Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 Read online

  “What the hell...” Curtis said.

  “Don’t recognize it, huh?” Elliott laughed. “Officially, the B-52 I- model, although it’s only a B-52 H-model with a bunch of modifications. It is without a doubt one of a kind. We use it as a test bed for Stealth-type technology, air-to-air weaponry, weapons mating tests, computer hardware, everything. But she’s in top flying condition—she can fly right now if you want. The workers have renamed her from Stratofortress to Megafortress, and you’ll see why. Let me show you around.”

  Curtis followed Elliott around to the most prominent exterior change on the bomber—a long, needle-sharp nose and sharply angled cockpit windows.

  “An SST-style nose, Brad?” Curtis said. “Isn’t this going a little too far?”

  “We checked out every aspect of this plane’s performance,” Elliott said. “You’d be surprised how much a long, pointed nose, pointed tip fuel tanks, more streamlined cockpit windows, smoothed and polished skin, and no external TV or infrared cameras help to increase this plane’s top speed. The limiting Mach on this plane before modification was point eight-four Mach; now, the limiting Mach speed of this baby is point nine-six without the externals. And it’s just as comfortable at low altitude as it is in the stratosphere.”

  Curtis ran his hand over the skin. “What kind of metal is this?” he asked. “Fiberglass? It’s not aluminum. What is it?”

  “Radar-absorbing fibersteel,” Elliott said. “A composition of fiberglass and carbon steel, stronger than aluminum but as radar-transparent as plastic.

  “We can’t make it invisible, of course,” Elliott said. “It’s all a matter of time. If we can get thirty or forty miles closer to the target without being detected, all the expense and trouble is worth it. If an enemy fighter has to come in another ten or twenty miles before he can get a solid missile lock-on, it just improves our chances of getting him first and surviving. At night, the special black antisearchlight paint is worth its weight in gold. This plane will be virtually invisible to the naked eye at night. A fighter can be flying side-by-side with the Megafortress and he’ll never see it.” Elliott smiled as they walked around the smooth, pointed nose. “Besides, the black paint and the nose make it look mean as hell.”

  As they approached the huge bomber, Curtis stopped short.

  “You can’t. . . Elliott, you really did it this time, dammit.” Curtis was staring at a long pylon on each wing, mounted between the fuselage and the inboard engine nacelles. Each pylon carried six long, sleek missiles.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Elliott said. “Advanced Medium-Range Air- to-Air Missiles. Radar guided, with terminal infrared and home-on-jam guidance. Twenty-five mile range. High-explosive proximity flak warheads. We’ve modified the main attack radar to act as a guidance radar for these Scorpions. ”

  ‘Scorpions, ” Curtis muttered. “Dammit, Elliott. We don’t even have Scorpions on our front-line fighters yet.”

  “But I’ve put them on a SAC bomber, sir,” Elliott said. “And they’ll go on your B-ls, too.

  “Also on each wing we’ve put two three-thousand gallon external fuel tanks instead of the one normal fifteen-hundred gallon tank. Both the missile pylons and all four external tanks are jettisonable.

  “We also have split fibersteel bomb bay doors, which are lighter and more radar-transparent. You’ll see why they’re split in a moment. There are many places in this beast that radar energy will just pass through with zero reflectivity. The radar cross-section of the B-52 used to double with the bomb doors open—but not anymore. By applying the same technology to a B-l, which already has half the radar cross-section of a B-52, you can make it practically invisible.’’

  They reached the strange, unrecognizable tail of the airplane. “We eliminated the typical horizontal and vertical stabilizers and replaced them with a short, curved V-tail assembly. We built all of the tail-warning receivers and aft jammer antennas into the tail. We’ve also included an infrared search and warning system that is designed to detect air-to-air missile launches from the rear.’’

  “You took the tail guns off?’’ Curtis said, pointing up at the very end of the plane. “No big Gatling multibarrel gun, like on the H-models?’’

  “Tail guns are antiquated,” Elliott said. “Even a radar-guided Gatling gun is not effective enough against the current class of Soviet fighters we’re expecting. Hell, some Soviet interceptors can actually outrun a fifty-caliber shell.”

  Curtis checked the tail end closer. “Well, you’ve got something up there. A larger fire-control radar, that’s for sure. What else? A flamethrower or something?”

  “Land mines,” Elliott explained. “Actually, air mines. That enclosed cannon in the back fires twelve-inch-long flak cannister rockets. The aft fire-control radar on the Megafortress tracks both the rocket and the enemy fighter, and it transmits steering signals to the rockets. When the range between the fighter and the flak rocket is down to about two hundred yards or so, the fire-control computer detonates the rocket. The explosion sends a pattern of metal chips out a couple hundred yards, which acts like thousands of fifty-caliber bullets being fired all at once. There doesn’t have to be a direct hit on the fighter.

  “The fire-control radar has an increased detection range of about thirty miles,” Elliott continued, as Curtis shook his head. “The rockets have a range of nearly three miles, which is very close to optimum infrared missile firing range.”

  “Elliott,” Curtis said. “This is too much. Way too much. I don’t believe you—”

  “General,” Elliott interrupted, “you haven’t seen nothin' yet.” Elliott waved to a nearby guard standing near the left wing-tip. The guard spoke briefly into a walkie-talkie, received a reply, then waved to the general in response. Crouching below the ebony belly of the plane, Curtis and Elliott went inside the back half of the bomb bay. Once inside, Curtis stopped short.

  “What the ...” Mounted on a large drum-like rotary launcher in the aft portion of the sixty-foot-long bomb bay were fourteen long, sleek missiles.

  “Our ace-in-the-hole, sir,” Elliott said. “Ten more brand-new AIM-120 Scorpion AMRAAM missiles. They can be guided by the fire-control radar, the bombing radar, or they can home-in on an enemy fighter’s radar or on the fighter’s jamming transmissions. We have them facing aft, but they can attack any threat at any angle. If one of those radars has found a fighter, or if the threat warning receivers can see it, a missile can hit it. The rotary launcher can pump out a missile once every two seconds.”

  “Unbelievable,” Curtis said. “Well, I suppose I should say it’s about time, eh, Brad? Nuclear bombers with little machine guns going against Mach one fighters seemed awfully silly to me.” He examined the launcher. “I can’t wait for you to tell me what the other rockets do.”

  “Ah, yes. Glad you reminded me,” Elliott said. “Four AGM-88B HARM missiles. HARM stands for High-speed Anti-Radiation Missile. They were the stars over Libya in 1985. The missiles home-in on either the radars themselves or, if the radars are turned off, they’ll fly the last computed path to the target.

  “Twenty-two air-to-air missiles, four air-to-ground missiles, and a total of fifty air mine rockets, all for bomber self-defense,” Elliott said, summing up. “Together with the usual chaff and flares and specialized electronic countermeasures packages installed on board, we think we’ve greatly increased the chances of this Megafortress reaching the target. Like I said, sir—a flying battleship.”

  “Armed to the teeth, all right,” Curtis said. He closely examined the long, slender missiles on their launcher and looked forward. “What’s this?”

  “The only space left for offensive weaponry,” Elliott explained. “In using the Megafortress as a test-bed we’ve concentrated mostly on defensive armament for strategic bombers. But she can still carry fifteen thousand pounds of ordnance—nukes, iron bombs, missiles, mines, anything. Or we can put extra fuel, additional defensive missiles, decoys, even personnel up there. How about side gunners, l
ike a B-l7 in World War Two? We’ve already done that with the Old Dog.

  “We’ve been running tests with the new AGM-130 Striker TV/infrared guided glide bomb, the biggest non-nuclear bomb in the inventory. The damn thing weighs a ton and a half but can glide twelve miles when released at low altitudes.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Curtis said. “This thing is amazing.” The two men exited the bomb bay, and several security officers closed the four clamshell bomb bay doors. Elliott then led Curtis to the entrance hatch on the bomber’s belly and both men climbed inside.

  “Hard to believe,” Curtis commented, “that a huge plane like this has so little room inside.”

  “Believe me, this is spacious now compared to a line B-52,” Elliott said. “A lot of things have been taken out, miniaturized, or moved to the fuselage area. There’s almost room on the lower deck here for a couple airliner seats—in a line Buff, you can’t stand side-by-side down here. We’ve taken out as much extraneous stuff as possible to lighten the plane.”

  They sat in the navigators’ seats downstairs.

  “Where’s all the navigation and bombing stuff down here?” Curtis asked, examining the blank panels before him. The entire compartment was almost devoid of equipment. There was the radar navigator’s ten-inch radar scope and associated controls on the left side, plus a small video monitor beside it with a small typewriter keyboard. Between the left and right sides were three small control panels. The navigator’s side had a few flight instruments, but nothing else. All the rest of the equipment slots were covered with blank plastic panels.

  “The world’s biggest video game,” Elliott said with a smile. “Simple, straightforward navigation. The Megafortress uses the Satellite Global Positioning System for navigation, along with a ring-laser gyro inertial navigation set. The INS is updated by the satellite, so the radar scope isn’t needed for navigation—we’ve modified it more for threat detection than for navigation.

  “The radar nav uses a plug-in cartridge with all the navigation points and computer subroutines in it. The gyro takes three minutes to spin-up to full alignment, and it’s accurate to a quarter of a degree per hour just by itself. The satellite system automatically locks onto two of the eight Air Force navigation satellites orbiting the Earth and fixes its position once every five minutes, and it’s accurate to a few feet every time. The radar nav also has a combination computer and TV monitor and a keyboard for reprogramming the computer.”

  Elliott pointed to the ten-inch attack radar scope. “The Old Dog now has a Hughes APG-75 attack radar from the Navy F/A-18 Hornet fighter, which can feed targeting and tracking information to any of the Scorpion missiles. The radar can also serve as a navigation radar, if necessary, and it can be used as a terrain-avoidance mapping display.

  “There’s more, sir,” Elliott said, “let’s go upstairs.”

  The two men climbed another ladder to the upper deck. “Pilots won’t be happy about this,” Elliott commented, “but we didn’t do much in the pilot’s compartment. Their job hasn’t changed much. This Megafortress has the capability of automatically monitoring its fuel system and electrical panel, so it frees the copilot to help out.

  “One major addition is the automatic terrain avoidance system,” Elliott explained. “It’s an adaptation of the cruise missile’s terrain comparison system. We needed a system that could help the Old Dog fly as close to the earth as possible, but without using radar transmissions that would give away the plane’s location.

  “The satellite navigation system and inertial nav system sends present position, heading, and groundspeed information to a computer, which already has all significant terrain and man-made obstacles for the proposed flight planned region programmed into it. The system finds where it is and figures out what altitude is safe for the proposed flight path. It then sends instructions to the autopilot to fly a set altitude over the terrain. Radar is only used intermittently as a back-up to the system, so electronic emissions that could expose the plane’s position are almost eliminated.” They half-walked, half-crawled aft of the cockpit to the defensive crew compartment. “Not many changes at the electronic warfare officer’s station, either,” Elliott said. “His equipment is more specialized and a bit more automatic. The gunner’s station is quite different. He has an eight- inch fire-control radar, the controls and indicators for the defensive missile launcher, and the controls for the air mine cannons and forward-firing missiles. He’ll be one busy man back here.”

  “All off-the-shelf, General?” Curtis asked, finding his tongue.

  “If it wasn’t, sir, you’d know about it. You didn’t.”

  Elliott led Curtis back down the entranceway ladder. A pair of security guards climbed inside and did a quick inspection of the bomber interior while Curtis and Elliott were watched. After the guards reemerged, the two men were free to leave. Elliott escorted Curtis toward the exit.

  “You realize, Brad,” Curtis said as they headed for the security gate, “that this whole trip was just a friendly visit. I wasn’t asking about any special project or piece of equipment. Just a friendly visit, that’s all.”

  “Perfectly clear, General,” Elliott said.

  “Good. Now that we understand each other, I want to know—”

  “My test bed B-1B arrives in three weeks,” Elliott interrupted him. “It’s been on the books for months, far earlier than your meeting with the President. No connection could ever be made.”

  Curtis smiled. Then: “Only one B-l?”

  Elliott thought for a moment. “I’m having lunch with the commander of the test and evaluation unit at Edwards in a few days. Colonel Jim Anderson, a real fireball but a great stick. I wanted to invite him in on some of the new Old Dog weapons tests I’m conducting. I think he can supply us with a B-l A-model the contractors aren’t using. We won’t be able to bring it here to Dreamland without raising some curiosity, but I think he can arrange to have it... at our immediate disposal. We can get it here when . . . the time comes.”

  Curtis shook his head in disbelief. “And I thought / had influence.” He smiled. “If I didn’t know better, Brad, I’d say you knew what I was thinking all along.”

  “After Andy Wyatt got hold of me, sir,” Elliott said, “I didn’t spend time shining my latrines up for your visit.” He thought for a moment, then said, “It just so happens that those Old Dog tests will coincide perfectly with the refit of those B-ls. Most of the equipment you’ve seen here tonight can be put in those B-ls in no time at all.”

  “All right, all right, Brad. This is starting to get spooky,” Curtis said. “Remember, I never asked you for anything, you never saw those intelligence notes, and ...”

  “I understand completely, General.” He looked sideways at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and said, “Two months.”

  Curtis shook his head in disbelief. “You mean—?”

  “The tests will be completed in two months, sir,” Elliott said. “For . . . whatever reason.”

  “I may need a plane sooner ... for whatever,” Curtis said.

  Elliott thought for a moment—but only a moment.

  “Then I’ll send the Old Dog.”

  Curtis started to laugh but choked back the urge when he saw that Elliott was serious.

  “You’re crazy, Elliott...” Curtis said. “A thirty-year-old B-52? You’ve been wandering around this desert too long.”

  Elliott smiled. “Just a thought, General,” he said. “Just a thought ...”

  5 Downtown Manhattan

  Andrina Asserni, confidential secretary and aide to Ambassador Dimitri Karmarov, Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations, could scarcely believe it when she was informed by security that Secretary of State Marshall Brent was waiting in the outer reception area of the Ambassador’s private residence. “Show him in immediately,” she told the guard. And a minute later he appeared.

  “Secretary Brent . . . !”

  “Zdrastvoayti. Good evening, Miss Asserni,” Marshall Brent said in flu
ent Russian. Asserni’s eyes twinkled. How strange and wonderful her language sounded, coming from such a tall, distinguished American.

  “May I speak with the Ambassador, please?”

  Asserni stammered. “Why, uh, yes ... of course. My apologies, Mr. Secretary. Please, please come in.” She stood in awe as Brent strode into the outer apartment. She had never seen the American Secretary travel like this, alone.

  “My sincerest apologies, Mr. Secretary,” Asserni said. “I had no idea you would call on us . . .”

  “This is a very informal and impromptu visit, Miss Asserni, I assure—”

  At that instant, Ambassador Karmarov entered the outer apartment. He wore a simple blue robe in place of a coat, and carrying a can of beer, looked exactly the opposite of his stiff, official persona. “Comrade Asserni, get me the file on—”

  “Comrade Ambassador!”

  Karmarov looked up from his papers and took a step back. “Marshall . . . Brent ... I mean, Mr. Secretary . . .”

  “I hope I am not intruding, Ambassador Karmarov ...”

  “No ... no, of course not.” He turned to Asserni and handed her the documents he was carrying. “Take the Secretary’s coat, Asserni, what possesses you? Why wasn’t I notified?” Brent removed his long dark coat with slippery ease, and Asserni took it in her arms like a newborn baby.

  “This is an unexpected surprise . . .”

  “Ochin zhal. I do apologize for any inconvenience this visit has caused, Ambassador,” Brent said. “But I was hoping to speak with you on an urgent matter.”

  “Of ... of course. ” Karmarov motioned to his inner apartment. “Do come in.” He turned to Asserni. “Bring coffee and brandy immediately. And I will strangle anyone who interrupts us. Is that understood?”

  Asserni was too astonished to reply. As she hurried off to the kitchen, Karmarov followed the tall, lean, impeccably dressed American into his inner apartment and closed the door behind him.