Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (23 page)

 
          
“Yeah,
right. And I’m the Prince of fucking
Wales
,” Jamieson snapped. He swung around to
Samson and tossed the form on the table. “What’s going on, General? Who is this
guy? Why is Eighth Air Force Stan/Eval signing him off?”

 
          
“Tony,
I’ll answer all the questions you have ... later... maybe,” Samson said. “But
all your questions will be moot if this gentleman can’t fly. I need you to give
him an EP check ride.”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir. I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t think I
care
to know, but if you’re asking me to
‘pencil-whip’ this guy, General, ask someone else,” Jamieson said firmly. “We
got standards to follow.”

 
          
“I’m
not asking you to sign him off if he doesn’t know the procedures, Tony,” Samson
said. “If he’s not qualified, I want to know about it.”

 
          
“He’s
not qualified then, sir,” Jamieson said resolutely, refusing to be bullied by
the hulking three-star general before him. “All B-2 crew members must be U.S.
Air Force pilots with at least one thousand hours’ jet flight time, they must
be selected by the 509th wing commander and the commander of Air Combat
Command, and they must be graduates of B-2A Combat Crew Training here at
Whiteman. I help screen and select every B-2 bomber candidate, and I personally
know and fly with every graduate from the 4007th CCTS. I don’t remember seeing
him.
”

 
          
“Tony,
I want you to evaluate this gentleman as if he were fresh out of CCTS and ready
to undergo unit mission-ready qualification,” Samson said evenly. “General
Wright has already certified him as ready to begin unit certification—it’s your
job to evaluate his readiness to certify him mission-capable.”

 
          
Jamieson
glared at Wright, who remained impassive. Tom Wright obviously knew much more
about this litde con game than he had let on, and he had not shared his
knowledge with his old friend and longtime wingman. Either Wright was turning
into a true mindless staff weenie, or this was
really
heavy shit going on with this stranger. “But the fact
remains, sir,” Jamieson went on, “that I
know
he hasn’t been through CCTS. If I continue, I’ll be knowingly violating the
law. Are you asking me to do that?”

 
          
“The
fact is, Colonel,” Samson said, “that he
has
been through initial B-2 flight training—I can’t tell you which one, that’s
all.”

 
          
“But
there’s only one initial B-2 A flight training school, sir.” “No, there
isn't,
Colonel,” Samson emphasized, “and
that’s all I can say about the matter. Now get out your scenario book and the
rest of your evaluator shit and give this man an EP check ride, and do it
quietly.
” The argument ended right
there, with Samson shooting an angry glare into Jamieson’s brain. The newcomer
was quiet, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes averted through this discussion.

 
          
They
took a break for a half hour while Jamieson brought in the materials for an
emergency-procedures simulator examination—one simulator was already set up for
the evaluation, he learned—and when he was ready, he began briefing the mission
profile. It was a simple profile: preflight, taxi, takeoff, an aerial
refueling, a high-altitude bomb run, a low-altitude bomb run, and return to
base—although these check rides never ended up looking anything like the
briefed profile. The simulator instructors—there was only one man on the
simulator console today, a civilian Jamieson had never seen before—could insert
hundreds of different malfunctions and emergencies into the scenario at any
time.

 
          
The
EP check ride concentrated mostly on “bold print” and warning items, which were
actions that each crew member had to commit to memory perfecdy and execute
flawlessly. EP check rides were the most demanding. A bust in any “bold print”
or “warning” action or more than one or two busts in a less-serious “caution”
action meant instant flight decertification. Few new guys ever passed an EP
check ride the first time, and even experienced crewdogs who didn’t keep up
with their studies had trouble on “no-notice” checks.

 
          
When
Jamieson finished briefing, the stranger got to his feet and began to give the
mission commander’s portion of the flight briefing. “Hold it,” Jamieson interrupted,
totally caught off guard, “you don’t have a part to brief in this scenario. You
fly the profile and—”

 
          
“I’m
your MC on this flight, sir,” the newcomer responded, in a deep, rather
reserved but no-nonsense tone of voice. The MC, or mission commander, on a B-2A
stealth bomber acted as copilot, offensive-systems officer, and
defensive-systems officer, although either pilot could complete the mission
alone in an emergency. “The MC always briefs his actions on takeoff and the
route of flight—” “When I need you to give me something, mister, I’ll tell
you—” “Let him brief, Tony,” General Wright said. “We want to hear this.”

 
          
“Thank
you, sir,” the stranger said immediately. “I’ll be briefing the mission
commander’s portion of the emergency-procedures simulator flight check. I’ll be
evaluated on three main areas: knowledge of all procedures and tech order
directives; performance as mission commander during normal and emergency
situations; and performance as the flying crew member during emergency
situations. Since Colonel Jamieson didn’t give one, let’s start off with a time
back----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
”

 
          
Without
seeming to notice or care about Jamieson’s protests, the guy launched into a
standard crew briefing, outlining his responsibilities, the mission timing, the
route of flight, the attack route, the assigned targets, alternate landing
bases, and his actions during all critical phases of flight. He completed the
preflight briefing competently and succinctly—he clearly knew his stuff.

 
          
Jamieson
was amazed. The guy was obviously a former bomber crew member, with a lot of
experience in many different combat aircraft, and he knew very technical and
detailed information on the B-2A stealth bomber and current attack procedures.
He had no detectable accent—not New
England
, not southern, not
Texas
, not midwest. Who was he? Why hadn’t
Jamieson ever heard of him?

 
          
Samson
thought of the U.S. Air Force’s tiny fleet of B-2A stealth bombers as his own
personal responsibility, almost his personal property, so no one was going to
go up in one unless Tiger checked him out first. Besides, it was always a good
thing to do a favor for a three-star general, especially a guy like the
Earthmover. Terrill Samson spent almost as much time testifying on Capitol Hill
on behalf of an expanded heavy bomber fleet as he did at his headquarters at
Barksdale Air Force Base in Bossier City, Louisiana, and one word from him in
the right ears in Washington and at the Pentagon was worth perhaps another
order of sophisticated “brilliant” weapons, another upgrade on a B-52 or B-1B
bomber, maybe even another B-2A bomber wing—not to mention the addition of one,
maybe two, stars on Jamieson’s shoulders in the not-too-distant future....

 
          
Nobody,
not even the big fearsome-looking three-star general, told “Tiger” Jamieson
whom to fly with, but he was intrigued by the secrecy and urgency surrounding
the stranger and this mission, so, like an idiot, he agreed to cooperate.

 
          
“Ground
position freeze.” The high-resolution video display out the cockpit windows
froze, as did all of the cockpit instruments and readouts. “Record current
switch positions and flight parameters and get me a mission printout.”
Instantly the visual display shifted— they were now over a large expanse of
desert, with the runway lights of a large airport complex barely visible in the
distance. “Thank you. Everyone take five, then reconfigure the simulator for
the next session. You too, MC. Step outside and take five.”

 
          
The
civilian sat back in his seat in the cockpit of the B-2A Weapon Systems
Trainer, or WST,
The Spirit of Hell
(all of the B-2A bombers were nicknamed after a U.S. state except the WST,
which was nicknamed after the place most crewdogs associated with their time
spent in it), and consciously let his muscles relax. “We’ve still got an
engine-out approach and landing to do, Colonel,” he said, staring at the
scenery depicted on the high-resolution video screens as if he were really
looking off into the distance. “I’m ready to go as soon as we reconfigure.”

 
          
“I
don’t need to see an approach,” Jamieson said. He turned to the younger man
beside him and scowled. “You know just enough to be dangerous, in my opinion.
You know a little about a lot of stuff in the beast, but not nearly enough to
fly it in combat. The evaluation is over.”

 
          
“We’re
here to complete an emergency-procedures evaluation, Colonel,” the civilian
said. “The curriculum calls for an engine-out.”

 
          
“I
don’t need to see an approach,” Jamieson insisted, wiping sweat from his
eyebrows and scowling at the stranger beside him, “and I designed the entire
B-2 A initial, recurrent, upgrade, and instructor training curricula—I don’t
need you to tell me what it says.” The B-2A WST, or Weapon Systems Trainer, was
the world’s most realistic simulator, and it often left its users exhausted and
stressed after even a simple combat scenario. The stranger looked completely relaxed,
Jamieson noted, with not a drop of sweat anywhere on his body. Either he was
sedated or he had ice water for blood. “I got no doubts you can fly an
approach, run a checklist, maybe even land the thing with one engine out, even
though you’re not a B-2A pilot—or any kind of pilot,” Jamieson said. “You just
don’t have what it takes to fly the Beak, period.” The civilian was taking
Jamieson’s words pretty well—very little reaction, just sitting still and
looking at nothing in particular.

 
          
The
guy had just gone through an emergency-procedures scenario that would’ve killed
most crewdogs, no matter how experienced they were. The sim operator had thrown
in an emergency action message and a scramble launch—Jamieson hadn’t done that
since his B-1B Lancer bomber days five years ago. They’d then had a complete
failure of one of the B-2A’s primary hydraulic systems, and after a short but
intense argument, they’d decided to proceed with the mission. The sim operator
had thrown in what appeared to be a series of minor glitches, most of which
were handled automatically by the B-2A’s sophisticated flight-control
computers. In the end, on the bomb run, all those little malfunctions had
turned out to be a staggering huge malfunction, one that threatened to scrub
the mission or even force the crew to eject.

 
          
They
hadn’t ejected—the stranger had handled all of the malfunctions. Jamieson had
to admit (to himself only, of course) that he had no idea why the B-2A hadn’t
just flipped over on its back and plowed into the ground, or hadn’t been cut to
ribbons by the multiple layers of air defense weaponry that had been inserted
into the scenario. Normally in an EP sim, when the action in the cockpit was
getting too rough and the crew coordination was breaking down, the sim
operators would begin to reduce the outside distractions—they would flatten the
terrain, improve the weather, or reduce the number of threats—so the crew had
at least a chance to catch up and get some productive training out of the
simulator session, even if they flunked the exam. It wasn’t realistic—the
number of threats usually
increased
as the mission went on, not decreased—but it kept the session from being a
total washout.

 
          
Not
only had the stranger
not
flunked the
exam, but the sim operator hadn’t reduced the number of threats. They’d somehow
made it to the target area, laying a string of bunker-busting 2,000-pound bombs
on a command-post complex on the high-altitude pass, and a cluster-bomb attack
on an air base and radar-site complex on the low-altitude run—and gotten all of
their weapons off on time and on target. Jamieson didn’t know if they would be
armed weapons—the MC was running so many damned checklists, juggling so many
malfunction screens, and pulling and resetting so many circuit breakers that
even Jamieson couldn’t keep up—but they had made their attacks and then
actually departed the target area with at least two engines and all crew
members still alive. That was more than most crews could claim if they had been
loaded up as they had been. Returning to base was not a requirement in an
emergency-procedures sim session.