Fatal Terrain Page 7

budget."

  "Dr. Masters has a right to be proud," General Samson

  said, "and I'm proud to back him and the Wolverine project.

  With a fleet of Wolverine missiles in the inventory, we can

  locate and kill targets with zero-zero precision from standoff

  range and at the same time virtually eliminate the risk of send-

  ing a human pilot over a heavily defended target area, and

  eliminate having to send in special forces troops on the ground

  to search for enemy missile or radar sites."

  "It also breathes new life into the heavy-bomber program,"

  McLanahan added. "I know there's been a lot of congressional

  pressure to do away with all of the 'heavies,' especially the

  B-52s, in favor of newer fighter-bombers. Well, load up one

  DALE BROWN

  42

  B-52 with twenty-six Wolverine missiles, and it's like launch-

  ing a squadron of F-16 or F/A-18 fighter-bombers, except it

  cuts costs by nine-tenths and doesn't put as many pilots at

  risk."

  A tone in all their headsets stopped the conversation Two

  bat-wing fighter symbols had appeared at the bottom of

  McLanahan's supercockpit display, and they were closing fast.

  "Fighters-probably the two F-22s, gunning for us," Mc-

  Lanahan said. "I'll bet they're pissed after missing the Wol-

  verines."

  111[xt lern come," Masters said. "We won-we already

  blasted the places they were assigned to protect.,,

  "The exercise isn't over as long as we're inside the range,

  Doctor," Kelvin Carter said in a loud, excited voice, pulling

  his straps tighter and refastening his oxygen mask in place with

  a quick thrust. "We accomplished the mission-all we gotta

  do now is survive."

  Masters literally gulped on interphone. "You mean you

  mean we Ire going to try to outrun those fighters? Now?"

  "We didn't brief an air-to-air engagement," Samson

  pointed out. "We shouldn't be doing this."

  "Well, go ahead and get us clearance for air-to-air,"

  McLanahan suggested. "We own this airspace. Got it, Kel?"

  "Rog, Patrick." Carter clicked open the range safety chan-

  nel. "Saber One-One flight, thi s is Sandusky. Wanna play""

  "Sandusky, this is Saber leader. Roger, we're in and we're

  in. Payback time for the bomber pukes. Phase One ROET'

  "Affirmative, Phase One, we're ready," Carter replied.

  "Phase One" ROE, or Rules of Engagement, were the safest

  of three standard aerial-combat exercise levels with which all

  aircrews entering the RED FLAG ranges were familiar: no

  an two miles between aircraft, no closure rates greater

  closer th

  than three hundred knots, no bank angles greater than forty-

  five degrees, no altitudes below two thousand feet above the

  ground.

  "Roger, Sandusky, this is Saber One-One flight of two,

  Phase One, fight's on."

  "I don't believe this, I don't believe this," Masters said

  excitedly. "Two Lightning fighters are gunning for us."

  "It's all part of the tactics of standoff attack defense, Jon,"

  destroy the missile's carrier air-

  McLanahan said. "If you can ity to launch more

  craft, you've destroyed the enemy's abil

  FATAL TERRAI N 43

  cruise missiles. Tighten your straps, everybody. General Sam-

  son, get out of here, please."

  Carter's fingers flew over his instrument panel, and seconds

  later the electronic command bars on Samson's center multi-

  function display snapped downward. "Terrain-avoidance

  mode selected, command bars are active, pilot," he said to

  Samson. "Let's go, General!"

  Masters suddenly became very light in his seat, as Samson

  engaged the EB-52 bomber's autopilot and the big bomber

  nosed over toward the earth. 'Me sudden negative Gs made

  the young scientist's head spin and his stomach churn, but he

  was able to keep from blowing lunch all over his console as

  he tightened his straps and finally managed to focus over his

  console toward the cockpit-and when he did, all he could see

  out the front cockpit windows was brown desert. Masters could

  feel his helmet dangling upward as the negative Gs threatened

  to float the helmet right off his head, and he hurriedly fastened

  his chin strap and oxygen mask.

  "Thirty miles and closing;- McLanahan reported.

  "They can't see us on radar, right?" Masters squeaked on

  intercom in his high, tinny voice. "Not this far out, right?"

  "It's daytime, Jon-we're sitting ducks," McLanahan said.

  "Stealth doesn't help much if they can see you without radar.

  We've probably been leaving contrails, too-might as well

  have been towing a lighted banner. We've still got fifteen thou-

  sand feet to lose before they get in missile range. Clear right.

  Ready for COMBAT mode." Samson heeled the EB-52 bomber

  into a steep right bank, spilling lift from the bomber's huge

  wings and increasing their descent rate. He kept the bank in

  for about twenty seconds.

  "Wings level now," Carter said. "Five thousand to level...

  command bars moving ... four thousand ... three thousand...

  two thousand to go ... command bars coming to level pitch...

  one thousand ... command bars indicating climb ... descent

  rate to zero ... command bars are terrain-active. Take it around

  that butte, then come left and center up."

  "Take it to max power, General," McLanahan urged.

  "We're not going to make it to the butte before they're in

  missile range." Samson pushed the throttles to maximum

  power and saw the warning lights illuminate on his cockpit

  warning indicators-max power was only supposed to be used

  for takeoff or go-arounds, usually with the landing gear down.

  44 DALE B,ROWN

  "Get your finger off the paddle switch, sir-let the terrain-

  avoidance system do its job."

  "Jesus, McLanahan," Samson gasped, as they sped toward

  the rocky mountains. He found he had been unconsciously

  "paddling off" the terrain-avoidance autopilot with his right

  little finger, flying higher than the autopilot wanted-the com-

  mand bars were a full five degrees below the horizon. "No

  one said anything about flying TA on this flight."

  "We can't let those fighter jocks get us, sir," McLanahan

  said. "Let the TA system take it. Get the nose down."

  They heard a slow-pitched deedle deedle deedle! warning

  tone. "Radar lock!" McLanahan shouted. "Simulate MAWS

  activated!" The MAWS, or Missile Active Warning System,

  used a laser emitter tied to the threat receivers to blind incom-

  ing enemy missiles-MAWS could also blind a pilot. "Left

  turn, take them around that butte!" Samson released the paddle

  switch, letting the bomber tuck down to an even lower altitude,

  then pushed the stick left and aimed for the north side of the

  butte. "Tighter, General," McLanahan shouted. "We've got

  to make them overshoot!"

  "I'm as far as I can go." But he felt the bomber heel even

  more sharply to the left, as Carter pushed the stick over even

  more, pulling to tighten the turn. It seemed
as if the entire left

  side of the cockpit windscreen was filled with the towering

  gray slab of rock, although they were not yet at forty-five

  degrees of bank. "McLanahan ... dammit, enough!"

  "They're overshooting-they're breaking off!" Mc-

  Lanahan said. "Hard right, center up!" On the supercockpit

  display, the two F-22 fighters had broken off the pursuit,

  climbed, and arced west to get away from the butte. Samson

  hauled the control stick to the right, a brief thrill of fear shoot-

  ing through his brain as he felt the bomber mush slightly at

  the cross-control point-the stick was full right, the bomber

  was still turning left, and he was out of control until the

  bomber started to respond-but a few moments later the au-

  topilot was back in control and they were wings-level, flying

  2,000 feet above ground down a wide valley.

  "Sandusky, this is Saber flight," the pilot of the lead F-22

  radioed. "No fair. We can't chase you guys down that low

  without busting the ROE. How about one pass at Phase

  Three?" Phase Three was the most realistic, most dangerous

  level of combat exercise: 1,000 feet between aircrak no lower

  ML

  FATAL TERRAI N 45

  than 200 feet above the ground, max closure rate of 1,000

  knots, unlimited bank angles. Samson said nothing; Carter con-

  sidered that silence as permission and agreement from the air-

  craft commander.

  McLanahan didn't ask if Samson wanted to play, didn't wait

  for any comments from anyone else. "Saber flight, this is San-

  dusky, acknowledged, Phase Three, we're in."

  "Saber flight's in, Phase Three, fight's on."

  "They're coming around again," McLanahan said. "I've

  got a sliver valley off to the left. Take it right in between those

  ridges. I'll dial it down to COLA-they'll lose us for sure."

  COLA stood for Computer-generated Lowest Altitude, where

  the terrain-avoidance computer would sacrifice safety to

  choose the lowest possible altitude-it could be as low as just

  a few dozen feet above ground, even in this rocky, hilly ter-

  rain. "We'll pop up through that saddle to the south before

  the valley ends and swing all the way around behind them.

  They won't know what the hell happened." But instead of

  turning right, McLanahan felt the EB-52 start a climb. "Hey,

  get the nose down, sir, and give me a right turn, there's your

  track. I I

  "I said enough, Patrick," Samson said. He punched off the

  attack computer from the autopilot and started a slow climb,

  straight ahead down the wide valley. It did not take long for

  the kill-the F-22 fighters roared on them at supersonic speed,

  radars locked on, and passed less than 600 feet overhead. The

  sonic boom sent a dull shudder and a loud thunderclap through

  the bomber. Samson switched his number one radio to the

  range safety frequency and keyed the mike: "All players,

  knock it off, knock it off, knock it off. Sandusky is RTB."

  The F-22s could be seen rocking their wings in acknowledg-

  ment as they climbed out of sight.

  Patrick McLanahan punched in commands to give Samson

  steering cues to the range exit point, then stripped off his ox-

  ygen mask in exasperation. '1N%at in hell was that, General?"

  he asked. "You don't give up during a chase like that!"

  "Hey, McLanahan, you may be a civilian, but you watch

  your mouth and your attitude," Samson said angrily, his head

  jerking to the right. "It wasn't a chase, McLanahan, it was

  showboating. We weren't scheduled to go low, and we sure

  as hell weren't fragged to do terrain avoidance or do lazy

  eights around mountains like that!"

  46 DALE BROWN

  "I know we weren't," McLanahan said, "but we got the

  gas, the TA system was up, we got the fighters, and they

  wanted to play."

  "We didn't brief it, we didn't plan it, and I've got two

  civilians on board," Samson interjected angrily. "Yes, you're

  a civilian, McLanahan. I know you can do the job, I know

  you're every bit as capable as an active-duty crew member,

  but you're still just a civilian observer. Hell, McLanahan, I'm

  not qualified in this contraption, and I haven't flown terrain-

  avoidance missions in ten years, let alone been chased by

  Lightnings at five hundred AGL! It was dangerous."

  It's nothing you haven't done before, General," Mc-

  Lanahan said. "I know you've gone over the Mach at one

  hundred AGL in the B-IB, and you've shook off fighters in a

  B-52 down low before, too."

  "That's enough, McLanahan," Samson said. "The test is

  over. Sit back and enjoy the ride back to Edwards." He turned

  to look over his right shoulder at Masters. "You okay, Dr.

  Masters?"

  "Sure ... fine." He looked right at the edge of losing con-

  trol of his stomach's contents, but he wore a concerned ex-

  pression. "I hope you didn't stop all that yanking and banking

  pilot stuff because of me. Actually, I was starting to get into

  it."

  "Why did you stop, Terrill?" McLanahan asked. "Why did

  you let those guys get us?"

  "What's the point, Patrick?" Samson asked in an angry

  tone. "Like you said, it was daylight, they had us visually-

  They got us. We didn't have a chance. We were just rolling

  around down close to the ground, waiting for them to kill us.

  We couldn't escape. It was inevitable."

  "Nothing is inevitable, sir," McLanahan said. "We can

  beat even the F-22 Lightning down low. I've seen the best

  fighters in the world lose a B-52 when it's down in the rocks-

  the more high-tech a fighter gets, the less capable it'll be in a

  visual chase down low."

  11 I know that, Patrick. I've done it myself."

  "But we can't show the powers that be how good we are

  if we keep on calling 'knock it off' the minute we're bombs-

  away, sir. We've got to prove that we can survive in this day

  and age of superfighters and high-tech air defense systems."

  "You're preaching to the choir, Patrick," Samson said,

  JL

  FATAL TER RAI N 47

  "but unfortunately I think the heavy bomber is going to be-

  come a thing of the past with or without the Wolverine missile.

  The Pentagon understands the concept of employing squadrons

  of fighters and fighter-bombers overseas. or aboard carriers-

  they don't understand, or refuse to accept, the idea that we

  might not be able to send a carrier into a certain part of the

  world, or we might not be able to establish a forward operating

  base close enough to the enemy to use a fighter-bomber."

  "So ... what are you saying, sir?"

  "I'm saying, as of October first, Eighth Air Force goes

  away-and with it, most of the heavies."

  "What2" McLanahan interjected. "The Air Force is doing

  away With the long-range bombers?"

  "Not entirely," Samson replied. "Twelfth Air Force gets

  one B-2 wing, twenty planes by the year 2000-hopefully wi

  th

  ten or twenty more, if Congress gets their act together, by

 
2010-and three B-IB wings, two Reserve wings, and one Air

  National Guard group.-

  "No B-lBs in the active duty force-and all the BUFFs

  and Aardvarks go to the boneyard?" McLanahan exclaimed,

  referring to the B-52s and F- I I Is by their crewdog-given nick-

  names. "Unbelievable. It doesn't seem real.

  "Fiscal realities," Samson said. "You can fill the sky with

  F-15E fighter-bombers for the same price as a single B-2

  squadron. The President looks at Mountain Home with a huge

  ramp full of a hundred F-15s, F-16s, and tankers, and he

  knows he can precision-bomb the shit out of North Korea with

  just that one wing for three hundred million per year; or he

  looks at Barksdale or Ellsworth with just twenty heavies and

  virtually no precision-guided stuff for the same money. Which

  one does he pick? Which one looks worse to the bad guys?"

  "But the heavies drop more ordnance, cause more damage,

  inflict more psychological confusion-"

  , 11 That's arguable, and besides, it doesn't matter," Samson

  interjected. "I can tell you that European or Central Command

  planners much prefer to hear that a hundred Eagles or Falcons

  are on their way rather than twenty B-52s or even thirty B-Is,

  even though a B- I can beat an F-16 any day in conventional

  radar bombing. P

  acific Command-well, forget it. They won't

  even ask for an Air Force bomber wing unless every carrier

  is on the bottom of the ocean-for them, almost nothing ex-

  1 PM-

  48 DALE BROWN

  cept tankers and an occasional AWACS radar plane exist out-

  side Navy or Marine Corps fighter.

  "I just hope, sir," McLanahan said, "that you don't let the

  Pentagon kill off the heavy bombers as easily as you just let

  those fighters kill us."

  "Hey, McLanahan, that's out of line," Samson said bitterly.

  "You listen to me-I believe in the heavy bombers just as

  much as you, probably more. I fight to keep the heavies in the

  arsenal every fucking day."

  "I didn't mean to accuse or insult you, sir," McLanahan

  said, iron still in his voice, "but I'm not ready to give up on

  the heavy-bomber program. We'd be committing national de-