iraq provided a potent reminder that nothing could be taken for granted.
CentCom had reacted to the loss of the two planes by ordering more retaliatory raids. But they were caught in a catch-22—more raids exposed more planes to danger.
Everyone was on edge, and even the Megafortresses had been challenged by fighter patrols as they flew into south Turkey.
The ground controller turned his attention back to Major Alou and Raven, which was up first in the landing queue. They ran through a quick exchange of vitals about the airstrip, wind, and weather conditions, along with the basic instructions on where the controller wanted him to put the plane once they landed. The exchange was somewhat pro forma, as the Megafortress could compute her own data and adjust accordingly, but the routine itself was comforting. The well-trained CCT on the other end of the radio did his job with the high precision a pilot could appreciate; it boded well if things got complicated down the line.
“Raven on final approach,” said Chris as their sister plane pushed in.
Quicksilver was about a mile away and roughly parallel to the runway, opposite Raven as it settled down. Zen had brought Hawk One into a chase pattern behind and above Raven to feed Alou additional video view if he needed it. Breanna had the feed displayed on her console; she watched as Alou came in a bit high to avoid the rocks at the approach end, then flopped down onto the mesh grid, chutes deployed, thrusters in reverse. Dust spewed as the plane shuddered onto the ground. Raven began drifting to the left about ten yards after her wheels
hit; Alou held it for the next twenty then seemed to overcorrect. In the last fifty yards the plane moved sharply back to the left, jerked right, then disappeared beneath a massive cloud of dust and smoke.
“Shit,” said Breanna.
The video veered into the countryside as Zen brought the Flighthawk around quickly. Breanna jerked her attention back to the sky in front of her. The radar plot showed one of the Pave Hawks crossing ahead.
“Hold pattern, all aircraft,” said the controller sharply.
“We’re all right,” said Major Alou. “We’re okay.” The Flighthawk video showed the dust clearing. The Megafortress had come off the far edge of the runway, clipping its wing against some of the rocks. The ground people were running toward it as Hawk One passed overhead.
“Raven, please hold your pattern,” said the CCT.
“Raven.”
“Going to have to recalculate our fuel,” said Chris Ferris.
Breanna grunted in acknowledgment as she widened their orbit, waiting for the people on the ground to sort things out. Two of Raven‘s sixteen tires had blown and the wing had been lightly damaged, but otherwise the plane was fine. No one aboard had been hurt, assuming the pilot’s bruised ego didn’t count.
“My fault,” Alou told Breanna as the Megafortress was rigged to one of the bulldozers so it could be towed off the runway. “The wind kicked up crazy and pulled the drogue chutes. The computer didn’t know how to compensate and I had to fight it. Then the wind kicked out again and I lost the runway. That tooth to the east between the hillsides—it’s like a blowpipe.” Breanna could imagine. Crosswinds were always a complication for any airplane when landing or taking off.
The Megafortress’s main asset was also its greatest weakness—it was an immense and heavy airframe. Sharp gusts of wind on landing could make a pilot’s life difficult even on the best runway.
“I say we dump the chutes,” said Chris.
“I don’t know if we can stop in time without them,” said Breanna.
“Chop ‘em at the tooth.”
They worked the numbers—they’d run off the end of the runway, maybe even the mountain.
“What if we drop the other Flighthawk?” The lighter load would lessen the plane’s momentum as it landed, making it easier to stop. Still, the computer calculated they’d need another fifty yards without the chutes.
“Burn off more fuel. Dump it even,” said Chris, working the calculations. The most optimistic—which had them running out of fuel during the final approach—left them ten yards too long.
“We can all eject,” joked Breanna.
“Still leaves us ten pounds too heavy,” answered Chris.
“I think we’re better off just losing the computer,” said Breanna. “We’ll figure the chutes will pull us and compensate.”
“I don’t know, Bree. If they couldn’t handle the cross-wind with the computer’s help—”
“The computer routines weren’t set up with the chutes,” said Breanna. She’d made up her mind. “We can cut it lower too, so we don’t put quite as much strain on the tires. I think they lost them on the touchdown. That hurt their steering.”
“I don’t know, Bree.”
“I do. I’ve landed in forty knot winds in an old B-52.
It’ll be easier than that.” She clicked her com setting to talk to Zen. “Jeff, we want to lighten our load. Can you launch Hawk Two?”
“What’s the game plan?”
Breanna explained quickly.
“I don’t know, Bree.”
“What don’t you know?”
“You guys are going to land on that postage stamp without any help from the computer?” She’d expected Chris to object—though highly skilled, her copilot was by nature extremely cautious. But Zen was ordinarily the opposite, and routinely chafed against the computerized autopilot systems that helped him fly the U/MFs—even though he’d helped develop the damn things. If anyone should be in favor of turning off the training wheels, it should be him.
“I can do it with my eyes closed,” she said.
“Your call, Captain,” said her husband.
“Thank you, Major,” she said. “Tell me when you’re ready to fuel Hawk Two. I’d like to top off One as well.”
“Hawk leader acknowledges.”
ZEN CHECKED THE SITREP ON HIS VIEWER, WAITING FOR Quicksilver to finish its climb to 26,000 feet. Before he started working with the Megafortress fleet, he’d had a typical fighter jock’s attitude toward big planes and their pilots: basically they were airborne trucks, slow and easy to control. But the airborne launches and refuels had taught him to appreciate exactly how difficult a large aircraft could be to control. Its vast weight and wing surfaces, complicated flight systems, and powerful engines made for a complicated minuet. The dancers at the helm had their hands full, even with the sophisticated flight computers that helped control the Megafortress. Landing the big jet on the smooth surface in the shadow of Glass Mountain was one thing, landing on this mountaintop metal-covered sand trap quite another.
And Breanna hadn’t fully recovered from her injuries either.
“Want me to fuel and prep Two for launch?” asked Fentress.
“I got it,” said Zen, louder than he’d intended. He worked quickly through the checklist, jumping momentarily into the cockpit of Hawk One, then handing it back over to the computer in its orbit around the airstrip.
Fueled and powered, Hawk Two purred beneath the EB-52’s wing, eager to launch.
“Can I take it?” Fentress asked.
“Sorry,” said Zen, immediately telling Breanna they were set to launch because he didn’t care to debate with his sidekick.
“READY?” BREANNA ASKED CHRIS AFTER THE GROUND controller gave them the all-clear.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Engines are yours,” she said. “Like we chalked it up.”
“Gotcha, coach,” said Ferris.
They brought the big plane out of her last leg on the approach pattern, lining up with the runway. They were at an off angle, their nose about fifteen degrees away from a straight-on run. Several simulations on the Megafortress control computer showed this would give them the best handle on the swirling winds.
“Four’s too hot,” Breanna said. She had the power-graph in the configurable HUD, its green bars overshadowing the rocks as they approached.
“Backing off four, five percent. Seven percent.”
“Five thousand feet,” said Breanna, reading the altitude against the runway, not sea level—which would have added nearly seven thousand feet to the total. “On course.”
“Crosswind!” warned Chris. Quicksilver moaned as he said that, the plane lurching slightly to their left as a gust of wind caught them.
“I have it,” she said. “Gear.”
“Gear,” confirmed Chris. The plane shook slightly, her airspeed quickly dropping below 150 knots against the stiff head wind as the landing gear doors opened. Their momentum bled away; within seconds they were no more than three knots over their stall speed, with a goodly distance to go.
“Hold our power,” said Breanna.
“Gear set and locked,” said Chris. “Okay okay okay.”
“Systems,” prompted Breanna.
“Green, we’re in the green, we’re in the green. Jesus—too low, Bree, we’re going to clip the rocks.” Breanna resisted the impulse to break off the approach and instead held back on her stick ever so slightly longer than she had intended. They did cut the lip of the ridge close, but they cleared it.
“Chutes!” said Breanna and Chris together. They’d timed the deployment down to the millisecond, trying to balance the different effects and maximize the drag without ending up too far off course. The jet wobbled slightly but held herself in the air, the extended trailing edges on the wings adjusted by a series of small actuators that responded in micrometer increments to the pilot’s input.
“Reverse thrust! Reverse!” Breanna shouted.
The swirli
ng gusts suddenly changed direction and died. The Megafortress’s tail threatened to whip out from behind her and the plane rolled faster than she’d wanted, its speed jumping nearly fifty knots, if the speedo were to be believed. Breanna’s fingers compressed around the stick, her soft touch suddenly gone, her biceps cramping.
An alarm sounded in the cockpit, and Chris shouted another warning.
Then she did something she’d never done before when landing a Megafortress: She closed her eyes. The plane’s wings seemed to hulk over her shoulders, extensions of her body. Her stomach felt for the runway, her legs dragging the brakes. She fought the muscle knots in her hand and back, pushing the plane as gently as she could, willing it along the path as she’d planned, compensating for the wind, feeling her way dead onto the middle of the runway.
God, she thought. The word filled her head, the only conscious idea. Every other part of her belonged to the plane.
“Holding, holding, oh yeah, oh yeah,” Chris was saying. “Fifty knots. Thirty. Oh mama! Stopping! We’re stopping! This is pretty, Captain!” Someone behind her started to cheer. Breanna opened her eyes, looking out the windshield of the jet for the ground controller who was supposed to meet them and steer them to their parking slot.
High Top
1800
DANNY FREAH WAITED AS THE HATCHWAY BENEATH THE Megafortress hissed and began to lower. He jumped onto the steps as soon as they touched the ground. Hopping aboard, he popped up into the Flighthawk control deck, where Zen was busy bringing the U/MFs in for their landings. The major’s new sidekick, Captain Fentress, looked around with a surprised expression, but Zen remained oblivious, hunkered over his controls. Danny waved at Fentress, then clambered up the access ramp to the flight deck, where the crew was just stowing their gear.
“Nice landing, Bree,” said Danny. “Welcome to the No-Tell Motel.”
“Glad to be here,” she said.
“Colonel Bastian wants to conference,” he told her. “I was hoping I could sit in Quicksilver with you guys when we take it. We don’t have the headquarters trailer down yet, and our only radio is the SatCom.”