Red Hammer 1994 (15 page)

The cramped room overflowed with twice the usual number of officers and airmen; the noise level was deafening. The squadron executive officer was shouting into the phone with his finger in his other ear. He slammed the receiver down and shook his head.

“Stupid bastards,” he said out loud, “what do they expect me to do? Pull the fuel out of my ass?” He turned and spotted Buck. “There you are,” he yelled across the room, “what took you so long?”

Buck shrugged. “What’s up?” he asked. “How come there’s a Code Sierra?” The executive officer was trying to do five things at once; his eyes jerked left and right.

“The God-damned Russians are playing tricks with their boomers. Seems we’ve spotted one off the West Coast. I don’t know the details; I’ve been too busy. CINCSTRAT has been ordered to get some of the bombers dispersed, so your number came up. You’ll be one of four from the wing. The colonel wants you to take-off ASAP.” The executive officer turned and started to walk away but stopped short.

“See the doc, and get something for that cold. You look terrible. Then get suited up and out to the hanger. Joe and the rest of your motley crew are waiting. Any questions?”

Questions? Of course not. Who was he to question the gods over in Wing Operations? Grant shook his mussed brown hair and walked out the door and down the stairs, more irritated than concerned. First stop was the flight surgeon’s office. The aspirin which he had finally uncovered had helped, but his nose was still running profusely. The friendly doc gave him a vile of small pink pills to take every two hours. He had heard about these particular pills. Their power was legendary, but half the pilots got airsick and the other half drowsy. The kind man added a few stimulants to take as necessary for good measure.

Next was the flight-crew locker room. Buck opened his gray locker and dragged out the mishmash of flight garb—
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-suit, harness, survival vest, leg straps, and a banged-up helmet with large squadron decals on the sides. The layers and accompanying weight came on quickly. Buck could do it in his sleep. Within minutes, he had the obligatory twenty-five pounds or so wrapped snugly around his body and helmet in hand. He waddled toward the exit next to the maintenance hangars to hitch a ride to the flight line.

Outside, a dark blue utility vehicle waited patiently, the airman tightly gripping the wheel. “Let’s go,” said Buck.

Half a mile away was the old secluded alert strip. At SAC bases, before STRATCOM was created and when bombers still stood strip alert, a specified number of planes were always on twenty-four-hour alert at special pads. The crews were housed in a nearby cinder-block bunker, ready to dash to their planes at the klaxon. Everyone has seen it over and over again on TV. The routine was practiced until a series of the huge planes could take off single file in a matter of minutes. It was a breathtaking sight, one plane accelerating hard down the runway even before the one ahead had lifted its landing gear off the deck. But those days were long gone.

His plane was off on an ancillary apron, surrounded by air policemen armed to the teeth. The maintenance chief and his crew swarmed over the bomber, making last-minute checks. The always-serious weapons contingent stood in groups, having just finished hoisting the last bomb into the forward weapons bay. They hated rushing—safety procedures went out the window, yet they would still be accountable for any mishap.

Inside the human security shield, standing next to the waiting bomber, was a short, muscular, young captain, a purple scarf around his neck. He had his hands on his hips, smiling. A crew cut topped a square face with a prominent jaw and boyish grin. Two non-flight-suited gentleman, both captains, stood nearby. They were the bearers of the infamous black case—Buck’s Emergency War Order or EWO material.

“Afternoon, Buck,” yelled Captain Joe Grabowski as the truck screeched to a halt. “Glad you could make it.”

“Screw you, Joe,” he replied, jumping to the ground. He grabbed his helmet and strode over, nearly tripping over his own feet.
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-suits and ejection-seat harnesses don’t make for graceful movement.

“At least you got some sleep,” Joe responded. “I stayed up thinking I would crash tonight.”

The two other officers stood patiently. “Are you ready, Major Grant?” said the first. “Badge, please.” Buck complied. They had already checked Joe to make sure he was Joe.

This part always annoyed Buck—signing for the EWO mail. It struck him as ludicrous that he was trusted to takeoff with a bomber full of nuclear weapons yet was required to sign a series of stupid forms to keep the paper pushers happy. He scribbled his name illegibly and looked around.

The second captain stepped forward with a large plastic briefcase sporting a built-in cylinder lock. He double-checked the number on the case and on Grant’s badge then initialed the form. He handed the case to Grant, who signaled to Joe. All matters concerning nuclear weapons, physical access, EWO target folders, or authenticators, required rigid adherence to the cardinal rule of two-man control. This included guards, security-response teams, the flight crew, everyone.

Squatting, both Buck and Joe checked the seal on the case’s lock then verified the stenciled number on the side of the case once more. “It’s all yours, Major,” said the captain. “Good luck.”

“Sure you don’t want to go with us? We’ve got plenty of room. I know how you guys like to get some flight time once in a while.”

The captain smiled and slid into the same utility truck. “No, thanks.” He signaled, and the driver pulled off.

Joe followed Buck to the plane. “How’s the cold?”

“Terrible, I feel like my head is ready to explode. Any other planes leave yet?”

“Just one. The CO’s. Two more are scheduled early tomorrow.”

Buck was first up the ladder hanging aft from the nose landing gear and through the hatch. He worked his way forward toward the cockpit, passing the weapons stations.

“Afternoon, Buck,” said First Lieutenant John Jefferson. Jefferson was the defensive electronic-countermeasures officer, in charge of the aircraft’s ALQ-161 ECM suite. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll let you know in a minute. Where’s Ledermeyer?”

“Went to take a leak. He’ll be right back.”

“I hope so; we’ve got to get moving.”

The B-1B carried a crew of four. The fourth was Captain Russel Ledermeyer, the offensive weapons officer. He sat next to Lieutenant Jefferson, directly behind the pilot and copilot. It was a cozy arrangement, but functional.

Buck settled into his ejection seat, setting the plastic case next to him. The cockpit area was Spartan, but well designed. Exotic gear such as a heads-up display in the original Jimmy Carter-cancelled B-1A had been dispensed with to save money in the
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model.

“How about the emergency gear?”

“It’s all here,” commented Joe, squeezing by and sitting down. “I did an inventory. This must be serious; what do you think?”

“Let’s find out.”

Grant lifted the plastic case and set it in his lap. Despite his distaste for regulations, he knew when to cut the bullshit. With Joe’s eyes glued on the case, he carefully broke the seal. The next step was the lock. Each of them would enter two numbers, Joe first, neither seeing the other’s.

“All set,” Joe said, on edge.

Grant quickly positioned the remaining two numbers to release the lock, then flipped the two metal latches and opened the case. Inside, in separately sealed envelopes, were a tasking summary, the EWO mission folder, and the authenticators—the critical item necessary to determine if a properly authenticated release order was received aboard the aircraft. Only then could Permissive Action Link codes be entered to arm the nuclear weapons carried on board. Other pages included up-to-date weather information over target locations and the latest intelligence on the Russian threat.

“Ledermeyer’s here,” called Jefferson.

“Listen up,” ordered Grant. He broke the seal on the larger envelope and opened it. He folded the message back and read the mission tasking, a computer printout summary including a color relief map and a small aeronautical chart of their ordered flight path. All STRATCOM’s mission and logistics planning were now accomplished with centralized computer databases located at STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. Grant concentrated on the summary, frowning. He picked out the highlights for the crew, running his finger down the page.

“Fly to McChord Air Force Base. Remain on strip alert until further assignment. Possible relocation to a secondary site.”

He looked up at Joe. “How far, and when do we get there?”

Grabowski punched the coordinates into the flight computer, and within seconds, the answer was displayed on the small, backlit screen in front of him. “It’s one thousand six hundred and eight miles. Assuming an average speed of six hundred and forty miles per hour, it will take a little over two and one-half hours, given normal winds. If we get off the ground by 1525 we’ll get there approximately 1555 their time.”

“Good,” said Grant. “Let’s get moving. Maybe we can get some sleep once we’re on the ground in Washington.”

Buck carefully replaced the folder, latched the case, and stowed it snugly behind his seat. He donned his helmet, the oxygen mask dangling to the side, then buckled himself securely into the ejection seat. He peered out the side cockpit window and signaled to the crew chief who flashed a thumbs-up. The security guards rolled back the perimeter rope while Joe methodically worked down the preflight checklist. Grant fired off equipment status, flicking switches and scanning gauges.

“That’s it,” Grabowski said, mostly to himself. He forced his helmet onto his head, tightening the strap. “Let’s go,” he said confidently.

One by one, the huge bomber’s turbofan engines sprang to life, the high-pitch whine building to an ear-splitting racket. With all propulsion systems checked, Buck throttled back, gently releasing the brakes to slowly taxi to the edge of the runway. The entire ground crew saluted in unison in an emotionally charged send-off.

The graceful bomber rolled to a stop twenty yards short of the final starboard turn before the runway. “This is
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-ray Yankee One, request clearance for takeoff,” Grant said into the small microphone, which was an integral part of his mask.

A crackle over the radio brought the reply. “Cleared, Yankee One, runway one-three-fiver.”

Kicking in the engines, Buck maneuvered the plane to starboard, pausing momentarily to glance at Grabowski. “All set,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

“You bet, bud.”

“How about you two back there?”

“All set, Buck”

The B-1B eased forward, lining up on the runway centerline. Grant had the variable geometry wings completely unswept to compensate for the full weapon load and the extremely hot day. He throttled the engines to maximum thrust, hurtling the sleek bomber down the runway. Its dull, charcoal paint scheme loomed ominously against the brilliant blue summer sky. Within seconds, they ate up over eight thousand feet of runway, the painted numbers and markers on the concrete a yellow blur. With Buck pulling back on the stick, the aircraft rotated gracefully, the landing gear gently lifting off the deck. Accelerating hard, Buck placed the bomber in a steep climb, slamming the crew back into their seats. It was a wonderful, an intoxicating high, their
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-suits forcing blood away from their extremities to their trunk.

Grabowski had already programmed the autopilot and was verifying the inputs, punching the small buttons while the plane jerked upward.

“Still looks like 1555 for an ETA, Buck. If we get any headwinds it might slip ten or fifteen minutes. But the reports say the weather’s clear.”

The bomber nosed over and settled out at twenty-six thousand feet, heading on a north-westerly course toward McChord AFB near Tacoma, Washington. Grant switched to the autopilot and settled back, releasing the stick. He retrieved the vile of pills in his pocket and struggled with the plastic top.

“Feeling better?” asked Grabowski.

“Some. These pills really do work. You won’t mind if I start throwing up all over you?”

“Keep it on your own side,” Joe grinned. It was a nervous grin, not like him.

Buck, the perceptive crew commander, sensed his man’s uneasiness. He placed a hand on Grabowski’s knee. “This is going to be a piece of cake. We’ll be home in less than a week, throwing down a few beers at Benny’s.”

Grabowski grinned wider and nodded in the affirmative.

The heavily laden bomber cruised effortlessly at altitude, steadily closing in on McChord. Dark black-gray summer storm clouds loomed ominously on the horizon, signaling turbulence ahead. Grant instinctively switched to the secure voice circuit to request permission to climb to a more comfortable altitude. A quick positive reply caused him to gently pull back on the stick, and the bomber slipped to thirty-three thousand feet.

CHAPTER 14

Captain Demetri Aetmatov sat glumly in his stiffed-backed aluminum chair in the master launch control center at the sprawling Kartaly missile base. The aging purple Naugahyde covering this monstrosity had badly cracked and split, rescued by a patchwork of silver duct tape. Two hundred feet overhead, the midday temperature had reached a balmy eighty degrees while Aetmatov froze in the clammy, damp concrete tomb, shivering under a knit wool sweater and fur-lined parka. The decrepit LCC electronics hidden in the adjoining cement chamber required an ambient temperature comparable to a meat locker. He furiously rubbed his aching hands but still couldn’t stimulate enough feeling to work the small, intricate electrical switches during the interlock-mechanism maintenance procedure. His compatriot, a young lieutenant fresh from the academy, grinned like the fool he was, oblivious to the numbing cold. Aetmatov felt uneasy with this newcomer. His longtime partner, a seasoned warrant officer from Riga, had been replaced for no apparent reason only three weeks earlier. This new imbecile was making his already-difficult life even more miserable. Aetmatov smelled a rat.