Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (35 page)

 
          
“Genesis
...” the confusion in the controller’s voice was apparent. “. . . Genesis, we
show no flight plan for you. Say your departure point.”

           
“Unable,
Los Angeles
.”

           
There was a longer pause. Then:
“Genesis, your primary target is very weak. Say type of aircraft, intentions
and destination.”

 
          
“This
guy is trying to gut it out even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Elliott
said to Ormack. He switched to the radio. “Los Angeles, Genesis is requesting
direct Friant, direct Talon intersection and holding at Talon within fifty
nautical miles at flight level three-niner zero.”

           
“Unable your request through valley
traffic without a flight plan, Genesis . . .”

           
“Request you contact our command
post on military AUTO VON or Department of Defense DTS nine-eight-one, one-four-two-four,
for our flight plan if it isn’t in your system in the next two minutes.
Meanwhile, request direct Friant, direct Talon at the three-niner zero.”

 
          
“Genesis
...” the controller, not accustomed to pilots telling
him
what to do, was clearly agitated. “Unable. Enter standard
holding north of the Coaldale two-five-three degree radial between twenty and
thirty DME, right hand turns, at one-seven thousand five hundred until we
straighten this out.”

 
          
“Genesis
is proceeding VFR at this time,
Los Angeles
,” Elliott said. “Maintaining sixteen
thousand five hundred feet, proceeding direct Talon. We’ll file a VFR flight
plan with Coaldale Flight Service.”

 
          
“Genesis,
you have your instructions,” the controller called back. “Enter holding as
directed.”

 
          
“Passing
over the Coaldale VORTAC, General,” Ormack said.

 
          
“Nuts
to that,” Elliott said, and switched the mode 3 IFF to 7600, the radio-out IFF
advisory. “Climbing to three-nine zero, crew,” he said over interphone. “John,
dial up Friant.”

 
          
“He’s
gonna be pissed,” Ormack said as he changed the TACAN frequency to steer
themselves to the next navigation point.

 
          
“If
he never gets our flight plan, he’ll never know who we are unless he scrambles
interceptors against us,” Elliott said. “If he gets our flight plan, it won’t
matter. If he scrambles fighters . . . well, we don’t have a tail number. We
don’t even look much like a real B-52.”

 
          
“Genesis,
this is
Los Angeles
Center
”—the controller’s voice was ragged—“you are
violated at this time. Turn left to heading—”

 
          
Elliott
switched off the radio. “I’ll keep the emergency and radio-out squawks going
until we’re out over water,” Elliott said. “He may be pissed but he’ll clear
the airspace for us.”     .

 
          
“Not
the best way to begin,” Luger said to McLanahan in the downstairs compartment.

 
          
McLanahan
gave a shrug. He opened his checklist and began to activate the radar,
satellite navigation system, and the ring-laser gyro. A few minutes later the
radar was warmed up and ready for use.

 
          
Luger
meanwhile was plotting a fix on a high-altitude airways chart he found in a
flight publications bag behind his seat.

 
          
“Any
jet charts in there? GNC charts? Anything?” McLanahan asked.

 
          
“No,
standard FLIP bag,” Luger told him.

 
          
“Great.
Just great. Well, we do have a flight plan. There should be Red Flag bomb range
training data in here.” McLanahan checked that the correct mission cartridge
was inserted into the reader, then flipped the READ lever. Twenty seconds later
the flight plan, target coordinates, fixpoints, weapon coefficients, and
terrain elevations for the entire southwest
United States
were resident in the master computer. He
then checked the gyro, nav computer, and satellite global positioning systems.

 
          
“The
ring-laser gyro and satellite systems are ready to go,” McLanahan said. He
turned the satellite navigator to SYNCHRONIZE. “We need a present position fix
to align the gyro and start the nav computer. After that it’ll take a minute to
start navigating on its own.”

 
          
As
Luger took radar fixes and began a rough DR log on the margins of the enroute
charts, McLanahan waited for the satellite to lock on. After two minutes the
SYNC ERROR advisory light was still lit.

 
          
“Okay,”
Luger said, putting his plotter down. “We’re on a pretty good heading to Talon
intersection. How’s it going over there?”

 
          
“Bad
to worse,” McLanahan said. “I just realized why. The satellite GPS needs a
synchronizer code.”

 
          
“And
naturally we don’t have one.”

 
          
“Naturally,”
McLanahan said. He punched the
Scorpion
missile radar on to TRANSMIT and switched it to its original navigation radar
mode. He looked into the scope, watching the Pacific coastline come into view
in one hundred mile range, then in frustration switched it back to STANDBY.

 
          
“It’s
hard to take a radar fix without a radar chart or description of the
fixpoints,” he said. “The ring-laser gyro will probably align with an overfly
fix or a DR position, but I don’t know how accurate the heading will be.”

           
“Bottom line—Luger to the rescue!”
Dave said. “You were a psychic, partner. You needed a nav right from the
beginning.”

           
McLanahan flipped his interphone
switch. “Want an update on the situation down here, General?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid to guess. Well, if we don’t have a satellite communications channel or
IFF mission squawk, we certainly don’t have a GPS code. No GPS, no reliable
gyro. What else?”

 
          
“How
about no charts and no target and fixpoint descriptions?”

 
          
The
interphone clicked dead for a moment. Then: “Well, do the best you can.”

 
          
“You
bet,” McLanahan said. “We’re deaf, dumb, blind, and lost, but we’ll do the best
we can.”

 
          
“All
right. Let’s have it,” the President said, wearily.

           
General Curtis nodded and continued,
pointing to a map of the
California
coast that was projected on the rear-wall-screen in the White House
Situation Room. “Yes, sir.” He pointed to the Dreamland area. “As you know, an
attack was staged on the project base. Approximately a dozen individuals were
involved.”

 
          
“Good
lord, things are going to hell already.” He turned to Jack Pledge- man, his
press secretary. “What about the press?”

 
          
“They
know about it, of course,” Pledgeman told him. “The Air Force comment was
standard ‘no comment.’ It’s no secret in southern
Nevada
that Dreamland is a highly classified
research area. Speculation runs rampant, of course, but the press has no
inkling of the projects we’re conducting there. I’m sure they don’t know about
the Old Dog or the runway at
Groom
Lake
. The biggest problem, in my estimation,
will be the casualties. Eight military and three civilians.”

 
          
“Put
a clamp on that, too,” the President said. “I’ll write a letter to the families
regarding the sensitivity of the project they were working on and the
importance of secrecy. The families must know that their family members were
involved in highly classified work for the government. They’ll be notified of
what happened in due time. Clear, Wilbur?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Curtis replied.

 
          
“This
is not a formerly classified project,” the President emphasized. “We keep a
clamp on things right now. Control of this project starts right here.” He
turned again to Curtis. “General, what’s the status of the Old Dog test team?”

 
          
All
eyes turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Colonel Anderson,
the chief operational designer of the Old Dog, was killed in the attack . .

           
The President’s shoulders slumped.

           
“Lewis Campos, the civilian designer
of the
Scorpion
defensive armament
interface and the airmine tail defense system, was also killed.” “Well, who the
hell is flying that B-52?” Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston asked.

           
“The aircraft commander is now
Lieutenant-General Bradley Elliott, the Old Dog project director.”

           
“Elliott?” the President said. “How
did
he
get on board?”

           
“General Elliott was there when the
attack started,” Curtis told him. “When Colonel Anderson was killed he got on
board and he and Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack, the crew copilot, taxied the
bomber out of the hangar and launched it.”

 
          
Curtis
checked his notes: “General Elliott’s aide, Lieutenant Harold Briggs, reported
that Elliott was wounded in the right leg during the attack. All of the other
members of the test team are aboard. He also reported that the bomber suffered
damage taxiing out of the hangar—lost four feet of the left wingtip and one
external fuel tank.”

 
          
“Are
we in contact with the plane?” the President asked.

           
“Yes, sir,” Curtis said. “So far,
only nonsecure UHF contact. They launched without any classified coding
documents. What we are trying to do right now is code a message to the crew to
get them to set a three-digit address code into their satellite transceiver.
Once we’re hooked up that way, we can transmit instructions.”

 
          
“Where
are they now?”

           
“They’re orbiting one hundred and
twenty miles off the coast of Big Sur at high altitude, as far off the jet
airways as possible. Elliott is obviously trying to hide his plane as best he
can.”

 
          
“Why
is he still in the air?” asked Thomas Preston. “It’s loaded down with weaponry,
modified to the hilt—it should be back on the ground immediately.”

 
          
“I
believe General Elliott feels that in broad daylight there’s nowhere the plane
can land without attracting attention. The Dreamland runway is usable but the
hangar was destroyed and there are newspeople all over the place.”

 
          
“Any
alternate landing sites for the plane?” the President asked. “There are several
possibilities,” Curtis said, “and the Old Dog still has eight hours of fuel.
Two airfields on the Red Flag restricted area are prime sites, although they’re
not nearly as secure as Dreamland. A few possibilities in
Seattle
,
Washington
, and
Alaska
.”

           
The President leaned back in his
chair. “We can’t send the Old Dog instructions without risking eavesdropping or
discovery. Meanwhile, we have two other fully armed bombers on their way to
Russia
... If Elliott isn’t in danger, then he can
wait until tonight and land the plane somewhere where it can be concealed.
Preferably back in Dreamland or
Southern Nevada
.” The President closed his eyes and said to his press secretary: “Jack.
Ideas on how to call this?”

 
          
“We’ll
call it a terrorist attack on a deactivated Air Force research facility. The
base was being dismantled by military and civilian workers, a shadowy terrorist
group with ties to Qaddafi struck the facility, believing it still to be
active.”

 
          
“We
may never know the real truth about where the attackers came from or how they
managed to slip through the base defenses,” Curtis said. “We’ve established
that they were flying an American-made cargo plane, but so far the wreckage has
yielded few clues as to its ownership. All of the bodies have been shipped to
DIA labs in
Washington
for dental and fingerprint analysis and examination of personal
effects, but whoever the hell organized the attack was damn careful to cover
his tracks. There were Caucasian as well as Orientals, and all of them wore
American-made clothes. Except for a piece of metal we found, that appears to
have come from a Soviet-made bazooka, there’s really nothing to suggest, let
alone prove, Soviet involvement ...”

 
          
“Who
else would want to attack that base?”
Preston
asked.

 
          
“I’ve
asked myself the same question, Mr. Secretary, but so far the evidence against
the Russians is almost entirely circumstantial—”

 
          
The
President cut him off. “We’ll go with the terrorist story for now and revise it
if we have to.” He turned again to his press secretary. “Jack, don’t forget
those letters to the families. I want them on my desk A.S.A.P.”

 
          
“Half-hour,
Mr. President,” Pledgeman said, and left the room.

 
          
From
behind closed eyes the President asked, “Anything else, gentlemen?” No reply.
“Any Soviet reaction?”

 
          
“Nothing,
Mr. President,” Marshall Brent said. “Probably waiting for us to accuse them.
I’ll be meeting with Karmarov shortly.”

 
          
The
President turned to General Curtis. “Status of the B-ls, General?”

   
        
“Dead on time, sir. They’ll be getting
their first refueling over
Canada
right about now.”

           
The President was silent for a
moment. Curtis was positive the President was going to cancel the B-l sorties
when he finally said: “I’ll be upstairs in my office. Keep me advised of their
progress every half hour. I’ll monitor the mission from there.”

 
          
“Yes,
Mr. President.”

 
          
“And
get Elliott and his . . . his Old Dog on the ground. Have them keep their plane
hidden as best as possible. They can wait for a night landing, but that’s all.
I’ve got three planes too many flying already.”

           
“We’ll send the Old Dog up to
Seattle, sir,” Curtis offered as he headed for the door. “They’ve got the room
and the right people to disarm it—”

           
“Dis
arm
it?” the President said. Everyone in the Situation Room froze.
“Disarm it? What the hell is it armed with, General?”

           
“Sir, General Elliott’s plane, if
you remember, was a test-bed experimental aircraft. It... it probably has all
of the weaponry the
Excaliburs
have—the
air-to-air missiles, the—”

 
          
“They
don’t have any nuclear weapons on board, do they, General?” Tom Preston, the
Secretary of Defense, said. “No one authorized—”

           
“No, sir,” Curtis said quickly. He
turned to the President. “General Elliott’s B-52 was conducting tests on the
Striker
TV-guided glide bomb. He is
probably carrying one of them.”

           
“Well, make damn sure that plane is
disarmed as soon as it lands,” the President said. “We don’t need another
screw-up.”

 
          
The
President didn’t wait for Curtis’ muted “Yes, sir,” but stormed past the Marine
guards and headed for the elevator.

 
          
Curtis
waited until the others had left, then headed for the Situation Room
communications center, where communications experts were working out a
transmission routine for the Satellite Communications code, SATCOM. Once
Elliott had the code and had set it into his SAT- COM receiver aboard the Old
Dog, Curtis could talk to the crew. But first he had to figure out how to give
the code to the crew without compromising the code itself.

 
          
He
walked into the communications center. “Well?”

           
“Transmitting now, General,” the
chief of the center reported. “It’ll be picked up by the SAC Emergency Action
Network in a few minutes, and it’ll continue until ordered to stop.”

 
          
“Good.
You know that the crew has no decoding documents, no secrets.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. They shouldn’t need any. We have direct voice backup routines being put
together if necessary.”

 
          
Curtis
nodded. “Word from the
Excaliburs?”

           
“Ops normal message three minutes
ago from both birds,” the chief said. “Still hadn’t finished refueling.”

 
          
Curtis
accepted the full printout of the
Excalibur
crew’s messages and put it in his briefcase. He sighed, louder than he
intended.

 
          
“Keep
me informed.” And wondered what next could go wrong.

           
“Genesis, this is
Los Angeles
Center
.”

           
General Elliott put down the can of
water Dave Luger had found in a rations container downstairs and readjusted his
microphone. “Go ahead,
Los Angeles
.”

           
“Your emergency flight plan has been
received,” the controller said. “Your call sign is now Dog Zero-One Fox. You
are cleared to orbit as required. Acknowledge.”

 
          
Elliott
looked quizzically at Ormack. “Strange call sign,” Elliott said. “Dog Zero-One
Fox acknowledges, center,” Elliott replied over the radio. “Any other messages,
Los
Angeles
?”

           
“Negative, Zero-One,” the controller
replied. “Radar service terminated, cleared to contact oceanic flight
following.”

 
          
“Zero-One
Fox, thank you.” Elliott picked up the olive-drab can of water from the crew
survival kit and took a sip as he stared out of the cockpit windows.