Flight Of The Old Dog pm-1 Page 13

  He looked around and noticed Anderson's disgusted, exasperated expression as the colonel studied Tork. Well, McLanahan thought, he likes women even less than navigators, I guess. Heads swiveled around in his direction, so McLanahan decided he was next and sheepishly stood.

  "Captain Patrick McLanahan, B-52 radar navigator from Ford Air Force Base," McLanahan asked. "This is Lieutenant Harold Briggs." "Mornin'," Briggs said with a big smile. The icy glare he got from Anderson made him wish he hadn't said that, and he zipped his smile away.

  Everyone in the small, stuffy room gave them a cursory nod but little else.

  "Thanks for the intro, former buddy," Briggs whispered to McLanahan.

  "If I gotta sweat in front of Anderson, so do you," McLanahan whispered back.

  "The best in the business," Elliott said proudly "Without a doubt the most gifted, knowledgeable, and professional bombardier in the United States military. Probably in anyone's military. The Old Dog's radar navigator."

  "Where's Mentzer, General?" Anderson said sharply.

  "I had a problem with Joe's background investigation, James," Elliott replied. Anderson gave Elliott an exasperated, impatient look.

  "General, forget that," he said, shaking his head. "I'll vouch for the man, dammit. He modified and tested both the Striker TV-guided bomb and the new sub-atomic munitions.

  He's the perfect man for the job. "Anderson glared at Tork when he said man.

  "Sorry, James," Elliott asked. "Captain McLanahan, however, has recently convinced me of the need for an additional crewmember downstairs. If Mentzer's clearance comes through-well, we'll discuss it."

  "Another crewmember?" Anderson asked. "A navigator?

  The Old Dog doesn't need another navigator."

  "Patrick has demonstrated otherwise, Colonel."

  "What we need, General," Anderson said, "is the man who built the Striker and the decoy drones, the man who helped-" Colonel Anderson." Elliott had lost all trace of goodnaturedness in his voice, although his expression was still light and easy. "Joseph Mentzer is not available at this time. When he is, I'll inform you. Until then, Captain McLanahan is the radar navigator. All right, Colonel?"

  The emphasis on Anderson's rank suppressed the last spark of resistance, and Anderson fell silent.

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

  "Thank you, General," the man asked. "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 militaryindustrial complexes."

  "And a duo with loads of imagination," Elliott added.

  "Designers of the defensive armament aboard the Old Dogthe 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 board he said.

  "This is a classified tactical unit on an urgent room, assignment.

  Because of the need for speed and accuracy, we will consider this field conditions from here on. Their 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 asked. "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 asked. "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 asked. "TOO many overlapping jobs. Our Hal here is the suspicious typebut 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 asked. "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 brie
fing 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 crackedack electronics warfare operator you were?I thought you were some sort of technician."

  "You didn't ask," Wendy asked. "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.

  THE UNITED NATIONS

  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 respond 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 agahist us in the emergency session. The, sensitive research and development charges concern a high, 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 Kavaznya 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 families 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 Campos 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 j 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 positi
on 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 tree-lined 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.