“You got it, Becky,” Ted Little replied.
“The flight order is going to get shaken up a bit,” Furness continued. “I’ll lead cell number one, with Johnson and Norton on my wing. Johnson and Rota will be going in first, dropping ‘beer cans,’ and then will be buddy-lasing for Norton and Little. Frank, Larry, you will lead cell number two. You’ll be a radar bomber with BDUs, and you’ll drop beer cans third and buddy-lase for Bob and Bruce.” Beer can bombs, or BDU (Bomb, Dummy Unit)-48, were small ten-pound cylindrical smoke bombs that resembled large juice or beer cans with fins — although they were small and did not resemble a bomb at all, their ballistics closely resembled those of a B61 or B83 parachute-equipped nuclear bomb. An F-111 normally carried two SUU-20 racks, one on each wing, with two BDU-48 bombs in each rack. “Paula and Ted, you’ll be fifth with the TV bomb. Everyone else, don’t feel bad, because it looks like everyone’s getting at least one live round this week.”
“Buddy-lase, toss bombs, TV bombs, all on the first flying day of Hell Week?” Tobias muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Man, have the Iraqis invaded again?”
“We’ve got wall-to-wall brass watching us today, so everyone needs to be sharp,” Furness reminded them. “Me and Fogman will be at the top of the block when Johnson goes in, we’ll stay at the top of the block while everyone else enters the route, and we’ll be tail-end charlie and photograph the entire thing.”
“What?” Fogelman retorted, as if the realization of what was going on finally sank in. “How come we’re in the recon bird? I got more time on PAVE TACK than Ogden.”
“But you don’t have as much time on the recon pod,” Furness replied. She didn’t know that for sure, but there was no doubt that Fogelman’s expertise with the reconnaissance suite on the RF-111G was poor. “We also quick-turn and shoot pictures for Alpha Flight, too, so you’ll get lots of practice. I said everyone should get a live round this week, so don’t sweat it.” Fogelman scowled his displeasure. “Okay, let’s get to work.”
But while they were assembling the paperwork, they also used the time to catch up on each other’s civilian activities. Most of the men in the flight were airline captains with liberal schedules that allowed them to take extended days off for Reserve duties — exactly the same kind of job Furness had been searching for years.
The technician from Major Pierce’s intelligence office came by to hand out the latest “intelligence” of the target area, so each crewmember had photos and computer-generated radar and visual predictions of the targets. Their usual live bomb targets were mock airfields, small buildings made of stacked 55-gallon steel drums, and plywood vehicle-shaped targets. The most important part of the briefing was the position of Multiple Threat Emitter System, or MUTES, transmitters on the range: “They appear to be out gunning for you on this pass,” the technician said. He passed out coordinates of four MUTES trailers that would be on the range. The MUTES devices were truck-towed, self-powered radio transmitters that simulated enemy surface-to-air missile and antiaircraft-artillery tracking radars; Air Force technicians would accompany the MUTES trailers on the range and evaluate each crew’s evasion techniques as the MUTES sites “attacked” the strike aircraft during their runs. “Latest info says they’re on the move as well.”
The R-5201 bombing range in northern New York State was only three hundred square miles — four MUTES sites in that small area would place the strikers under almost constant “attack.”
“What are we looking at?” asked Furness.
“Brigade or battalion stuff, but they’ve got the biggest and best waiting for you,” the technician said. “Mostly you’ll be looking at SA-8 B-model, max range nine miles; the SA-11, max range seventeen miles; and the SA-15, with a max slant range of eight miles. But you can also expect a surprise in the possible presence of an SA-12 that could ‘attack’ the RF-111 bombers well before they enter the target area.
“The greatest threat you’ll face, however, is from fighters,” the intelligence technician continued. “If they can spare any — they’re busy shadowing those Backfire bombers flying out of Cuba, but we might get a few to play with. Players will have Russian radar emitters installed, so your detection gear will respond just like real.” That was a bit unusual. The emitters were simply tiny radio transmitters that mimicked enemy fire-control radars. That wasn’t routine for Hell Week.
Mission planning was mostly done by computer after that. In sixty minutes, the planning was done for the entire six-aircraft strike package.
No sooner had the charts and flight plans been spit out of the printer and the mission been briefed than Furness saw Fogelman slipping his flight jacket on. “Going someplace?” she asked.
“I’m going to get my gear and a haircut, like you said,” Fogelman grumbled. “Supply was closed during lunch.”
“We have to proof these charts and flight plans,” she said. “I’ve got a briefing for the battle staff in one hour.”
Fogelman looked at his watch, groaned, and said, “Supply closes at three — I’ve got ten minutes to get over there. I’ve got to leave now. Have Tobias proof the stuff for you. Better yet, just take it as is. The computer stuff is always perfect anyway.”
Furness was about to rag on him some more, but there wasn’t time. Besides, she preferred Larry Tobias’ company anyway — in fact, she preferred anyone’s company over Fogelman’s. “All right, all right. But the show time is five-thirty, and you better have a haircut and a complete mobility bag.”
“Haircut and three bags full. You got it.” He hurried away, leaving Furness to check all the charts and flight plans on her own.
With Tobias’ and some of the other crew’s help, chart and flight plan validations were over in just a few minutes. Hembree came into the mission planning room a few minutes after they finished, and they briefed him on the morning’s sorties. He accepted the briefing without comment, but seemed preoccupied. It wasn’t unlike him to say nothing during a mission briefing, especially just before going into the General’s office at headquarters to give the same briefing. But Furness didn’t knock it.
Like most of the Reservists reporting in for Hell Week, Furness stayed on base in the old alert shelter near the flight line. The dark, windowless alert shelter was a throwback to Plattsburgh’s days as a B-47, B-52, KC-135, and FB-111 bomber base, when as many as half the bombers, tankers, and aircrews on base were assigned strategic nuclear alert duties. Rebecca had done that very same thing as a young KC-135 Stratotanker copilot nearly ten years ago, and she remembered it well. A crewdog could expect at least one alert exercise during a seven-day alert tour, and they alternated day or night exercises to keep all the crews proficient in both.
When Furness cross-trained from the KC-135 to the KC-10 tanker in 1988, she no longer pulled alert. Thank God, she thought as she unpacked her bags, changed into jogging shorts and a sweat shirt, and put in a two-mile run on a treadmill in the Pad gymnasium. After a shower, she changed into jeans, a heavy wool sweater, a down jacket, and hiking boots, and checked out with the Charge of Quarters.
Until the Bravo exercise was in full swing, the alert facility dining hall was open only for breakfast. So the flyers and their crew chiefs’ new social club was Afterburners, a small tavern and restaurant on the lower floor of a hundred-year-old hotel in the center of old downtown Plattsburgh, and that’s where Furness met up with most of the members of her squadron.
The flyers and crew chiefs were in the TV lounge portion of the bar, watching the big-screen TV for the latest news about the skirmishing between Russia and the Ukraine over the Russian minorities in Moldova and the sovereignty of the former Soviet republics versus the unity of the Commonwealth of Independent States. “See that?” Captain Frank Kelly, her wingman, said to Rebecca, pointing at the TV screen. A group of protesters were throwing Molotov cocktails at a tank. “Another riot in that Moldavan city. The media are pointing to the Moldovan soldiers and saying they’re inciting the riots, but no one seems to be blaming the Russians.”