Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (25 page)

“Good,” Daren said. “So we'll have two Wolverines in the forward bay.”

“Make it four,” Grey said.

“Okay, four,” Daren said. “One FlightHawk in the aft bay and a rotary launcher with two Scorpions, two Anacondas, and . . . what's the third target for?”

“Lancelot,” Grey said. “Two Lancelots. You
are
cleared to use Lancelots, aren't you, sir?”

“Let's find out,” Daren said. He touched his earpiece again. “Duty Officer, am I cleared to launch Lancelot missiles?”

“Stand by, Colonel Mace. . . . That is affirmative, sir. You are cleared to employ all expendables authorized for the squadron.”

“Cool,” Daren remarked. “Can't wait to pop one of those babies off. What do you have for precision-guided standoff missiles nowadays, Zane?”

“We fly the AGM-165B Longhorn for short-range, operator-aimed, precision-guided missions,” Grey replied.

“Outstanding. Duty Officer, I want one FlightHawk unarmed target UCAV with telemetry, four unarmed Wolverine target cruise missiles with telemetry, two Scorpion missiles with telemetry payloads, two Anaconda missiles with telemetry, two Longhorn missiles with target-marking warheads, and two Lancelot missiles with telemetry payloads loaded in my sortie right away,” he said into his earpiece. “Request two ground targets on the Tonopah range—”

“One fixed, one moving,” Grey said. He was getting into it now.

“One fixed target, one moving target.”

“Yes, Colonel Mace. Please stand by, I will request authorization.” The reply did not take long. “Colonel Mace, Colonel Long has denied your request for training weapons for your sortie.”

“Duty Officer, pass the request to General Furness,” Daren responded.

“Yes, Colonel Mace. Please stand by.”

“Oh, crap,” Grey muttered. “The shit's going to hit the fan now, sir.”

He was right. It did not take long for John Long to burst back into the lounge, his eyes burning with anger. “You son of a bitch!” Long shouted. “What is all this shit about uploading weapons and getting range time? Your task for today is basic flight orientation—”

“I can't be wasting time on that stuff, John.”

“You will do it because
I said so!
” Long shouted. “I built your training syllabus, and you will follow it
to the letter!
Is that clear?”

“John, I'm a bombardier,” Daren said. “I need some range time, I need to fly the jet, and I need to blow some shit up.”

“You can practice all that stuff in the simulators,” Long said. “Now, forget this request for flight time and—”

“I passed my request on to General Furness.”

“You . . .
what?
” Long gasped, dumbstruck. “You went over my head?
How dare you,
you son of a bitch? You're out of line, Colonel!”

“John, I told you, I'll get your Vampires up and running, and a hell of a lot faster than you've got programmed into your timetables,” Mace said, getting to his feet to make a stand in front of the operations-group commander. “But I'm not going to be stuck doing stalls and approaches. I'm a navigator, a bombardier, a systems officer—”

“You will do it my way, Colonel, or you won't do it at all!” Long barked.

“I need to get up to speed as quickly as I can on employing this squadron for combat,” Daren said. “I'll venture a guess and say that all the other squadron commanders here have extensive experience in their weapon systems.”

“The rest of my squadron commanders seemed to have been more successful in progressing in their careers, that's why.”

Daren let that jab roll off his chin. “I'll also venture a guess and say that, next to Generals McLanahan and Furness, you are the most experienced person on this base in the EB-1A.”

Not exactly true, Long thought, but he did not deny that guess either.

“So I need to do everything I can to learn about the Vampire, and that doesn't mean waste time with pilot shit. Let me do my thing, John. I promise, this unit will be fully qualified in all aspects. But I need to do it my way.”

“Colonel Mace, this is the duty officer,” the computerized female voice said. “General Furness has approved your request for aerial refueling, low-level training, and live weapons on your sortie. I will coordinate your request with your squadron munitions officer. . . . Colonel Mace, I am advised by your squadron munitions officer that your request will be handled immediately.”

“Duty Officer, get an estimated time to completion from Captain Weathers on uploading the weapons and relay my sortie timing to me and Lieutenant Grey.” Captain Weathers was the chief of the squadron munitions department.

“Yes, Colonel Mace.” Seconds later: “Colonel Mace, I have a preliminary estimated time of completion from munitions and have planned your sortie timing. Your new step time is eighteen hundred hours Zulu.”

Pretty good, Mace thought, uploading a stack of air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles and unmanned combat aircraft in a B-1 bomber in less than six hours without any notice was shit-hot in any unit, and especially good for a brand-new squadron. “Duty Officer, have Captain Weathers meet us at the aircraft during preflight to brief me on the weapons.”

“Yes, Colonel Mace. Your updated flight-planning materials are available on any terminal using your password. Be advised, your new sortie timing may exceed authorized peacetime-crew duty-day regulations.”

“Duty Officer, request a waiver of crew duty-day regulations.”

“Yes, Colonel Mace.” Moments later John Long got the request in his earpiece.

“You going to approve it, John?” Daren asked. “Or should I go to the general again?”

“You think you can just do whatever you feel like here?” Long growled, his voice shaking with anger. “I guess we know why you've been stuck in purgatory all these years since you screwed the pooch in the Sandbox, huh?” He turned and stormed out of the lounge.

Moments later the duty officer reported, “Colonel Mace, Colonel Long has authorized extension of crew duty day to sixteen hours.”

Daren responded with a polite “Thank you,” even though it was only a machine on the other end of the line.

Dean Grey looked at Mace for several moments, hoping he would fill in some details; when he didn't, the curiosity got the better of him. “You were in Desert Storm, sir?” he asked.

“Yep.” Mace realized with a faint shock that Grey was barely in his teens when that war started.

“Flying what?”

“The Aardvark. SAC version.”

“The FB-111? I didn't think we used any Strategic Air Command 111s in Desert Storm.”

“We did—and I strongly advise you to not ask any more questions about it,” Daren said seriously. He noticed Grey's concerned expression. “It's still classified, and it'll give you nightmares. We'd better get going with planning this sortie.”

“Yes,
sir!
” Grey said happily. “I'll show you how to use the duty officer and planning computers. You won't believe how fast we can spin a sortie like this.” He paused, looking at Daren carefully, then asked, “Do you have a call sign we can use, sir?”

“I'm old school, Zane—I was around when we had a Strategic Air Command, and we in SAC didn't get call signs back then. I guess the squadron's going to have to name me.”

“We can do that, skipper,” Grey said with an evil smile. “And we'll try not to stick with ‘Pappy' or ‘Granddad.' “

“I'd appreciate that. Let's go.”

Six hours was barely enough time to do all the planning they needed for this flight, even with the computerized duty officer's help, but as the morning wore on and more and more crew members filtered into the squadron, Daren got more and more help. His squadron was small, only seventy-two members altogether, and it was indeed young, mostly first lieutenants, with only one or two captains. The enlisted corps was young, too. But they were all eager to impress their new boss and to show what they could accomplish. In less than three hours Daren was sitting down with Long, Grey, and another Vampire crew they'd be flying with for the first few hours, briefing a marathon six-hour sortie. They then took an elevator in the squadron hangar down to the Lair to begin the aircraft preflight.

They completed a briefing with the crew chief, another impossibly young Air National Guard sergeant, then proceeded to do a walkaround inspection and preflight the weapons. They were met by Captain Willy “Wonka” Weathers, the squadron munitions officer. “Glad to meet you, Wonka,” Daren said, shaking his hand. “Thanks to you and your guys for hustling for me.”

“It's our pleasure, sir,” Weathers replied, smiling broadly. “Frankly, it's the first hurry-up job we've had here in the Lair. We've been involved with so much engineering support and mate testing that we forget we're supposed to be a combat unit, getting ready to go to war. I'm grateful for the chance to put my BB-stackers into action. Any no-notice taskings you want to give us is okay with us.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Daren said. “I enjoy lots of no-notice exercises.”

“Outstanding, sir,” Weathers said. He motioned to the forward bomb bay. “Allow me to give you a little brief on our babies here, sir. First time you've seen any of these weapons?”

“I've read about them and did some planning with all except Lancelot,” Daren replied. “I heard about Lancelot from the Korea conflict, but nothing in detail.”

“Well, this will be quick and dirty. We've got lots of briefings lined up for you, but the best way to get acquainted with these babies is to touch them and use them,” Weathers said. “Fortunately, General McLanahan and General Furness believe in making holes in targets rather than just boring holes in the sky.”

Weathers started with the forward bomb bay. “AGM-177 Wolverine attack cruise missiles, configured today with recovery and telemetry stuff,” he said. “About three thousand pounds apiece, turbojet engine, cruise speed of about four hundred knots, loiter time thirty minutes after a one-hundred-mile, low-level cruise. Mission-adaptive-skin flight controls, highly maneuverable. Imaging infrared and millimeter-wave radar sensors, satellite datalink. Payload of about two hundred and fifty pounds in three weapons bays, plus defensive expendables, plus an enclosed payload bay for a terminal warhead or any mix of weapons, sensors, cameras, radio relay, and so forth. You can program it to act like a low-level attacker, like a maneuvering fighter up high, or like a ballistic missile. Please, make sure your attack computer is programmed for a training miss—these babies are one point six million bucks each, without payloads.”

“Roger that.”

“We loaded your Wolverines in the forward bomb bay on this sortie. We usually put them on rotary launchers, but we're normally not allowed to use RLs in training.”

“Rotary launchers are designed to carry twenty thousand pounds of munitions and rotate them at ten rpms at temperatures down to minus fifty degrees while maneuvering at up to nine Gs,” Daren said. Weathers began to smile and nod appreciatively at his new boss's obviously extensive knowledge of the weapons equipment. “You can't let them sit around. You use them or lose them. From now on they fly on every sortie, with training shapes loaded, but empty if absolutely necessary. If we can't get range time, we'll rig up a range right here on the base.”

“Excellent. They need to be hooked up to hydraulic power and air-conditioning systems regularly to keep the bearings and seals tight. Anyway, we can put four in clip-in racks or six on an RL.”

They moved to the center bomb bay. “Rotary launcher with Longhorns, Anaconda, Scorpion, and Lancelot—the ultimate aerial-combat payload,” Weathers said proudly. “AIM-120 Scorpion medium-range air-to-air missile, triple-mode active radar, passive radar, and infrared guidance, fifty-pound directed-frag warhead, max range thirty-five miles. AGM-165 Longhorn air-to-ground guided-attack missile, enhanced longer-range version of the Maverick, two-hundred-pound thermium-nitrate warhead, sixty-mile range, millimeter-wave radar autoguidance or imaging infrared guidance—our Longhorns are enhanced with a target-handoff capability from the laser-radar attack system where we can input target coordinates and launch the missile, then refine aiming as it closes in.

“AIM-152 Anaconda long-range hypersonic air-to-air missile. Ramjet engine, max speed Mach five, max range one hundred and fifty miles. Only a fifty-pound warhead, too, despite its size, but if this thing hits you going Mach five, the impact will knock the biggest plane into next year.

“Finally, the ABM-3 Lancelot anti-ballistic-missile missile,” Weathers said, pride gushing in his voice. “Basically an air-launched Patriot missile, triple-mode guidance, max range about three hundred miles at optimum launch parameters. The big bad boy in Lancelot is the plasma-yield warhead. In earth's atmosphere the warhead has the punch of a twenty-thousand-pound high explosive, but above sixty miles altitude the plasma field will vaporize anything within five to ten miles—no radiation, no heat, not even any noise, just complete obliteration. You should schedule to see a plasma-yield detonation as soon as you can—you won't forget it. Today, of course, we just have telemetry payloads.”

They moved to the aft bomb bay of the EB-1C Vampire. “Last but not least, the U/MF-3 FlightHawk,” Weathers said. “Long-range, long-endurance stealthy unmanned combat aircraft, used for an entire laundry list of jobs: attack, recon, decoy, deception, jamming, SEAD, you name it. We have a longer-range, stealthier version called StealthHawk that's just now being deployed. We can put four on a rotary launcher.” Weathers turned to Mace. “That's it, sir. You've got quite a mission coming up. I'll be with you in the virtual cockpit monitoring your progress if you need any help, but if you follow the prompts from the attack computer and take your time, you won't have any trouble. Anything else for me, sir?”