Battle Born (44 page)

“Nice to be home, sir,” Patrick said with a sly smile. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Fur-ness, commander of the 111th Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard. Colonel Furness, this is Lieutenant General Terrill Samson, commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake.”

Samson returned Furness’s salute, then they shook hands. “I hear good things about you, Colonel,” Samson said cheerfully. “I look forward to seeing some good stuff from you. Welcome.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Samson was introduced to Rinc Seaver. “Major,” Samson said coolly. Seaver tried to match him stare for stare, but quickly wilted under the sheer physical presence of the big man.

Samson turned his attention back to McLanahan, for which Seaver was grateful. “Patrick, I know I signed off on the concept, but I didn’t expect you to hijack four Nevada Air National Guard B-1 bombers and their crews,” Samson said. “We’ve got some phone calls to make. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to leave you all in the hands of Colonel Briggs, who will escort you to your quarters. But I have a few things to say first:

“I know General McLanahan has probably told you this already, but I’m going to reiterate it for you: you are now part of our nation’s most top-secret weapons research facility. What you do here will decide the shape of the United States Air Force and the American military for the next twenty to fifty years. Our team
members here understand and respect the awesome responsibility we place upon them, and they protect the technology and information here as closely as their own lives.

“Nonetheless, we don’t rely on that—if we want to keep an eye on you, we do it, however and whenever we want. That’s the price you pay for agreeing to be part of what goes on in this place. You will find your work here enjoyable and stimulating—many say eye-popping.

“However,” and he paused and looked them all in the eye before continuing, “you will find your life here
sucks.
If you thought the worst assignment in the Air Force was in the Aleutians or Greenland, think again. And if you thought you’ve already encountered the worst, most hard-assed commander to work for, think again.
I
am that man.”

Samson walked up to Rinc Seaver and looked him straight in the eye as he addressed them all. “I’ve received reports about this unit, about your activities in and out of the cockpit, about your performance—and about your attitude,” he said in a cavern-deep voice. “You’re supposed to be the best of the best. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Your past successes don’t matter anymore. This base is filled with the best of the best, the top one-half of one percent of this nation’s engineers, scientists, technicians, and aviators. We fly jets and operate weapon systems that will make history in future conflicts. You’ll have a chance to prove yourselves, I guarantee that. But I don’t let anyone come near my new weapon systems unless they prove to me that they can work as a team. Your trial starts now. Questions?”

“I have one request, General,” Rinc Seaver said.

“Major?”

“We’re going to need a hand receipt for those planes, sir,” Rinc said.

Samson’s eyes flashed in anger—but then he smiled, an evil crocodile smile. “Sure, Major,” he said. “Got a pencil?” Before Furness could react, Samson grabbed Seaver by the left shoulder of his flight suit, grasped the left sleeve near the pencil pocket, and ripped the sleeve clean off in one quick, fluid motion, making it look as effortless as tearing a sheet of paper. Rinc did not react; it was as if he had expected the big man to do it.

Samson reached down to the shards of Nomex and retrieved a black grease pencil. “I guess this will have to do,” he said. “Now I need something to write on.” He grabbed the top of Seaver’s flight suit and ripped it open with a quick snap. Pieces of zipper and fire-retardant fabric went flying in all directions. On Seaver’s white T-shirt, he wrote, “Four (4) each B-1B Lancer bombers,” then signed his name and dated it. Rinc stood at attention, eyes caged, fixed straight ahead the entire time.

“There’s your hand receipt, smart-ass,” Terrill Samson said, sliding the grease pencil behind Seaver’s right ear. “Anything else I’ve overlooked, Major?”

“No,
sir
,” Rinc replied.

“Good. Thank you for the reminder. I hate to leave the paperwork until the last minute. Colonel Briggs.”

“Sir!”

“Get this paper-pushing clown and these other crewdogs out of my sight. And get Major Seaver a new flight suit—he’s out of uniform.”

“Yes,
sir
,” Briggs said, not trying to hide his smile. “If you’ll follow me, folks.” Furness saluted Samson, received a salute in return, and walked away with Briggs. Seaver did not even attempt to pick up the tattered pieces of his flight suit.

Patrick watched his boss’s face as the guardsmen
were escorted to a waiting van to take them to their quarters. Samson was scowling, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you, sir?”

“What I would’ve enjoyed more is kicking him in his fucking ass,” Samson said. The thought of doing that made him grin. “But unfortunately, he’s on the right track. Those planes aren’t ours yet—they belong to the state of Nevada. We can’t touch them without their permission.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir,” Patrick said. “But if Air Combat Command wants those planes for spare parts, or if Nevada wanted to sell them to another Guard unit, I may have set you up for a food fight with them.”

“If you get me written authorization to modify those planes, Patrick, I’ll deal with ACC,” Samson said. “Even if the Air Force decertifies the unit, the planes still technically belong to Nevada, and they’re free to loan them out to anyone with Class One resource facilities—including us.” He turned to Patrick and said warmly, “But you knew all this, didn’t you? That’s why you brought them here. You knew that once they were in our hot little hands, it would take a papal edict to dislodge them from here. And if Nevada gives us the go-ahead—sweetened with some money for upkeep and personnel, no doubt—there’s not a thing anyone can do about it.”

“Even though we may have possession now, sir,” Patrick said, “we can’t hold on to them forever. We need to water some eyes. As soon as I get permission from the governor to play with his planes, I’d like permission to start installing the Lancelot kits in two planes.”

“Approved,” Samson said. “You have permission to get the other two ready for modification as well. How long before we can test-fly the first two birds?”

“Two months—three at the outside.”

“Make it no more than two, and you might have a chance,” Samson said. “Even better, if we can deploy two bombers as part of an air task force participating in this Korea conflict or revolution or whatever is happening, we might get approval to convert the entire unit—maybe even get funding for an entire wing. But you gotta dazzle them, Patrick. Hit ’em between the eyes with all the magic you can.”

“I’ll get on it right now, sir,” Patrick said. “Sorry you have to go nose-to-nose with Air Combat Command. I suppose we could’ve done this another way—requested use of the planes through official channels. The Pentagon is going to think we’ve all flipped our lids.”

“It’s the spirit of Brad Elliott, Patrick,” Terrill Samson said. “It’s funny—a lot of the brass, in and out of uniform, understand that already. I don’t have to tell them. Carry on.”

OVER THE YELLOW SEA
THAT SAME TIME

T
he American E-3C Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane, call sign “Guardian,” had been on patrol now for six hours. It had topped off tanks just a few minutes earlier. Since no more tankers were available, this was going to be its last patrol—four more hours on station, then a couple of hours’ flying time to Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, with enough fuel for two hours’ reserves over the high fix. Normally, it would be on station for eight hours, refuel at Kunsan Air Base in South Korea, then go on another eight-hour patrol until
relieved. But needless to say, no one was landing in South Korea for a while.

Unfortunately, because of the start of hostilities and orders from Washington, no one would be launching from any bases in South Korea or Japan. That meant no fighter protection. There was no sign of North Korean air activity at all, but the big modified Boeing 707 with the thirty-foot rotodome mounted on tall legs near the tail was a sitting duck, especially in daytime.

But there was another reason for the E-3C to be on station: this was a unique opportunity to see what it was like to operate AWACS in a nuclear environment. This was the first time an E-3 was airborne while a thermonuclear attack was under way, and engineers and crews wanted to see what it was like to use the powerful APY-1C radar in the vicinity of nuclear detonations. Of course, all this had been simulated by computers and in electromagnetic research laboratories at Kirtland Air Force Base in New Mexico, but now it could be done for real.

The experiment was working very well—so well, in fact, that the radar operators aboard Guardian spotted the flight of aircraft lifting off from Sohung Air Base in North Korea, about thirty miles southeast of Pyongyang, from well over 150 miles away.

The radar operator detected the airborne targets and assigned a “U” with a diamond symbol to the contact, meaning “unidentified, considered hostile.” “Radar has bandits in sector three, heading one-niner-zero, climbing through angels eleven, speed four-twenty,” he announced on ship-wide interphone.

“Sector three roger,” the sector intercept officer responded. “I’ve got negative modes and codes. ESM, stand by for identification. Attention crew, sector three has three, repeat three, bandits on an intercept course. Stand by for tactical action. Charlie?”

“Charlie’s up and I’ve got the contacts,” responded the senior controller, call sign “Charlie.” “We don’t need ESM—let’s classify as hostile fighters. Crew, stand by for evasive maneuvers. Radar, engineering, shut the rotor down. Crew, we’re going dark. Pilot, Charlie, right turn heading one-two-zero, let’s head for the deck.” The radar crew and the engineering technicians shut down the powerful APY-1 radar and all other electrical emissions while the pilots started a steep turn and a rapid descent to try to get away from the inbound fighters.

“Crew, this is Echo, I’ve got contact on our bandits,” the electronic support measures officer, or ESM, call sign “Echo,” reported. ESM was a passive backup and augmentation system that allowed AWACS not only to detect aircraft and ships but to identify them by their electronic emissions. In addition, when the active radar was shut down as it was right now, ESM allowed the crew to continue tracking targets by their electronic signatures. It wasn’t a perfect system—if the enemy fighter wasn’t transmitting any signals, AWACS would be completely blind. “I’ve got a Slot Back One radar. Looks like North Korean MiG-29s, range eighty miles and closing fast.” North Korea operated only two squadrons, fewer than thirty, of MiG-29 Fulcrum fighters, made in the Soviet Union, but they were some of the world’s most capable and deadly fighters. Typical air defense load was two R-27 radar-guided missiles, four R-60 heat-seeking missiles, and 150 rounds in its big 30-millimeter cannon.

The senior controller got on the emergency GUARD channel: “Mayday mayday mayday, this is Guardian three-oh-one, sixty-five miles southwest of Seoul VOR, we are under attack by North Korean hostile aircraft. Requesting any assistance. Please respond.”

But he knew it was no use using the radios. The
nuclear blast that destroyed Suwon sent a wave of highly charged energy, called the electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, many miles in all directions, turning the atmosphere into a mass of random electrical sparks. Even if anyone was listening, all they would hear was static. The EMP at the time of the blast itself was powerful enough to fry electronic devices many miles away. The effects of an EMP on the atmosphere could last for many hours, even days.

“Six o’clock, sixty miles,” the ESM officer reported. “He’ll come within max Alamo range in less than two minutes.” The Russian-made R-27, code-named “Alamo,” had a maximum range of about forty miles. The senior controller knew that was probably their countdown to die—because there were no friendly aircraft up in the vicinity right now. In an effort not to appear too hostile or offensive, all American aircraft that survived North Korea’s initial ballistic missile attack were grounded. The South Korean Air Force was being used to attack a few targets inside North Korea, relying on ground-based air defense to protect the cities from air attack.

So there was no one up protecting Guardian from air attack.

But they still had a chance. They were less than one hundred miles from the coastline, heading toward Kun-san Air Base. That base was fully operational, and it was armed with Patriot surface-to-air missiles, with a maximum range of sixty miles. It was a footrace now to see if they could get inside the Patriot’s protective umbrella before the North Korean MiGs caught up to them.

“Crew, this is Echo, I’ve got hostile ESM contact at eleven o’clock, fifty miles. Another Slot Back radar—looks like more MiG-29s over South Korea.” Their worst fear had come true: the North Koreans had begun
their counterattack and had already penetrated deep inside South Korea, all the way to the southern part of the peninsula. The North Korean MiG-29s would clear the skies of enemy fighters well enough to allow the North’s large but older and less capable fleet of fighter-bombers to sweep across the South and finish off what their ballistic missile barrage failed to do.

“Let’s get this beast down on the deck
now
, pilot!” the senior controller shouted on interphone. The E-3C AWACS radar plane had a suite of electronic jammers and decoys, but in daytime in good weather, enemy fighters didn’t need electronic sensors to kill a big E-3. Even North Korea’s lowest-tech fighter in the hands of young, inexperienced pilots could do it with ease. A MiG-29, with its outstanding maneuverability and close-range kill capability, could move in and kill an AWACS without even altering its flight path.

“Bandit at eleven o’clock, forty miles . . . bandits at six o’clock, forty-five miles . . . eleven o’clock, thirty miles . . . six o’clock, thirty miles . . . stand by for evasive maneuvers, crew . . . eleven o’clock, twenty miles . . . six o’clock, twenty miles . . . bandit at twelve o’clock,
missile launch, missile launch, pilot break left
!” As the pilot started a steep, swift turn, the ESM officer pressed a button, ejecting clouds of radar-decoying chaff into the sky.