Flight of the Old Dog Page 5

  A few years ago, Elliott recalled with pride, he stood on stage accepting the trophies for his unit. feeling the applause ripple through the massive hangar. His old unit, the sleek. supersonic FB- Ills at Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire, had been top dog for years. It was different now, though. It wasn’t that the modern, super-sophisticated new bombers were taking all the trophies. Rather, crew quality had become the crucial factor.

  “The Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy,” General Elliott continued, immediately hushing the crowd, “is awarded to the bomber crew—whether from B-52s, FB-111 s, or B-lBs—who compiles the most points competing in both high- and low-level bombing. To give you a little background, this trophy was known simply as the Bombing Trophy from 1948 until 1980, then renamed in honor of General Curtis E. LeMay for his contributions to the Strategic Air Command and his support of strategic air power.

  “For eight of the ten past competition years, the crews from Pease and Plattsburgh have walked away with the LeMay trophy. It was thought by some that the upgraded Offensive Avionics System and the B-1B Excalibur would finally bump the FBs out of the running.” The General paused, waiting for a reaction from the crews in the audience. Then, he smiled a sly, secretive smile, and glanced at the Eighth Air Force commander and the FB-111 crews beside him.

  “With a score of ninety-five point nine percent damage expectancy in low-level bombing and an unbelievable ninety percent effectiveness in high altitude bombing. the 715th Bombardment Squadron ‘Eagles’ of Pease Air Force Base in New Hampshire set a record in all-purpose bombing—”

  At that, a huge roar went up from the audience, and the FB-111 crews from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, began to go berserk. The “fastburner” FB-111 crews had gone through the entire competition in fear and loathing of the “heavies,” the B-52s with their spanking-new digital computers and the sleek, deadly B-1 s with an even more sophisticated version of the solid-state bombing equipment. A B-52 crew had won the previous year, and the FB crews had felt their superiority in this annual international competition slip.

  The FB-111 guys had not done too well in the awards ranking until then, although their performance had been up to their usual near-perfect levels. This, an all-time Bomb Comp record, was their turning point.

  Elliott let the celebration continue for a few seconds. “Sorry, boys, I hate to do this to you …”

  He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the shouts of the FB-111 crews. More effectively than a gunshot or a cannon blast, a single word from Elliott quieted the audience and broke more hearts, including his own:

  “But …

  “… The winner of the 1987 Curtis E. LeMay Bombing Trophy, with an unprecedented ninety-eight point seven-seven percent damage effectiveness score and an unbelievable one hundred percent score in low-level bombing, is … crew E-05, from the 470th Bombardment Squadron.”

  A massive scream went up from the members and guests of the winning bomb squadron and, as the winning B-52 crew stood and made their way to the stage, an equally noticeable groan went up from the rest of the crews in the huge converted aircraft hangar—now Competition Center at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. The restlessness was not unlike the reaction of a crowded football stadium when the visiting team has just scored another touchdown and gone ahead by twenty points with only a few minutes remaining in the game. The outcome of the contest, although far from over, was already obvious.

  The 470th Bombardment Squadron, and Crew E-05 in particular, had just walked off with five trophies, losing only one trophy to another B-52 unit and three other trophies that could only be awarded to either an FB-111 or B-1B unit. In addition, the 325th Bomb Wing, of which the 470th was a part, had taken three other trophies for their KC-135B tanker unit and also brought home the Doolittle Trophy for the 470th’s Numbered Air Force award. Everyone knew the final outcome. If it were not a military formation, the huge converted aircraft hangar may well have been empty by the time the grand prize, the coveted Fairchild Trophy, ever made it into the winner’s hands. It was certainly an anticlimactic finish.

  Patrick McLanahan, his crew, and officers and invited guests of the 325th Bomb Wing were on stage for a solid hour after the ceremonies, getting pictures taken, holding interviews with military and civilian reporters, and letting the gleam of two long tables full of silver trophies dazzle their eyes. Colonel Edward Wilder, commander of the bomb wing, and Lieutenant-General Ashland, the commander of Fifteenth Air Force and Wilder’s boss, then took turns lifting the huge ten-gallon Fairchild Trophy cup over their heads in triumph as a dozen photographers jockeyed for the best positions.

  Two men stood away from the jubilant crowd at the front of the hangar, watching the festivities on stage from a deserted projection room overlooking the hangar. Lieutenant-General Elliott had been going over several pages of computer printout and notes as the other man, in civilian clothes, shook his head in amazement.

  “A B-52 won Bomb Comp,” Colonel Andrew Wyatt exclaimed. “Hard to believe. We’ve spent megabucks on the B-1, on the Avionics Modernization Program on the FB-111, on the Offensive Avionics System for the B-52s to carry cruise missiles—and an unmodified vacuum-tube B-52 that entered the service when I did almost thirty years ago wins the Fairchild Trophy. Incredible.”

  “Those guys are good. That’s all there is to it,” Elliott said, closing the classified notes he was reading and handing them back to Wyatt. Wyatt did a fast page-count and locked the folder away in his briefcase.

  “I thought the FB-111s were gonna pull it out,” Elliott said, “but this was the first year of their AMP weapons delivery system modification and I think they still have some software bugs in it.”

  Wyatt nodded. “So. What about a tour of your funny-farm in Nevada? The general is brainstorming. He thinks your research and development center might have some toys he can play with.”

  Elliott smiled and nodded. “Sure—that’s why we call it Dreamland.” For a few moments both men looked at the celebrations on the floor of the Awards Hangar. Then, General Elliott cleared his throat.

  “What’s going on, Andy?” he asked. Colonel Wyatt took a fast look around the projection room and decided there was no way the room could be secure.

  “Not here, sir,” he said in a low voice. “But General Curtis is very anxious to meet with you. Very anxious. And not in an … official capacity.”

  Elliott narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the young aide to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Not in an official capacity? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means it’s to be a private tour,” Wyatt said. “He’ll be in civvies. He wants to get some ideas, enlist some assistance.”

  “On what?”

  “He’ll make that plain to you when he sees you, sir,” Wyatt said. Elliott rolled his eyes in frustration.

  “More JCS doubletalk,” Elliott said. “All right, all right. Day after tomorrow. Staff will be at a minimum—skeleton crew. He’ll get the royal tour, but not the royal reception.”

  “I believe you’ve got the right idea, General,” Wyatt said. He extended a hand. “Very nice to see you again, General.”

  “Same here, Andy,” Elliott said, shaking the aide’s hand. “You ever going to get your fighter wing back, or are you content with being a general’s patsy?”

  Now it was Wyatt’s turn to look exasperated. “The old Elliott eloquence,” Wyatt said. “Cut right to the heart. No, I’m busier than I’d ever thought I could be, sir. Besides, that fighter stuff is for the young bucks.”

  Elliott’s face darkened. “Well, you’re welcome to stay for the rest of the Symposium, Colonel. SAC’s biggest bash. The Vice President is showing up in a few hours. The ladies in the Strategic Air Command get better and better looking every year.”

  “You know General Curtis, sir,” Wyatt said. “If I’m not back in Washington before supper, I’ll be lucky to get command of a security police kennel. Thank you anyway, sir.” Wyatt hurried away.

  Elliott made his way downstairs and into the hallway behind the huge awards ceremony hangar. There, standing alone in front of a huge model of the B-1B Excalibur, beer cup in hand, was Captain Patrick McLanahan. He was easy to recognize—the young bombardier had been up on stage receiving trophies for most of the afternoon.

  Elliott studied McLanahan for a moment. Why were the good ones always like that? Loners. Too intense. The best bombardier in SAC—probably the best in the world—standing out here, alone, looking at a damn airplane model. Weird.

  Elliott studied him closer. Well, maybe not that intense. Boots unpolished. No scarf. Flight suit zipped down nearly to his waist. Hair on the long side. Drinking during a military formation. At least a dozen Air Force regulation 35-10 dress and appearance violations. He had to restrain himself from going over there and chewing the guy out.

  But he did stroll over to the young officer. “Is that your next conquest, Captain McLanahan?” Elliott said.

  McLanahan turned, took a sip of beer, and casually studied Elliott—something that Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott was very unaccustomed to. The general noticed none of the panic that usually accompanied confronting a three-star general; no stumbling over words, no overly exuberant greeting, no great big macho handshake.

  After a moment, McLanahan smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, General Elliott.” He glanced back at the B-1B Excalibur model. “This thing? No. Too high-tech for me.”

  “Most young B-52 troops are standing in line for a B-1 assignment,” General Elliott remarked.

  “Not me,” McLanahan said. He nodded toward an old, dusty model of a B-52 hanging in a corner. “There’s my baby.” He gave an amiable grin and said, “Sorry about Pease. Those guys were tough this year.”

  “Thanks
. The FB-111s will come back next year, I’m sure of it. They were beat out by the best.” No reaction from the young radar navigator.

  “You say you want to stay in B-52s, Patrick?” Elliott asked curiously. “Why? The B-1s will be replacing them by the turn of the century.”

  McLanahan paused before answering. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that people see a new aircraft come on-line and they think all of the older planes are history.” He took another sip of beer. “They’ve condemned the B-52 a little early. She’s still got a lot of fight left in her.”

  Elliott raised his eyebrows. His thoughts exactly. “Old warhorses can still kick ass,” he said.

  McLanahan smiled. “You know it, sir.”

  “Well, congratulations again, Patrick. Fairchild Trophy, Bombing Trophy, two years in a row. You’re unbeatable, it seems.”

  “I got the best crew in the business, General,” McLanahan said. He drained the last of his beer and crumpled the cup in his hand. “We work hard—and party even harder. Gotta go.”

  “Stop by the Headquarters Hospitality Room later,” Elliott said as he shook hands. “Let’s discuss the old monster some more.”

  “You got it, General,” McLanahan said. He hurried off after his crew.

  Not much spit and polish to him, Elliott thought. But then he smiled as he recalled a young pilot thirty years before of whom the same could have been said. Had it been that many years? Elliott shook his head. Like the B-52, he was fast becoming a relic. He only hoped that, like the B-52, he had a little fight left in him yet.

  The Strategic Air Command Giant Voice Bombing and Navigation Competition Center was an immense aircraft hangar, remodeled and converted into the awards and hospitality center that was used only once a year for just this event. Surrounding the hangar itself were dozens of smaller offices and conference centers that, on Hospitality Night, were used by all of the units represented in the competition as specialized drinking and socializing rooms. Each room had a theme, depending on the unit’s mission or its geographical location.

  The first task at hand, however, was to get inside to visit them. The Competition Center was so crowded, so packed with military men and women in various stages of inebriation, that Gary Houser’s crew took ten minutes, once they entered the hangar’s immense lobby, to even get near the hospitality rooms. There was a large directory inside the lobby that described where each unit was located, but that defeated the purpose of Hospitality Night. The object was to visit each and every room before the three A.M. closing time.

  “I don’t believe this,” Luger said as he and Patrick moved through the crowd. “This Hospitality Night gets bigger and better every year.”

  Their first stop was the Texas Contingent, where five rooms had been combined into one long beerhall. The center of attraction in the jam-packed room was a massive Brahma bull lounging in the middle of the beerhall. It had a mural of a B-1B painted on each side. The bull was standing in a huge sandbox. In the back part of the sandbox, already half-covered with bull droppings, was a strip of red sand labeled, “To Russia With Love, From the Excalibur.” The bull wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat and was busy eating out of a trough filled with party snacks and corn.

  Luger and McLanahan were welcomed by two girls dressed like Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, who promptly filled their hands with Lone Star beer and bowls of chili.

  “Where y’all from?” one cheerleader asked.

  “Amarillo,” Luger drawled. “Patty here’s from California but he’s okay.”

  “I just love Amarillo,” the other cheerleader said, giggling. “And I just love California,” the first one said.

  “Well,” McLanahan said, slipping an arm around one cheerleader’s waist while the other took his arm. “Why don’t you two Southern belles show us around your little Texas tearoom here?”

  McLanahan weaved unsteadily in a corner of an old-time Western saloon, wearing a toy six-gun at his side and a red felt cowboy hat behind his neck. The place was packed with riotous crewmen, some celebrating, some trying to drown their sorrows with massive amounts of beer and chili. A non-com bartender, a crew chief from the 5th Fighter Interceptor Squadron from Minot, North Dakota, patiently waited on each one of them.

  With one hand, McLanahan picked up a huge mug of beer from the end of the bar. He strolled over to a dartboard at the far end of the saloon and looked over the target—five darts, lodged in the exact center of the corkboard.

  “Pretty good shootin’, huh, Sergeant Berger?” McLanahan said to the bartender. The sergeant, dressed like a Barbary Coast innkeeper, smiled.

  “Your Sergeant Brake’s the one who can do some shooting,” Berger said. “If anyone had told me a B-52 would shoot down an F-15 in broad daylight, I’d have said they were crazy. I was the crew chief on that F-15 that got shot down, but send Bob Brake over here and I’ll buy him a beer.”

  “It would have been different if things were for real,” McLanahan said, taking a deep pull of the draft. “You would have nailed us from thirty miles away with one of those new Sidewinders or an AMRAAM, but you don’t get any points for a beyond-visual range shot.” McLanahan took another swig of beer. That’s why it’s all just a big game, he thought. Just a game.

  As he ambled over to the bar and found himself an empty seat, his thoughts took a depressing turn. He had been in the Air Force, what? Six years now. And he had never dropped a live bomb on a target. Each time that he had pressed his finger down on the pickle switch, it had been a concrete blivet that dropped out the bomb bay doors.

  Not that he should complain. The whole point of what he was doing was to defend his country, after all. If defending it meant undergoing exercise after exercise, then so be it. He couldn’t help wondering, though, what it would be like to drop a bomb under true “game” conditions. He felt like a fireman who is waiting to be called to his first fire, dreading and welcoming it at the same time.

  McLanahan looked up from his beer to find a pretty young brunette in civilian clothes seated next to him. She was talking to another woman who had long blond hair tied up in a bun. On the blonde’s uniform lapel were lieutenant’s insignia.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” McLanahan said, his voice slurring a bit. “But can I interest either of you in a game of darts?”

  The blonde smiled. She looked at her friend. “Wendy,” she said, “why don’t you give it a try? I never could shoot those things.”

  The brunette demurred. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Besides, what chance would I have competing against the King of Bomb Comp himself.” She fixed McLanahan with a bemused look, as if all the honors he’d received counted little in her estimation.

  McLanahan mistook the look for active interest and charged forward. “Well, if I’m the King of Bomb Comp, then I’m willing to let you be my Queen.” He clinked his beer mug against hers and made a toast. “To … what was it? Wendy. To Wendy, Queen of Bomb Comp and a credit to the United States Air Force.”

  Wendy smiled. “Actually, I’m employed by an independent contractor. We build and test ECM gear.”

  “Well, we won’t hold that against you,” McLanahan said. He glanced at the blond lieutenant.

  Wendy looked at McLanahan for a moment as if deciding something, then rose from her seat and straightened her dress. She reached out her hand. “So nice to have met you, uh—” McLanahan told her his name. “Yes, of course. Patrick. Well, it was nice to meet you. But I must be going.”

  She waved to the blonde. “Catch you later, Cheryl,” she said. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “I’ll try,” Cheryl said, but something in her eyes told McLanahan she had no intention of doing any such thing. As Cheryl looked at him over her beer mug, McLanahan thought of the woman who’d just left.

  FIGHTER WEAPONS TRAINING RANGE,

  NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE,

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Two days after the Bomb Comp festivities ended, Lieutenant-General Elliott rode with General Curtis in a blue Air Force four-wheel drive truck, bouncing and skidding on dark, dusty, pitted desert roads. Elliott was wearing short-sleeved olive-drab fatigues and a blue flight cap. Curtis was wearing a conservative gray suit and tie, even in the dry desert warmth of the early evening. The sun had set a few minutes earlier beyond the beautiful mountain ranges of the high Nevada desert.