Tiger's Claw: A Novel (7 page)

“And your board of directors agreed to not getting paid until and unless there’s a contract job?”

“It was a little bit of a chore to convince them to make the investment,” Patrick admitted. “We got a little help from some local, state, and federal agencies, because we’re bringing in hundreds of skilled laborers and their families into one of the poorest and economically hardest-hit areas of the western United States. But I noticed something when I first created this program: like any government program these days, the workers who moved to Battle Mountain from Palmdale and other places to work at Sky Masters know that this whole deal could never materialize, or it could be canceled at any moment even after the contracts are signed. They’re still willing to move out here and do the work. That’s more than just getting a paycheck, Cutlass—that’s being dedicated to the work and the country. I want to support that, and after I pointed this out to my board, they agreed . . . eventually. After they saw the first refurbished Excalibur fly, they were fully on board—they even authorized the funds to refurbish the F-111 and F-14. The F-111 might be a lower-cost solution to the air arm of AirSea Battle, and we can build about fifty of them, a lot more than the B-1s.”

They got back to work as they neared the hammerhead area of the active runway at Battle Mountain. Cuthbert pressed the “TTO” switch, which automatically set the trim and spoilers for takeoff, then checked the rows of green dots on the checklist page on the MFDs, indicating that the plane was configured for takeoff, Patrick typed a text message on one of his MFDs. “I told the range controllers at Naval Air Station Fallon that we’re ready for takeoff, and they cleared us into the military operating area and low-level routes,” Patrick said. “The navigation heading bug is on the range entry point. I’ll talk to Battle Mountain Approach after the handoff, then the Fallon range controllers.” Patrick made his own scan of the checklist page and the engine instrument page, then fastened his oxygen mask over his mouth, and checked his straps, and armed his ejection seat. “Seat’s armed. I’m ready to roll, Cutlass.”

“My seat’s hot. Ready.” Patrick got takeoff clearance, then said, “You have plenty of runway for a rolling takeoff, and we’re extremely light, so no need to lock the brakes to run the engines up. Pedal to the metal.”

“Coming up,” Cuthbert said. He smoothly applied full military power.

“Compressors look good,” Patrick said, scanning the engine instruments. “Clear to go into the zone.”

“Here we go.” Cuthbert moved the throttles past the detent into afterburner zone.

“Good nozzle swings, temps look good.”

“Zone five,” Cuthbert said, and then he felt it—that satisfying, almost surprising kick in the small of his back as the engines reached full thrust. “Oh baby, that feels good,” he murmured seductively.

“V-one, seven thousand to go, continue,” Patrick said, using the runway length remaining and their airspeed to determine the go/no-go decision point in the takeoff roll—even though the Excalibur’s flight computers automatically calculated that, the human backup kept the crew ready for emergencies. There were two such V-speeds, one to determine the time to abort if there was an engine failure and the other to determine if the plane should continue the takeoff in case of engine failure. “Coming up on Vr . . . now.” A third reference speed told the pilot when to begin takeoff rotation. Cuthbert smoothly pulled back on the control stick, and seconds later the Excalibur bomber fairly leaped off the runway. They were climbing at over five thousand feet per minute just seconds later and going faster every second. “Clear of the runway, I got the gear.” He raised the landing gear handle, and moments later he raised the flaps and slats as well. “Flaps and slats up, clear on wing sweep.”

“Roger. Wings coming to thirty.” Cuthbert moved the large wing-sweep handle on his left side back to the thirty-degree setting. He nodded happily. “Wow, this baby really likes those wings swept back. It felt like a B-52 on takeoff with the wings forward, but with them back the controls feel a hell of a lot lighter.”

Within the restricted Naval Air Station Fallon bombing and gunnery ranges, they climbed up to thirty thousand feet, and Patrick demonstrated some basic airwork maneuvers—slow flight, stalls, and steep turns—followed by more advanced maneuvers—lazy-eights and chandelles—and finally some simple aerobatics—inverted flight, barrel rolls, and aileron rolls. The Excalibur performed all of them without difficulty, which gave Cuthbert enough confidence to try them on his own. Patrick was pleased to see Cuthbert grinning like a young kid on a Ferris wheel after he was done.

“What do you think, Cutlass?” Patrick asked after the Air Force colonel finished his second aileron roll.

“She handles like a great big fighter jet,” Cuthbert said, still grinning. “Just fantastic.”

“Of course, we can’t do most of this with weapons aboard—but I wanted to show you that this bird is still very solid and has plenty of power to do advanced maneuvering,” Patrick said. “But now it’s time to show you what the original B-1 was made for.” He called up a flight plan on his MFD, and a serpentine corridor drew itself on the moving map, while Cuthbert’s MFD showed a series of squares on the synthetic-vision display that they were passing through. He then called up the “Before TFR Flight” checklist. “Now we’re going to have some
real
fun,” he said. “Terrain-following system checks, radar configured, one-thousand-foot clearance plane set. Engage when ready, Cutlass.” Cuthbert pressed the “TFR ENGAGE” button on his MFD, and the Excalibur nosed over into a fifteen-thousand-foot-per-minute descent. “Wing sweep to sixty-seven,” Patrick said. “Throttles to keep us from going past the Mach—we have the Rod Pod on, and we haven’t tested it beyond point nine five Mach.” The AN/AAQ-33 Sniper Advanced Targeting Pod, nicknamed “Rod Pod,” was a device mounted underneath the fuselage that allowed the crew to search for and laser-designate targets on the ground from long range and at night for precision bombing. The pod could laser-designate targets for the Excalibur, “buddy laze” targets for other bombers, or spot targets, measure coordinates, and transmit images and data via satellite to other commanders around the world. “If you want to hand-fly the course, just keep the plane inside the squares on your screen and let the TFR control pitch.”

In two minutes they had descended to just one thousand feet aboveground. They performed another system check, then stepped the altitude down to just two hundred feet aboveground, traveling over six hundred miles an hour. Cuthbert let the terrain-following radar and computers control their roller-coaster ride over the terrain while turning the bomber to keep inside the squares that depicted their flight-planned course, sometimes having to bank at almost ninety degrees to stay on course because his attention drifted away at the wrong moment. He finally engaged the autopilot so he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on flying and get a chance to experience terrain-following flight in the Excalibur. “This is fantastic, Patrick, just incredible,” he said. “She feels rock-solid.”

“We were happy that the ship’s original Stability and Control Augmentation System interfaced so well with the new Active Electronically Scanned Array radar,” Patrick said. “But SCAS was ahead of its time. We could also do away with some of the other systems such as the radar altimeter and bank angle fail-safes on the TFR, because AESA performs well at any bank or pitch angle or in situations such as over water, whereas the original radar had severe limitations.” They were coming to the end of the low-level route on the flight plan, and the squares on the synthetic-vision display were starting to indicate a climbout. “Want to go through the route again?”

“I’d like to, Patrick, but I’ve got a flight back to Hickam to catch,” Cuthbert said. “But you definitely watered my eyes today. Thanks for an incredible demonstration.”

As they were climbing out of the low-level route, with Cuthbert hand-flying the aircraft again as he liked to do, they heard on the Fallon range control frequency: “Masters One, Fallon Range Control.”

“Go ahead, Control,” Patrick replied.

“Masters One, we have a couple Hornets scheduled for the range in fifteen minutes after you exit, but they’re already airborne, and they requested some formation flying for pics. They’ve never seen a B-1 before except in museums. I can approve MARSA with them if you approve.” MARSA stood for Military Assumes Responsibility for Separation of Aircraft and was commonly used for operations such as air-to-air dogfighting practice and aerial refueling.

Patrick looked over at Cuthbert, who nodded with a big smile on his face. “Sure, Control, Masters One welcomes them in.”

“Roger that, sir. Masters One, Welder One-Seven flight of two, Fallon Range Control approves MARSA while in the ranges. Maintain block altitudes angels fifteen to angels twenty-one. Report canceling MARSA on this frequency. Masters One, your traffic is at eight o’clock, forty-eight miles and closing.”

“One copies,” Patrick responded. He switched one of his MFDs to a radar-warning defensive systems display. Moments later, an icon of a friendly aircraft appeared at the clock position called out by the controller.

“Masters One, Welder flight of two, we’re tied on radar, moving in,” the lead pilot of the approaching F/A-18 Super Hornets radioed.

“Masters One, roger,” Patrick responded.

A few minutes later the Hornet pilot radioed, “Masters, we’re tied on visual, splitting up, one on each side for a better shot.”

“Masters One, roger.”

A few moments later, the Navy-gray Hornet two-seat fighter-bombers appeared out their side windscreens, and they could see the Navy backseaters snapping pictures of the XB-1 with their wingman on the other side.

“She’s a big mutha,” one of the Hornet pilots radioed.

“Show us what she can do,” another said. Cuthbert started a left turn, getting steeper and steeper until they were at ninety degrees bank. The Hornet pilots remained in tight formation as if they were airshow performers.

“Not bad, not bad—for a big ol’ dinosaur,” another crewmember radioed. “What else does the old girl got?”

Cuthbert glanced at Patrick. “What do you think, General?” he asked.

“I think they want to play.” Patrick called up the low-level flight plan again, and Cuthbert kept the turn in until they were headed for the entry point again. Patrick ran the “Before TFR Flight” checklist again, then shook his control stick and said, “I’ve got the aircraft.”

Cuthbert shook his stick in response. “You’ve got the aircraft.”

“How about it, momma?” a Hornet pilot radioed. “Got anything else to show us?”

“They’re probably afraid it’s going to break if they G it up too much,” another chimed in.

“No, we’re just waiting for the right spot,” Patrick radioed back. “Ready, Cutlass?”

“Go fry their butts, sir,” Cuthbert replied, his wide grin hidden by his oxygen mask.

“Here we go,” Patrick said. He swept the wings full aft and moved the throttles up to full military power.

“Well, sweeping the wings is cool, like a great big F-14 Tomcat,” one of the Navy pilots radioed, “and I see she still has a little oompf left in her . . .”

. . . and Patrick hit the “ENGAGE” button on his MFD and started a hard right turn into the low-level corridor.

“
Hey! Watch it!
” one of the Hornet pilots radioed. “Where in hell are you going?”

“Catch us if you can, girls,” Patrick radioed. The two Hornets had disappeared from sight as the Excalibur began its dramatic plunge toward Earth.

“No sweat, momma,” a Hornet pilot said. “Welder Two, you’re at my three o’clock; join on me in loose fingertip.”

“Two,” the wingman responded.

The two icons on the defensive systems display showed the Hornets merging and moving higher and farther away. Patrick reluctantly had to pull the throttles back to avoid going supersonic in the steep descent. In less than a minute they had descended to two hundred feet aboveground and were again riding the ridges, now traveling closer to seven hundred miles an hour.

“Hornets at seven o’clock high,” Patrick said, scanning his checklist and defensive displays. “TFR system checks.” He strained to check out both side windscreens for terrain. “Hang on, Cutlass,” he said, and he threw the Excalibur in a steep right turn.

“Hornets at six o’clock . . . five . . . four . . . coming back to five o’clock . . .”

“Not for long,” Patrick said. Just before reaching a peak, he threw the Excalibur into a very steep left turn, hugging the peak so closely Cuthbert could see individual cracks on the rocks below.

“You got the dirt, Patrick?” Cuthbert asked a little worriedly.

“I’ve got the dirt, I’ve got the dirt,” Patrick said.

“Hornets at nine o’clock, eight o’clock, moving away . . . now turning back, still at eight o’clock . . .”

“No fair using radar, chums,” Patrick said. He called up another checklist page, this time to activate the Excalibur’s defensive ALQ-293 SPEAR system, then made another tight right-hand turn and skimmed over another rocky ridge. “I’ll just scramble their radars and radios, not take them out completely,” Patrick said. Moments later the icons representing the Hornets disappeared. “Take that, squids.”

“Welder flight, knock it off, knock it off,” the lead Hornet pilot radioed a few moments later, his voice a combination of anxiety and anger. The radio was a mess of squeals, pops, and static—the pilot’s voice was barely recognizable. “Lead is climbing to angels seventeen. Fallon Range Control, Welder One-Seven is canceling MARSA at this time.”