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  “Amazing, ” Ormack said. “Friggin’ amazing. The NIRTSat system does away with shadow graphs, year-old intelligence data, hand-drawn predictions, even charts-you have everything you need to do a bomb run right here… “And I received it only thirty minutes ago, ” McLanahan added. “You can launch NIRTSat-equipped bombers on a mission with no pre-planned targets whatsoever. You no longer need to build a sortie package, brief crews, schedule simulator missions, or get intelligence briefings. You just load up a bomber with gas and bombs and send it off. One NIRTSat pass later, the crew gets all its charts, all its intelligence, all its weapon-release aimpoints, all its terrain data, and all its threat data in one instant-and the computer will plot out a strike route based on the new data, build a flight plan, then fly the flight plan with the autopilot plugged into the strike computers. The crew can replay the satellite data from the point of view of the flight plan and can even dry-run the bomb run hours before the real bomb run begins.” McLanahan then switched the SMFD screen back to the original tactical display, but this time with NIRTSat data inserted into it. “Unfortunately, you can’t search for fighters with the NIRTSat data, ” he said, “and it takes a few seconds of radar time to update the screen. . Suddenly several symbols popped onto the right side of the big screen, resembling bat’s wings, far to the west of the B-2’s position. Each bat-wing symbol had a small column of numerals near it, along with a two-colored wedge-shaped symbol on the front. The wider edge of the outer yellow-colored portion of the wedge seemed to be aimed right for the symbol of the B-2 in the center of the SMFD, while the red inner portion of the wedge seemed to be undulating in and out as if trying to decide whether to touch the B-2 icon. “And there they are, ” McLanahan announced. “Fighters at two o’clock. Two F-23s. Doppler frequency shift processing estimates they’re twenty miles out and above us. Signal strength is increasing-their search radar might pick us up any second. I don’t think they got a radar lock on us yet, Henry… their flight path is taking them behind us, but that could be a feint.” Cobb seemed not to have heard McLanahan-he remained as motionless as ever, as if frozen in place with his hands on the throttles and control stick and his eyes riveted forward-but he asked, “Got jammers set up?”

  “Not yet, ” McLanahan said, double-checking the SMFD display of the fighter’s radar signal. The colored portions of the fighter’s radar wedges, which represented the sweep area, detection range, and estimated kill range of the fighters, was still not solidly covering the B-2’s icon, which meant that the stealth characteristics of the B-2 were allowing it to continue toward the target without using active transmitting jammers. He selected the ECM display and put it on the right side of the SMFD, ready to activate the electronic jammers at the proper time. “PRF is still in search range, and power level is too weak. If we buzz them too early, they can get a bearing on us. “If you buzz them too late, they’ll get a visual on us.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, ” McLanahan said. “In any case, they’re too late.” He brought the communications screen forward and activated a pre-programmed SATCOM message, then transmitted it. “Sending range-clearance request in now, ” he said. Sent by SATCOM and coded like normal SAC message traffic, the message or its response would not alert the fighters searching for them. The reply came thirty seconds later: “Range clearance received, all targets clear, ” McLanahan reported. “Less than fifteen minutes to first launch point.” He enlarged the weapons screen and brought it higher up on the large SMFD screen so Cobb could check it as well. The B-2 carried one AGM-84E SLAM conventional standoff missile in the left bomb bay and a three-thousand-pound concrete shape, which simulated a second SLAM missile but was not intended to be released. With its turbojet engine, the AGM84E SLAM, the acronym for the Standoff Land Attack Missile, could carry a one-thousand-pound warhead over sixty miles. It had an imaging infrared camera in the nose that transmitted pictures back to its carrier aircraft, and it could be flown and locked on target with pinpoint precision. It was designed to give SAC’s bombers a precision, high-powered, long-range conventional bombing capability without exposing the bomber to stiff target-area defenses. The right bomb bay carried two AGM- 130 Striker rocket-powered glide bombs, which had a range of only fifteen miles but carried a two-thousandpound bomb with the same precision as the SLAM. Striker worked in conjunction with SLAM to destroy area defenses and strike hardened targets with one bomber-and with the B-2 stealth bomber, which could penetrate closer to heavily defended targets than any other bomber in the world, it was a lethal combination. McLanahan glanced at the weapons arranged along the SMFD, then spoke, “Unsafe… ready, ” to ready all weapons. Each weapon icon changed from red to green, indicating all were ready for release. “Weapon status verified, full connectivity.” Cobb turned to look, then nodded his agreement. “Checks.” McLanahan relocked all weapons, then unlocked the SLAM rocket bomb only. “Left bay SLAM selected, ” he told Cobb. Another quick glance from Cobb, then he resumed his seemingly petrified position. “Checks. Left bay weapon unlocked. All others locked.” McLanahan thought Cobb looked a little like the Lincoln Memorial, sitting erect and unmoving in his seat, hands on either side of him, staring straight ahead. McLanahan selected a special symbol in the upper-right corner of the SMFD with his head-pointing system. He spoke “Active” and it began to blink, indicating that it was active and preparing to send data. “I’m calling up satellite-targeting data from the latest NIRTSat surveillance scan, ” he told Ormack. “In a few minutes I should have an updated radar image of the target area, and with the composite infrared and visual data, I should be able to program the SLAM missile for a direct hit. We got this bomb run wired.” ABOARD THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS The F-23 pilots, Lieutenant Colonel Mirisch and Captain Ed Milo, felt as if they were chasing a ghost ship-there was an attacker out there, but he barely registered on any of their sensors. If they didn’t find him within the next five minutes or less, they would lose max points for any intercepts done outside the MOA. Well, Mirisch thought, this mystery plane couldn’t escape the Mark One attack sensor system-their eyeballs. Jarrel’s Air Force Battle had B-1 and B-2 bombers in it now, so just maybe this attacker was one of those stealthy beasts. Mirisch noted the direction of the shadows on the ground and began to search not for the airplanes themselves, but for big, dark shadows-a bomber’s shadow was always many times larger than the plane itself, and there was no camouflaging a shadow. Got it! “Tally ho!” Mirisch shouted. He was so excited that he forgot his radio discipline: “Jesus Christ, I got a B-2 bomber, one o’clock low! It’s a fucking B-2 bomber!” That’s why their attack radars wouldn’t lock on or the infrared scanners wouldn’t work-the B-2 was supposed to have the radar cross-section of a bird, and birds don’t paint too well on radar. Mirisch was expecting a black aircraft, but this bat-winged monstrosity was painted tan and green camouflage, blending in perfectly with the surrounding terrain. It was flying very low, but the late afternoon’s shadows were long and it was a dead giveaway. At night, Mirisch thought, it would be next to impossible to find this bastard. “Raider flight, this is Raider Two-Zero flight, we got a Bravo Two bomber, repeat, Bravo Two, at low altitude. Closing to… Suddenly there was the worst squealing and chirping on the UHF radio frequency that Mirisch had ever heard. It completely blotted out not only the UHF channel, but the scram bled FM HAVE QUICK channel as well. Except for the Godawful screeching, the jamming was no big deal-they had a visual on the bomber, and no B-2 was going to outrun, outmaneuver, or outgun an F-23. This guy is toast. The newcomer, whoever he was, was too far out to matter now. He would deal with the B-2, then go back and take care of the newcomer with the big jammer. Mirisch had a solid visual on the B-2, so he took the lead back from Milo and began his run. The B-2 had begun a series of 5-turns, flying lower and lower until his shadow really did seem to disappear, trying to break Mirisch’s visual contact. In fact it did take a lot of concentration to stay focused on the bomber as it slid around low hills and gullys, but the closer the F-23 got, the easier it was
to stay on him. Now, with the B-2 noticeably closer, the attack radar finally locked on at four miles. The heavy jamming from the bomber occasionally managed to break the range gate lock and spoil his firing solution, but the F-23’s attack radar was frequency-agile enough to escape the jamming long enough for the lead-computing sight to operate. No sweat. ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN The throttles were at full military thrust, and Cobb had the three-hundred~thousand~pound bomber right at three hundred feet above the ground, and occasionally he cheated and nudged it even lower. He knew the wild 5-turns ate up speed and allowed the fighters to move closer, but one advantage of the water-based custom camouflage job on the B-2 that had been applied specifically for this mission was that it degraded the one attack option that no B-2 bomber could defend against-a visual gun attack. With the fighter’s attack radars in standby or in intermittent use, the B-2’s most powerful sensor was the ALQ-158 digital tail-warning radar, a pulse-Doppler radar that scanned the skies behind the bomber and presented a picture of the positions of the fighters as they prosecuted their attack. Each time the fighters began to maneuver close enough for a gun shot, McLanahan called out a warning and Cobb jinked away, never in a predictable pattern, always mixing sudden altitude changes in with subtle speed changes. Without their attack radar, the F-23 pilots had to rely on visual cues to decide when to open fire. If nothing else, they were losing points or wasting ammunition-at best, the B-2 might escape out of the MOA before the fighters closed within lethal range. Plus, they had one more ace in the hole, but they were running out of time. “Guardian must be around here close to be blotting out the radios like this, ” McLanahan told Cobb and Ormack, “but I have no way of knowing where he is. He might be only a few minutes away. … ABOARD THE F-23 WILDCAT FIGHTERS “Fox three, Fox three, Raider Two-Zero, guns firing, ” Mirisch cried out on the primary radio. The B-2 had finally remained steady for the first time in this entire chase, long enough for Milo to safely join on his wing and for Mirisch to get his first clean “shots” off at the big bomber’s tail. The B-2 had accelerated, really accelerated-it was traveling close to six hundred nautical miles per hour, much faster than he ever expected such a huge plane to travel. Suddenly the threat scope lit up like a gaudy Christmas wreath. There was a powerful fighter radar somewhere up ahead, dead ahead, not a search radar, but a solid missile lockon. A “Missile Launch” warning soon followed. It wasn’t coming from Milo-there was another fighter out there, and it was attacking them! His RHAWS was indicating several different threats in several different directions-surface-to-air missiles, fighters, search radars, at least a dozen of them. It was as if six VPVO sites and six “enemy” fighters had appeared all at once. Mirisch had no choice. He couldn’t see his attackers, he had no radio contact or data link with GCI to tell him what was out there, he was less than two thousand feet above ground, and the loud, incessant noise of the jamming on all channels, bleeding through the radios into the interphone, was beginning to cause disorientation. He checked to be sure where Milo was the kid had managed to stay in formation with him, thank God, and had not yet moved into the lead position-then called out on the emergency Guard channel, “Powder River players, this is a Raider flight, knock it off’ knock it off’ knock it off!” Whoever was jamming him obviously heard the call, because the noise jamming stopped immediately. Mirisch leveled off at two thousand feet, waited until Milo was back safely in position on his wing, then scanned the skies for the unknown attacker. He spotted it that instant. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a damned B-52 bomber. But it was like no B-52 he had ever seen before. As it banked right, toward the center of the Powder River MOA, Mirisch saw a long pointed nose, a rounded, swept-back V-tail, eight huge turbofan engines, and twin fuel tanks on each wingtip. But the strange bomber also sported a long wedge-shaped fairing on its upper fuselage resembling a specialized radar compartment, and… he saw pylons between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles, with what looked like AIM- 120 air-to-air missiles installed! “Lead, I’ve got a tally on an aircraft at our eleven o’clock high, five miles… “I see it, Two, I see it, ” Mirisch replied. Dammit, Mirisch cursed to himself, why didn’t you pick that sucker up two minutes ago? But it was too late to blame anyone else. Whatever that plane was out there, it had “killed” them both. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but I see it.” ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN, OVER POWDER RIVER MOA, MONTANA General Ormack strained against his shoulder harness to look out the B-2 bomber’s cockpit windscreens just in time to see the huge EB-52 Megafortress do a wing wag” and then bank away to the north. “Jesus, what a beautiful plane. We could use a hundred of those.” McLanahan laughed. “Well, it just sent those F-23s running, didn’t it? That thing is tailor-made for the Air Battle Force. You give every heavy bomber going in a Megafortress to provide jamming and air-defense support, you’ve got an awesome force.” McLanahan and the other participants at the Strategic Warfare Center had been hearing about the EB-52 for weeks. Nobody had expected it to show up during the exercises. But it had, and McLanahan was right, it was awesome. It had a radome on its spine that had been taken off an NC-135 “Big Crow.” The radome could probably shut down all communications in and out of Rapid City. It certainly jammed everything the F-23s who’d been on McLanahan’s tail had on them. The plane also had capability of carrying twenty-two AMRAAMStwelve on the wings, up to ten internally on a rotary launcher, including rear-fighting capability. Plus HARM missiles, TACIT RAINBOW antiradar missiles, rear-firing Stingers, Harpoon antiship missiles, conventional cruise missiles, SLAM and Maverick TV-guided missiles, Striker and Hammer glide-bombs, Durandal antirunway bombs… General Brad Elliott had six such planes. One was under repair and two more were authorized. They would revolutionize SAC and SWC. PUERTO PRINCESA AIRFIELD, PALAWAN, THE PHILIPPINES SAME TIME The first instructor pilot to show up on Colonel Renaldo Tamalko’s orders that evening was twenty-three-year-old Lieutenant J~~e Borillo, one of the newest and most energetic young flight instructors at Puerto Princesa; it was no surprise that an enthusiastic hotshot such as he reported immediately when the squadron recall was issued. The “old heads” usually answered the phone call right away-Sergeant Komos had all the phone numbers of the pilots’ mistresses and girlfriends as well as their home numbers-but took their time getting back to base. Colonel Tamalko paired Borillo up with Captain Fuentes, an experienced and competent but unmotivated weapon systems officer (WSO), and he took a relatively new WSO named Pilas with him as his backseater. The maintenance squadron commander, Captain Libona, was also wide-eyed and enthusiastic as Colonel Tamalko made his way out to the flight line to inspect his jet and brief Borillo. After the inspection and briefing, Tamalko asked Libona, “Did we get a confirmation that this wasn’t a drill?”

  “No, sir. Sergeant Komos, who called you, hasn’t been able to get any confirmation at all. We’re assuming it is real.”

  “Don’t be so sure. What about a confirmation on that Captain Banio, the Navy guy who alerted us? Anyone authenticate his identity?’ Libona shook his head. “No one’s been able to, sir. Tamalko let out a string of four-lettered words. This was either a really well-executed drill… or it wasn’t a drill at all. He sure as hell didn’t know. More than likely, it was a drill, but he still had to respond as if it wasn’t. After all, what with all the tension in the Spratlys. . Tamalko turned to Borillo. “Once we’re airborne, you leave your fucking finger off the trigger, hotshot, or so help me I’ll shoot you down myself. Stay on my wing, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. If the Navy files a bad report because of you, you’ll be flying a garbage scow on Mindanao five minutes after you land. Now mount up and let’s see what the hell is going on out there.” Tamalko stomped off to do a fast walkaround, leaving Borillo and Libona in his wake. Five minutes later the two fighters were airborne and heading north across Honda Bay toward Ulugan Bay. “Bear flight, one-three-seven point one-five, ” Tamalko radioed to Borillo, directing him to dial in the assigned Navy fleet common frequency. There was a pause; then: “Say ag
ain, lead?” Oh, Christ! Tamalko thought, and hissed: “One-three-seven point one-five.” Borillo should have known enough to ask his WSO for the frequency if he missed it-asking the flight leader to repeat a new frequency was a mortal sin during night formation flight. “Two, ” Borillo finally replied. Tamalko switched frequencies himself and was about to call to order Borillo to report up on frequency, but the channel was a mass of confused voices in several different languages. And then… “Mayday, Mayday . . . I’m hit, I’m hit . . . get over here, someone, help me . . . missile in the air! Missile in the air . . . ! Hard to port . . . Watch it . 1” “Bear flight, check!” Tamalko yelled. He heard a faint “Two” over the radio, and he hoped that was Borillo. “Cowboy, Cowboy, this is Bear Zero-one flight on fleet common. Over.”