Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (4 page)

 
          
“We
can’t hold this turn long, E.W.,” Martin, the copilot, reminded him. “The
corridor narrows to two miles on this bomb run.”

 
          
“Fighter
now at
three o’clock
!”
Hawthorne
shouted. Then, as if in reply to the
copilot’s warning, he said, “Break left. Guns, stand by for AI at
five o’clock
.”

 
          
“Roger,
E.W.,” Brake replied.

 
          
“Center
the FCI, pilot,” Luger said. “Coming up on one hundred TG.” “Checks,” Houser
replied.

 
          
“Pilot,
accelerate if possible,” Brake said. Houser began to push the throttles up.
“Stand by to chop power again.”

 
          
“Do
it after the bomb run, guns,” Luger said. “Pilot, keep the throttles steady.”

 
          
“Radar?”
Houser queried. “This is your run.”

 
          
“Bring
airspeed up as slow as you can,” McLanahan said. “Shoving it up too fast will
screw the ballistics up, not to mention Dave’s precious back-up timing. He
might get upset with us.”

 
          
“Standing
by,” Luger replied, smirking at McLanahan through his oxygen mask.

 
          
“Pilot,”
Brake yelled, “fighter at
seven o’clock
, four miles, moving to
eight o’clock
. Break left!”

 
          
“Do
it!” McLanahan said. This time, Houser threw the bomber over into about
thirty-five degrees of bank. The forty-year-old aircraft shrieked in protest.

 
          
“Fighter
moving to
seven o’clock
. . . now
six o’clock
.
Pilot, roll out and center the FCI,” Brake said.

 
          
The
bomber snapped out of the turn and began a slow turn to the right to center the
thin white needle in the case of the Flight Command Indicator. Luger, scanning
the computer panel before him, pointed to a single glowing red warning light.

 
          
“The
Doppler is hung up,” Luger shouted. The Doppler was the system that provided
groundspeed and wind information to the bombing computers—without it, the
computers were useless, transmitting false information to the steering and
release systems.

 
          
Luger
tried recycling the Dopper power switches—turning them off and on several times
to allow the system to reset itself—but no luck. “Pilot, it looks like the
Doppler has gone out. Disregard the FCI. Radar, we need to get out of BOMB mode
now!”

 
          
“Damned
fighters,” Martin said.

 
          
Luger
held up his running stopwatch. “I’ve got backup timing, radar,” he said.
“Coming up on seventy seconds to release. Pilot, hold the airspeed right here.”

 
          
Luger
was about to read the Alternate Bombing (Nuclear) checklist to McLanahan, but
his partner was already accomplishing the items from memory, disconnecting the
computers from aircraft and bombing controls. They were now relying on visual
course control, Luger’s backup time and heading, and the radar scope to drop
the bomb. Instead of the bombing computers sending the release pulse to the
bomb racks, McLanahan would send the signal himself with the “pickle,” the
bombs-away switch.

 
          
“Bomb
doors coming open, guys,” McLanahan said. “Alternate delivery checklist
complete. Dave, check my switches when you get a chance. Where’s my coffee
cup?”

 
          
“D-two
switch,” Luger called out, reminding McLanahan to find the manual bomb release
“pickle” switch. Luger’s gloved fingers flew over the SRAM computer panel,
reprogramming it to take a final position update at the same time the B-52 flew
over the bomb target.

 
          
“Why
did this have to happen to us now,” Luger said. “We ought to make a formal
complaint about those fighters.”

 
          
“Relax,
nav, relax,” McLanahan said. He was sitting back casually in his ejection seat,
a contented smile on his face. Then, suddenly, he swept every chart, book, and
piece of paper off his desk with a flourish.

 
          
“Hey!”
Luger yelled across the compartment. “What the hell are you doing.”

 
          
“Nothing
partner, nothing,” McLanahan said with a grin. “Everything’s great.”

 
          
“Want
me to reset the range-coordinate integrator?” Luger asked excitedly, beginning
to pull off his parachute shoulder belts.

 
          
“No,”
McLanahan said, loosening his helmet chin strap. “No sweat. Stay strapped in.”

 
          
“How
'bout I just give that damned stabilization unit a kick or something? Anything.
Damn those fighters. They screwed up our chances for a trophy!”

 
          
“Cool
out, nav,” McLanahan said.

 
          
Luger
shot him a look. Had he gone off the deep end? Here they were, on a SAC bombing
run with the Doppler on the fritz, and McLanahan hadn’t even
glanced
at the radar scope since the
computers failed.

 
          
Finally,
McLanahan looked at the radar scope, studying it casually. “Five right, pilot,”
he said. “Nav, how much time on your watch?”

 
          
“Coming
up on sixty seconds,” Luger said. He was still looking at his partner in
disbelief.

 
          
“Okay,”
McLanahan said. “Disregard your timing—it’s at least seven seconds off. I’m
dropping on release range and bearing. Subtract seven seconds from your timing
just in case the radar scope goes out or something crazy like that.” He studied
the radar scope again. “Four more right, pilot.”

 
          
“Seven
degrees right of planned heading, radar,” Luger reminded him.

 
          
“Not
to worry,” McLanahan said. “Check my switch positions and get ready for the
overfly fix. Copilot, let me know as soon as you pick up any visual timing
points. I know there’s not many on this target, but do the best you can.”

 
          
“I’ll
try, radar,” Martin said. “Nothing so far.”

 
          
“Okay,”
McLanahan said. He smiled at Luger. “Ready for the overfly fix, Dave?”

 
          
“I’m
ready,” Luger said. “But you’re going . . .”

 
          
“Two
more right, pilot,” McLanahan said. “Bob, my man, where are those fighters?”

 
          
Fighters!
Luger couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His partner probably just had the
worst of all possible things happen to him on a Bombing Competition sortie, and
he was worried about fighters with less than a minute to bomb release.

 
          
“Clear
for now,” Brake replied.

 
          
“AI
radar is searching,”
Hawthorne
reported. “They’ll be around again in a minute.”

 
          
“Okay,”
McLanahan said.

 
          
“Pilot,
hold your airspeed,” Luger said over the interphone. “It’s drifting too much.”

 
          
“Relax,
nav,” McLanahan said. “We’re going to nail this one.”

           
“Nine degrees right of planned
heading,” Luger said, nervously studying his own five-inch scope. He glanced
over at his partner. McLanahan was lounging back in his seat, toying with the
pickle switch in his left hand.

 
          
“I
missed the final visual timing point, radar,” Martin said. The crew was
suddenly very quiet—everyone but McLanahan.

 
          
“Okay,
double-M,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”

 
          
“I’m
going to bypass this overfly fix, radar,” Luger said. They were going farther
and farther off course, and McLanahan wasn’t doing anything about it.

 
          
“Take
this fix, nav,” McLanahan said, his voice suddenly quiet. He gave Luger the
thumbs-up signal.

 
          
“But
. . .”

 
          
“Don’t
worry, nav,” McLanahan said. “I have a feeling about this one.”

 
          
Luger
could do nothing else but comply. He called up the target coordinates, checked
them, and prepared for the fix.

 
          
“Pilot,
I want you to just caress that left rudder,” McLanahan said. He leaned forward
a bit, staring at one of the seemingly thousands of tiny blips tracking down
his scope. “One left. Maybe a half left.”

 
          
“A
half a degree?” Houser said.

 
          
“Just
touch it,” McLanahan urged quietly. “Ever so gently ... a little more . . .
just a touch more . . . hold it. That’s it. . . still zero drift, nav?”

 
          
“No
Doppler,” Luger replied. “The winds and drift are out to lunch. So is the
ground speed and backup timing. I’m working strictly off true airspeed and last
known reliable winds.” Luger shook his head, bewildered. What was going on? Was
McLanahan doing all this for show? Christ, they were eight degrees off heading!

 
          
“Okay.
Never mind. I forgot. Coming up on release, nav . . . stand by . . .”

 
          
Luger
looked over at McLanahan’s radar. The cathode-ray tube was a mass of arcs and
spokes driving through it from the jamming. How could his partner see anything
in that mess?

 
          
McLanahan
reached down and flicked the frequency-control knob, and the spikes and streaks
of jamming cleared for a few seconds. He smiled.

 
          
The
D-2 switch was nestled gently, casually, between McLanahan’s fingers, his thumb
nowhere near the recessed button. “Caressing that rudder,
Gary
?” was all he said.

 
          
Suddenly
McLanahan’s thumb flashed out, too fast for Luger to see it, and the BRIC
flashed once as the last bomb fell into space. Luger counted three seconds to
himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the SRAM computer. Three seconds
after bomb release, at their altitude and airspeed, should put them right over
the target—if McLanahan had hit the target.

 
          
To
Luger’s immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the SRAM panel.

 
          
“It
took the fix,” Luger said, his voice incredulous.

 
          
“We
nailed ’em, guys!” McLanahan shouted.

 
          
“Sure,
sure,” Luger said. McLanahan was carrying the act a little too far. They were
eight degrees off planned heading and seven seconds short of planned
timing—that equated to at least a ten-thousand-foot miss, and probably even a
worse missile score. The bad present position update, combined with the bad
velocities the SRAM computer would derive from the fix, would nail the lid down
on Bomb Comp for crew E-05—with
them
inside
the coffin. “Tone!” The high-pitched radio tone came on.

 
          
Luger
flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.

 
          
“Missile
counting down . . . doors are already open . . . missile away. Missile two
counting down ... missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed ...”

 
          
“Missile
away, missile away,” Martin called to the bomb scoring site.