“Because… oh, fuck it, just because,” the wingman said. “I recorded a possible heater kill anyway. It was a gutsy move. They deserve the save.”
“Like hell they do,” the lead F-15 pilot shot back. “They deserve to get busted for doing a stunt like that.” But if the pilot on the scene didn’t register a violation, there was no violation — even if the AWACS airborne radar controllers or range controllers saw it. No doubt the bomber crew would get a stern lecture on range safety from the commander, but if no one called a foul, there was no foul.
A bat-wing symbol appeared on the lead F-15’s threat scope, but the pilot got no warning tone, indicating that he was being painted with friendly radar. He immediately dismissed the indication, thinking it was his wingman taking up his position on the perch again, covering his leader. “Avalanche, Bullrider One, moving into position on bandit one, record a heater track, now.”
“Copy, Bullrider… Bullrider One, bandit at your six o’clock low, five miles, closing rapidly. Bullrider, can you delouse?” That was a request for the wingman to try to identify the newcomer.
Low? His wingman was low? That meant the target on his threat scope wasn’t his wingman! Oh, shit! “Bullrider flight, you got that bogey? You see him?”
“Negative, lead!”
“Bogey one six o’clock, three miles… two miles, closing fast!”
“I got him, lead, I got him!” the wingman cried out. “He’s right under you!”
Not for long. Just as the lead F-15 pilot rolled right a bit to get a better look underneath him, the B-1 bomber, in full afterburner, zoomed up directly in front of him. The pilot instinctively rolled hard left and pulled until he heard his stall warning horn, then rolled out. “Billy, you got him in sight? You got him?”
“Screw that, lead! I lost sight of you! I’m lost wingman! I’m blind! I’m level ten thousand!”
“Bullrider Two, collision alert, snap right forty degrees now!” the AWACS radar controller shouted. The lead F-15 pilot had rolled up and right into the path of his wingman on the high perch. The second F-15 took immediate evasive action. It was just in time — the two planes missed each other by less than two hundred feet, without either pilot seeing the other’s plane.
The lead F-15 pilot mashed his mike button as he jerked his control stick over hard, waiting for the crunch of metal and the explosion he knew was going to happen. “Knock it off, knock it off, knock it off!” he shouted on his command channel. That was the signal to all aircraft to stop maneuvering, roll wings level, and assess the situation. He had lost complete situational awareness, and any maneuver he might make could cause an accident or death.
“I got you in sight, lead!” the second F-15 called, after he rolled out of his snap-turn. “I’m at your five o’clock, one mile. I’m climbing to eleven thousand.”
The near-miss rattled the lead F-15 pilot so much he had to drop his oxygen mask to keep from hyperventilating. Damn, what in hell was wrong with those bomber pukes? They used their aircraft like missiles, not giving a damn about peacetime safety-of-flight. Two near-misses within just a few seconds of each other — that was too much!
“I’m going to nail those sons of bitches if it’s the last thing I do!” the lead pilot shouted to himself as he snapped his oxygen mask back in place. No hot dog Guard bomber pukes are going to make any Eagle driver look like a putz!
At two hundred feet above the ground, Patrick felt safer now than he had for most of the flight in the Nellis range — he wasn’t accustomed to flying so close to other aircraft while on a mission, let alone “enemy” aircraft. He noticed he had pulled his shoulder and lap belts so tight that they hurt, but he didn’t even consider loosening them. Again, for the umpteenth time, he checked his ejection levers and ejection mode switches, mentally targeting the levers in case he had to go for them while they were upside down or pulling lots of Gs. This crew seemed hell-bent on making the worst happen.
Were they reckless? Maybe. Were they dangerous? Some might think so. But the question was — were they effective? Did they get the job done? So far, protecting their tanker and their wingman, the answer had to be yes. But at what price? When were these stunts going to finally catch up with them?
Rinc Seaver steered the bomber back around in a bootleg racetrack pattern, rolled back in over their lead-in point. Long got his altitude calibration, then took his initial fix and high-resolution patch of the target area. The bomb release — another Combined Effects Munitions cluster bomb attack, a few hundred meters beside where the other B-1 had dropped — was almost an anticlimax.
Were they effective at hitting their assigned targets? Definitely — but, again, at what price?
“I heard a ‘knock it off’ call, crew,” Patrick announced on interphone. “Stand by. I’ll be on the voice SATCOM. Everyone else toggle off.” Patrick got an acknowledgment from the rest of the crew, then dialed up the secure voice satellite channel. “Firebird, this is Aces Two-One secure.”
“This is Firebird,” Dave Luger responded. They authenticated themselves once again; then: “Hey, Muck, we just got a call from Avalanche, the AWACS controlling your Red force in the range. They relayed a safety-of-flight violation regarding your crew. Claim you busted the ROE by flying too close to the fighters?”
“They call a KIO?”
“Affirmative.”
“You get any radar data?”
“It’s coming in now… Yep, it looks like your guys flew within a half mile of one of the F-15s. ROE says two miles on day one. Avalanche passed along more radar data that says you did it earlier too, but the Red force recorded no violation.”
That was it, Patrick thought. A range safety violation was an instant bust on a predeployment exercise. If it was toward the end of a successful exercise, or if it was once at the beginning of an exercise, it might be forgiven — but not twice in one sortie. “Copy,” he said. “Ask if Bullrider still wants to play.”
“Stand by,” Dave Luger responded. A moment later: “Message from Bullrider flight reads as follows: shit yes we’ll play. Any ROE the Bones will comply with, they’ll accept.”
“Relay to Bullrider that the fight’s on, level three ROE,” Patrick said. “Anything else?”
“Yes, we’re monitoring something on Air Combat Command’s tactical comm network, an ‘all stations’ alert broadcast,” Luger replied. “We’re polling all our sources, but everyone seems to be shutting up and not answering the phones, just listening. We might hear it on CNN before we hear it from the DoD.”
“Okay,” Patrick said distractedly. They were fast approaching the second target complex. “I’ll call you back after we leave the range.”
“Copy. Sorry about the bust. Have fun. Firebird out.”
No, wait… sir, it’s not an invasion,” Secretary of Defense Chastain said in shock at the Pentagon reports he was hearing. “It isn’t troops crossing the DMZ—civilians are. North Korean civilians. By the thousands. And there’s no resistance from the South. All South Korean border posts are deserted. No response at all from North Korean border troops either. The DMZ is wide open and completely unmanned on either side. Hundreds of artillery emplacements, rocket launchers, tank traps, response routes, minefields — all deserted. On both sides.”
“What?” Martindale exclaimed. “It must be some kind of mistake.”