Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (20 page)

           
“Last but certainly not least,”
Elliott said, nodding to the last man and the woman beside him.

           
“Thank you, General,” the man said.
“I am Doctor Lewis Campos, retired Air Force. This is my assistant, Doctor
Angelina Pereira. We are weapons design consultants representing several
industries—actually, a mix of several military-industrial complexes.”

 
          
“And
a duo with loads of imagination,” Elliott added. “Designers of the defensive
armament aboard the Old Dog—the guns, missiles, rockets. Lew Campos will be the
gunner in all of the tests we conduct.”

 
          
“There
you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Elliott said. “From now on, you’ll be
working very closely with one another to gather the information we need. All of
you, with the possible exception of Patrick, are intimately familiar with your
own devices and equipment—and Captain McLanahan has demonstrated a knowledge of
his own systems that would rival anyone here. But it’ll be most important that
you all learn to work with
each other
to
insure the success of these tests.”

 
          
Elliott
was silent for a moment. Then: “Some of you are not military people. You’ve
worked in military centers, designing military weaponry, working closely with
other military members, but you never planned on actually flying or
participating in operational tests yourselves. We simply don’t have the time to
train flight test engineers or military personnel to your level of expertise.

 
          
“I
am heartened by the fact that all of you are volunteers, but that doesn’t bind
you to a seat aboard the
Megafortress
.
If any of you, either now or later on, feel you cannot handle the rigors we’ll
place on you, see me in private and you’ll be released.”

 
          
There
was a sort of relieved nod from everyone—everyone except
Anderson
.

 
          
“Colonel
Anderson, the floor is yours.”

 
          
Anderson
nodded thanks to General Elliott, then
swung on the rest of his newly assembled crew like a disgusted drill sergeant
at an induction.

 
          
“The
routine is simple, ladies and gentlemen. Our mission is to collect data on
avionics, weaponry, hardware, and software aboard the B-52 India model for use
in other specialized military aircraft. Very simple.

 
          
“To
do this, we study. Every waking minute, every free moment, you will spend
studying the missions and the scenarios faced in each one. You will not
concentrate only on your own specialty. You will be intimately familiar with
the duties and responsibilities of every member of this crew.

 
          
“When
the plane is available to fly, we spend all afternoon, from thirteen hundred
hours until eighteen hundred hours, in mission planning. The crew briefing will
be three hours prior to takeoff*. All of our flights will be night sorties to
help insure security, and they will be four hours in duration. There will be
three hours debriefing following the sortie, then eight hours crew rest before
duty begins the next day.

 
          
“When
the plane is not available, we will use the simulator. Simulator sessions are
five hours long, and there will be five hours for mission planning and briefing
and three hours for post-briefing.”

 
          
Anderson
started to pace in front of his assembled
crew, staring each one down.

 
          
“This
is not a scientific laboratory, an office, or a boardroom,” he said. “This is a
classified tactical unit on an urgent assignment. Because of the need for speed
and accuracy, we will consider this field conditions from here on. There will
be no leave, no absence, no sick call, no vacation, no days off*. You will have
no visitors, receive no calls from your other place of employment, or work on
any other project save this one. Am I understood?”

 
          
No
reply.

 
          
“You
are expected to be familiar with the entire contents of the I-model technical
order by
noon
tomorrow. Then, we will meet here and talk about the plane and its
characteristics. Questions?”

 
          
Again,
no reply.

 
          
Anderson
turned to Elliott. “General?” Elliott shook
his head.

 
          
“You
will be sorry,”
Anderson
said menacingly, “if you come here tomorrow and you don't know your
shit. Dismissed.”

 
          
The
Old Dog’s crewmembers filed out, everyone afraid to speak or make any comment
with
Anderson
anywhere within earshot. Elliott,
McLanahan, and Briggs were the last to leave.

 
          
“That
man,” Briggs said, “is one intense sonofabitch.”

 
          
“I
can see working with him is going to be a real blast,” McLanahan said. “Thanks
for the great assignment, General.”

 
          
“Don’t
mention it,” he replied, smiling. “I hope you’ve been studying. You’re starting
out with two strikes against you already.”

 
          
“I
know,” McLanahan said. “I’m a nav—and I’m not Mentzer. Who is Mentzer, anyway?”

 
          
“An
aerospace engineer who has worked closely with
Anderson
for five years,” Briggs replied.

 
          
“But
he had a clearance problem?”

 
          
“Hal
here unearthed some . . . discrepancies in Mentzer’s background before he came
to Dreamland,” Elliott said. “Too many overlapping jobs. Our Hal here is the
suspicious type—but I haven’t gone wrong yet trusting his instincts.”

 
          
“Why,
thanks, General—”

 
          
“But,
there’s always a first time,” Elliott said, smiling. “Wait until
Anderson
hears it was a lowly lieutenant keeping
Mentzer out of the project.” Briggs groaned. “Anyway, I’m keeping him out of
this phase of the project until we get it straightened out.”

 
          
“Then
can I get out of this loony bin?” McLanahan asked, only half jokingly.

 
          
“Mentzer
only builds them,” Elliott said. “He can’t drop them. You can. Better than
anyone else in the country.”

 
          
“Great.”
McLanahan glanced at Briggs. “Hal, my friend, there had better be some beer
around this dustbowl, or I’m gonna get real cranky studying tonight.”

 
          
“You
can count on me,” Briggs replied.

 
          
On
the way outside, McLanahan noticed Wendy Tork standing alone between her
barracks and the briefing room. He excused himself and walked over.

 
          
“I
didn’t recognize you at first—with the glasses and all.”

 
          
“How
is
the King of Bomb Comp,” Wendy
said, placing her hands on her hips.

 
          
“Can’t
complain,” McLanahan said, smiling. “Well, actually I can . . . This Colonel
Anderson seems to be really bad news. I’d like to drop
him
out of the Old Dog’s bomb bay instead of one of those Striker
bombs.”

           
“Maybe you’ll get your chance,”
Wendy said, smiling. “But they don’t give trophies for that, do they?”

           
“Not the last I heard,” McLanahan
said. He shifted his feet uncomfortably, trying to think of what to say next.
“So,” he said finally, “why didn’t you tell me when we met what a crackerjack
electronics warfare operator you were? I thought you were some sort of
technician.”

 
          
“You
didn’t ask,” Wendy said. “Besides, you seemed busy basking in your own
limelight. I figured you weren’t interested.”

 
          
“But
I
was,
” McLanahan said, realizing as
he said it that he was much too emphatic. “I mean . . . sure I was interested.”
God, he was making a mess of this.

 
          
Wendy
began walking toward the women’s barracks and McLanahan fell into step with
her. “Hey,” he said, “you’ve got to explain your ECM gear to me. It was the
most confusing part of that damn manual. I think I need some expert advice.
Tonight ...”

 
          
Wendy
stopped a few yards short of the barracks and folded her arms over her chest.
“Tonight?”

 
          
“If
it wouldn’t be much trouble,” McLanahan said quickly. Wendy hesitated a moment
while giving him an appraising look. “All right,” she said finally, “tonight it
is. See you after dinner.”

 
          
“Fine,”
McLanahan said. He waved to her as she disappeared inside the barracks. This
may not be a bad TDY after all, McLanahan thought to himself.

 
          
Ian
McCaan, Secretary-General of the United Nations, had just called the meeting of
the United Nations Security Council to order when Gregory Adams spoke:

 
          
“Mr.
Secretary-General,”
Adams
said, “information has been brought to the
attention of the government of the
United States
concerning the incident described in the
specification of charges against the government of the
Soviet Union
. I have been instructed by my government to
allow the ambassador from the
Soviet Union
to enter a plea in response to the charges in lieu of presenting evidence to
the Security Council.”

 
          
McCaan
looked confused. “Am I to understand, Ambassador Adams, that your government is
dropping its charges against the
Soviet Union
?”

 
          
“Allow
me to explain, Mr. Secretary-General,” Dmitri Karmarov interjected. “My
government has been in careful negotiations with the American government since
the charges were first preferred against us in the emergency session. The
charges concern a highly sensitive research and development facility in the
Soviet Union
, which my government would rather not
discuss even in closed Security Council session. Therefore, we have taken steps
to enter into negotiations with the
United States
directly.”

 
          
“I
wish to make it clear,”
Adams
immediately added, staring directly at Karmarov, “that the charges against the
Soviet Union
still remain. I am prepared at any time to
present my evidence against the
Soviet Union
in this forum.”

 
          
“That
is understood, Ambassador Adams,” Karmarov said. “As part of the agreement
between our governments, I would like to make the following statement:

 
          
“The
government of the
Soviet
Union
pleads
nolo contendere
before the Security
Council of the United Nations in response to the charges brought against us by
the government of the
United States
. The
Soviet Union
acknowledges, incomplete evidence
notwithstanding, that activity at the Kvaznya research facility may have caused
a situation to develop in which an American aircraft in the vicinity may have
experienced difficulties of an unknown type or severity. It is not known for
certain if such difficulties resulted in the loss of the aircraft.

 
          
“The
government of the
United States
acknowledges that their RC-135 intelligence
aircraft was within the Air Defense Identification Zone at the time of
question,” Karmarov continued, “without proper identification, without a
properly filed flight plan, and without clearance from any Soviet controlling
agency. The
United States
has not confirmed that the plane was on a
spy mission, which my government condemns, but—”

 
          
“But
that doesn’t mean any—”
Adams
interrupted.

 
          
“I
was going to say,” Karmarov said, his voice rising, “that the military air
defense operators on duty did not take the proper action in the case of such an
intrusion, nor did they warn the aircraft of ongoing activity that may have
serious effects on aircraft in the area.

 
          
“In
the spirit of peace and international harmony, therefore, the government of the
Soviet Union
has agreed to cooperate in the
investigation into the causes of the loss of the American spy plane. In return,
the
United States
has consented to let the
Soviet Union
enter a plea of no contest to its charges
until that investigation is completed. As to the matter of possible interference
with free-flying aircraft and the alleged negligence of Soviet military
operators, we request that the Security Council reserve judgment until a
complete analysis of the controller’s transcripts and records can be
completed.”

 
          
Karmarov
put his head down over his notes and, reading quickly and unemotionally,
continued: “The
Soviet
Union
extends its
regrets to the family of those lost near our shores. We assure all concerned
that we will do everything in our power to resolve the matter. Thank you.”

 
          
The
Russian translator barely was able to spit out the last few sentences trying to
keep up with Karmarov. The Russian put his notes down and glanced at the
assembled ambassadors.

 
          
Ambassador
Braunmueller, the representative from
East Germany
, stood and held out his hands to Karmarov.
“Your statement, Comrade Ambassador,” he said, “was magnificent. The
Soviet Union
’s willingness to cooperate with the
investigation and their openness is to be commended.”

 
          
“They
haven’t admitted to anything . . .”
Adams
said,
but he was drowned out by Braunmueller’s booming voice.

 
          
“Mr.
Secretary-General, I move that final judgment be reserved until the full
results of the investigation are presented.”

 
          
“Seconded,”
another ambassador said.

 
          
“I,
too,” McCaan said, “am impressed and heartened by the spirit of cooperation
exhibited by the
Soviet
Union
. I call for
a vote.”

 
          
Adams
abstained. As he expected, the vote was
unanimous.

 
          
“Nemine contradicente,
” McCaan
announced. “Let the record show the vote is unanimous. The plea of
nolo contendere
is to be officially
entered. The matter involving the charges against the government of the
Soviet Union
is hereby suspended indefinitely.

 
          
“The
government of the
United States
is hereby requested by the Security Council
of the United Nations to respect the spirit of cooperation exhibited by the
Soviet Union
by cooperating fully with their government
in the investigation of the aircraft disaster and not to retaliate or otherwise
impose any restrictions or sanctions against the
Soviet Union
because of this incident.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
McLanahan
was alone inside the bomber, inside the plastic-skinned, stifling Old Dog. Hal
Briggs was with him, watching the activities in the downstairs compartment and
taking notes, but effectively McLanahan was alone with the bomber and its
equipment.

 
          
They
were flying three hundred feet above the high desert and looming mountain
ranges of
Nevada
. McLanahan was studying the radar scope,
which was now in TTG, or Target Tracking and Guidance mode, searching for attacking
fighters. If he spotted any fighters, he would put a circle cursor on it and
tell Compos that he was tracking a target. The computer would feed range,
azimuth, elevation, direction, and airspeed information to the
Scorpion
air-to-air missiles, and with
that information a hit was almost guaranteed.

 
          
But
the scope was blank and had been for several minutes, and Wendy Tork in the
electronic warfare section had reported no airborne interceptor radar signals.
McLanahan could feel a cold, prickly sensation on his neck. The mountains were
too damn close.

 
          
He
glanced at his chart. Some of the highest mountain ranges in southern
Nevada
were right off the nose, and he felt
uncomfortable not monitoring their position by radar, even though the automatic
terrain-avoidance system had proved its reliability.

 
          
Well,
damn the fighters, McLanahan thought to himself. If the aircraft hits a
mountain, the fighters won’t matter.

 
          
He
punched a button, thinking about the twenty-first century equipment guiding
their two-hundred-ton bomber. The blank track-while-scan radar scope changed
into a mapping display of the terrain within thirty miles of the Old Dog.
Guided by a ring of satellites and by a tiny “game- cartridge” of terrain
elevations, the Old Dog was automatically diving and climbing, attempting to
hug the ground as close as possible. The satellites, orbiting in geosynchronous
orbits twenty-three thousand miles above the Earth, told them exactly where
they were; the Inertial Navigation System, INS, told them where they were
going; and the computer, ROM, Reading Only Memory, terrain-data cartridge told
them how high the terrain was.

 
          
A
computer fed all this to the autopilot, which told the Old Dog—what a damn
stupid name, McLanahan thought—when to climb or dive, and the autopilot would
climb or dive in time to keep the plane within a few feet of the selected
clearance plane setting. Simple.

 
          
Except
it wasn’t working.

 
          
His
terrain-mapping scope was almost blank, but for a completely different reason.
A five-mile-long ridge loomed ahead, its treelined crest still seven hundred
feet
above
the Old Dog’s altitude.
The ridge cast a dark shadow behind it, as if the radar beam was a headlight
being blocked by an oncoming brick wall.

 
          
McLanahan
knew that if the shadow behind the ridge got larger instead of smaller they’d
eventually plow into the ridge. At over seven hundred feet per second, the
two-hundred-ton bomber would smear itself right up and over the ridge and
scatter pieces of itself for tens of miles beyond. The radar altimeter readout
on the video display was flashing, warning that the aircraft was below the
desired terrain clearance altitude.

 
          
McLanahan
glanced at the flight instruments. The vertical-velocity indicator was showing
a climb, but it didn’t seem like a very steep one. The ridge was now only three
miles away, and the shadow beyond blotted out all else right to the edge of the
scope.

 
          
“High
terrain, three miles,’’ McLanahan reported over the interphone.

 
          
“I’ve
lost TTG signals, navigator,’’
Campos
radioed to McLanahan.

 
          
He
quickly glanced at the annotations he had placed on the chart the night before.
“Elevation eight thousand feet,’’ McLanahan said. “Blank scope. Not painting
over it. Also a blinking radar altimeter.”

 
          
The
terrain-avoidance computer was not designed to
follow
the contours of the surrounding hills and valleys as it
would in the B-l
Excalibur
or the
FB-111. The B-52 didn’t have enough power. The terrain-avoidance system
anticipated the terrain ahead of the aircraft’s flight path and chose a safe
altitude to clear it, as close to the pilot-selected clearance plane setting as
possible. Approaching a ridge, the altitude should not be
less
than the selected altitude—it should be more. Much more. And
the Old Dog should be climbing a lot faster . . .

 
          
“Pilot,
climb!” McLanahan ordered. The VVI suddenly jumped, nearly tripling its former
climb rate, and the throttles were jammed to full military thrust. The
airspeed, however, bled off rapidly as the Old Dog traded altitude for
airspeed, crawling skyward.