Tiger's Claw: A Novel pm-18 Page 6

  The XB-1 had landed and was now taxiing toward them. While Patrick and Cuthbert donned flying helmets, a ground crewman in a light blue flight suit with an orange safety vest trotted out, wearing a headset and safety goggles and carrying bright yellow marshaling batons, and he directed the Excalibur bomber to its parking spot. Patrick plugged his helmet-mounted headset to a portable radio and keyed the mic: “How did it go, Colonel?” he asked.

  “Flew like a homesick angel, General,” came the reply. “Coming aboard?”

  “You bet we are,” Patrick said. “Keep ’em running. I’ll get the ladder.” Patrick motioned for Cuthbert to follow him, and together they walked up to the bomber. Patrick clasped the ground crewman’s shoulder as he stepped past him; Cuthbert shook hands with him, then looked at him quizzically as he headed to the plane. Patrick unlocked the entry ladder control lever on the nosegear door, then activated a switch that extended the boarding ladder, and he and Cuthbert climbed up. Patrick opened the hatch to the crew compartment, and they entered the aircraft.

  The first area they stepped into, the systems officers’ compartment, was incredibly spacious, because the ejection seats and instruments had all been removed. “No offensive or defensive systems operators on a big-ass jet like this . . . pretty amazing,” Cuthbert shouted through the noise of the big idling engines. “Those systems are controlled from the ground now?”

  “Yep,” Patrick replied, “just like the sensor operators do with Reapers, Avengers, and other remotely piloted attack aircraft. The aircraft commander can also do a lot of the en route navigation chores from the cockpit, and the mission commander can control the Sniper targeting pod if necessary. The defensive suite is pretty much automatic. So it wasn’t that great a leap—the Vampires switched to just two crewmembers years ago. Datalink technology is so sophisticated now that operating the offensive and defensive suites from the ground are the closest to real-time we can get. In an emergency, the pilots can operate the Sniper targeting pod and locate their own targets and manually fire chaff and flares and activate the jammers. I’ll show you the electronics bays after we get back—we’ve eliminated about three-quarters of the line-replaceable units the jet originally had.”

  As the two stood aside in the empty systems officers’ compartment, a woman appeared through the tunnel connecting the systems officers’ compartment and cockpit and maneuvered herself between them. “Colonel Cuthbert, I’d like to introduce you to Sondra Eddington, part of the Excalibur flight test crew,” Patrick said. Cuthbert shook her hand. Even wearing bulky flying gear, Cuthbert could see how extremely attractive Eddington was.

  “Nice to meet you, Colonel,” Eddington said. “Have a nice flight.”

  “You’re not coming with us, Miss Eddington?”

  “I don’t want to know what General McLanahan is going to do on your hop, sir,” she said with a bright smile, “but I know he wants to water your eyes. I’ll see you when you get back.” She gave him a surprising and alluring wink, then headed through the hatch and down the ladder.

  “I’ll get in first so I can hold the brakes, and then you switch with the AC,” Patrick said to Cuthbert, and he headed up to the cockpit, shook hands with the pilot, then began to strap into the copilot’s ejection seat. After he was strapped in, the pilot unstrapped and headed aft. The guy was immense and filled up the narrow corridor between the cockpit and systems officers’ compartment. He went back to Cuthbert and shook his hand. “Colonel Cuthbert, I’m . . .”

  “I know who you are: Colonel Thomas Hoffman, Operation Desert Fox, the B-1’s first operational deployment,” Cuthbert said. “You were the one who came up with the idea of launching Bones into ‘kill boxes’ without preplanned targets, getting target coordinates passed from other aircraft or special-ops guys on the ground. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Same, Colonel,” Hoffman said in a booming voice that was easy to hear even in the loud compartment. “Have a good one.” He started to move past Cuthbert.

  “You’re not going with us either, Colonel?”

  “You’re in good hands with McLanahan, Colonel—except for me and Sondra, he’s got more experience in Excaliburs and Vampires than almost anyone else on the patch,” Hoffman said. “I’ll see you later, sir. Have a nice flight.” Cuthbert had to retreat into the vacant offensive systems officers’ space so Hoffman could get by, and even so Hoffman’s broad shoulders brushed Cuthbert’s chest as he lumbered past.

  After checking that the aft entry hatch was secure, Cuthbert ducked under the empty systems officers’ panel, past the crew rest compartment—he was happy to see that the Excalibur still had a relief pilot’s bunk, tiny galley, and chemical commode—then went up to the cockpit and looked around a bit before hoisting himself up into the aircraft commander’s seat. Both the pilot’s and copilot’s sides of the instrument panel had two twelve-inch color multifunction displays. On the pilot’s side, the left one was displaying flight information, with an artificial horizon on the top half and a horizontal situation indicator on the bottom; the right display showed a checklist, with electronic buttons and switches beside each line on the screen. There were two more MFDs in the center of the instrument panel between the pilot’s and copilot’s pairs with engine, fuel, electrical, and other systems’ readouts. Patrick’s MFDs displayed a moving map of the airport and his own checklist page. The center console between the seats contained most of the controls and switches he was familiar with. Rows of standby flight instruments were arrayed below the crewmembers’ MFDs.

  Cuthbert strapped in and plugged in his headset cords and oxygen hose. “Quite a nice job with this instrument panel—it looks like a bizjet,” he said after checking in with Patrick on the intercom.

  “All off-the-shelf stuff that most bizjets and airliners have been using for years,” Patrick said. “The checklists are mostly automated: you set normal or emergency conditions and phase of flight, similar to the B-2 bomber, then initiate a checklist at the proper time and just monitor the jet.” He swapped checklists with Cuthbert. “Normal, takeoff/land, before taxi,” he read. “When each step in the checklist is accomplished, you’ll get a green indicator; yellow is caution or wait, and red is a malfunction. Instrument displays will change on the MFDs depending on the checklist being run: engine and aircraft systems instruments for takeoff, navigation for cruise and landing, weapons status diagrams for bomb runs, fuel system for air refueling, et cetera. Pretty straightforward, easy to learn, easy to teach. Again, all off-the-shelf stuff, so it’s easy to get stuff repaired, upgraded, or reprogrammed. Parking brake lever is . . .”

  “I know where the parking brake handle is, General,” Cuthbert said with a smile. “At least you haven’t automated everything on my jet.” He moved the control stick in a circle, deflected the spoilers and horizontal stabilizers to let the ground crewman know he was ready to taxi; Patrick got taxi clearance from the control tower. Guided by the ground crewman, Cuthbert turned the Excalibur around and headed down the taxiway toward the active runway.

  After he had made the turn and gotten a thumbs-up from the ground crewman, telling him he was clear of all obstacles, Cuthbert said, “That linesman looks familiar, General. Isn’t that . . . is that your son, Bradley?”

  “Sure is,” Patrick said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A year or so after Wendy was killed,” Cutlass said solemnly. After a moment of respectful silence for Patrick’s ex-wife, murdered by Libyan terrorists many years ago, he added, “Jesus, he’s a big kid.” He looked at Patrick. “I heard he got an appointment to the Zoo from President Phoenix himself.”

  “He did.”

  “So . . . pardon my curiosity, sir, but shouldn’t he be in Colorado Springs getting hell beat out of him?”

  “He had an . . . unfortunate and ill-advised disagreement with an upperclassman,” Patrick said. “They asked him to depart during Second Beast and not return.”

  “Sorry, sir. What was the disagreement about?”

&
nbsp; “He won’t say,” Patrick said moodily. “I think he was provoked into an altercation, but he refuses to explain his side, even on a direct order from the Academy commandant. The second-classman said Brad refused instruction and correction, misused his training rifle, then attacked him without warning. Doesn’t sound like him at all, but he offered no explanation.” Patrick’s face and tone of voice were stony as he added, “So he’s out.”

  “That’s too bad,” Cuthbert said. “What’s his plan now?”

  “I thought I’d give him the rest of the summer to get his bearings and make a plan,” Patrick said. “He knows how to operate the power cart, fuel trucks, and tugs, and how to marshal and tow aircraft, so he’s helping out on the flight line for a little folding money. But the moment I see him break out the video games instead of working, he’s out on his keester.”

  “Don’t be too tough on him, sir,” Cuthbert said. “I’ve got two daughters that both dropped out of college. I was bugged that they didn’t seem to do anything much with their lives afterward and I made the mistake of telling them so. The first got pregnant. The second . . . joined the Army.”

  “Oh, no,” Patrick deadpanned.

  “Actually, it’s all good,” Cutlass said. “The first is married to a dentist and has given me two grandchildren, and the second is a first lieutenant flying Chinooks. A little friendly advice: nudge, but nudge carefully. Don’t be a general officer to your kids.”

  “Advice well taken, Cutlass,” Patrick said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it, sir,” Cuthbert said. He looked around the cockpit and out the forward windscreen at the air refueling receptacle aiming markings on the nose. He punched the “Takeoff/Land” checklist on his MFD, selected several steps, then looked out his left side window to make sure the wing sweep, flaps, slats, and spoilers were set properly. “The bird looks great, sir,” he remarked. “What did you do to the skin? It looks brand new.”

  “Nothing except inspection, minor repairs, anticorrosion treatment, and a little paint,” Patrick said. “No stealth antiradar coatings, no structural improvements except to fix minor structural flaws and to add a few features. We didn’t consider stealth hardly at all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we assumed the battlefield would already be consumed with electronic jamming and intrusion,” Patrick said. “The Bones’ radar cross section—the lowest of the entire world’s heavy aircraft until the B-2 Spirit came along—could mostly be neutralized by electronic jamming. Our objective was to field an AirSea Battle attack and antimissile airframe in minimum time and cost. We analyzed the risk and advantage of the B-1B with advanced jammers and low-level flight profiles, and designed an attack profile to match. The B-1’s radar cross section is actually about the same as a Super Hornet.”

  “Pretty good,” Cuthbert said distractedly. “Where did you get all the plans and manpower to do these conversions?”

  “When the Air Force closed down the B-1 refurbishment project at Plant 42 in Palmdale, we bought all the tooling, design and manufacturing software, tech orders, and plans from the Air Force—much of which was designed and written by Sky Masters—and brought a bunch of the engineers and technicians up here,” Patrick said. “We’ve got the best in the business, all seasoned pros, and they set out to prove we could do it faster and better up here in Battle Mountain.”

  “A private company doing it faster and better than the government? Who knew?” Cuthbert deadpanned. “So you’re not going to put all that fancy drone recovery and rearming stuff and the mission-adaptive wings on your birds?”

  “We certainly can—Sky Masters developed both systems years ago, and we put all that technology on a B-1 just a couple years ago,” Patrick said. “We did retain the weapon loadout capabilities, software, and data bus of the Vampire bombers, so we can carry every air-launched weapon in the arsenal, including air-to-air missiles.”

  “Air to air! No kidding?”

  “We can put up to eight AMRAAMs on a rotary launcher, and we can carry a max of three rotary launchers,” Patrick said. “Although AirSea Battle envisions land-based bombers working with carrier-based fighters, we wanted to keep the capability of long-range unescorted land attack. Just give us whatever weapon you want to employ, and we can carry it into battle for you and let you launch them.”

  “Pretty cool, sir.”

  “The idea behind this project was to quickly field a force of long-range bombers to help protect the fleet over the horizon and to validate the AirSea Battle concept in minimum time and money,” Patrick said. “It’s just an interim solution, but time and money-wise, we think it’s the best option until they find more money for a new long-range bomber.”

  “And I’m sure Sky Masters has a design in mind for that, too,” Cuthbert said.

  “Of course.”

  “Thought so,” Cutlass said. “So let’s talk turkey a bit before we take off, General. What’s it going to cost the Air Force to build your little fleet here?”

  “Nothing,” Patrick said matter-of-factly.

  “Excuse me? Nothing?”

  “Sky Masters is making an investment in this project, not just trying to get a government contract,” Patrick explained. “We want the Air Force to give us the engines, avionics, radars, weapons, fuel, and access to the other aircraft at AMARG for spare parts—all stuff the Air Force already has in abundance and taxpayers have already paid for. The company pays all the personnel costs—engineering, maintenance, aircrew, support staff, and instructors. If the Air Force cancels the program, you get your hardware back, and Sky Masters writes off the personnel costs.”

  “Not that an old warhorse like me knows anything about business, sir,” Cuthbert said, “but I have to wonder: How do you make any money at this? Sky Masters is in this to make money, right?”

  “The company’s shareholders want to make money, Cutlass—I want to support the AirSea Battle strategy and contribute to the defense of our nation by building highly capable long-range reconnaissance and strike aircraft in a short amount of time,” Patrick said. “We make our money by employing the Excaliburs after they’re built. The Air Force is going to need personnel to fly and service the jets—that’ll be Sky Masters’s job. Once the bombers are built and the program validated, the Pentagon pays for the labor to build the bombers, and we sign a contract to operate the jets at the direction of the Air Force or theater commander. We’ll provide fully qualified aircrew and the datalink technology for Air Force personnel to operate the offensive and defensive systems in the plane, and we’ll drive the bus wherever you want. Your folks—or ours, if you prefer—remotely man the weapon systems and do the strikes in case there’s an operational need.”

  “And your board of directors agreed to not getting paid until and unless there’s a contract job?”

  “It was a little bit of a chore to convince them to make the investment,” Patrick admitted. “We got a little help from some local, state, and federal agencies, because we’re bringing in hundreds of skilled laborers and their families into one of the poorest and economically hardest-hit areas of the western United States. But I noticed something when I first created this program: like any government program these days, the workers who moved to Battle Mountain from Palmdale and other places to work at Sky Masters know that this whole deal could never materialize, or it could be canceled at any moment even after the contracts are signed. They’re still willing to move out here and do the work. That’s more than just getting a paycheck, Cutlass—that’s being dedicated to the work and the country. I want to support that, and after I pointed this out to my board, they agreed . . . eventually. After they saw the first refurbished Excalibur fly, they were fully on board—they even authorized the funds to refurbish the F-111 and F-14. The F-111 might be a lower-cost solution to the air arm of AirSea Battle, and we can build about fifty of them, a lot more than the B-1s.”

  They got back to work as they neared the hammerhead area of the active runway at Battle Mountain. C
uthbert pressed the “TTO” switch, which automatically set the trim and spoilers for takeoff, then checked the rows of green dots on the checklist page on the MFDs, indicating that the plane was configured for takeoff, Patrick typed a text message on one of his MFDs. “I told the range controllers at Naval Air Station Fallon that we’re ready for takeoff, and they cleared us into the military operating area and low-level routes,” Patrick said. “The navigation heading bug is on the range entry point. I’ll talk to Battle Mountain Approach after the handoff, then the Fallon range controllers.” Patrick made his own scan of the checklist page and the engine instrument page, then fastened his oxygen mask over his mouth, and checked his straps, and armed his ejection seat. “Seat’s armed. I’m ready to roll, Cutlass.”

  “My seat’s hot. Ready.” Patrick got takeoff clearance, then said, “You have plenty of runway for a rolling takeoff, and we’re extremely light, so no need to lock the brakes to run the engines up. Pedal to the metal.”

  “Coming up,” Cuthbert said. He smoothly applied full military power.

  “Compressors look good,” Patrick said, scanning the engine instruments. “Clear to go into the zone.”

  “Here we go.” Cuthbert moved the throttles past the detent into afterburner zone.

  “Good nozzle swings, temps look good.”

  “Zone five,” Cuthbert said, and then he felt it—that satisfying, almost surprising kick in the small of his back as the engines reached full thrust. “Oh baby, that feels good,” he murmured seductively.