Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 Read online

  Thankfully, Jamieson didn’t hesitate. He immediately rolled the big B-2 A stealth bomber to 90, then 100, then 120 degrees of bank— practically inverted!—pulled on the control stick until it was at the forward stop, and jammed the throtdes to full military power. He held the bank in until they had almost flown a 180-degree turn, facing toward the fighter, turning their hot engine exhausts away from the fighter and presenting their smallest radar and thermal crosssection.

  But he wasn’t fast enough. They heard a loud explosion off to the left, the big bomber shuddered, and the ENG 1 FIRE warning light on the eyebrow panel came on. “Fire on number one!” McLanahan shouted. His supercockpit display had automatically switched over to the WCA and emergency-procedures displays so he could monitor the automatic engine shutdown, but the shaking was so rough that he couldn’t read the screen. He had to trust that the computers were still functioning and they would complete the emergency shutdown checklist before the fire destroyed the aircraft.

  Jamieson kept the right bank in, but now they were no longer turning—they were spinning! With no smooth airflow over the wings to create lift, the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber had stopped flying—it was in a complete stall, and with one wing low, it transitioned immediately into a “death spiral” spin. The bomber’s nose was now pointed almost straight down at the ocean, and they were careening down toward the Gulf of Oman at 20,000 feet per minute.

  “Recover!” McLanahan shouted. “Recover, Tiger!” McLanahan couldn’t focus anymore. He had the threat display up on his supercockpit screen, with the flight instruments hidden behind it, and it was completely dark outside the cockpit windows, so he had absolutely no sense of up or down, left or right. McLanahan immediately craned his neck over to the left so he could see the pilot’s artificial horizon, but moving his head like that caused the disorientation to increase a hundredfold. Jesus, they were completely out of control! They were going to hit the ocean any second!

  McLanahan hit the BYPASS button on his control stick, then fumbled for the speed brake button on his throttle quadrant—normally they could not deploy speed brakes in COMBAT mode because it spoiled the bomber’s stealth characteristics. He felt a rumbling in the airframe as the elevons on the bomber’s wing tips split, acting as speed brakes to slow the bomber’s wild, uncontrolled descent. At the same time, he held the control stick centered and full forward, then stomped on the left rudder to counteract the right spin. No good—no reaction. He tried jamming the control stick hard left, hoping that the increased elevon authority would .. .

  “Let go of the controls, MC!” he heard Jamieson shout.

  “I got it! I got it!” McLanahan shouted. “Let me know when!”

  “I said, I got it, dammit!” Jamieson shouted back.

  “No! I can pull us out! I got it! Just let me know when!” Suddenly he felt a crushing smack! on his face, and the world went dark. McLanahan thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. . . not yet. In a second the ocean would rush in, he’d swallow, and then . ..

  But they hadn’t hit the water. Jamieson had backhanded McLanahan in the face! “I said, I got it,” Jamieson said calmly. Smoothly, carefully, Jamieson pulled the throttles to idle and stepped on the right rudder pedals.

  The spinning was still as intense as ever. “We’re still spinning!” McLanahan shouted. “Get the rudder in! Get—!”

  “The plane’s wings-level, Patrick,” Jamieson said. “It’s your damned navigator brain that’s spinning.” Jamieson reached up and hit a button on his top center mission display unit, and a sixteen- color, larger-than-life attitude-direction indicator appeared on

  McLanahan’s supercockpit display. The ADI showed them slightly nose-low but, sure enough, they were wings-level. “I pulled us out of the spin, but you kept on pushing us right back into another one. That’s why they call those a ‘death spiral,’ you know—every time you try to recover without looking at the instruments, you put yourself in another spin in the other direction. Remember to keep an ADI on your screen all the time from now on, okay?”

  It took several moments for McLanahan to get his head to stop spinning and flipping upside down, but after staring at the electronic ADI on his monitor and willing himself to believe it was true, everything finally calmed down. McLanahan checked their status. Jamieson had them down at 100 feet above the Gulf of Oman, at max continuous thrust, heading south toward Omani airspace— away from the Khomeini and those Iranian radars as fast as possible.

  “You all right?” Jamieson asked.

  “Yeah . . . yeah, I’m okay, thanks,” McLanahan said weakly. He checked the Warnings, Cautions, and Alerts page. “Fire extinguishers fired off, so that engine is bye-bye,” he said. “All number one systems down. Fuel pressure is fluctuating... hydraulic pressure OK ... electrical system OK ... fuel system is . .. wait, fuel valves three and four are still open. I’m going to MANUAL on the fuel system . .. ok, fuel shutoff valves to the number one engine are closed. All engines are feeding off the right wing tank. I’ll empty that one first in case we sustained any damage.” Jamieson checked the fuel panel switches, then nodded his agreement.

  Iranian fighters were everywhere overhead, and the next twenty minutes was a nightmare come true. Every few minutes they would see fighters beginning to converge on them, so they would change course and edge as low as they dared to the ocean surface—at one point, they were at fifty feet, the absolute lowest they dared go without activating the radar altimeter or SAR. Even after they exited Iranian territorial waters, the Iranian fighters pursued. They had to fly almost all the way to the Omani coast before the Iranian fighters began to retreat. Finally they were over land, and the fighters were gone.

  “Jesus, that was close. It must’ve been that fighter jock’s lucky day, stumbling onto us like that. ...”

  “I don’t think he lucked into us. Look at this,” McLanahan said, motioning to his display. “We’re well within radar range of Omani air defense radars and even Saudi Arabian F-15 fighters, but they’re not coming after us. It’s only the Iranians—they figured out how to track a B-2 A bomber.”

  “Track us? With what? They didn’t have a lock on us.”

  “I know, but they found us,” McLanahan said. “Somehow they figured out a way to detect us well enough to vector a fighter in on us. Remember those fighters suddenly shutting down their radars, even though they didn’t have a lock on us? They did that so we wouldn’t find out we were being watched. It’s gotta have something to do with that cluster of radars they set up.”

  “If that’s true, then we’re probably out of this fight,” Jamieson said. “The whole B-2A program could be in jeopardy. The Pentagon won’t risk a B-2A bomber again until they figure out how they were able to track us.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have too much time,” McLanahan said. He began composing a report to the National Security Agency via the Air Intelligence Agency to report on the whole incredible, frightening incident. “The Iranians have the upper hand now—they might not rest until they get everything they want.”

  RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT, SHAMSOL EMAREH PALACE,

  Tehran,Iran

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  President of the Islamic Republic Ali Akbar Nateq-Nouri was writing, pencil on paper, in a journal—no computer, no television, no radio in his quarters anymore—when suddenly the door to his room burst open, and General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi stormed in and strode directly up to him.

  “Come in, the door is open,” Nateq-Nouri deadpanned.

  Buzhazi virtually dragged the President to his feet in anger. “I want the codes,” he demanded.

  “I am well, thank you for asking, General,” the President said. “How are you?”

  “I will put a gun in your mouth and blow your addled brain apart and make it appear as if you’ve killed yourself,” Buzhazi shouted, “I want—”

  “How did I get a weapon, General?”

  “You took it from a guard and—”

  “All of your precious Pasdaran tr
oopers are at least eleven kilos heavier and six centimeters taller than I,” Nateq-Nouri observed. “How can I possibly overpower one of your precious ‘Guardians of Allah’ after being virtually starved to death here in my own residence?”

  “I want the codes, Mr. President.”

  “Codes? What codes?”

  Buzhazi had had enough. He clenched a fist and swung, catching the President across the mouth. Nateq-Nouri reeled from the blow, his eyes taking several moments to clear and his head to stop spinning. “You know damned well which codes, Mr. President,” the general said. “Give them to me, and I will let you live.”

  “I have no illusions that you will allow me to do anything of the kind for very much longer,” the President said. “This proves how little you have thought about your coup d’etat, General: you should have gotten the codes from me first, then declared martial law and had me killed. However, you still command a significant military force, so I am confused as to exacdy why you need to arm a nuclear weapon. I assume you wish to arm the P-700 anti-ship missile you have on board the Khomeini?”

  Buzhazi told himself that he should not be surprised to learn that Nateq-Nouri, who had distanced himself from the military at every turn and did everything he could to cut its size and complexity, knew about the secret nuclear missile project. It could not stay secret for very long. “Our nation is under attack, Mr. President,” Buzhazi said, trying a slightly different tactic. “Beghin Airport in Kerman Province was assaulted just a few minutes ago. Two Backfire bombers were destroyed, two heavily damaged, and eight crewmen are dead, plus there are billions of rials in damage to the airport. I suspect it is the work of the United States and their stealth bomber fleet.”

  “Quite possible, General,” Nateq-Nouri said. “You cannot hope to defeat the Americans. I suspect they have been using one aircraft, one stealth bomber, to conduct all these attacks—Bandar Abbas, your carrier, Chah Bahar, and now Beghin Airport. I have seen the reports, General: the American television networks have reporters at the main B-2A bomber base in the American republic of Missouri; all of the operational stealth bombers are still there. That means the Americans have one, possibly more of those infernal machines out there, being operated by some secret government agency.”

  “So you agree with me!” Buzhazi said, surprised. “You agree that we are under attack by the Americans!”

  “Of course we are, you idiot!” the President said. “This is all in retaliation for your flying your fighters off that carrier, sinking their spy ship, and capturing their spies.”

  “So you acknowledge that the Americans were spying on us.”

  “You give yourself very little credit, General—or perhaps you are even more stupid than even I gave you credit for,” Nateq-Nouri said with a wry smile. “The Americans assisted the Gulf Cooperative Council in that raid against Abu Musa Island. You countered by launching that infernal carrier. The Americans respond by flying their little stealth contraption from the spy ship to spy on us—silly, really, because it would have been far simpler to go out into the Gulf of Oman with a rowboat and a radio and report on what we were doing!—and you sink their ship and capture all the spies. Sinking their ship was a colossal mistake, but the Americans would have forgotten about it if only you hadn’t captured those men. After all, it was a spy ship masquerading as a civilian vessel—if America’s allies in the Gulf knew that a civilian rescue vessel in their waters was really a spy ship, they would have been very upset. The United States would have gladly forfeited that ship in the hope that no one would find out it really was a spy ship.

  “If you had released those men immediately, we would not be in this mess,” the President went on. “We would have had an agreement in place that would have removed the threat of an American carrier invasion force sitting off our shores forever. We would have had increased foreign investment, because the military pressure would have been relieved. Instead, you started a shooting war with the Americans. You are angry about Beghin Airport and a couple of useless Backfire bombers? Wait until the cruise missiles and laser- guided bombs start falling on Tehran.”

  “The only way to stop that from happening, Mr. President, is force against force,” Buzhazi said angrily. “Sink one of their carriers, and the American people will not allow Martindale to continue this secret bombing campaign against us.”

  “You are so naive, General,” Nateq-Nouri said sadly, shaking his head. “All that might have been true thirty years ago, when Americans were fighting and dying in the jungles of Vietnam and the people wanted peace at any price. No longer—not with this American President. He will choose to fight. He will call for jihad against Iran, and he will rally the people and the military behind him.”

  “And what about your own people, Mr. President?” Buzhazi asked. “If we allow the Americans to roam our skies, kill our soldiers, and destroy our bases at will, what will your people think?”

  “Unlike you and the religious leaders of our country, Buzhazi, the Iranian people want peace, not war,” Nateq-Nouri said. “I know our people, General, you and the mullahs do not. The treaty with America and the GCC to prohibit land-attack warships and aircraft carriers from the Gulf was our best hope for peace. The American stealth bombers never would have crossed into our airspace unless that was the only hope to destroy our forces.”

  “Now who is the naive one, Mr. President?” Buzhazi interjected. “Who is to say this is the first time the stealth bombers have been flying over Iran? Perhaps they are assisting the Kurdish rebels hiding in Iraq, or assisting the Armenians in disrupting our northern borders.”

  “You may create any fantasy that your paranoid mind wishes, General, but the truth is, our government has influenced events around our borders and in other countries all around the world far more than the United States. Yes, we have had to deal with the American CIA in our midst for years, supporting various antigovernment factions, and they have been just as disruptive as the Shah’s terror squads ever were. But since the revolution, our history has been decided mostly by our own efforts, not by the United States or the Shah.

  “Peace could have been ours, General. Abu Musa could have been ours to share with the United Arab Emirates—with our oil technology and their funding, we both could have been rich. The money we have spent on that monstrosity you dared name after the Imam Khomeini and on all these Russian fighters and bombers and cruise missiles could have been used to complete the oil terminal at Chah Bahar, and we would not be at the mercy of Iraq, the GCC, or the West when we ship oil through the Shatt al Arab Waterway or the Persian Gulf. Instead, you chose war, a war we cannot win except by sacrificing ourselves. I will not assist you in following this course, General. Fight and die on your own terms.”

  In response, General Buzhazi pulled out an automatic pistol, cocked it, stepped around to President Nateq-Nouri’s right side, and aimed it at his temple. The President of Iran closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to enter his brain....

  “It would be so easy, Mr. President.”

  “Then do it, General,” Nateq-Nouri said. “If you have the courage to face the wrath of the Ayatollah Khamenei and the Leadership Council, who commanded that I be protected, do it. I am prepared to die. Are you prepared to live?”

  “Prepared or not, you will be dead, and I will be alive,” Buzhazi said. “You know I will get the codes to the nuclear and chemical arsenals eventually—you cannot stop it.”

  “It seems as if you have everything well in order,” Nateq-Nouri said, with mock approval. “Carry out your plan, then. Kill me. Then explain to the Imam how all this was a suicide, or an accident. See how long you will be commanding your troops then.”

  Buzhazi took a deep, angry breath, leveled the pistol again . . . but did not pull the trigger. Instead, he holstered it, swore under his breath, and left the President’s residence. Nateq-Nouri caught a glimpse of two Pasdaran troopers guarding the door outside as Buzhazi departed.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Nateq-Nouri took
a deep breath, then returned to his desk and plunked down into the chair on wobbly legs. All that bravado was a charade, he knew—he was very afraid of dying, and terrified of dying at the hands of Hesarak al- Kan Buzhazi, lying at his feet in a pool of red blood and gray brain matter. He had worked too hard to leave this life that way. He . . .

  “Trouble with the staff tonight, Mr. President?” a woman’s voice asked in Farsi. Nateq-Nouri turned, his heart skipping a few beats in shock. There, emerging from the curtains surrounding the bedchamber, were a man and a woman, both dressed like commandos in black skintight body suits, gloves, and boots. They were armed, but their weapons were at their sides, ready but not threatening.

  When he regained his composure, the President of Iran gaily, casually waved at the strangers. “Please, come in, come in,” he said effusively in Farsi. “Everyone else seems to be making themselves welcome in my residence, so why not you two? You are Arab, I am sure.” Nateq-Nouri switched to almost accent-free Arabic. “Your African friend, a Libyan perhaps? Sudanese?”

  “At least he’s bein’ sociable about this,” the man said in English.

  “Ah! An American!” Nateq-Nouri said, his eyes dancing. In equally good English, he said, “Welcome to my home, young man. Yes, the only luxury I have right now is to be sociable. Now, do you mind telling me why you are here? Are you here to assassinate me?”

  “I should blow you away, motherfucker, for what you done to my homeboys!”

  “Your American ghetto dialect is very difficult for me to understand, young man, but I assume you are associates of Colonel Paul White, and you are angry at me for the circumstances surrounding his capture and internment,” the President of Iran said. “I have been expecting you, although I expected to see a brilliant high-tech assault on the headquarters building, beginning with some of your wonderful cruise missiles dropped by your stealth bomber, followed by your, how do you call them, your ‘tilt-rotor’ aircraft, with lots of well-trained, steely-eyed, square-jawed, whisky-drinking commandos jumping and sliding down ropes with guns blazing to make the heroic rescue ... or will I not be disappointed? Is that what is happening now?”